Developing Talents

I have been beating myself up for not being more disciplined with my writing. For the past few weeks, I've met with a friend to develop weekly goals. We both needed the accountability and structure.

Every week, I've put a goal of writing something every day. Of course, the fact that I have issues with scale have meant that if I'm not blogging every day, I'm failing at the goal. I'm reading the Bible in a year in the Bible app. I am behind (more self-flagellation), but the readings this week have been about talents we are given.

There is the classic parable of the men who were given talents. The men had three different reactions when given the talents (a talent, in this context, was a unit of money). One man multiplied the talents aggressively, one man was less aggressive and one buried his talent.

I spend a lot of time thinking that I want to be given a lot. I have this recurring fantasy of opening my front door and seeing a large sack with dollar bills sticking out of it. I'm very sad to report that as of the writing of this post, I've yet to encounter said sack.

More recently, as we've been in a season of unemployment for Brian, we've encountered blessings from God that are much smaller in size. At the same time, they have made a huge impact on our situation. More importantly, they've made a huge impact on our faith. Every time we receive an unexpected windfall or some kind of assistance comes through, it's a reminder that though we don't know where the path is leading us, we do know that God is guiding our steps.

But I digress.

I have this idea that I should (that it is reasonable and, therefore, mandatory) be able to sit down every day and write a blog post. I confess that some days, I let small things like my phone and mindless activities crowd out the more important things. On other days, though, I am unable to carve out the time necessary to sit down and write down several paragraphs at a time.

Up until today, I spent a lot of time criticizing myself. I figured it was some sort of moral failing, a lack of discipline. At church, though, it occurred to me that I have, in fact, been writing every day. It may not always be a blog post, but I have been texting with a friend who struggles in many of the same ways I do. I am realizing that in texting her, I am uncovering God's truth about my own situation.

I feel like I need to work harder to quiet the distractions and dedicate myself to my craft. I mention the parable about the talents because I think it's evolved into a meaning of actual talents (or spiritual gifts). If I am not honing my skills, if I am not building my writing muscles, I am like the servant who buried his talent in the ground.

I firmly believe that God has gifted me tremendous talent when it comes to writing and even public speaking. I don't mean that in an arrogant way. I know that I have blessed people and helped people as a result of either blog posts or lengthy Facebook posts. I have tried hard to be transparent and vulnerable about my struggles with depression and anxiety. Many people have encouraged me to continue sharing because I won't even know who all is being impacted.

In the end, the important thing is that when I do receive compliments or accolades, that I throw that glory right back up to God. I may be the one typing, but he is the one who sometimes speaks through me. (I will readily admit that I am equally as irrational and filled with fear as I am rational and hopeful. I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not and I don't want people to think it's all sunshine and rainbows. I'm just as likely to think my headache is a malignant brain tumor as I am that the right job is just around the corner for Brian. That's the beauty of being a woman--I can hold multiple feelings and thoughts in my head at the same time.)

I'm also happy to report that we decided to hit the pause button on potty training Brooklyn. For anyone who has ever had to potty train a child, you know that the process can be frustrating and draining. Jeremy took forever to potty train (which we found out later was directly related to his sensory processing issues). Bekah was pretty easy. Doug was older than Jeremy when he potty trained, but our experience with Jeremy taught us that it's no use to fight a toddler's will.

Our ordeal started on Friday. She is not keen on wearing underwear. (As a reminder, she wore the same sneakers religiously, even to the beach over the previous summer. We were worried that her feet would become deformed as we continued to cram them into the sneakers. It was nothing short of a miracle that she finally acquiesced and started wearing a different pair. Now we've even gotten her to wear a pair of sandals!) We have been trying to sell the idea of potty training for a few months. She has shown interest at times. She hides when she has a BM. She is able to undress herself.

It would be easy to conclude, then, that she's ready. Our experience on Friday showed us differently. She asked for a diaper on several occasions. We said no. She peed in about four pairs of underwear, peed on the floor three or four different times and even refused to pee on the potty (but instead stand in the doorway to the bathroom and pee on the floor, right in front of me).

This is one of those times that I want to go head-to-head with a toddler and prove my intelligence. It comes down to the idea posited in War Games, though. The only way to win that game is not to play. Toddlers, by their very nature, are not ruled by logic and thoughtfulness. Brooklyn is currently terrorized by something she calls "spiders." Are they actual spiders? Nope. So far, the most we've been able to ascertain is that they resemble spiders but are actually dust bunnies (or dust elephants, more like).

She insists on using a fork to eat, even if the food shouldn't require a fork. (Jeremy, who is reading over my shoulder as I write, has encouraged me to share that she used a fork to eat a donut this morning at church.) She likes to carry around random assortments of objects, each of which have significance to her.

