My childhood was terrible.

How do you forgive yourself? I mean, after you go through the steps of self forgiveness? Pray about it, ‘let it go’, know that you did the best you could, ask for forgiveness, try to be a better person…. yada, yada, yada. The thing for me about forgiving myself is that most days, I do feel that I have forgiven myself. But then there are the other days.
You can fuck over every person in the world and find a way to forgive yourself. But if you did the wrong thing as a parent, it’s something that is so, so hard to let go of. And possibly, we are not suppose to let go of it. It may be the thing that keeps us doing the right thing because of the memory of doing the wrong thing.
To add to the complication of the wreckage that is my life, I have to really be careful not to live in the ‘I’m a bad parent’ world too much because the kids will feed on that. They will allow me to carry their mistakes by saying that they make them because of the horror that was their childhood. ‘I am the way I am because of the way you raised me’. If I had a nickel.
There was some bad stuff. Bad choices, bad memories, crazy, insane, drunken chunks of time. Bad, bad stuff. I guess what makes it hard to forget is that the kids remind me about it, usually, during a disagreement. So it’s hard to bury it when the kids are holding shovels.
Lately, it’s all just too much. On one hand I feel guilt. On the other hand I feel, honestly, like I don’t give a shit. I feel like, okay, I was a bad mother. Give me the tattoo, or the final grade, and let’s just say it is what it is so I can stop torturing myself. It’s all true. I did all those things. I’ve done what I can to make it right. The thing is that when you are the one that was wrong it’s not up to you when the people on the other end decide to put down the shovel. It’s up to them. And until they do, I feel like I can’t shake this feeling. And it’s not as if they don’t have the right to feel what they feel. They do. But am I allowed to bail out of the feelings without permission? To say, okay, hang on to that as long as you need to, but I have shit to do and naps to take? I can’t spend the rest of my life feeling like a failure. I have to move on.
If I move on and say your stuff is yours, that may be the thing that makes some of the insanity stop. You know, when you have to claim your own choices, you try and curb it. When you say, ‘I do this shit because of my parents’, it’s easy to keep doing it. But when you have to say, ‘I did this because I made this choice and have no one to blame but myself’, carrying the weight of your actions makes you want to stop making those choices. But I’m thinking that the kids aren’t going to come to that until I stop feeding in to the ‘my childhood was bad’ routine. Until the day that I say, ‘Yeah. My childhood sucked too. Everyone’s did.’
I myself did not grow up on a fairy boat. And still, I have gotten a thing or two done in my life. I am a published author and I can’t even fucking spell. So I’m going to pull myself up, and you pull yourself up, and this is how the day will look. Some days will be great. Some days will suck. I will make more mistakes and so will you. But we can wake up everyday and do the best we can.
I still don’t think I have figured out how to forgive myself. The plan is that I will start with a nap, and then go from there. When we get married they have that line where the priest says, ‘In good times and in bad times, in sickness and in health’. They say that because marriage is a forever concept. It’s a shame we don’t get that deal as parents. All we know as parents is that the nurse hands you the baby and she may as well say, “Don’t fuck this up.” Well, I fucked it up. So where do we go from here? I have no idea. But I will figure something out when I wake up.

