I Love You Too, Mom

I'm sure you've seen the poem that goes around every so often, something like "I love you comes in many different forms: Wear your seatbelt, did you eat, how are you sleeping?" 

We all have our own love languages, and we use them in so many different measures and words. Sometimes love is said out loud. Sometimes our language is a whisper. Sometimes it's just a quiet action.

One of my languages is making sure my kids have a different mom than I had. It's making sure they each have the specific mom they need in each moment, which can, and often does, change from one instant to the next. None of my boys have the same mom. They each require a different approach, a distinct touch, a separate expression. There's no cookie-cutter motherhood here. Part of my language is making sure I apologize and acknowledge when I've done wrong, then doing my very best to make sure it doesn't happen again. Another part of my language is making sure they not only hear "I love you," but they feel it somehow every day, several times a day. I want to ensure my kids know they are safe, no matter what. 

It sounds simple enough, but for someone who grew up with my own mother, it really isn't. 

Love doesn't need to be extravagant. That's one thing I've learned from my kids. I just want to throw my arms around them to let them feel my love. I want to feed them and water them (yes, I know you're supposed to feed them and water them--proverbially so, possibly--but let's just say it's a good thing they aren't plants...), I want them to know I'm here anytime they want to talk, I want to grow them and marvel at them. Most of all, I just want them to know how so very loved they are, and how incredibly grateful I am for them. I need them to know these things. 

I made you! I love you! Now, get over here and let me obnoxiously show you just how much!!!!

This morning, I saw a post on social media that read: "I've apologized for who I am more times than I've been hugged for it" (@unburied_eulogies, Instagram).

Oh BOY, did that hit HARD. Damn. 

After reading this, I had a chance for conversation with one of my kiddos; I read it to him, and said I hope I've hugged and loved him more than I've made him feel the need to apologize for himself. I told him I hope I praise him more, and love him more for he who he is, than I criticize him. 

I know I'm not a perfect mom (name one, I dare you). I know I've criticized when I should have praised,  I've punished when I should have given grace, I've yelled when I should have hugged. My maternal sins are plenty. I'm the engine of The Hot Mess Express--choo choo, y'all!

But this kid's response?

"I love you too, Mom."

This kid...

Oh my gosh--I mean, the tears flowed, the gratitude exploded, and the love just, well, that exploded too. My bursting heart was left in a heap on the floor. 

He sees me. He HEARS me. He gets it. He knows I'm human.

How did I get to have such wise, incredible, amazing kids? How did I get so lucky? 

This isn't the first time he's done this. 

I've read passages and posts, given lectures (both kind and harsh, both necessary), cried, laughed, listened, spoken from my heart, and asked questions.

Each time: "I love you too, Mom."

The Baby We Didn't Know We Needed

Shawn and I have been finished with babies for a bit--almost eleven years, in fact. We know, barring any unforeseen circumstances, we are far over the baby stage. We are headed into the preteen, late teen, and--God help me--mid-to-late 20's stages. No more babies here. I'm so grateful for our babies, but at 49--I'm done. 

We've had chicken babies and duck babies, two little kitty babies and a preteen kitty. They help me. I kind of suck at taking care of plants, but I really need someone to grow, someone to have and to hold, someone to nurture. But plants die in the store just seeing me coming, so pets it is. 

But, like I said, we thought we were past the baby stage. 

That is--until last spring--a year, now--we were alerted to an eight month old baby girl in need of emergency foster care. If we didn't take her, she'd have to go back to the shelter because her current foster mom wasn't in a position to keep her any longer.

We saw her photo and we were done. We were in love. The sweetest face, and the most beautiful big blue eyes we've ever seen, even Shawn's side of the Furr family. She has this little smudge on her bottom lip that makes it look like she's smiling or smirking, depending on what she's up to. She's also partially paralyzed and needs a family with stay-home, stay-close-to-home, or take-kitty-with-us abilities. Needless to say, we moved her in as quickly as we possibly could. 

Okay yes, you got me--our baby girl is a cat. Yeaahhhhh. Let's be honest, you should've known.

