As another year comes to a close, I, like most people, find myself looking back and reflecting on all of the things I did and did not do over the past months. I had only three goals for 2014, and, for the most part, I managed to get two of the three accomplished. Granted, they were tiny goals, but one has to start somewhere. I did check off a couple of things on my bucket list, spent some quality time with family, and managed to "come out of the closet" so to speak. For those of you who haven't kept up with the insanity that is 91 Highland, a quick recap -
January - Made my goals. I refuse to call them resolutions. I'm not telling which one I bombed out on. That's between me and my Forgiver.
February - The Eldest had a birthday. I don't feel any older...
March - The Cinderella turned 18. Still not feeling it...
April - Is school out yet?
May - The Cinderella graduated from high school. With honors. Hubby and I did the happy dance. The last one through.
June - The Free Spirit and I took a road trip to Asheville, NC. She fell in love. Wants to move there. The Cinderella went to Brazil. She wants to move there.
July - The Hubby and The Free Spirit both hit magical birthday numbers. AARP called. I wonder who they wanted to talk to?
August - School started again. The Cinderella is a freshman once more. However, The Free Spirit is home again, so no empty nest yet.
September - Is school out yet?
October - Missed a week of school with "flu-like symptoms" Weeks of testing to find out what I already knew. Vitamin B levels in the 100 range. Will probably have to have shots for the rest of my days. Can't process vitamins and minerals like the rest of humanity. Stupid abnormal liver.
November - First ever kidney stone, three days in the hospital. I'd rather give birth again. When the doctor went in to retrieve it, the stone had disappeared. It's probably waiting to attack again when I least expect it. Oh, joy. The Free Spirit, The Cinderella and I got to be extras in a movie over Thanksgiving break. Check one off the bucket list. Also hosted two family reunions.
December - Had a nice weekend away with the Hubby. The Wonderdog turned three. Helped the Parental Units with their first ever open house. Reconnected with my college roommate. Christmas was full of blessings and rather peaceful in spite of all the craziness.
Now begs the question - where to go from here? Do I make new goals? Keep the ones I have? A combination of both? It's a bit overwhelming to think about sometimes. I do want to be a bit more organized, eat more healthy things, exercise more, but I'm also realistic. I know what my limitations are. I know that I can stay focused on things for only short periods of time, so I can't say things like, "I'll do thirty minutes of yoga every day for the next year." That would last about three days. I also know I need accountability. Family doesn't help. They're willing to let me slide. I must admit, I did do better in this area over the past year, but it's not perfect, and I need others to hold my feet to the metaphorical fire. Not so easy when you're a severe introvert with social anxiety issues. So, I'll sit and think about it some more, reflect on where I've been and where I want to be, pray, and maybe, just maybe before the end of this year, I'll have next year figured out. Is school out yet?
Monday, December 29, 2014
Friday, August 15, 2014
Broken Minds, Broken Hearts #ComingOutOfTheCloset
(Disclaimer: This is not a rant. This is not a blame game. This is not a cry for help. This is simply a story of how one woman deals with her personal issues. I hope you have a minute.)
There are moments of time that define every generation, and there is always a question to accompany that moment. It most often begins something like this: "Where were you when...?" For my grandparents, the question was, "Where were you when you got the news about Pearl Harbor?" For my parents, it's usually something along the lines of, "What were you doing when you heard that President Kennedy had been shot?" For my generation, the question is, "Where were you on 9/11?" These questions spark memories that usually lead to historical and cultural discussions about the time period, and what life was like back in the day. They are fantastic glimpses into the memories and cherished dreams of our past. They tell a lot about us as a culture and as a nation. Sometimes they tell something about us as individuals.
Monday, August 11, 2014 was a defining moment in my lifetime. I'm still trying to process the whys. I'm still trying to work through the coming ramifications of this post. But I will always and forever be able to remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I found out Robin Williams had committed suicide due to his struggle with depression.
I did not know Mr. Williams personally. I had not had the honor of meeting him. I had never seen any of his live performances, nor have I seen all of his movies. I have only second-hand knowledge of his personality, his kindness, and his love for others. What I know of him I have gleaned from the same sources as millions of other fans: television, movies, and the internet.
However, I do know about depression. I know about the sadness that is more than sadness. I know about the physical pain, the interrupted sleep cycles, the irritability, the guilt, the effect on family and friends, all of it. I know all about those insidious demons of the mind and how they can make a person feel that the only possible relief is to contemplate the grass from the other side. I know, because I have battled them daily for as long as I can remember.
Depression is an illness. But it's not like a cold or the flu or even a cancer that you could potentially heal from. It's a long term, debilitating disease that can, and often does, last an entire lifetime. However, it's an invisible illness. You cannot look at a person and tell if they suffer from depression. And most people who do, don't want you to know. This is why the world is still reeling from the news of Robin Williams' death. We had no idea. He didn't want us to.
When depressed people do open up about their struggle, it is one of the most difficult things we have ever done in our lives. I rank it right up there with giving birth. I am, by nature, an introvert. I don't share well with others. To talk about what the dark demons say to me feels like running a cheese grater over my skin. So, when I do talk about it, the last thing I need to hear, is, "If you get up and stir around, you'll feel better," or "Have you prayed about it?" or "Smile, it can't be that bad." No, I won't, constantly, and yes, it can. I know people mean well, and I thank you for that, but mostly what we want is for you to just listen without judging, without commenting, and without telling us what we need to do to "be better."
Just like any other disease, depression is physically painful. Every joint and tendon in my body aches. I don't tolerate cold temperatures at all. It's not just a soreness. It's a marrow deep pain that no amount of medication or exercise seems to alleviate. There is a muscle along my shoulder blade that no masseuse has ever been able to get to relax. Top that off with chronic migraines, and you get a wonderful cocktail of almost constant agony.