The Waterfall

I don’t remember the name of my third grade teacher so for this writing, let’s call him Mr. Hot.
Mr. Hot and I loved each other. I was ten and he was thirty something and we had chemistry that was undeniable, like a fire that could not be extinguished.
As Mr. Hot spoke to the class I would day dream about how many babies we would have and I also wondered, where do you get these babies? I know you go somewhere to pick them up, but where?
One Halloween, I went dressed up like a Go Go girl. I guess it’s the equivalent of a whore outfit, but back then it was called a Go Go girl.
I’m in class, watching Mr. Hot eat grapes as he sat at his desk. He gets up and writes the names of each day of the week and then the name of a student. This was the chalkboard duty assignment for the week. If your name was on one of the days of the week, that meant you had to stay after school and clean the chalk board and the erasers. I see Friday and then my name. That is when it really sunk in. Mr. Hot is going to ask me to marry him on Friday. Oh my god. We would probably go straight from the school, after the erasers were clean, to pick up our first baby.
Because of the age difference, I knew we would not get automatic support from my mom and dad. But the thing is that we loved each other, and that’s that. You could not stop Mr. Hot and I from loving each other and getting the babies. I had a feeling that I would have to change to a different class because I can’t have my husband be my third grade teacher because he would give me guaranteed ‘A’s’. But if that was the only thing in our way, besides my parents, and possibly the police, I was willing to make the move to another class.
Thursday night, I spend three or four hours trying to decide what outfit I wanted to be proposed in. It could be anything I wanted because my mom was at work before I went to school. I went with my Halloween Go Go girl outfit.
I walk in the classroom. Tie died t-shirt tucked in to my black pleather skirt. Black fish net stockings and black pleather boots, that’s right, up to the knee. My hair was the finishing touch that would send Mr. Hot’s love completely over the edge. I had invented a hair do some time back. I thought this hair style would catch on and soon everyone in the third grade would be wearing it. But, I was the only one that followed my own fashion craze so I only wore it on special occasions. Like the day your third grade teacher is going to ask you to marry him. It was called the waterfall. I would flip my head over and get all my hair and tie it in a pony tail on the top of my head. Then I would pull the strands down in a circle creating a ’waterfall’. I was Lady GaGa, before Lady GaGa was Lady GaGa.
I felt pretty great about the look as I sat at my desk just waiting for the end of the day. One boy asked me why I was dressed like that. I told him it was something he couldn’t understand as I flipped the waterfall, one strand of hair whipping me in the eye and making it water.
The end of the day the bell rang. I felt a nervous thud hit the bottom of my stomach. All the kids were filing out of the classroom and I walked up to the chalk board to begin my duties. Mr. Hot was walking around the room picking up this and that and I guessed he was probably nervous about the proposal. Ask me Mr. Hot! I will say yes!
At this point, his fucking pregnant wife walks in. Are you kidding? No. I’m not. They kiss and he says, “How was your day?” She says, “Good. I’m tired though. Maybe we can order a pizza for dinner.”
Either, he is married and his wife is pregnant. OR, he loves me and was going to propose marriage to me when his pregnant cousin, that he happens to feel comfortable kissing on the lips walks in and ruins everything.
That was the first time I experienced a broken heart. As I walked home, no matter how many different ways I tried to convince myself that kissing your cousin is something that people do, no, it just didn‘t seem like a ‘hello cousin‘ kind of kiss. Mr. Hot was married. The son of a bitch was married. She was in her thirties and so was he and later they are going to eat pizza. How do I go on? I will never love again.
I laid on my bed and cried. For like fifteen minutes. Then I went in the back yard and tried to find lady bugs for my collection.
The next Monday at school I was not as happy to watch Mr. Hot eat grapes. Then the same boy that asked me about my Go Go girl outfit said, “I liked your hair on Friday.” So I wore the waterfall everyday after that and that boy followed me around the playground. Sorry Mr. Hot. I have to move on. Our love was a roller coaster. First math, then English, constant homework. With the new guy all I need is the waterfall. Which I still believe will eventually be a big hit in the hair world.