It seemed like a fairly easy no-brainer. Her mom just needed a break, and we'd been contemplating fostering for a while. This would be such a great test run for us! We told ourselves this to the sounds of snickering and outright laughter, and the finger pointing of our friends. Apparently, many of them even took bets on how long before we announced she was a foster fail.

It didn't take long. It obviously wasn't a shock. I'm still not sure who won the bet. Probably everyone.

Tofu entered our lives and turned them on their sides and upside down--delightfully, joyfully, lovingly so. My kids are 25, 17 and 11, but I'm certain have more photos of her, now Felicity Jane, than I do of my children combined. At least 10,000 times a day, she gives us reasons to pause, reflect, talk about how amazing she is, and marvel at how much she's done for us--for me. We stop to smile and watch her sleep or play, she makes us laugh, and she keeps me going. She's our version of stopping to smell the roses. Her little personality is a three million watt sun. 

Faced with adopting Felicity out or keeping her, I know the decision was easier than we made it. It just made sense to keep her, but we did put up a good front, attempting to adopt her out. For about a week? We already had five cats, did we really need a sixth? We knew that keeping her would end our very short, yet illustrious fostering career. The summer before we'd adopted three little boys, bringing our cat count up to five, including our first kitty with special needs (who gave us the courage and connections to bring Felicity home). We already had five cats, what difference would a sixth make? As foster parents, we dutifully posted her photo at the local pet boutique, and regularly to social media. We made lists of her favorite things--snacks, foods, toys, snuggles, how she likes to be petted and brushed--and her least favorite things--bath time and potty time, specifically. I listed the songs we sing for bath time, and the songs we sing for potty time. Potty time is girl time. You're in the bathroom at the clerb, you have to compliment each other's outfits and eyeliner ("girl, it is fiiiiiirrre!"), talk about the boys, then head back out to the insanity. I listed her lullabies and how to wrap her properly after bath time. She loves to be wrapped in a blankie and held like a baby, not just after bath time, but anytime. When she's cold, she curls up in her bed, gives us The Look, and waits for us to wrap her in her blankie. Shawn even turns the fireplace on for her when the windows are open. She loves having her nose rubbed downward, and her forehead rubbed back. Sometimes you have to burp her because she gets the hiccups. Yes, like a baby. She's not big on purring, but when she does, it's a pretty big deal. Because of her paralysis, she sits like a little human, with her back legs straight out in front, and I can guarantee it's the cutest thing you've ever seen.

Most importantly, I needed to make sure anyone interested in adopting her understood that Felicity has special needs. She needs regular, routine care throughout the day, and regular, routine vet care, including speciality care. She's a little high maintenance (no idea where she gets that from...). She has congenital scoliosis, which means, as I mentioned earlier, her hind end is partially paralyzed. Felicity gets around just fine, though. There's absolutely no slowing her down. This doesn't stop play time or most other activities, and she's more obstinate, determined, strong willed, judgmental and opinionated than any other cat I've ever known. I've never had a cat sigh and harrumph at me before the way she does. What it does mean though, is she needs help pottying. We have to help her with it 4-5 times a day; she needs 1-2 baths a week, and laundry 3-4 times a week. She's also happy, silly, playful, fearless and thoroughly spoiled rotten. One of her favorite toys is a battery operated, flopping lobster almost twice her size, and she rides it like a rodeo bull. Felicity has the cutest little twinkle toes and the most expressive face. She reaches her little head up for boops, kisses and pets, and has the sweetest, quietest, tiniest mew (unless she's in the tubby... Kitties do not belong in the tubby, Mommy!). I've read that Siamese cats are very vocal and expressive, but her face is really what's vocal and expressive... Her face says a lot (I'm clueless as to where she gets that from, too...).

Upon showing the list of adoptive parent requirements to a few friends, they all said the same thing, "Amy, you know she's already exactly where she belongs." One friend even said my list was our family to a T. Okay, she wasn't wrong. It did break my heart thinking about giving Felicity up, and if I could give her first mom any kind of peace, then six cats we shall have. It gives me peace. She gives me peace.