Depressed people have weird diet habits. As a teenager, my mother worried that I was anorexic, even as I consumed four hot dogs in front of her, and then raided the refrigerator for something else to eat. My senior year in high school, I existed on Chips Ahoy cookies and little else. Now, there are some days where the thought of eating anything makes me nauseous and others where I cannot stop binging. I need to lose about thirty pounds, but the demons constantly tell me it will probably never happen. They may be right. I also know that I just need to be more physically active. They tell me this will probably never happen either.
A full nights sleep is a distant memory. As I write this, I've been awake since 2:30 am. It's now 9:00 pm. I'm so tired that when I went to the bathroom at work yesterday, I couldn't understand why I couldn't open the door. It took me a couple of minutes to figure out that I had locked it when I went in. When I finally lie down tonight, unless I take a sleep aid, I will spend hours reciting Psalm 23 in my head to keep the darkness at bay, and I will probably wake sometime in the night and do this all over again. If I do take a sleep aid, I will dream. Crazy, insane, disjointed dreams that have no logical flow and no connection, that I can see, to the waking world. I know that dreams are the brain's attempt to "file" what our senses have come into contact with, but seriously? In what universe have I ever serenaded baby alligators in the church baptistry?
By now you're telling yourself, "If that's all there is to this depression thing, what's the big deal?" Honey chile, (as we say down here) that's the easy stuff. Those are the good days when the blackness is quiet and I get to leave the house. On the not so good days...
Depression tells you you are losing your mind. The demons tell you you are going crazy, you are lazy, selfish, ungrateful, ugly, whatever they have to to keep you off balance and convince you that you are alone and no one wants you around. If you do have to go out in the midst of the bleakness, get ready for panic attacks, obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and mind-numbing, vomit-inducing phobias that you would not normally dream existed in the realm of your subconscious. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
There are some days when there are no feelings at all. Literally nothing. It goes beyond emotional exhaustion, I have those numb days too, but this is more. This is, I. Just. Don't. Care. Those are the really dark days and are, in some ways, scarier than just being overwhelmed by the bleakness. This is the time when I can understand how easy it would be to just give up and let go. I just don't care enough to put forth the effort. On those days, I've learned it's best to limit contact with others. Or at least to say as little as possible.
Depression can be annoying. I'm not talking about the endless loads of laundry, the piles of dishes in the sink and the dust bunny carnivals under the furniture annoying. I talking about how some days I wish that God would turn the sunlight off just for a few minutes, and if The Wonderdog whimpers in his sleep one more time, I swear I'm going to pull his fur out one hair at a time annoying. Then I feel guilty because things like that aren't really annoying and that annoys me too. And the spiral goes on.
Depression causes your mind to fracture. You forget how to do the simplest things. We joke about walking into a room and forgetting why we came in there, but when you're battling the demons, you sometimes forget how to get to the room or what it's even called. Family and friends laugh at my list making, but it's the way I cope with getting through the day. Sometimes, the only way I know it's really bad is when I start thinking of things and then realize I forgot to write them on the lists.
Depression is the most boring thing in the world. And the most tiring. You feel stuck in this hellacious cycle and are desperate for anyone to listen to you but you don't want to talk to anyone and besides, it's the same story day after day and you know there are only so many times people can take hearing it and your prayers all seem stuck on the ceiling and dear God, stop whining, just get up and do something, and......
The worst part? All of this happens AT THE SAME BLASTED TIME!!!
As a child, I learned quickly that the easiest escape from the blackness was in the written word. So I read. Voraciously. Anything and everything I could get my hands on. I read everything from Dr. Seuss to War and Peace to the Encyclopedia Britannica. I hated literature classes because I had already read the texts. It was the only thing I knew to do to keep the demons from overwhelming me. Imagine being nine years old and reading The Shining by Stephen King because you know that his monsters are less scary than your own. That's what depression feels like.
As a teenager, I fought the monster in other ways. I did not fall into drug and alcohol addiction, thank God, for several reasons. One, had I experimented with drugs, The Parental Units would have, quite literally, I believe, killed me. Two, I have a very low tolerance for pain. In addition to depression, there are the migraines and more than one drink leaves me writhing on the floor in agony for three days. I try to avoid that at all costs. But I understand how very easy it would be to fall into these traps. How very tempting. Anything to turn the thoughts off for just a little while. However, there are different addictions that are just as deadly, just as heartbreaking, and just as painful to recuperate from. Some of those I did experiment with, and I still struggle with them today. That's how depression works.
As a young married mother, I threw myself into my family and my job to keep the demons at bay. With three gifted children and an extremely demanding vocation, as well as volunteering in numerous service areas at church, I made sure I didn't have time to listen to the darkness whispering in my psyche. As long as I stayed busy, the demons stayed quiet. That's what depression can drive you to do.
At no point did it ever occur to me to ask for help or go to a doctor or even mention what I was feeling or thinking. I knew what was going on in my brain, at least I figured it out when I got old enough to know what depression was. But, call it stubbornness, ego, pride, fear, or whatever, I never said a word to anyone. I thought I was being strong. I thought I was handling it. I was so very wrong. I now believe it requires more strength to admit you cannot do it alone than it does to fight the battles by yourself. I do know it takes a great deal of courage.
The only thing that got me to give up the fight was the fact that the migraines became unbearable and I was referred to a neurologist. After about a year of various medical cocktails, he called me a "stubborn jackass," and said if I really wanted to get better, get myself to a counselor or quit wasting my time and his. I started searching that day. Like I said, low tolerance for pain.