This is my life... it is what it is: Swear on mom

This is my life... it is what it is: Swear on mom

Mama Lia

Mama Lia lived down the street from my grandmother. She was really, really old. Probably in her nineties. She was big on the bottom and wobbled when she walked. She wore bright flowered dresses and it seemed like she had an endless number of these flowered dresses. The houses on my grandmothers street, including my grandmothers and Mama Lia‘s, were about 500 square feet. It was as if someone took one large room and put up walls to make it a miniature house.
Me and my cousins, Janelle and Jackie, would go visit Mama Lia when we were visiting our grandmother. When you walked through the little gate in front of her house it was only about two more steps to her screen door. We could see her sitting in her chair and she would see us and scream with excitement. Then she’d do the thing that old, bottom heavy people do when they try and get off a cushiony chair. That rocking trying to get out. After about five rocks, she finally gets enough momentum to hurl herself out of the chair and opens the door, smiling.
We would sit and she would talk about people we didn’t know but we pretended we did because right next to her chair was a drawer filled with candy bars. After about an hour of hearing about Helen in Lubbock and Frank in Oklahoma City, she would open the drawer and give us our candy which was the equivalent of payment for a mental health provider. It was usually that simple. God forbid she was squabbling with Bernice from Waco or Martha from Deming. We could be there for hours and at some point you don’t care about the candy bars and you just want out.
Back then that was how old people were. Little kids and their parents didn’t have to be afraid of what insane, inappropriate thing they would do. We talked to everyone, including drunk men and they never did one bit of harm. It was a completely different time. These days that conversation would never happen. “Where’s Tommy?” “He’s in the house of the old lady that lives down the street. Don’t worry. She gives him candy.”
Mama Lia was a lonely, old lady, that’s all. She was so happy to see us and sad to see us go, walking out the screen door with candy bars in our hands.
Aside from visiting old people that our parents and grandparents did not know, we also walked to the shopping mall.
We would walk for a long time through neighborhoods. One after another, we’d walk. Then we get to the only freeway in Albuquerque at the time and there was a tall chain link fence so that children, like ourselves, can’t go running around on the highway. But on one adventure we found an actual tunnel that let out in to an arroyo that was on one side of the highway. Then, another tunnel to get to another arroyo, then another tunnel that dumped out to the edge of the parking lot of the mall. An arroyo is like a very dangerous ditch but it’s concrete and really wide. The tunnel ran right underneath the freeway. The exciting part about crossing an arroyo is that at any second, at and time, water could come flooding and rushing down the arroyo and in to the tunnels. So if you were going to cross this way to get to the mall and risk your actual life, you better really want to go the mall. If the water came, there would be no possible way to escape it. This is why before we began to make our way across we would stand on the edge and think about it. That’s not to say that thinking helped. We never once said, “This isn’t safe. We better not do it. Now that I’m thinking about it.” We always went in the arroyo, in to the tunnels and before you knew it we were looking at handbags and shoes.
We didn’t have any mall money. Ever. So we did what normal ten year olds do. We begged for change all day long and made a bunch of money every time. Me, Janelle and Jackie. We took turns. Jackie sucked. She was the worst liar in the history of lying. I made a mental note that if I ever formed a street gang or girl band to not include Jackie because she would have us locked up and sent to prison with the smallest level of pressure from the authorities. I loved her, but she did not have the rebel gene.
It was almost a competition to see who’s lie and the acting out of the lie would succeed. If it didn’t work you had to think of a better lie. You had to really give it up to the strange adult if you wanted the change. They would look down and smile at how pathetic you are and pat your head and hand you the change. The lie that never worked? I lost my parents in a fire and I need to eat at the food court. The one that worked every time? I need bus money. By the way, that line still works. I can’t say how many times I have given a person money for the bus. And when they say bus, they mean Bud. Whatever. I’m happy to help.