We decided that given her stubborn nature (not sure where she inherited that), we will take up the task again at a later date. We are blessed with the gift of time, in that she isn't required to be potty trained until September.

I'm hopeful that this is the week I will be posting more blog posts, but I'm also going to be okay if the most I'm able to do is share my experience, hope and strength with someone via text or Messenger.

Starting Over....Again

It's been a week or so since I've been able to sit down and write. I have developed the habit of meeting with a friend on Saturday mornings. We sit down together and physically (pen and paper) write down goals for the coming week. It has been helpful for me. It helps set the tone for the upcoming week. It also helps me look back and realize the things I was able to accomplish in the previous week.

I continue to battle my weight. I have reached a point where the cardio I'm doing (walking dogs) is not intense enough to maintain my weight or help me lose weight. After Brian lost his job, well, really before that, I lost some of the previous discipline I had regarding food.

The simple reason is that Brian is not home every night. This means that there isn't always an adult with me at the end of dinner. If there is an adult with me, then it is easy to close the kitchen. I can put away leftovers, load the dishwasher, etc. If there isn't, then I have to leave the leftovers out for when Brian gets home. I am alone fielding the multiple requests from each child, trying to negotiate terms with one or two of them about their amount of screen time, or signing homework slips or the like.

The stress wears on me. And in the best circumstances, when the stress hits, I can take a quiet time or write something or do some deep breathing.

If I have no one around who can run interference, then it becomes tricky to set a physical boundary between me and the food.

Back when I started this journey, I set a rule for myself that I stopped eating at 8 PM. Over the past couple of months, I relaxed the rule and then struggled to set that boundary again. The picture I have in my head is of a herd of sheep being let out of their pen. I'm positive, though I've not experienced it firsthand, that herding all the sheep back into the pen is not easy.

Similarly, it has been tough to set that boundary for myself again.

I've also reached a point where the dog walking is not strenuous enough activity. I am racking up the steps on a regular basis, but my heart rate isn't getting into the right zone. I've been threatening to start strength training for several weeks. As usual, I've been overthinking it. It's tough to have to to start over again.

Meanwhile, I've also decided to stop weighing myself. I had developed the habit of weighing myself every morning. It was not serving me well.

I've written about that number before. It's a fixed point in time. It is a snapshot of where you are, but it's really only one of several factors when discussing health. So instead of obsessing over one of those factors, I'm going to focus on my measurements. I am going to ask a friend to help me take my measurements. I am also going to mark my watch band and take pictures of myself. I will then set all of that aside for a month. After 30 days, I will pull the scale out, but I will also check my measurements, see how my watch is fitting and look at my before and after pictures.

There's no point, when I am just coming out of a major depressive episode, to measure something that will end up weighing me down and possibly dump me back into the morass. I won't lie, it's going to be difficult. Breaking old habits and trying to develop new ones is exhausting. Our brains are malleable things, capable of a great many things.

We all have pathways in our brains. Each pathway represents a learned behavior. Some of them are more important than we realize. Take going to the bathroom. It's seldom that we stop and consider all the steps involved in doing that. Our brains figure out how to do simple things like that and then it becomes second nature. It becomes a deep pathway in our brain, like a well-worn path in a forest preserve.

The problem becomes when that pathway is no longer good. Think about a path in the forest preserve that gets flooded. If we try to take the same path we've always taken, we'll drown. We need to find a new path, but it will mean getting through underbrush, fighting off brambles, etc. It's not for everyone. Quite frankly, most would probably just turn around and go back. But when you know what's at the end of the trail, it can be enough to propel you through all of the yuck.

For me, I'm not looking for a specific number, clothing size, etc. I'm looking to be fit. I want to be more muscular. I want my resting heart rate to be lower. I want less body fat.

I will continue to meet with my friend every week. I'm going to try to make small, manageable goals. I am optimistic that even if I don't transform into the person I've always wanted to be by next month, God will have shown me what the goal should be instead.

(I apologize if this post is rambling. Usually, I write them all in one sitting. I'm trying to write everyday so I started yesterday, but got too tired to continue. I don't feel like it flowed as well as usual. On the flip side, I did write yesterday and today, so I'm counting it as a win.)

In My Defense

I can't decide what to write about tonight. It was my birthday last Thursday. Facebook has a way of making one feel very special on their birthday. I enjoy all of the notes that people send me. It also has this unique ability to raise my anxiety.

You see, I was raised by a devotee of Emily Post. I was taught to write thank-you notes, a tradition I follow to this day. I handwrite all of my thank-you notes. If I don't write a thank-you note, the anxiety starts to creep in. I begin to feel fairly certain that the person who gifted me something is waiting, foot tapping, at their mailbox. I get a creeping feeling that I am going to be unfriended because of my lack of gratitude.