I'm nowhere near healed. I don't know when or even if that day will come. There are still more dark days than not. But even if the demons never fully disappear, I am winning the battle. One day at a time, sometimes one minute at a time. But I am winning.
There are moments of time that define every generation, and there is always a question to accompany that moment. It most often begins something like this: "Where were you when...?" For my grandparents, the question was, "Where were you when you got the news about Pearl Harbor?" For my parents, it's usually something along the lines of, "What were you doing when you heard that President Kennedy had been shot?" For my generation, the question is, "Where were you on 9/11?" These questions spark memories that usually lead to historical and cultural discussions about the time period, and what life was like back in the day. They are fantastic glimpses into the memories and cherished dreams of our past. They tell a lot about us as a culture and as a nation. Sometimes they tell something about us as individuals.
Monday, August 11, 2014 was a defining moment in my lifetime. I'm still trying to process the whys. I'm still trying to work through the coming ramifications of this post. But I will always and forever be able to remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I found out Robin Williams had committed suicide due to his struggle with depression.
I did not know Mr. Williams personally. I had not had the honor of meeting him. I had never seen any of his live performances, nor have I seen all of his movies. I have only second-hand knowledge of his personality, his kindness, and his love for others. What I know of him I have gleaned from the same sources as millions of other fans: television, movies, and the internet.
However, I do know about depression. I know about the sadness that is more than sadness. I know about the physical pain, the interrupted sleep cycles, the irritability, the guilt, the effect on family and friends, all of it. I know all about those insidious demons of the mind and how they can make a person feel that the only possible relief is to contemplate the grass from the other side. I know, because I have battled them daily for as long as I can remember.
Depression is an illness. But it's not like a cold or the flu or even a cancer that you could potentially heal from. It's a long term, debilitating disease that can, and often does, last an entire lifetime. However, it's an invisible illness. You cannot look at a person and tell if they suffer from depression. And most people who do, don't want you to know. This is why the world is still reeling from the news of Robin Williams' death. We had no idea. He didn't want us to.
When depressed people do open up about their struggle, it is one of the most difficult things we have ever done in our lives. I rank it right up there with giving birth. I am, by nature, an introvert. I don't share well with others. To talk about what the dark demons say to me feels like running a cheese grater over my skin. So, when I do talk about it, the last thing I need to hear, is, "If you get up and stir around, you'll feel better," or "Have you prayed about it?" or "Smile, it can't be that bad." No, I won't, constantly, and yes, it can. I know people mean well, and I thank you for that, but mostly what we want is for you to just listen without judging, without commenting, and without telling us what we need to do to "be better."
Just like any other disease, depression is physically painful. Every joint and tendon in my body aches. I don't tolerate cold temperatures at all. It's not just a soreness. It's a marrow deep pain that no amount of medication or exercise seems to alleviate. There is a muscle along my shoulder blade that no masseuse has ever been able to get to relax. Top that off with chronic migraines, and you get a wonderful cocktail of almost constant agony.
Depressed people have weird diet habits. As a teenager, my mother worried that I was anorexic, even as I consumed four hot dogs in front of her, and then raided the refrigerator for something else to eat. My senior year in high school, I existed on Chips Ahoy cookies and little else. Now, there are some days where the thought of eating anything makes me nauseous and others where I cannot stop binging. I need to lose about thirty pounds, but the demons constantly tell me it will probably never happen. They may be right. I also know that I just need to be more physically active. They tell me this will probably never happen either.
A full nights sleep is a distant memory. As I write this, I've been awake since 2:30 am. It's now 9:00 pm. I'm so tired that when I went to the bathroom at work yesterday, I couldn't understand why I couldn't open the door. It took me a couple of minutes to figure out that I had locked it when I went in. When I finally lie down tonight, unless I take a sleep aid, I will spend hours reciting Psalm 23 in my head to keep the darkness at bay, and I will probably wake sometime in the night and do this all over again. If I do take a sleep aid, I will dream. Crazy, insane, disjointed dreams that have no logical flow and no connection, that I can see, to the waking world. I know that dreams are the brain's attempt to "file" what our senses have come into contact with, but seriously? In what universe have I ever serenaded baby alligators in the church baptistry?
By now you're telling yourself, "If that's all there is to this depression thing, what's the big deal?" Honey chile, (as we say down here) that's the easy stuff. Those are the good days when the blackness is quiet and I get to leave the house. On the not so good days...
Depression tells you you are losing your mind. The demons tell you you are going crazy, you are lazy, selfish, ungrateful, ugly, whatever they have to to keep you off balance and convince you that you are alone and no one wants you around. If you do have to go out in the midst of the bleakness, get ready for panic attacks, obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and mind-numbing, vomit-inducing phobias that you would not normally dream existed in the realm of your subconscious. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
There are some days when there are no feelings at all. Literally nothing. It goes beyond emotional exhaustion, I have those numb days too, but this is more. This is, I. Just. Don't. Care. Those are the really dark days and are, in some ways, scarier than just being overwhelmed by the bleakness. This is the time when I can understand how easy it would be to just give up and let go. I just don't care enough to put forth the effort. On those days, I've learned it's best to limit contact with others. Or at least to say as little as possible.
Depression can be annoying. I'm not talking about the endless loads of laundry, the piles of dishes in the sink and the dust bunny carnivals under the furniture annoying. I talking about how some days I wish that God would turn the sunlight off just for a few minutes, and if The Wonderdog whimpers in his sleep one more time, I swear I'm going to pull his fur out one hair at a time annoying. Then I feel guilty because things like that aren't really annoying and that annoys me too. And the spiral goes on.