So, we’re doing our thing. Making quarters hand over fist. Mainly me and Janelle while Jackie stood there with her hands over her face saying, “Oh my God. Oh my God.” I walk over to a lady and say, “Mam. (in a complete Oliver Twist way) Uhm. I can’t find my mom and I need money for the bus to get home. I think she left me here on purpose.” Who knows why that worked. She smiled, patted my head and gave me the change. Ten year olds are notorious for not being all that bright so I walk away, I am no more than two feet from the lady that gave me the quarter. I see Janelle has dumped all our change on a washing machine in Sears. There is about thirty dollars in change on the washer as I flip the quarter on the top of the pile and say, “I got another quarter!” I didn’t even have the chance to turn when the compassionate, giving woman that had tears in her eyes when I told my story of abandonment, spun me around and pointed her finger in my face. “You are a disgusting little child. Give me my money.” I fished a quarter off the mound of change and handed it to her. She says, “I bet your mother did leave you here and I do not blame her one bit.” And she huffed away. Give me my quarter? Are you fucking kidding with me lady? Even after I give you your quarter we will be chewing gum and riding the medal horses out side for the next six hours. That’s what we usually did. There was a horse ride in front of Sears that had three horses on it. The three of us sat there on the horses for hours putting our beggar money in the little slot. Did we feel bad? Not that much. We had pockets filled with gum and candy and the horses went around and around.
Well the day with the lady, our conscience unexpectedly struck us. It may have had something to do with the fact that my Uncle Cecil, Janelle’s father, worked at the Sears where we did most of our begging and had been informed by his boss, via the angry lady, that his kids were panhandling in the large appliance section. We got in a ton of trouble and got thrown out of Sears by my Uncle. We hung our heads and very sadly walked to the tunnel knowing we disappointed someone we loved, with pockets filled with money. Our pockets were so full that we could hardly bend down to run through the tunnel.
We were walking back through the neighborhoods and we came up with an idea so we could repay our debt to society. We decided to give all our money to Mama Lia. She’s poor. She needs money. But we knew Mama Lia wouldn’t just accept the money because she was too filled with pride and gin.
So we quietly stood by Mama Lia’s house far enough so she wouldn’t see us or she would want to talk about her family and we had to get home. In front of Mama Lia’s house was a bird bath. Our ten year old heads decided we would dump all the coins in to the functioning bird bath. The water swirled around and it even had a little waterfall for the birds to enjoy. It was pretty. So, we dump the change and we walk away feeling like children of God before we could see the change go down the drain of the bird bath. Excuse me heaven! It’s us! Let us in!
The next day we are walking down the street and see Mama Lia outside by her bird bath. We’re thinking that she is probably really pumped up about the fact that she is suddenly rich beyond her wildest dreams. But, no. She’s cursing. She’s pulling the coins out with a knife and cursing.
We walk up using our beggar acting skills, pretending we did not ruin her bird bath.
“Some dumb ass put change in my beautiful bird bath! It’s clogged and broken.” She’s wearing a white dress with giant daisies on it. “Who would do something so stupid?”
Me and Janelle glare at Jackie as she begins to open her mouth, then she covers her mouth with her own hand and that seemed to work.
We all tried to help and get the change out but it was futile. From now on the birds would be dining elsewhere.
Aside from completely destroying her bird bath, I think us girls took a tiny piece of Mama Lia’s loneliness away. Even though we were in it to get a candy bar. But we learned something that day. We learned not to dump change in a bird bath and we discussed it the following weekend when we were begging for change in front of JC Penny.