I start the day off trying to type a funny comment or react to each post. As the day wears on, though, and the chaos of my life gets unleashed, I lose track of which post I've read. I turned off notifications for Facebook on my phone a year ago, so my phone isn't pinging all day. At the same time, I tend to check more frequently on my birthday.

I 100% meant to go on Facebook on my birthday, at the end of the day, and say a collective thank you. But Brian was working and it was nuts at bedtime. Then I thought, "that's okay, just go ahead and post something on Friday." But I had the chance to go to a friend's house and do nothing, which I did with great panache.

By Saturday, a vague feeling of guilt started to wash over me. I hadn't posted anything. Now, I will admit that seemingly no one unfriended me. I didn't feel any dirty glances being thrown my way as I ventured out and about. I didn't discover a flaming bag of dog poo on my front porch.

None of that mattered, though. The guilt continued to hover over me.

I honestly haven't felt much like posting anything the past few days. My depression has persisted in earnest. I thought maybe I had some unresolved issue with aging. Maybe after my birthday, I surmised, my depression would abate. To no avail.

I have had a couple of close friends suggest that I need to have my medication adjusted. That seems to be a strong possibility. I am struggling with that idea. Side effects can be bothersome and range from small things like dry mouth to larger issues like insomnia. Body chemistry can change over time and it's possible I need to change my medications all together (the thought of which is causing my anxiety to rise).

In any case, this is the kind of useless dialogue that I spend my days obsessing about. It is, in a word, exhausting.

Also exhausting? Putting an angry 2-year-old to bed when she is overtired. And assembling meals for my four kids. I've long since given up on trying to make a meal that appeals to everyone. There are only two foods that appeal to everyone--skirt steak from Costco and pizza. Both are very rare treats around our house. Aside from that, I have to place every meal on a segmented plate. Everyone has their own plate. Every segment on the plate has a specific food that belongs in it. Jeremy gets green pepper, baby carrots and cucumber. Doug does not. Doug only eats grapes, purple grapes without seeds in them. Brooklyn requires purple grapes and pretzels. She also has to have a fork, even if she doesn't intend to use it.

I cried today. Kind of an ugly cry. It's tough, day after day, to try and understand why I feel so sad when there don't seem to be reasons for me to be sad. I feel like I should be getting close to cried out, that the heaviness tugging at my soul would already have ripped and fallen off. I feel like I am failing my family in some undefinable way. I am irritable and unable to complete simple tasks.

Which is why, now that it's Monday and I've wasted the whole weekend obsessed about it, I'm saying thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday. It was a good birthday and I really appreciated everyone who took the time to wish me well.

It's Almost Bedtime

My mentor in a high school, my creative writing teacher, told us that if we are not sure what to write, we should start by writing a sentence that is true.

I do not want to be writing this right now. I am crying and feeling suffocated by my anxiety.

The kids had a snow day (after having been off of school for a week). I needed them to go back to school today so that I could reclaim my house. I love my kids and I love spending time with them, but with Brian working evenings, I don't have many opportunities to get out on my own. I have come to really enjoy the time when they're at school. It gives me a chance to collect my thoughts, get caught up on things and just decompress.

Lately, I have been incredibly popular. This morning, I took a shower. Upon exiting the bathroom, I was greeted by my dog and three of my four children. During the shower, at least one child knocked on the door to see what I was doing. (To my credit, I refrained from lobbing a sarcastic answer through the closed door.)

I can't sit on the couch, or be in bed, or walk around the house, without an entourage following me. It is flattering but also cloying. I constantly want to whisper, "the call is coming from inside the house." It feels overwhelming to have an audience wherever I go.

I know, I know, someday I'm going to look back and miss this. I am sure I will, but I'm also not as sure that I won't need to spend time in a padded room. It is exhausting to be this popular. It is not as fulfilling as I thought it would be.

Meanwhile, I've been reflecting on how I'm doing. The short answer is, not well--with short bursts of "meh." I caught myself thinking, "oh, this is a rough time of year," but then when I think of it, I struggled during this past summer. I freaked out before my birthday (in February). I find myself saying "no" to getting out of the house. At 5 PM, when it is pitch black outside, I am ready to crawl into bed and let my kids fend for themselves.

I do not excel at the concept of self-appraisal. I suffer from a disease of perception, so everything I look at is through what can be a very distorted lens.

For example, I am not losing weight anymore. Like, at all. I'm also not gaining, but I'm not losing. In my mind, I'm a failure because I'm not losing weight. I have not been able to commit to my weight-loss journey like I did last year. Why? I'm not sure, but it probably is because (you guessed it), I'm a failure.

When I am in crisis mode (as I am now, where I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest), my brain tells me that no one wants to hear it. I shouldn't reach out and ask for prayers and encouragement from my tribe. They are sick of hearing that I am struggling. They are sick of having their days interrupted by my anxiety and (seemingly) unfounded panic.

