Motherhood

Today is Mother's Day. The one day of the year where mother's are revered for their sacrifices, pampered by their families, and given a moment or two to sit down and rest.

It's our day. It's one day. And after today it's going to be 364 days of all-go-no-quit, mama do this, mama do that, "Mom can I have...", "Mom can I go...", "Mom can you help me with..."

Being a mother is the most difficult job I have ever done. There is nothing else in my life that has caused me so much fear, doubt, heartache, worry, and stress. But at the same time it is the most rewarding, fulfilling, and IMPORTANT job I will EVER do. The only problem is, I don't even know if I am doing it right. I'd like to think that I am, but the cold hard truth is that I have no idea if I'm doing a good job at this or not.

Being a mother has not been easy for me. "Motherly Instinct" was such a foreign concept to me when I had children of my own, and I have struggled to do this right.
I have sat up in the middle of the night,  weeping at my own inadequacy and ineptness.
Burning hot tears of despair have rolled down my face and I have tried to convince myself that everything was going to be okay, and that 'this too shall pass'.
I have awoken in the middle of the night screaming, crying and shaking because of the unending nightmares of all the horrors of the world befalling my children, and my inability to protect/save them.

Being a mother is a hard, thankless job, almost all of the time. I have gotten up in the middle of the night to change soiled bedding. I have slept on the floor next to the bed of my feverish child, my cell phone alarm set to go off at 2am so that I can take her temperature and give her more fever reducing medicine if needed. I have rocked my children when they were scared, kissed tears off their cheeks when they were sad, and brought down a firm hand of discipline when they were out of line. I have been yelled at by my children. I have had eyes rolled at me and disgusted heavy sighs heaved in my direction. I have had my ears filled - constantly -  with whining, crying, begging, arguing, and back-talk. I have endured screams of pain, rage, and despair coming from the mouths of the tiny little humans that I made from scratch. I have spent the last 12 years living, as it were, in a prison of my own making.

So much of all of this has been done with no sleep, no thanks, no reward, and no relenting. Sometimes this job all feel like too much. Too, too much. But I get up and do the job anyway.

When Darkness Falls

There is something about me that a handful of people know but that is not actually public knowledge. Something (or rather, some things) that I have been living with for the past 3 decades of my life. I’ve never put these words out into a public forum before, and to be honest I’m not sure why I am doing so right now.

Maybe it’s my way of reaching out.
Maybe it’s a cry for help.
Maybe it’s an attempt to not feel so damn alone in all of this.
Maybe it’s so that, should I lose the battle and darkness win out, when searching for answers as to the WHY of it all, people will be able to look on here and go, “Oh, it was like that.”

I have Anxiety. I have Depression. Yes, it’s just like that.

I have what I refer to as ‘high functioning  anxiety’. I call it that because whatever else is going on, however scared I am or hopeless I feel, I get up, get dressed and I soldier on through my day. I function. I function dangerously close to ‘well’, considering how much I do in a day and how little rest I do it on. High functioning anxiety. That’s what I call it... that’s the lie I tell myself.

The reality of my Anxiety is that it is crippling. It is debilitating. It keeps me so weary and so scared and so hyper vigilant that I can’t ever relax. I can’t ever relax, I can’t ever let go, and I can’t ever feel at peace. I have Anxiety.

I have chronic Depression. I won’t ever refer to it as ‘high functioning depression’, because most days I feel as though I am barely able to function at all. I do function of course... I get up, get dressed, and I soldier on, just l Ike I do with the anxiety. The difference though is that, while I am able to put my Anxiety to use for myself, I can do no such thing with my Depression. There is no good that comes out of the big D. There is no benefit, there is no lesson, there is no silver lining. There is only the long, dark, bitter cold chasm.

I have Anxiety. I have Depression

The First Poem

This afternoon I was going through a box of old letters, cards, and keepsakes; waxing nostalgic, if you will. While going through an old Oreo tin of which has always held to most special of the letters, notes, etc, I came across a folded up piece of paper. I opened the note to find the very first poem that I ever wrote. I wrote this when I was in the 4th grade.

The Devil of Mercy 

I walk alone in the park at night

And the Devil of Mercy enters my sight.

I tremble and shake

As I feel the earth quake,

I’m filled with fright

As I am sucked into the deep, dark night.

The Devil of Mercy has not a care

As to what’s going on, when or where.

He deserves not a passion, but a cage to enclose

Tightly around his body, his shadow, his pose.

He does not live to his name,  it to what he believes

The world should be like, in its fearness and grieves.

I have one thing to say, and it shall be my last...

The fear in the world shall never quite pass.

I was 10 years old.

I asked Jason if he wanted to read the first poem I ever wrote and he said yes.

He read it and then folded it up and handed it back to me and said, “That’s a pretty dark poem sweetie.” I replied, “Yeah, it really is, isn’t it.”

I was 10. 

Finding the Words... Part 1

Dear *******,

There are so many things I’ve wanted to say.
So many memories relived day after day,
So many emotions felt over the years
If I said them all now I would deafen your ears.

You were my first love, so deep and so true,
All my worry and angst you’d eventually undo.
You were the one that opened my eyes,
You held me tight and listened to my cries.

You gave me a book once that helped save my life;
After reading and practice I laid down my strife.
“The Barefoot Doctor’s Guide to the Tao”
Helped me onto a new path, and look at me now.

I knew something that night you kissed me under the stars
The memory has lasted through the all of the scars.
I knew if I fell for you it’d end with me in tears
But I’ve never regretted it, not for all of these years.

Years have passed now; we’ve gone separate ways
But through everything there have been many days
I missed you so much I didn’t know what to do.
There’s a piece deep inside me that never stopped loving you.

Unsent Letters

Have you ever written a letter to someone - a real, honest to goodness handwritten letter - and never sent it to them? Maybe you intended to put it in the mail but didn't. Maybe you wrote it late at night and then read it to yourself by the morning light and decided there was no way that letter was fit to send. Maybe you wrote the letter with no intention of ever sending it.

Maybe you wrote the letter, poured your heart and soul into it, just to get the thoughts out of your head and the feelings out of your heart. As though with each stroke of the pen, the paper could absorb the very emotion you were trying to convey, and thereby the burden in your heart would be lessened.

I have written many such letters.

I have stayed up late on so many nights, writing words on paper through eyes blurred with tears, a mind bogged down in regret, and a heart heavy with sorrow. I have written word after word with ink that ran because of the tears falling onto the page.

There are so many things that happen in the course of a lifetime. So many loves, so many losses, so many triumphs, and so many soul crushing defeats. And sometimes, if you are a person with no one in your life close enough to you to share things with, you get so encumbered by all of the happenings that you feel you are drowning in a sea of frothy emotion. Unable to stay afloat or swim to shore, yet unable to sink far enough down to reach the peace of sweet oblivion.

I have been there. That has been me time after time throughout my life. And in those times of emotional heartache and despair, I have reached for the only lifeline I have ever found to be constantly there, no matter what - a pen and a piece of paper.

I have written until my hands ached. I have written until sleepiness has edged my words to the brink of incoherence.  I have written until the ink in the pen has run dry and until every inch of blank paper has been filled. I have opened a notebook and put pen to page until every ounce of love, hatred, fear, lust, hope and sorrow has been drained from my soul. And then I closed the notebook and put it away somewhere safe, where neither I nor the rest of the world could ever be affected by those words.

In effect, I have written to save my life.
It's something I have always done, and something I will always to. Because no matter what else the world has taken or will take from me, it can never take my words.