Our home once again looks as though we have small children; it's filled with toys, cat beds, steps for our older kitties and disabled kitties, cat towers, toys, fluffy blankies, and landing pads for the baby (Felicity does have a name, but she's usually "Princess," or "the baby," much to the confusion of those who aren't up on the latest with our family; we recently had to explain to a therapist that no, our child's 49 year old parents did not have a secret baby.).

We love this little girl so much. She's been diagnosed with congenital scoliosis and epilepsy (both times I said, "Oh, well that makes sense," to the vet, as though it does in fact, make genetic sense), and she has a fairly serious heart condition. We don't know how long she has (oh, but if God were to give us twenty years with her), but we're determined it's going to be the best possible life. She's been to see Santa and Christmas lights, she has no argument with traveling (which requires as much preparation and gear as does traveling with a human infant) or living in the RV (I've become the old lady with the cat in her lap going down the road; she wears her sunglasses and we wave to truckers and kids), she wears dresses and sunglasses, and has her choice of a gazillion beds in the house. Chewy and Amazon deliver new toys, outfits and blankies every other week. And most importantly, she's the absolute apple of everyone's eyes in this house. She is beloved by her older human brothers (tolerated by one particular feline sibling, not tolerated at all by her older sister, played with well and loved by her others). And me and Shawn? We adore our little girl. We are in absolute love with our princess. 

I have no idea what I'd do without her. I don't know where I'd be without her. She saves my life daily. She lets me hold her close and cry into her fur when I need comfort. She gives me peace, she gives me joy, she gives me unconditional love, she gives me confidence in what lies ahead. I don't know who sent her, but I have a few ideas--I just wish they were here to see her, to meet her, to watch her. My grief is at an all time high, my depression at an all time low. I had no idea how much I needed Felicity until she was here in my arms. I'm usually in tears over her at least once a day, so grateful she's here, so grateful we get to be her family, just--grateful. I know she came to us at a great cost to her first mom, so yes, when I say I'm grateful--I am grateful beyond words. 

Felicity, this beautiful little girl, this amazing little girl with the bravery and courage many humans don't even have--she takes time off my hands, and puts love directly in them. 

Nope, We Don't Celebrate It!

This week is my fourth year since my first tonic-clonic seizure--my Seizureaversary, if you will. I made it! I'm here! 

Knock on wood, I'll be tonic clonic free for four years in July. 

I still have little ones here and there (okay, here, here, here, and there, and here again, lately), but the important fact?

I'M. STILL. HERE. 

Not always upright, lucid or part of the conversation, but I'm still here! 

Here's the thing, though--we don't celebrate any of this. It's one of those things, we kind of just really don't dare. We don't mark anything on the calendar, we just let the dates pass quietly. No streamers, no signs, no cake (I love cake and will use any excuse to have it, so this part is a big deal), no celebratory posts on social media, just a quick, quiet mention.

We don't believe in superstition, but admittedly, Avery and I have never repeated the same routine from the morning of my traffic stopping seizure. I still don't pull out of that stop sign, four years later. I go the long way around to the stop light. I don't sip my Starbucks until we're safely through the light. We don't repeat those four errands from that morning--and if we did, it certainly would not be in the same order. I know that Avery will never forget that day, and I, well, I'll never remember it. 

Sooooo no, we're not big into coincidences or jinxes, hoo doo or bad luck--but we're also not going to tempt fate, you know? 

We all know this epilepsy thing is a time bomb in my brain. 

And I hate it.

It's just there, hanging out, waiting to spring.

SURPRISE!!!

GOTCHA!

I'M BAAAAACCCCKKKK!

It could be tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month. Next year. Five years from now. If we're lucky--never again.

It's not just the seizures. It's the toll it takes on my brain and body, even when I'm not having seizures. My memory is a joke, I'm constantly tired, my depression and anxiety deepened. There are things I can't do--don't dare do--anymore (I really miss concerts), and independence I'll never regain. There are fears my kids may never grow out of. Whenever my body and brain veer off course, we wonder if it's another form of seizure (the answer is most likely yes). It's terrifying for my family when only half of my body comes back, and slowly. Is this a seizure or something scarier this time?