I am floundering in my business. I have not made it a priority and I find myself saying I'm committed but not actually doing anything. I have convinced myself that people are tired of hearing me commit. They see through me, I'm a fraud, I'll never be successful.

My house smells bad. We have lived here for 13 years and the carpet is trashed. My dogs have peed on the carpet countless times. Food has been spilled. We have tried to clean it, but at this point, I fantasize about the day when I can just rip it all out. I am self-conscious about having people over. I am self-conscious about whatever odors are in the air that I can't smell.

I talk too much. This is actually mostly true. I have gotten better as I've gotten older, but I watch people like hawks when I am talking to them. I am looking for microexpressions, any indication that I have droned on for too long. I internalize the expressions. I spend time later worrying about whether or not I should have said the thing that I said. It is exhausting. Utterly exhausting.

We are going shopping for Christmas on Friday and I am worried. We have planned and talked about it at length, but I am worried. I hate spending money because I worry that I will spend it incorrectly. I worry that I'm not being a good steward of my family's resources. I don't know what I want for Christmas and I tried to compile an Amazon wish list, but I hated to ask for anything I deem too exorbitant. I constantly feel like I can be doing better at money management, but I don't know how to get better.

I signed up to do dog walking through Wag. I love dogs. I have for my entire life. I am excited for the opportunity to meet new people and new dogs. I am excited to get out of the house and walk a dog. At the same time, I'm worried that I will forget to walk the dog. I'm worried that I'll forget to do one of the things I'm supposed to do. I worry that the dog or the owner won't like me.

The thing is, when the sun is out, these things occupy my mind but it's easier to distract myself. I can chat with another adult, I can get outside and walk to the mailbox, I can take a nap. But when the sun is not out, it's like all of these thoughts conspire together. They get louder, they encircle my mind and seem to squelch out any ray of sunshine I may have saved up from the daytime.

Quite frankly, I would love nothing more than to climb into bed at 5 PM. I don't want to have to face the day beyond dinnertime. My kids are needier around bedtime. Bekah has been struggling around bedtime as well. Her anxiety seems to peak, which drains me. I am her safe person and she wants to snuggle with me. I hate to say no because I know how she feels, but to have another anxious person around me when I'm already anxious is draining.

I am worried that people will read this and think I'm complaining about my life. I am not. I am not asking for help, either. This is, more than anything, an expository piece. This is what it's like in my head every day.

Practically speaking, I've reached out to a friend who knows about essential oils. I know there are oils that can help me. I know I need to reorder Vitalbiome. It was more of a help than I realized.

I watched a YouTube video about time blocking today. I am going to make an attempt to block my time this coming week. I need to impose more of a routine and schedule than I already have. I find routines to be comforting. I think trying to set priorities will help reduce my anxiety. I think it will also help if I continue to minimize the amount of stuff in my house. It is not easy to have an organized mind in a disorganized space.

I need to take a quiet time every day. Loathsome as it may be, I think I need to set my alarm and get up earlier in the morning. I don't need to be awake at 5 and meditating for three hours, but even if I could be out of bed a half an hour before I normally am out of bed, I can at the very least read some short devotions and crack open my Bible app. In the end, the best way to drive out this persistent anxiety is to counter it with God's truth.

I am not naive. Anxiety and depression are real things and I really struggle with them. I firmly believe that my brain doesn't produce the chemicals it should. This is not just a matter of not believing my identity in Christ. It's part of my biology, part of who God made me. I can't discount the biological component but I also can't make that the only focus of my intervention.

I have a plan to get out of the house tomorrow night. I almost always laugh like a hyena with this group of women. I am going to go and laugh and see how everyone else is doing. I know I'm not the only one who struggles at this time of year. Even if I did struggle in February and the summer and intermittently, that doesn't have to define me. I am not always going to feel like this. I will continue to try to improve myself, even though it's exhausting and overwhelming. I only fail if I stop trying.A

The End at the Beginning

In December of 2000, my life changed. I took a 180 degree turn from the way I was living and started on a new path. I was practically homeless. My clothing and other important things were stashed in the back of my Hyundai Accent hatchback.

I called some college friends and told them I needed help. They dropped everything and met me at the La Quinta Inn where I was crashing. I checked out, hands shaking, hoping my Amex would go through. It did. I followed them to their home and spent the next couple of days trying to figure out where I was going to land.

My dad decided to help me, one last time.

I found an apartment in Waukegan and settled in. I spent a lot of time in Palatine, but I was young an dumb and gas was cheap, so I didn't mind driving back and forth.

One Saturday night in January of 2001, I was headed to a gathering in Hoffman Estates. I was feeling anxious and made a phone call as I drove. I connected with Jacki and she talked to me as I drove. She suggested that when I got to the gathering, I should look for a woman named Karla.