Depression causes your mind to fracture. You forget how to do the simplest things. We joke about walking into a room and forgetting why we came in there, but when you're battling the demons, you sometimes forget how to get to the room or what it's even called. Family and friends laugh at my list making, but it's the way I cope with getting through the day. Sometimes, the only way I know it's really bad is when I start thinking of things and then realize I forgot to write them on the lists.
Depression is the most boring thing in the world. And the most tiring. You feel stuck in this hellacious cycle and are desperate for anyone to listen to you but you don't want to talk to anyone and besides, it's the same story day after day and you know there are only so many times people can take hearing it and your prayers all seem stuck on the ceiling and dear God, stop whining, just get up and do something, and......
The worst part? All of this happens AT THE SAME BLASTED TIME!!!
As a child, I learned quickly that the easiest escape from the blackness was in the written word. So I read. Voraciously. Anything and everything I could get my hands on. I read everything from Dr. Seuss to War and Peace to the Encyclopedia Britannica. I hated literature classes because I had already read the texts. It was the only thing I knew to do to keep the demons from overwhelming me. Imagine being nine years old and reading The Shining by Stephen King because you know that his monsters are less scary than your own. That's what depression feels like.
As a teenager, I fought the monster in other ways. I did not fall into drug and alcohol addiction, thank God, for several reasons. One, had I experimented with drugs, The Parental Units would have, quite literally, I believe, killed me. Two, I have a very low tolerance for pain. In addition to depression, there are the migraines and more than one drink leaves me writhing on the floor in agony for three days. I try to avoid that at all costs. But I understand how very easy it would be to fall into these traps. How very tempting. Anything to turn the thoughts off for just a little while. However, there are different addictions that are just as deadly, just as heartbreaking, and just as painful to recuperate from. Some of those I did experiment with, and I still struggle with them today. That's how depression works.
As a young married mother, I threw myself into my family and my job to keep the demons at bay. With three gifted children and an extremely demanding vocation, as well as volunteering in numerous service areas at church, I made sure I didn't have time to listen to the darkness whispering in my psyche. As long as I stayed busy, the demons stayed quiet. That's what depression can drive you to do.
At no point did it ever occur to me to ask for help or go to a doctor or even mention what I was feeling or thinking. I knew what was going on in my brain, at least I figured it out when I got old enough to know what depression was. But, call it stubbornness, ego, pride, fear, or whatever, I never said a word to anyone. I thought I was being strong. I thought I was handling it. I was so very wrong. I now believe it requires more strength to admit you cannot do it alone than it does to fight the battles by yourself. I do know it takes a great deal of courage.
The only thing that got me to give up the fight was the fact that the migraines became unbearable and I was referred to a neurologist. After about a year of various medical cocktails, he called me a "stubborn jackass," and said if I really wanted to get better, get myself to a counselor or quit wasting my time and his. I started searching that day. Like I said, low tolerance for pain.
I'm nowhere near healed. I don't know when or even if that day will come. There are still more dark days than not. But even if the demons never fully disappear, I am winning the battle. One day at a time, sometimes one minute at a time. But I am winning.
I seldom cry. It has been part of my refusal to give in to the demons of my mind for so long that now it is difficult for me to do so. I am the strong one, and tears, to me, have always been a sign of my failures. But this week, I have cried. I have grieved. Not just for the loss of a brilliant, comedic mind but for the thought that, for once, the demons might have won.
And, until I process through this particular discerning moment, I will continue to unashamedly shed tears.
Every time I hear the words, "Good morning, Vietnam!" I will cry.
Every time I read "O Captain, My Captain" it will be with new meaning, and I will cry.
Every time I think of a clueless alien tossing eggs into the air in an effort to get them to "fly and be free," I will cry.
Every time Pan antagonizes Hook, Genie grants a wish, and Mrs. D. does a drive-by fruiting, I will remember, and I will cry.
One day, the darkness will be gone for good and so will the tears. Until then, thank you, Mr. Williams, for giving me the courage to step into the sunlight. I only wish you could have walked there with me.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Daddy's Girl
Can't say I ever was one. A daddy's girl, that is. I am the first of four. There were no sons. I was a tomboy. Still am. Love sports more than shopping and guns more than shoes. Well, maybe about the same there. However, while I can change a tire and the oil and fix a stripped out clutch cable; I can also cook, clean, sew and do all the other traditional girl things. So, no, I was never really your basic definition of a daddy's girl. The other three certainly made up for it. As did the five granddaughters.
I suppose I am too much like him and not just in looks. I'm fiercely independent, stubborn to a fault, and if you tell me I can't do something, my go-to response is usually, "Sit back and watch." I'm not fond of conflict. I tend to retreat into my hidey-hole and when the fireworks are over, act like nothing was ever wrong. I'm more quiet than I used to be. I need my space and my alone time. But I'm also creative. I can envision what something needs to look like and I can figure out how to get there. I have an innate sense of direction. I love getting lost and figuring out how to get back to where I need to be. I love to explore, just for the sake of exploration, never taking the same road twice. All of these things, I got from him.
He is the youngest of three, the only boy, raised by his grandparents while his parents traveled around from job to job. His small town makes mine look like New York City. Once he finished high school, he rode his motorcycle to the Holy Land before it was officially Auburn University. A five hour trip today by car. Back then, there were no interstates, and turning highway 280 into a four-lane was someone's pipe dream. Worked in the lab that helped build the Saturn V. Raced stock cars on the side. Got married. He wanted to be an engineer. Probably would have made it, if there hadn't be this thing called a draft. Took a quarter off and Uncle Sam came calling. Trained at Ft. Benning. Being the only son and the fact that I was in the process of being born helped keep him from the war.