48

48. The year I was 48, I experienced the greatest growth and inner turmoil because of it. Something happened. I have always been a sort of roll with it kind of person. If you said something I didn’t agree with, I just smiled and nodded. If you said or did something that hurt me personally, I still smiled and nodded. Then, almost as if it happened overnight, I began saying things like, “What did you just say?” Then, well, you know how that goes. I started to draw thick lines in the sand. Because of the 47 years of biting my tongue, if you crossed that line, I responded not only to the current offense, but everything you have ever said or done that pissed me off. You know, getting it all out. Sometimes if I was really pissed I would blame you for things that other people had said to me. I could blame you for the economy, the war, and hungry children.
I had stood my ground with people before I turned 48. But it was always with people that didn’t matter, like, bosses, or people I knew for ten minutes. I never dug my feet in with people that mattered. I always chose to remain silent so my life could be quiet and the most important part, so people would like me. Especially family members. A family member could say the most outrageous, hurtful thing and I would smile and nod. Because god forbid they decide they didn’t like me. By my silence I have agreed with things about my character and personality that were so insanely wrong but I suppose I didn’t feel I was good enough to fight for.
I think that many of us get a title when we are young and it sticks with us until we draw that line in the sand. I was the stupid, ninth grade drop out, alcoholic, drug addict, bad mom, I could go on. The thing is that I do have seconds, sometimes days, of all of those things that used to accurately describe me. But it’s not how I live my life. I had to really think about whether the people around me were giving me the above description, or was I giving it to myself? Was I hanging on to the me that I was 30 years ago? Did people not see me this way at all and I was projecting it on to them? What I found is that it was a bit of both. They hung on to some things and so did I. But I had to be the one to fix my brain and in doing that the people around me would see me as the person I have become as oppose to the person I used to be.
I have pissed some people off. I have set up boundaries in my world which is something I have never done before. Some people didn’t believe in the new me and they thought my boundaries were dumb. They rolled their eyes and took a step anyway, knowing how I feel, then the new me began to spin like a top. And when I say spin like a top what I mean is that the idea that I was being ignored, as I have already been ignored for 47 years, would push me so far over the edge that I would scream until my face and right arm were numb.
See, it’s easy when people know your boundaries. They say, “Oh, well, she’s really weird about that so just don’t do it.” But getting the boundaries set up when you’ve been smiling and nodding for 47 years is a big angry project. With some people it doesn’t come natural. When you say to a person, “I’d rather you not come in my house because you completely fuck up my vibe.” It doesn’t go over as well as you would think.
At some point toward the end of that year, my boundaries and feelings started getting the respect they deserved. Thank you sweet Jesus. Big changes at my house and it is a beautiful thing. My house and my heart are quiet and nice. The people I have in my life today are the people I want in my life. With some people, I have taken a time out. I needed to put them on the back burner and that also gives them time to be away from me. With these people it’s not a permanent thing. It’s a time out for them to get used to my new great personality. I believe they will come around.
There are other people who, well, fuck them. They have never shown any indication that they are doing what we all do everyday and that is to grow, and change, and do better and become the people that god brought us here to be. They are fine with being total fucking douche bags for the rest of their lives. And the most insane thing is that they want YOU to adapt to THEM. They say, “Well, this is the way I am.” Really? You mean that every person on the planet works their ass off every single day to be a better person and you want me to accept that you have been the exact same toxic, insane person for 25 years? Can these people at least try? Just try? I am wrong everyday. I make horrible choices all the time. All I expect from any person is that they TRY. Walk toward better. That’s all. My life is short. I’m old. I can’t waste energy and time on the ‘this is the way I am’ people. Plus it just pisses me off. Why can’t I say, “This is the way I am.” Because I’m not 4.
My husband has been the most affected by the new me. He routinely says, “Oh, Jesus, not another boundary.” Last week I set a boundary where I said that there will be no more drinking the orange juice out of the container and putting it back in the refrigerator. We aren’t apes. Put it in a glass. Some boundaries are more important than others.
So it was a year of amazing growth and my new personality is pretty awesome. It was a spiritual, mental, and emotional explosion. It reminds me of that scene in The Color Purple when Oprah Winfrey ‘wakes up’ at the dinner table and begins to laugh and says, “I am back.” That’s me. Oprah Winfrey, with the one eye swollen shut. I am back. I wonder if in that scene, she was 48.