When I got there, after the gathering had concluded, I sought Karla out. We chatted for a while and she invited me to her home in Huntley. Again, I was young and dumb and didn't have a very full social calendar.

I assumed Huntley must be at the edge of the known world and back in 2000, I wasn't completely wrong. It seemed far and remote, but I followed Karla to her home.

I don't remember a whole lot of that first night. I remember the sectional couch I crashed on. She let me borrow a shirt to sleep in and I got to meet her husband, Dave.

In the morning, I got to meet her kids. They were fairly young at the time. Tara was maybe 6 or 7, Kayla was 4 or 5, Joshie was 2 and Noah was a baby.

I want to say I made an instant connection with Joshie, but I'm not sure that's 100% accurate. I don't really remember the exact moment that we bonded, but over the next few months, I spent more and more time at their yellow house.

Joshie would announce to the house that Sue's green car was there. He was always happy to see me.

He had his struggles. I know what they are now, because I have two boys who struggle in the same way he did. He wasn't diagnosed back then, but he he had outbursts, he struggled with impulsivity, he had very set ideas about how things should happen.

But I also saw how much and how deeply he loved those around him. I saw that he was thoughtful and intelligent and sweet. He would seek me out at events. He felt comfortable with me. I changed his diapers and helped him get dressed for the day and feed him. Not every day, but when I was there, I helped out.

I remember an instance where there was a Thanksgiving day gathering. It was for a bunch of us and our families to come together before the holiday started. We were able to take a walk and visit with one another before facing what, for some of us, was a stressful day.

This happened every year, but the year I'm thinking of, Joshie wanted to hold my hand and walk with me. He didn't want to ride in the stroller, he didn't want me to carry him. He wanted to walk with me. I, of course, had different expectations of how the morning would go. I didn't have my own children yet, even though Joshie felt like a son. I remember being impatient, but when Joshie made up his mind about something, that was the end of it.

Everyone else walked at a normal pace and passed us until it was just Joshie and me, walking along on a crisp November morning.

I wish I could remember what we talked about, if we talked at all. I will never forget his little hand in mine, his feet hitting the walking path.

Over the years, as my life started to unfold, I spent less and less time at the yellow house in Huntley. I was busy dating my husband, working and trying to continue on my own journey. I would still see Joshie from time to time at different parties. It was good to see him and we would talk. He had a very distinct way of speaking that included a small stutter. Again, I don't know why this is something I remember, but it's stuck with me all these years later.

A bunch of us traveled to Cape Cod in 2003 for vacation. It was a mixed bag--some people had a great time, others didn't. Joshie and his family were there. One day, we all went to the beach together. Which one? Not sure. It had sand and the ocean.

We all settled in and laughed when Dave took a ride far out into the Atlantic on a floatie. The kids played and Joshie drifted over to us. He spent a lot of time digging in the sand. He would show different rocks he found to Brian, who would in turn tell him that every rock was a different fossil.

"What's this rock?," Joshie would ask.
"Oh, that's a sabre tooth tiger fossil," Brian would say with confidence.

The whole thing was comical and I remember telling Brian that Joshie was going to go to school and show off the "fossils" he found at the beach in Cape Cod.

Joshie explained his voyage to the Cape by saying that his family got on a plane, flew around in circles, landed, and then he and his family drove all the way to Cape Cod.

In the mornings, he would travel to the different cottages where people were staying. Liz remembers that he would ask her for "the ceweal that makes chocwate miwk." (Cocoa Puffs)

Again, not important things but these are the things that have stuck with me, all these years later.

Brian proposed to me and we started preparing for our wedding. We went to great lengths to make sure we involved people that had meant a lot to us over the years. Our flower girl was Jacki's daughter, Erika. We asked our friends' daughter, Allie, to help people with the guest book. The ring bearer? Who else but Joshie.

I was talking with Dave the other night and he told me that Joshie was so proud to be a ring bearer. My wedding is kind of a blur and I feel bad that I didn't take the time (or don't remember taking the time) to check on Joshie. It touches me that he was so proud. It affirms that I made the right choice.

As Brian and I started our lives together as a married couple, I lost touch with Joshie and his family. I would still see them from time to time, but the length of time between seeing him kept stretching.

A few years ago, I ran into Joshie at a Super Bowl party someone was hosting. He was in high school and talking about college. He wanted to pursue theater. I knew that he was active in the theater scene. I remember that I wanted to see him in something, but I could never get my act together to find out where or when he was performing. That and three small kids kept me busy enough that I never did get to see him on stage.

After that, I got to see him for his sister Kayla's high school graduation party. I arrived at the party late, which I regretted but also gave me a chance to visit with Tara, Kayla and Joshie at length.