My brain does not care how many years I have in between seizures, or how well I'm doing on my meds, or how long I've been steady on these meds. 

My brain does not care that rather than being the emergency contact for my family--I am the emergency. As Mom and wife, I'm supposed to be taking care of them, not the other way around. My brain does not care that when Shawn goes out of town, we need several emergency plans in place, depending on how, when and where a seizure happens, how long it lasts, and whether or not it reacts to my rescue meds. We have phone trees in place, Plans A, B, C and well, Z. Because--epilepsy. Because--me. It does not care that, as the adult, I should be the one in charge--not my 16 and 10 year old sons. My brain does not care what epilepsy has robbed our family of (like celebratory cake)--movies, TV, concerts, night-driving, even driving on a beautiful sunny day with the sunlight flashing between trees. "Mom, close your eyes," I hear from the back seat. We've carefully explained to our youngest that I do not have photosensitive epilepsy, but I cannot remove that fear from his own brain. I also cannot promise him I won't eventually develop it, and the only way to know is if I have a reactive seizure. My brain does not care when I can't sleep (because of well, my brain), and we miss out on an activity because, "Mom needs sleep." There are things I want to do, things I want to be able to do with my kids--but I have to watch my energy levels, I have to be careful about driving, I have to make sure of this, and be sure of that. My brain does not care.

We use a lot of dark humor to diffuse our stress, anxiety and trauma:

Put a YooHoo in Mom's hand next time.

Do you think Home Depot would give us a discount if Mom shakes the paint can instead?

Who's the current president? Uhhhh, Obama's vice president. (that answer to EMS is a family favorite)

Do you know what today is? Yes! It's today! (another favorite)

What's Mom's favorite song? Shake, rattle and roll!

That sounds like a lot of whining and complaining, but as a family, we try our best to not live in fear. After all, what kind of living is that?  But I know Avery has buried himself in research. He knows what could happen if a seizure goes past 5 minutes. He knows what could happen if my rescue meds don't work. He knows about SUDEP. He knows all the response steps for seizure first aid, including instructions for bystanders. I carry a laminated card in my purse warning well meaning bystanders off because he knows what he's doing. He's in charge until the seizure is over, or EMS arrives. Ezra knows how to hack my phone, and we quiz him regularly on the various steps and plans. In Avery's absence, my 10 year old would be in charge. This is no life for my children, but my hope is it will make them more compassionate and kind adults. Shawn took a WFH job to be home just in case. That's kind of how we operate: Just in case. Nearly everything I do, especially alone with the kids, I wonder if I should actually be doing it. Is it safe? Am I safe? Are my kids safe with me? We try so hard to not live in fear, but we are human. And this is our reality.

But still...

In the words of one of my best friends, who quoted Elton John at the time: "I'm still standing." 

Yeah, but we still don't celebrate. 

No cake here.

Angels Seen And Aware

 Last week, Avery and I had such a weird day--a glitch in the matrix, an experience that left us questioning reality. 

At my FNP's office that morning, I managed to run into a woman who, a little over a decade previously, had been part of a group who made my life in our old neighborhood a living hell. I knew her loud mouth before I even saw her. I immediately recognized her face, and her insecurity. Without acknowledging each other, I saw in her eyes that she recognized me as well.

Fewer than twenty minutes later, her daughter (who didn't recognize me, and I didn't say anything) was our cashier at a store on our errand route. 

Shaking our heads, Avery and I headed to the grocery store.

Making our way through the aisles, me acting like a fool like I love to do, and Avery pretending to be embarrassed (no, I swear, he only pretends!).

Coming towards us in an aisle as I barked out orders to Avery, was this delightfully cheery little gentleman, shorter than myself. He had a smile from ear to ear, greeted us with a wave, telling us that he hoped we were having a blessed day. 