Swear on mom

My mother in law passed away about fifteen years ago. All my life I have heard people say, 'Swear to god'. Or, 'Swear on the bible'. If you swear on God or the bible, it is suppose to mean that even the most habitual liar would crumble. Jesus has the power to make the roof fall in on your head and kill you for the lie. You could say to someone, "Are you sure he is telling the truth?" "He swore on the bible." Ah. End of story.
My husband and his family have a whole different twist to forcing the truth out of a person. Swear on mom.
In my husbands family you do not lie if you are swearing on mom. You just don't do it.
It's usually my husbands sister Cheryl. Everyone will be arguing back and forth and then Cheryl's voice rises above the crowd and she brings the hammer down, "Swear on mom!"
The room becomes abruptly quiet. You can hear a pin drop. The wind begins to blow and the sky turns black. Sometimes, you can hear scary ghost noises in the background. The lights flicker. She puts her hands on her hips and stares in to the accused's eyes. "Swear on mom." He lowers his head and contemplates his choices. Either, tell the truth and remind people that you are an idiot. Or, swear on mom. The pressure of telling the truth is so intense if you decide to swear on mom, you get confused and begin confessing every lie you've ever told.
Cheryl takes a step toward the hostage and asks again. This time in a firm, confident voice. "Swear. On. Mom."
The big fat liar does not lift his head but he does lift his eyes. After a deafening silence he says, "I colored my hair." And the crowd goes crazy. Swear on mom worked again. And is he serious? Did he really think no one would notice that he looks like Elton John?
I love my sister in law Cheryl. She is one of my top two 'go to' people to get something done. But there are people who lie, and there are people that tell the truth no matter what. They say, "Hey! It's the truth!" Cheryl tells the truth. She will look at someone and say, "Are you serious with that shirt? Did you just get off the Love Boat?" She's like an insult comic but she's not on stage, she's in her kitchen. But unlike an insult comic she will actually wait for an answer. "Hello! Did you play shuffle board with Captain Stubbing and Julie? Was Gopher there?"
I didn't have the swear on mom deal in my family. We did the traditional, 'If you tell a lie Jesus will know and you will burn in hell for eternity'. So we lied all the time. I mean, define hell? And when is that going to happen if it actually happens? I think I'll stick with my story.
I grew up in constant threat of the horrifying things Jesus was going to do to me if I sinned. If you ever question if something is a sin, if it's awesome and fun, it's a sin. Then at a young age I figured something out. I could go to confession and confess all those sins and the slate would be wiped clean. So why not live my life like hell on wheels? Then, right before I pass away I will get everything forgiven and go to heaven with the suckers that didn't put two and two together with the clean slate deal. This is actually how I currently live.
Some people start out with the truth and then the jazz the story up to such a level that it becomes a lie. They add some really gross descriptions and say someone was screaming, "Help me! Tell my children I love them!" While they twirled around in a parking lot engulfed in flames. Really? You saw that? Then they continue to add, "Then the flame from her dress lit a truck on fire and it exploded. There were three people in the truck and a cat." Wow. What actually happened was there was a garbage can in front of the store that was smoking and an employee walked out and dumped a bucket of water on it.
Then there is the omitting of the truth. I have mastered this. What I like to do when someone asks me something I don't want to answer is say, "Excuse me? I didn't hear you." This gives me time to think while they ask again.
One of the biggest lies I tell is about food. Me and my daughters go to expensive restaurants and then when my cell phone rings, and it's my husband, I say we are at McDonald's. We all know to say this. He says, "I don't know how you guys can stand to eat at McDonald's so much." I say, "Excuse me? I didn't hear you."
We all lie about one thing or another. Does my ass look fat? Do you like my new hair color? Do I look old? Did you try to poison me? All day long.
I will do anything to avoid hurting someones feelings, even if I have to lie. I will lie to say something to someone that is not true so they will be happy. If I get a grouchy checker in the grocery store, I will tell her how beautiful she is. Even if she looks like Shrek.
I have sworn on the bible, swore to God, pinky promised, swore on mom. All those times I was telling the truth. Mostly. Okay, sometimes. Whatever, rarely.
I tell the truth when it matters. To me. And only if I am guaranteed that no conflict will come from my confession. I will tell the truth when it is not going to make me look bad. I will be singing a song and if I don't know the words to part of the song, I will pretend I'm busy during that part. Or I'll yawn or cough. As if I'm saying, "I know the words, it's just that I'm yawning right now."
So yeah. Honesty is the foundation that I've built my life on. Honesty and dirt. Mainly dirt.