By that time the family had moved to Illinois. There, among other things, he worked at Sara Lee, and Ocean Spray. He helped build Comm Ed, the company responsible for lighting much of the eastern seaboard. He bought a garage and in his spare time, built a car and won racing's Rookie of the Year. He also had daughter number two.
Came home to Alabama to help his parents run a marina and campground they had purchased. Ended up buying it outright and for about ten years, worked sixteen and twenty hour days during the fishing season and just slightly less during the off months. Learned how to be an outboard motor mechanic in order to expand the business. Became a salesman when Evinrude was king and dragged the family to boat shows all over the Southeast. Called it our vacation. Started the county's tourism association. Fought against the pollution of the Coosa River. Became an EMT. Daughters number three and four showed up. The business got sold.
Worked in a couple of odd places, including TVA, helping build a nuclear power plant before settling into law enforcement. Became a "reev-a-noo-er" for the state Alcoholic Beverage Control Board. Busted up whiskey stills, carded underage drinkers, and became the bane of the students at that other university. Was an original member of the governor's Drug Task Force. Provided security for one governor's wife during their term. Grandchildren started to make appearances.
He finally retired after high blood pressure, heart problems and political backstabbing began to take its toll. Now he travels around seeing the states and comes home to putter in his garage. Builds whatever he wants, works on whatever car or boat happens to be handy, takes the only grandson (and the granddaughters) fishing. Still working on remodeling that monstrosity of a house. Still an engineer at heart.
Now that I think about it, I guess I'm a daddy's girl after all.
I suppose I am too much like him and not just in looks. I'm fiercely independent, stubborn to a fault, and if you tell me I can't do something, my go-to response is usually, "Sit back and watch." I'm not fond of conflict. I tend to retreat into my hidey-hole and when the fireworks are over, act like nothing was ever wrong. I'm more quiet than I used to be. I need my space and my alone time. But I'm also creative. I can envision what something needs to look like and I can figure out how to get there. I have an innate sense of direction. I love getting lost and figuring out how to get back to where I need to be. I love to explore, just for the sake of exploration, never taking the same road twice. All of these things, I got from him.
He is the youngest of three, the only boy, raised by his grandparents while his parents traveled around from job to job. His small town makes mine look like New York City. Once he finished high school, he rode his motorcycle to the Holy Land before it was officially Auburn University. A five hour trip today by car. Back then, there were no interstates, and turning highway 280 into a four-lane was someone's pipe dream. Worked in the lab that helped build the Saturn V. Raced stock cars on the side. Got married. He wanted to be an engineer. Probably would have made it, if there hadn't be this thing called a draft. Took a quarter off and Uncle Sam came calling. Trained at Ft. Benning. Being the only son and the fact that I was in the process of being born helped keep him from the war.
By that time the family had moved to Illinois. There, among other things, he worked at Sara Lee, and Ocean Spray. He helped build Comm Ed, the company responsible for lighting much of the eastern seaboard. He bought a garage and in his spare time, built a car and won racing's Rookie of the Year. He also had daughter number two.
Came home to Alabama to help his parents run a marina and campground they had purchased. Ended up buying it outright and for about ten years, worked sixteen and twenty hour days during the fishing season and just slightly less during the off months. Learned how to be an outboard motor mechanic in order to expand the business. Became a salesman when Evinrude was king and dragged the family to boat shows all over the Southeast. Called it our vacation. Started the county's tourism association. Fought against the pollution of the Coosa River. Became an EMT. Daughters number three and four showed up. The business got sold.
Worked in a couple of odd places, including TVA, helping build a nuclear power plant before settling into law enforcement. Became a "reev-a-noo-er" for the state Alcoholic Beverage Control Board. Busted up whiskey stills, carded underage drinkers, and became the bane of the students at that other university. Was an original member of the governor's Drug Task Force. Provided security for one governor's wife during their term. Grandchildren started to make appearances.
He finally retired after high blood pressure, heart problems and political backstabbing began to take its toll. Now he travels around seeing the states and comes home to putter in his garage. Builds whatever he wants, works on whatever car or boat happens to be handy, takes the only grandson (and the granddaughters) fishing. Still working on remodeling that monstrosity of a house. Still an engineer at heart.
Now that I think about it, I guess I'm a daddy's girl after all.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Kicking Baby Birds and Other Not-So-Fun Parental Jobs
It seems as if the older my children get, the more involved (and crazy) life gets. For example...
The Cinderella has officially graduated from high school with honors and as a member of various extracurricular organizations, so she was privileged to wear multiple cords and stoles. Her favorite, however, was the ubiquitous "I'm my own self and therefore cool" cord that usually hangs above the tapestry by our backdoor. My heart cracked a bit to see how much she has really grown.
A week later, we attended freshman orientation. You have to understand that to say The Cinderella does not like change is not simply an understatement. It's more like saying tornadoes don't like trailer parks. All the way there she kept repeating, "I can't do this. I don't know anyone. What if I don't like it? What if I bomb all my classes? I don't know what to do? What if? What if? What if?" By the time the weekend was over, she had toured the new kinesiology building, and met one-on-one with an Olympic coach who has agreed to let her work with him as he trains athletes. Does she know what sport? Nope. Does she care? Not in the slightest. All she knows is it's progress toward her goal of becoming an athletic trainer to the stars. I watched her grow a little more that weekend, and the crack in my heart got a bit wider.