We reminisced about the time we had spent together all those many years ago. We remembered the time we went to an Irish festival and Joshie had gotten away from us. It was terrifying for me and for Karla. I remember, or I should say, Tara helped me remember that when we found him, he was flanked by two police officers that were each holding a pint of Guinness. Now that I'm a parent, I can tell you that the terror I felt while we frantically searched for him meant that I deeply loved and cared for him.

I found out then that he had gotten a diagnosis of autism. There was a lot I wanted to know but felt awkward asking about. He would be graduating soon and I knew I would see him for that. When I mentioned I would see him at his graduation party, I remember him saying he hoped he would see me before then.

I did, in fact, see him for his graduation party. It was good to see him, but he was flanked by his friends and I felt awkward trying to make conversation with him. I had heard that he would be moving to Manhattan to pursue his love of theater. I was excited for him to have an opportunity to pursue his passion.

It never occurred to me to follow him on social media. When he graduated, I was just shy of 40. I figured the last thing he wanted was a minivan-driving mom to be following his comings and goings.

This past Saturday, Brian got a phone call. It wasn't at an odd time of day, but I could tell from his face and the way he was talking that it wasn't good news.

Joshie was gone. I won't get into the particulars of how he died. They are still investigating and it isn't my story to tell.

Having never lost a child, I can't speak to the level of grief Dave must be feeling. I can say, however, that I am broken at the loss of this young man.

I told him at Kayla's graduation party that he would forever be Joshie to me. I felt I had earned the privilege because I changed his diapers. He laughed at me and said it was okay. It feels funny to hear people talking about Joshua or Josh passing, because in my mind, I still see the tow-headed, curly-haired boy with big cheeks. I remember the times we snuggled together on his couch, or the times I comforted him.

Dave's family has seen an outpouring of love from the community that is humbling. Not everyone knew him intimately, but those that did remember him fondly.

Saturday night, I took Jeremy, Doug and Brooklyn over to Dave's house. So much of the house is the same and walking in, it felt like a long-overdue homecoming. I felt superfluous and couldn't figure out where I belonged or what I should do. So I did what I had learned to do at that house--be of service to those around me. I restocked the fridge with water, I made sure that Dave and Leeann sat and ate something, I reminisced, I cried, I hugged.

I spent the last couple of days finding Joshie on social media. I discovered that he was an activist, that he loved being in Manhattan and he loved being part of his community there. He has dealt with a tremendous amount of loss over the past year. I am not sure that he ever came to terms with all of it. Reading what he wrote, I saw maturity and wisdom, but also a little boy who had been hurt and was trying to make sense of all that had happened.

When we were over at Dave's house, I gave Jeremy my phone so that he wold be occupied. Doug was obsessed with Tara's dog, who really wasn't fond of Doug. They attempted to isolate the dog, but Doug is hard to dissuade when he's made a decision.

As we were leaving, I couldn't find Doug. One of the girls there told me he had been upstairs almost the whole time. When I went to find him, he was playing on Zach's Nintendo Switch. Zach explained later that in trying to isolate the dog, they had to find a way to distract Doug, so he gave him the Switch. I was touched by this small gesture. Here are kids dealing with a huge loss and yet they saw fit to be kind to my son, who is a little bit different. They could've tried to find me, but they worked it out. I was able to visit with and be of service to people without worrying about Doug getting into something he shouldn't.

I have felt like a zombie the past few days. I am torn because I want to be at Dave's house. I feel a draw to be there. At the same time, I want to give them the space they need to process and heal. The weather yesterday and today has been gloomy and that's not done much to help my mood. I cried a lot on Saturday and Sunday. I have teared up here and there in chatting about his loss with friends.

I struggle with being selfish and self-centered. I'm trying to find my spot in the ending to Joshie's story. I know I'm not an official part of his family, but I do feel like I was part of it for a while. I know many feel the same way. The thing about loss is that it lingers. There will be plenty of time to visit Dave and his family. The loss will still be as heavy in six months as it is now.

Zach is involved in theater. I have committed to myself that I will not miss a chance to see him perform. Talking with him the other night was great therapy. He looks a lot like Joshie and his mannerisms are similar. I don't want to intrude on his life, but I am going to do what I can to participate more actively.

Joshie's funeral is coming up this weekend. I can't even believe that it's happening. It's not the way things are supposed to happen. Parents are not meant to bury their children. I have been praying for this family. I hope that they allow God to knit back the pieces of their hearts. There will always be a piece that is missing, but I know that they will work hard to come together as a family and find a new way forward.

The Crying Game (Without the Surprise Ending)

I had a thought today. (I try to refrain from having too many, especially during the summer.)

Here’s what precipitated it. My dad loves sending me (and my mom and brother) articles to read. He does it many times throughout the day. I am an avid reader, but sometimes reading books with 4 kids is impossible. Articles are great because they are short but can be very impactful. My favorites are usually ones from the New York Times, one of my most favorite publications. 