This is Bullshit

I don't typically walk away from depression better than when I went in. Coming out of the fog is a struggle but you can actually physically feel with it when it begins to lift.
I've been in it for months. The last few days, have been better. Much better. This time, I mentally unraveled a gift that I did not even know I needed to find.
Don't you just get so sick of the cheerful people? The people that talk in bumper stickers. They have a saying that relates to whatever you're feeling. "Hey, Dina! It takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile!" Or, "Hey, Dina! Don't call it a problem! Call it an opportunity!"
And that's how we all live our life. Stay positive! Dismiss any negativity! Turn the lemons in to lemonade! Glass half full! You choose your level of happiness! Okay, so, we do this. All. Fucking. Day. For months and months.
So I say to myself, "I'm not feeling it. I have a lot of questions. I have questions for God." God and I have gone toe to toe on many occasions and I want to know what his take is on my mom.
This is the dialogue to God in my brain when I began to feel depressed. Why has my mom's life sucked? She is your biggest follower. She is the kindest person on the planet. Why was it not in your 'will' to give her one small break in her life when she has devoted her entire life serving you? Why do I look at my mom and it crushes me to she her watch these people on the religious channel who clearly have been given so much, and yet for my mom, you gave her nothing? She prayed and still prays all day long everyday? And she can't get one single break? I don't get it. I look at my mom's hands and think about all the babies she's held, all the hugs she's given to so, so many people. All the dishes and laundry she's done. I can see right now in my head the thousands of times I have seen my mom's hand raised in worship during a Church service.
And I say to God, Really? So she will be rewarded when she gets to heaven? Well that's where me and mom part ways. I want some shit right here on earth. If it is not in your will, you need to do some editing because I want you to lay it down. I want to be chin deep in shit. Chin fucking deep.
When I finish my rant on God then I start with myself. I am stupid. I can't spell. I have been a disappointment to myself and others every single day for 48 years. I'm not funny. My writing sucks. I don't even know how to cook? What am I even doing here? I'm sure there are other people in this house that can do laundry and check the mail.
I roll around in this until I am in small pieces. Until I can't breath. Day after day, for months. Then one day I think, "What if I don't get the answers? And worse! What if I don't get any shit? Then the smaller things come up. What if I really am not funny or a good writer? What if I do suck in general?" Then there is a silence. A calm. A small piece of me processes the information. And with each thing, I think, okay then. Then another thing, that's a drag, but okay. Not funny? There are a lot of unfunny people. Horrible writer? I wouldn't be alone there. What about my mom? Can I accept that I may never have the answer? If I'm going to get out of this bed and put some clothes on, I guess that's my answer. It's not my question to ask. I guess that's between mom and God.
Here is where I discovered the gift. We're all walking around being really super positive and happy. When I became depressed, it was like opening a gate and letting the wild horses loose. They ran and bucked and they were really pissed off that they were locked up for so long. But after some time, they stopped running. They ran it out and stopped to eat grass. That's when I came to the conclusion that things are the way they are. There is good, there is bad. There is happy, there is sad. I am not always going to have the answers. I may not be funny and I may not be a great writer, but if I wanted I could give myself a break. I have the right like any person on the planet to say, this is bullshit. I have the right to list all the things in my life that I think suck. But I also have the right to go ahead and shave my legs and put on deodorant. Read a book, watch a movie, go ahead and join the living. I'm like the tired horse eating the grass.
What an amazing feeling to have all that noise quiet, peaceful, and serene. But I had to go through all that pain, energy and sleep to come out on the other side with the gift of acceptance. Accepting all the things about me and God and mom. I don't have to be thrilled with it, but I have to accept it and carry on down the road. And if down the road I find out that I am funny and I am a great writer and I'm not a stupid hillbilly? It's just another great gift.
The only area where God and I are still at an impasse is, I am firm on wanting to be chin deep in shit. An IPAD for my suffering? If that isn't in your will I don't even know who's chart you're looking at.