I just got back from a road trip with The Free Spirit. She has talked about moving to North Carolina for awhile now so we decided to go see what all the fuss might be about. I must say it was absolutely beautiful. I adore the mountains and I would love to spend as much time there as I possibly could, so I understand the pull the area has for my middle child. Yet, as a parent, I'm having a difficult time with agreeing with her reasoning for moving in the first place. She says she wants to go because our small town doesn't have what she needs. Yet she can't articulate exactly what that is. I know that she, too, is growing, but the crack in my heart is wide open on this one.
The Eldest is not currently employed. She says she felt that God was leading her in a different direction than radio so she left her position with our local station. I have no idea what she is going to do. She is already grown but...
The Cinderella is currently on a mission trip in Brazil. Alone. Well, not technically, but she is there sans a parental unit. Plus, that whole change thing is against her. She has had to deal with a ten plus hour flight when she hates to fly. She says it causes her to go deaf and no amount of chewing gum or yawning helps. She will be working with a Baptist missionary who is trying to plant a church, but she was not raised in a Baptist environment, so she is a bit clueless about how to proceed there. It's the middle of the 2014 World Cup. While the team is not in the same city as the games, we are all aware how serious Brazil is about its soccer. Lastly, while she has had two and a half years of classroom Spanish, she doesn't speak one iota of Portuguese. Talk about a growth experience. I'm not sure how many more cracks my heart can take right now.
I know that these situations are not any where near the vicinity of my control. I know that each one requires trusting that God will take care of them, and that "all things work together," etc. I know the whole "train up a child" mantra. I've prayed. (Believe me, I've prayed.) But the parent manual never mentioned how empty your soul would feel when you kick that last baby bird out of the nest. I'm not sure it's something I can (or want to) get used to.
So...
Promise me you'll be okay. Promise me you'll look both ways before crossing the street (so you don't ruin Christmas). Promise you call just to let me know you're still alive. Promise you'll study. Promise you'll finish your degree (I don't care what it is). Promise me you'll find a respectable job. Promise me you'll find a church family that loves you and loves Jesus. Promise me that you will treat other people with respect, no matter what. Promise me you will act like a lady. No matter what. Promise me you will love each other and other people, even if they seem unlovable. Promise me you will listen to the other side before you make that final decision. Promise me you'll do your research. Promise me you'll say no. Promise me you'll come home on occasion. Promise me you'll save your money. Promise me you will marry Godly men. Promise me.
Just don't promise me grandchildren.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Mom
For turning off the tv and making us go outside.
For letting us roam the neighborhood. And the woods. And the lakeshore.
For making us clean our plates. And our rooms. Even under the beds (where the alligators hid).
For letting us fight. Literally.
For not letting us fight.
For making us get off the phone after 9 pm.
For letting us go to our friend's houses. And to our grandparent's houses. And to camp. By ourselves.
For not coming to get us when we cried.
For teaching us to read and write and say please and thank you and yes, ma'am and no, sir.
For not being our teacher when you could have been.
For Halloween and Christmas and Easter and Valentine's Day and all the birthday cakes in between.
For saying no.
For saying yes.
For holding our hands when we needed it. And our hair back when we needed that.
For making us learn to cook and clean and do laundry and sew and change diapers.
For the difference between play clothes and church clothes.
For knowing what recycling and repurposing was long before it was fashionable.
For making us work in that horrific garden.
For not taking us on the same vacations that all our friends were going on.
For making us learn to swim.
For teaching us how to drive.
For your love of music. Even if it is that crappy AM country station.
For making us go to church.
For washing our mouths out with soap.
For lighting our backsides up when we needed it (and the other three even when they didn't).
For the love of travel. And of books. And of people.
For making us get good grades. And behave in the classroom. No matter what.
For listening to our side. And the other side. Then getting the real story.
For teaching us how to leave home.
For sewing something minutes before we walked in a door or down the aisle.
For leaf cookies.
For the millions of other moments you have been there.
And...for teaching us to write thank you notes.
Happy Mother's Day!
For letting us roam the neighborhood. And the woods. And the lakeshore.
For making us clean our plates. And our rooms. Even under the beds (where the alligators hid).
For letting us fight. Literally.
For not letting us fight.
For making us get off the phone after 9 pm.
For letting us go to our friend's houses. And to our grandparent's houses. And to camp. By ourselves.
For not coming to get us when we cried.
For teaching us to read and write and say please and thank you and yes, ma'am and no, sir.
For not being our teacher when you could have been.
For Halloween and Christmas and Easter and Valentine's Day and all the birthday cakes in between.
For saying no.
For saying yes.
For holding our hands when we needed it. And our hair back when we needed that.
For making us learn to cook and clean and do laundry and sew and change diapers.
For the difference between play clothes and church clothes.
For knowing what recycling and repurposing was long before it was fashionable.
For making us work in that horrific garden.
For not taking us on the same vacations that all our friends were going on.
For making us learn to swim.
For teaching us how to drive.
For your love of music. Even if it is that crappy AM country station.
For making us go to church.
For washing our mouths out with soap.
For lighting our backsides up when we needed it (and the other three even when they didn't).
For the love of travel. And of books. And of people.
For making us get good grades. And behave in the classroom. No matter what.
For listening to our side. And the other side. Then getting the real story.
For teaching us how to leave home.
For sewing something minutes before we walked in a door or down the aisle.
For leaf cookies.
For the millions of other moments you have been there.
And...for teaching us to write thank you notes.
Happy Mother's Day!
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Calgon, Take Me......Anywhere!
I've had it up to here! Isn't that how the saying goes? When the frustration level rises to more than can be taken, and you smack the edge of your hand against some region of your head (or higher) and start screaming? That's when everyone knows to back off and leave you in peace for a while until you can get things on an even keel again.