I'm not usually one to stop and have a conversation with a complete stranger in the middle of the grocery store, but there was just--there was just something about this gentleman. I felt compelled to stop. Talking about it later, Avery described feeling pulled. Avery also said he felt as though this man was on a mission, specifically for us, and only us. Despite there being other folks in the aisle, we were the only two people he saw. 

As we exchanged pleasantries, this gentleman began talking about the past--how it can poison the present and the future, how it should stay exactly where it belongs, in the past. 

Then he turned his attention to Avery. He told Avery that he could tell he's loved very much, and how much I delight in him--he used my exact words, "You mom delights in you, I can see that in her eyes." He said that children are their mother's legacies, their life's work, and to always remember that.

And with that, he folded his hands in front of himself, telling us he'd taken up enough of our day. Avery and I were still too stunned, but managed to stutter something about enjoying talking with him, and we thanked him for his time.

This entire exchange took fewer than five minutes, but it's left such an imprint on both of us, it could have taken over an hour.

And then--folks, I know you'll be skeptical, and I don't blame you, because like I said, Avery and I are still trying to wrap our heads around it--he just disappeared. 

As he walked up the aisle away from us, I realized there was something I'd forgotten a few aisles back. I sent Avery on the wild goose chase for it, not even a minute--thirty seconds--in the same direction our new friend had gone.

When he came back, he said the gentleman had just disappeared. His cart was gone, he was gone. There was no sign of him at all. 

He was just gone.

Not in a *POOF* kind of way. He didn't click his heels or clap his hands and disappear in a puff of smoke. He just walked away.

Not in the way one would walk away from another person and disappear around the corner. Not in the way one walks away and out of sight. 

He was just gone.

So, where did he go? Who was he? Was he even there for groceries--what, who was he there for?

Avery and I have our theory. We have our story, which we've held close and shared with very few until now. It was such an experience though, the day was so weird leading up to it, it's a story worth sharing. I know some won't believe us, and I know others will have their own opinions. And that's okay--that means this isn't for them. 

But, this happened to us. It happened with us. And that day, we entertained an angel. 

Thank You, Kind Stranger

(From June 2025)

 I took the boys for haircuts the other day. Ezra just needed a trim, but Avery wanted his long locks shorn into a high and tight. It was quite a shock. 

As I sent minute-to-minute update photos to my two best friends, I got weepy. Too much inside my head, as I sent the photos, there was a third friend I was deeply missing. She should still be here too, I should still be sending photos to her too. 

The salon was busy, and there were quite a few folks watching Avery's transformation. Several noticed my red eyes and attempted to encourage me, thinking I was tearing up because of Avery's massive makeover. 

I let them believe that. They didn't need a trauma dump, and it was just easier.

As I sat down again after the last photos, the woman next to me started talking to me. Gently, kindly, soothingly. She asked questions about my kids, complimented my parenting (if only she'd seen us earlier that morning), and patted my hand. She told me about her grandson--also autistic, homeschooled and Avery's age. She beamed with pride for him, her son and her DIL. 

She kept me talking, never commenting on Avery's hair, never saying, "Oh, it's just hair, Mom!" She was such a calming presence. I don't know if she sensed something bigger in my emotions, or if maybe she also had something bigger going on in her own head, but I'm so grateful she was there.

Jim's wife, I know we live in a small town, but chances are slim we'll ever see each other again--but I hope you know how much you helped me. I'm still thinking about our interaction five days later. 

Thank you for your kindness, for seeing me, for hearing me. Thank you for being love in action. 

Please Stay

September is Suicide Awareness Month, and today, September 10, is World Suicide Awareness Day.

If you follow me on social media, you know that I've been reposting a lot of suicide awareness posts, as well as "Please Stay" posts. 

This is personal for me.