But I digress. 

The articles can be about any and everything. In a day, he’ll send me an article about current events, something nostalgic, some scientific breakthrough, etc. I confess I don’t read all of them because I don’t always have time. 

One that he sent me was about Fred Rogers. I grew up watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I have heard so many great things about Mister Rogers (or Mister Rog, as my brother referred to him). On Sunday, I happened to have a few moments and started reading the article about him. 

For reasons I don’t quite understand, the article moved me to tears. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but reading about how he interacted with both the author and just with people in general affected me a great deal. 

Recently, as I have battled mightily with depression, I have shed many tears. As the tears start to fall, I ask myself, “what is *wrong* with me? Why am I crying about (insert circumstance, person, place here).

Today, as I was lying down for a nap, a different thought occurred to me. 

“How wonderful that I am created that way. How wonderful that I am moved just by words on a screen.”

Years ago, when Brian and I were first dating, he took me to downtown Chicago. We started dating around Christmas time, and so the city was all lit up. We turned onto Michigan Avenue and as we did, the sight of all the trees decorated and lit up made me start crying. It was spontaneous. It was sincere.

I cry every single time I see Bekah dance. 

I cry about TV shows (when Lexie died, when Kevin lost his necklace at the girl’s house, when Michael Scott left to be with Holly).

I cry about military families being reunited.

I cry when deaf people get to hear again. 

I cry when men cry. 

I cry when I am frustrated because my kids’ clothes are on the floor (especially if I have asked them more than once, in a very Mary Poppins way, and refrained from asking them “what the actual fuck!”)

In short, I cry. It is how I am wired. It’s how the excess emotions escape my body. It’s not a defect, as the negative narrative in my mind would have me believe. 

Conversely, I laugh very easily. I would be useless at judging a stand-up contest, because I pretty much laugh at any and everything. I snort when I laugh heartily, and that’s when you know it’s really a party. 

I am fairly certain, as I write this, that I’ve written about this before, so I beg forgiveness for subjecting my readers to repetition. It bears mentioning, though, that sometimes there are long pauses between epiphanies. Sometimes, one needs to learn something over and over in order to have it really sink in. 

I watched an episode of Mister Rogers Neighborhood with my kids today. None of them immediately asked for more, but it was enjoyable, sitting with them and talking about the theme of the episode. It was such a simple show and yet so thought-provoking. It sparked some good conversation between Bekah and me. 

I would encourage you, if you need to slow down with your kids (and your brain will literally break if you hear “Baby Shark” one more time), to go to YouTube and find some full-length episodes to watch together. Turn off all other devices and just enjoy it.

Oh, and it’s okay if after that peaceful family moment, you lose your shit about the clothes on the floor. School’s starting soon, hang in there.

I Didn't Want to Write This

I do not want to write this post. My brain is screaming at me that I shouldn't write it, that people will think I'm crazy. My brain is using a lot of language right now that is dangerous.

It's using words like should, never, always, no one, everyone.

It's not been a bad day. I started the day by seeing some friends. It was good. I shared about how God answered my prayer yesterday. We went to a local beach and Doug, my 7-year-old, left the beach area, crossed a busy street (while waiting for the signal to say walk, thankfully) and walked across a parking lot (barefoot, because he didn't have time to put on his Crocs) to find our van.

A good samaritan saw him at the crosswalk. She has a son with special needs and her antennae were tweaked seeing such a young guy crossing a busy street on his own. She followed him into the parking lot and parked near the van. She knew that a mom was probably looking for him. After finally piecing together that he had gone to the van, I walked up to find her sitting there with him. My adrenaline levels were through the roof and my anxiety was not far behind.

As I shared this story with my friends this morning, I started crying. I stopped by my parents' house and chatted with my mom for a bit. I cried some more.

I went back to the beach today, without Doug. (He stayed home and watched TV while my husband worked.)

I had a very pleasant time at the beach. I met my friend and her kids. Our kids get along well. We get along well. She usually keeps me in stitches. We have a good relationship and she knows my struggles.

I left the beach, came home, had some coffee. I spent time mindlessly playing a game on my phone. It is what I do when I'm in a funk. It's not constructive. It's not edifying. It doesn't really serve me well, but it's what I do. I folded laundry.

Somewhere in the midst of all of that, those awful words started bombarding me.

I shouldn't feel this way.

No one is going to want to do business with me, I'm too crazy.

No one wants to hear that I'm struggling, especially if I was smiling just hours earlier.

I'm never going to get better.

I'm useless.

I'm worthless.

And on and on. The logical part of my brain, the one that eats all of it's veggies, exercises, drinks enough water, etc., is drowned out by this other narrative. I know that people care. I want to reach out but I feel exhausted. I haven't eaten today because I didn't feel hungry at the beach. By the time I came home, I didn't have the energy to make anything.