This is the time of year where I'm not sure if things will ever be even again. I'm inundated with pressures from from every aspect of my life and the end of the tunnel seems so very far away. The kids are being tested out the wazoo at school, so I can't even manage to get through a single uninterrupted week, let alone finish a unit on time. We should be halfway through the trial in To Kill a Mockingbird and I can't even get Scout off of Miss Maudie's front porch. The problem is, testing won't be over until May 15 and by that time we're a week from the end of school. I guess Odysseus will have to keep sailing because we can't get him home this year. (Let's not even mention the poetry unit I spent so much time creating.)
Then there is the family unit. The Princess is graduating this year. She is stressed. She is letting everyone know it. We still have senior band concert, senior chorus concert, senior prom, senior prom dinner (at our house), senior day at school and at church, tennis banquet, band banquet and finals. Have I even ordered graduation announcements? Plus, we are in the midst of fundraising for a mission trip to Brazil and when anyone mentions college, she freaks about "How am I going to pay for it?" Yep, she's a basket case. So am I.
I had two peaceful days of spring break. Then I got sick. Allergies kept me in bed and miserable so I had no chance to rest and relax before I had to jump back into the maelstrom. Plus, I continue the never-ending battle with migraines, in which I feel that if I gain an inch, I lose a mile. Can I get a new brain, please? This one hurts too much.
Yes, this is a rant. Forgive me. I don't usually do this, especially in a public forum. I'm desperate for the break I have neither the time for, nor can I afford to take. So I will simply sit here and quietly and endlessly repeat a quote my aunt used to have hanging on her kitchen wall...
This is the time of year where I'm not sure if things will ever be even again. I'm inundated with pressures from from every aspect of my life and the end of the tunnel seems so very far away. The kids are being tested out the wazoo at school, so I can't even manage to get through a single uninterrupted week, let alone finish a unit on time. We should be halfway through the trial in To Kill a Mockingbird and I can't even get Scout off of Miss Maudie's front porch. The problem is, testing won't be over until May 15 and by that time we're a week from the end of school. I guess Odysseus will have to keep sailing because we can't get him home this year. (Let's not even mention the poetry unit I spent so much time creating.)
Then there is the family unit. The Princess is graduating this year. She is stressed. She is letting everyone know it. We still have senior band concert, senior chorus concert, senior prom, senior prom dinner (at our house), senior day at school and at church, tennis banquet, band banquet and finals. Have I even ordered graduation announcements? Plus, we are in the midst of fundraising for a mission trip to Brazil and when anyone mentions college, she freaks about "How am I going to pay for it?" Yep, she's a basket case. So am I.
I had two peaceful days of spring break. Then I got sick. Allergies kept me in bed and miserable so I had no chance to rest and relax before I had to jump back into the maelstrom. Plus, I continue the never-ending battle with migraines, in which I feel that if I gain an inch, I lose a mile. Can I get a new brain, please? This one hurts too much.
Yes, this is a rant. Forgive me. I don't usually do this, especially in a public forum. I'm desperate for the break I have neither the time for, nor can I afford to take. So I will simply sit here and quietly and endlessly repeat a quote my aunt used to have hanging on her kitchen wall...
"One of these days I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.I've earned it.I deserve it.And no one is going to deprive me of it!"
Friday, April 11, 2014
Blue Toes and Bubbles
Spring is here. Officially. After the freaky winter we have had here below the Mason-Dixon line, I'm sure that I can say with perfect certainty that 99.99 percent of the population are glad it is. The other .01 percent are either carpetbaggers, weirdos, or people like me. Stuck in limbo.
Don't get me wrong. I like spring. The whole new life thing, the fact that I can get out and soak up some much needed vitamin D without dropping twenty-five pounds in sweat the moment I open the door, and the joy of being able to walk barefoot to the mailbox without either searing or freezing the soles of your feet completely off. Plus, I can paint my toenails blue again.
I paint my toenails all sorts of colors in the spring and summer. This includes any and all shades of blue, green, purple, and the deeper pinks. I do stay away from reds (too predictable) and yellow (too ugly). I like the odd colors, the unexpected ones. The ones that fit my mood at the moment and cause people to stop and say, "That's just downright weird." No one expects someone of my temperament and background and, let's face it, age, to have bright purple toenails. I like shocking people. Can you tell?
But you see, I like winter too. Not that I like being cold. I don't. I hate that part. It's physically painful for me. But I love being able to run a tub full of the hottest water I can stand, pour in tons of bubble bath, run everyone out of the house and be truly warm for a couple of hours. It gives me a chance to shut my brain down and really rest, if only for a little while. And it helps that I've got a tub big enough to drown a family of four all at the same time.
The problem stems from the fact that I don't paint my toenails in the winter and I don't take bubble baths during the warmer months. Hence the limbo. And I know most of you are having to reread that entire sentence, and you're thinking, "Well, that's just stupid." To explain. I don't paint my nails in the winter because I like to give them a chance to breathe (yes, finger and toenails have to breathe, look it up) and heal from being suffocated under layers of acrylic paint for weeks on end. It's called trying to stay on this side of healthy. As for the bubble baths, what southerner in their right mind would voluntarily submerge their bodies into near boiling water on days when the outside temperature is near boiling itself? That would be literally jumping from the frying pan into the fire, as the saying goes, and that truly is stupid. (And cool water defeats the whole purpose of a bubble bath, so don't even go there.)
But the seasons will continue to change and time will continue to pass so I will say good-bye for now to the long, hot soaks, and I will look forward with great anticipation to the multicolored rainbow that awaits my little tootsies. See you in the fall!