I also went back to my last post in June--also about suicide, and at the end, I begged you to stay. I'm going to link that one here because I included a wealth of information with crisis lines and help websites.

https://lifeasiknowit-sofar.blogspot.com/2025/06/mental-illness-is-cold-hearted-bitch.html

In fairness, I don't believe I can ask you to stay if you don't know my story--well, at least as much of it as I can fit here. I don't want you think I'm one of those "think happy thoughts" people, or "just smile more" advice-givers.  I'm not, nor have I ever been, described as "happy go lucky." I've fought, struggled, lost ground, and won every right to be where I am today, even though I still fall under the diagnosis of "intractable depression." 

The one thing I'm not going to do is give advice. That's not fair to you, nor is it proper of me. I don't even know what worked for me. And just because it worked for me, or anyone else, doesn't make it a guarantee for the next person. Depression, and treatment for it, really is a crap shoot.

Actually, depression is a pit. A deep one. A deep, dark, dank pit. 

Every so often--several times a week--I let out some giddiness about my upcoming 50th birthday. It's another year away, but I started celebrating last year. Honestly? Never thought I'd be here. I didn't think I'd make it to 30. There were times I didn't want to make it to 20. I struggled a lot with body image, Major Depressive Disorder, self harm, anger, massive anxiety, perfectionism, poor self esteem, and not only suicidal thoughts, but suicide attempts. I pushed the limits of some of my medications, just to see. I tried a few other things. I was hospitalized once. There's a possibility I should have been hospitalized again another time or two, but my husband and I also knew the chance it would make things worse was a bigger danger. I wrestled with this throughout my 20s, leaving my husband fearing he would be a single father to our son. 

The pain was the worst. The physical pain, the emotional pain. Things I couldn't talk about, things I didn't want to talk about. Things I still don't talk about. I didn't want the pain anymore. I slept a lot--if I was sleeping, I wasn't in pain. I didn't really have anyone tell me to stay, ask me to stay (aside from Shawn, later), or even give me reasons to stay. Instead, I was reminded of my lack of worth--and what I needed to do to regain, and keep that worth. I was reminded that I was sick, I was a burden, a horrible daughter, a worthless mother. Love was conditional. Their words had long been my own internal voice. It was overwhelming. My own internal voice became so loud, I wanted it to stop. I needed it to stop, and I didn't care how.

I wish I could tell you exactly what brought me out of it all. I don't know that I have a clear answer to that. Sure would make things neat and tidy, wouldn't it? 

The truth is, I'm still not entirely out of it. Not all of it, but my days are better. I know it was a lot of work--not even therapy work (which I should have had, and still need, buttttt... It's a work in progress, right?), just work. It meant walking away from certain family members and situations, teaching myself to no longer care about some situations that I allowed to constantly haunt me, and putting my mind in a better place. I still take meds, but they can't fix the thoughts. That part is up to me. 

I knew I needed to do the work, for myself, my husband, and especially our son. My outlook on life and the way I was choosing to live were deeply affecting our son the most, and he deserved better. I wanted to stay for him. I needed to make up my mind, and he needed to know that he deserved a healthy mom with a healthy (-ish) brain who was making him her priority. 

And now--approaching 50 (FIFTY!!)--looking at my life in review, there is so much I would have missed, and I can't believe I almost did. It's such a damn cliche, but I'm relieved now that I didn't make such a permanent, drastic decision, or I suppose I should say I'm relieved I never succeeded.  My heart attack and my first major seizure later really scared us. They gave me a lot to think about, and I realized I absolutely do not want to die. I have way too many people still to meet, and substantially too many things to do. I look around now and I smile to myself--the people I have, the things I have, I remember the days I prayed for all of them. I remember the days my friends prayed for them with me--and prayed for me. I am absolutely not shaming anyone here. I know prayer isn't for everyone, nor is Jesus, and that's okay. I'll never be able to explain why some prayers seem to be answered while others twist in the wind. I don't have answers, and I'm sorry. Honestly, it frustrates me. I wish I did have answers.