Sleep is still spotty. I am going in on Wednesday night to have a titration study for my bi-pap machine. I am hoping that if they can recalibrate my machine, I will be able to sleep more restfully.

For reasons that I can't understand, my kids insist on crawling into bed with me. They are not good sleep citizens. I am frequently fighting for blankets and real estate on my king-sized bed.

I am overwhelmed by my sons' disabilities this summer. Jeremy's anxiety has been through the roof, and it weighs on me. I feel responsible for his defective genes. I get exhausted in dealing with his tics and quirkiness. Seeing him battling anxiety triggers my own anxiety.

Doug has been a lot to handle. Living with him is like facing the world's most redundant press corps. I am bombarded by questions from morning until night. They are not thought-provoking questions. They are not questions that help me get to know him better. It's a series of questions that repeats, that make no sense, but that are all urgent.

"Mommy, what's a (insert dinosaur name here)?" (I confess, I've yet to figure out what kind of answer he's looking for here--does he want to know if they're a vegetarian or carnivore? Does he not know how to pronounce the name? Is it some kind of crazy catechism for which I've never received the primer?)

"Mommy, what's for dinner?" (The answer he wants to hear is chicken nuggets. We rotate through hot dogs, chicken nuggets, pizza and chicken breast. You would think that answering the question in his native tongue, English, would mean the question didn't bear repeating. You would be wrong.)

"Mommy, can I have (insert name of toy here) for Christmas/my birthday? (His birthday just passed and he was disappointed to find that he didn't receive a large pile of presents. He got one toy from Target and has been lobbying to get other dinosaurs to keep it company. Now that Christmas is looming on the horizon, my sense is that the requests will be coming in left and right.)

"Mommy, what are we doing today?" (This is another that gets stuck on repeat. Again, I answer in his native tongue and sometimes direct him to his brother or sister for follow-up.)

"Mommy, can I have (food item)?" (He seems to have been fitted with a hollow leg and tends to want to eat nonstop once his Ritalin has worn off. The problem is, if we don't keep tabs, he does things like eat five sticks of string cheese at a time.)

Those are the top five, but believe me when I say that there are a million variations and I am peppered with them every single day. I start the day answering in a Mary Poppins way. I end the day answering in a way that I would liken to The Beast (from Beauty & The Beast). It's not pretty. I feel guilty that I can't be Mary Poppins all day. I know that he is not asking me these questions to be malicious. I know that in a few short years, he won't want to be near me. I get that the days are long and the years are short. I totally get that.

The problem is, when my mental status is less than ideal, I have no patience. I start off the day stretched like an overworked rubber band. Every little bump tweaks me in just the wrong way. My kids don't understand this, and really they shouldn't have to understand. I try to let them know that I'm tired, or stressed, or sad. I want them to know when my pitcher isn't feeling full. For the most part, they have started to understand that I can't be "on" all the time, but at the same time, they are kids. They are not assholes, as I sometimes like to think. They are young and their brains are underdeveloped. They love me. They want to spend time with me. They don't get the intricacies of parenting kids with special needs.

I was driving home from dropping Bekah off at sewing class tonight and there was a passage from Harry Potter that came to mind. Harry has just had a disastrous date with Cho Chang and he and Ron are talking about it with Hermione. She tries to explain to them all of the feelings Cho is having--she is conflicted because Cedric died and now she's dating Harry, she's sad because Cedric died, she feels guilty, etc. Ron remarks that there's no way one person could be feeling all of those things at once.

And yet, that's what it's like in my brain. There are competing ideas. I feel crazy for being mostly fine one minute and then weepy the next. (I'm not saying I'm manic, I'm just saying that I'm crying intermittently and it doesn't seem to be as connected as I would like to what's going on around me.)

I put a lot of pressure on myself about how a 40-year-old mother of four should behave, feel, think, act and be. I am minimizing my time on social media because of what's going on in my head. That raises all sorts of concerns about the long-term efficacy of my social media presence. I want to engage with people, I want to share content, but I feel disingenuous if I'm in tears and posting about anything else than that I'm in tears. But I don't want to post that I'm in tears because I'm afraid people will be concerned. If people are concerned, then I will feel obligated to respond with a thank-you or something.

And on and on, ad nauseum.

I'll say again, I don't want to be writing this. I want to be whole. I want to not feel this way. I want to find the medication that works for me and have it work right the eff now. I don't want to alienate anyone. I don't want to burden anyone.

I plan on eating dinner, taking my medicine and crawling into bed at the earliest possible time. If necessary, I will lock my door until the kids are all in bed. I will listen to a meditation, turn down the AC, leave the TV off and pray for a solid night's sleep. I will reach out to people as I'm able, I will be as vulnerable as I feel safe being, I will keep just trying to put one foot in front of the other.