Don't get me wrong. I like spring. The whole new life thing, the fact that I can get out and soak up some much needed vitamin D without dropping twenty-five pounds in sweat the moment I open the door, and the joy of being able to walk barefoot to the mailbox without either searing or freezing the soles of your feet completely off. Plus, I can paint my toenails blue again.
I paint my toenails all sorts of colors in the spring and summer. This includes any and all shades of blue, green, purple, and the deeper pinks. I do stay away from reds (too predictable) and yellow (too ugly). I like the odd colors, the unexpected ones. The ones that fit my mood at the moment and cause people to stop and say, "That's just downright weird." No one expects someone of my temperament and background and, let's face it, age, to have bright purple toenails. I like shocking people. Can you tell?
But you see, I like winter too. Not that I like being cold. I don't. I hate that part. It's physically painful for me. But I love being able to run a tub full of the hottest water I can stand, pour in tons of bubble bath, run everyone out of the house and be truly warm for a couple of hours. It gives me a chance to shut my brain down and really rest, if only for a little while. And it helps that I've got a tub big enough to drown a family of four all at the same time.
The problem stems from the fact that I don't paint my toenails in the winter and I don't take bubble baths during the warmer months. Hence the limbo. And I know most of you are having to reread that entire sentence, and you're thinking, "Well, that's just stupid." To explain. I don't paint my nails in the winter because I like to give them a chance to breathe (yes, finger and toenails have to breathe, look it up) and heal from being suffocated under layers of acrylic paint for weeks on end. It's called trying to stay on this side of healthy. As for the bubble baths, what southerner in their right mind would voluntarily submerge their bodies into near boiling water on days when the outside temperature is near boiling itself? That would be literally jumping from the frying pan into the fire, as the saying goes, and that truly is stupid. (And cool water defeats the whole purpose of a bubble bath, so don't even go there.)
But the seasons will continue to change and time will continue to pass so I will say good-bye for now to the long, hot soaks, and I will look forward with great anticipation to the multicolored rainbow that awaits my little tootsies. See you in the fall!
Monday, February 3, 2014
What Women Do When You're Not Looking
I've been thinking a bit lately. (No comments from the peanut gallery, please.) At some point in the past weeks the term 'mentor' came to mind, and I've had that stewing around in my subconscious. At first, I tried to connect it to my students, because, Heaven knows, I could name about a hundred who need one desperately. But that didn't seem to gel. Then, to add to my confusion, in the midst of my thirty day read through the Psalms challenge, one of the psalmists mentioned his mother and that got added to the mix. To really stir up the conundrum, I took a rabbit trail in my head during a Sunday sermon (sorry, Ron) and began to think about who might have taught David how to be "a man after God's own heart." I guess you can see where this is going. I was a bit more dense.
It took a really bad cold, a southern "blizzard", and God waking me up at 2:30 in the morning (He used thoughts of me smothering The Hubby interspersed with the apostle Paul's admonishment to women that they should train up the younger generation) before I got the complete message.
It's not about being a mentor, or connecting mentors and mentees. It's about having one. I'm at a place in my life where I need guidance and direction. It's not a valley or a rut, it's a dead stop, and I have no idea which way to go. So, apparently, the Lord's answer is to find a mentor. Which will be one of the hardest things I have ever done in my entire life. It will mean opening up and admitting to someone that I haven't got a clue what I'm doing and I need help. And, more than likely, that someone (given my introverted personality and social anxiety) will be a relative stranger to me. It'll be interesting, to say the least.
With all this in mind, I started thinking of all the women in my life who have been mentors to me. Some are older, some younger, some I see on a daily basis, some I haven't seen in years. However, these women have each inspired me, encouraged me, and taught me something, whether they knew it or not. They all deserve jewels in their crown.
- Mary Nell Halcomb Oliver - she taught me to stand, to walk, to read, to love learning, and to be self-sufficient. She will always be my first hero
- Cheryl Halcomb Humphres - she has a beautiful smile and an infectious laugh. I have never seen her raise either her voice or her hand in anger, but she could set you back ten paces with the look in her eye. Her's is the soul of forgiveness and grace.
- "Aunt" Nell Nugent - my second mom while I was growing up. She was one of the first to guide me along this journey. Her wisdom and unconditional love kept my spirit watered through many a desert trip.
- Lenora McWhorter - not only an excellent teacher, but the embodiment of all I believed a true lady should be. Elegance personifed.
- Carol Garrett - she told me one time that she loved coming to my house, because "everyone immediately becomes part of your family. You truly know how to make people feel like they're at home." I try to live up to that. And...she continues to think I have no wrinkles.
- Layne Lavett - her spirit of unselfish service is beyond compare. She cleaned my bathroom when I couldn't. I cried that day.
- Susan Oswalt - I will always return her phone calls. Anytime, day or night. No matter what.
- Betty Lanier - another true lady and a visible "helpmeet" to her husband throughout his entire life. I pray daily that my marriage becomes as Godly and as much a true partnership as hers.
- Angela Lockhart and Linda Kelley - my sisters-in-heart. They have always had a laugh or a positive outlook even on the most rotten of days. I hate to think what my spirit would look like without constant reminders that God is in control, especially of the out-of-control.
- The Eldest, The Free Spirit, and The Princess - they have all taught me to look at life in a new way, to try new things, to laugh at the absurdity of fate and to enjoy each moment of each day. You are my favorites.
Your job is to speak out on the things that make for solid doctrine. ... Guide older women into lives of reverence so they end up as neither gossips nor drunks, but models of goodness. By looking at them, the younger women will know how to love their husbands and children, be virtuous and pure, keep a good house, be good wives. We don’t want anyone looking down on God’s Message because of their behavior. Titus 2:1-6a The Message
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