I like myself more--there are things I still struggle with and against, but I am more accepting of myself  now. I *think* I know how to have fun (you'd have to ask my kids...)--I know I like to have fun now. I'd rather have fun and like myself than rue over things I don't like about life. There are things that will always, quite frankly, suck. Unfortunately, I think I will always have regrets. I think that's just how life is. When I first started taking antidepressants, I thought I'd know they were working because I'd feel, and be, happy. It's taken me a long time to realize that's not how they work, and some of that happiness has to come from within myself. I've also learned that it's not a life requirement to always be happy. We're allowed to be sad, angry, weary, scared--as human beings, we are naturally emotional creatures. We feel things, sometimes deeply. There's nothing wrong with that. I know that now, and I think that makes me a better person. I'm more passionate about life, things I love and the people I love. I'd rather encourage a complete stranger, share my true personality and send someone home with a story to tell, than for anyone to feel alone in this world. 

I do have a lot of guilt over it still (one of my incredibly amazing kids has told me I need to let it go). I don't know if it's anything I'll ever be able to thoroughly absolve myself from. 

I don't want you to think that I believe every day is now sunshine and rainbows. I'm not a walking Hallmark card. Ha. I still take meds every day. I continue to collect autoimmune diseases. Sometimes life scares me. Sometimes I have regrets (at least four times a week). The past seven years in particular have been difficult with what feels like constant sadness. The grief is a kind of pain I can't describe, a kind of pain I wouldn't wish on anyone--but it is the result of my deep love for friends, for beloved pets, for loved ones from my past. 

I said I wouldn't give advice, and I'm not going to promise you anything, either. I can't do that. I also can't give you reasons to stay. I wish I could give you all of these things--it would certainly make things easier, wouldn't it? 

You are the one who has to do the work, so the advice is to yourself, as are the promises, and your reasons. 

I will tell you this--there is nothing about you that is worthless. You deserve to take up as much space as everyone else on this planet. You deserve unconditional love, and you deserve to be seen and heard. I know if I were talking to one of my children right now--I wouldn't let go. I would tell them these same things, and I wouldn't let go. My kids mean everything to me, and I would be devastated. You deserve the same. 

I'm telling you my story because I want you to know you aren't alone. And, in case no one else has said it to you, I want to make sure you hear it here, from me--please stay. Please. 

Mental Illness is a Cold Hearted Bitch

Here's the thing--mental illness is not a weakness. It's the result of misfires in your brain, and imbalances of the chemicals your body and brain are supposed to produce, but much like diabetes, thyroid diseases and menopause--your body and brain malfunction. They don't produce enough, they produce too much, they don't produce any at all. Those brain chemicals? Just as important as insulin, various hormones, and many other naturally occurring chemicals and elements. Mental illness is a disease, just like cancer, untreated diabetes, heart and lung diseases. And just like these diseases and many others, when left untreated, treated improperly, or even when treated successfully--it kills. 

Mental illness is a cold hearted bitch.

Mental illness and suicide are not weaknesses or personal faults. They are not signs of a flawed person or a weak generation. A person with mental illness is not one who is not aligned with Jesus, or selfish; on the contrary, many of them are deeply dedicated Believers, and very few of them are selfish. Mental illness is, once again, a disease. And sadly, it often kills. 

The rescue community took a hit again last week when another dedicated rescuer/rehabber took her own life. I've been wrestling with it; I did not know Mickayla personally, but she was a beautiful soul and her death has deeply affected me. I'm sad, I'm angry. I've cried. I'm still crying when I overthink--or think at all. I'm still raging about it. I'm downright enraged by the comments, the people who dare to call her selfish and weak, many of them throwing in the tired claims of, "This generation will never be able to do anything, they're just too weak! This is what happens when everyone gets a trophy!" The people who, I'm sure go to church on Sunday, telling the world they're good Christian folks, lying to themselves, accusing this poor dead woman of not loving her husband, her precious daughter, or her rescue enough to stick around for them. I wonder how many of them have diseases that require daily medication, different sorts of therapies, and regular check ins with numerous medical professions. I wonder how many of them have needed to change medications, therapies and physicians because the first several didn't work. How many had to see a merry go round of specialists and endure umpteen tests before finally receiving a diagnosis. But here they are, standing in judgment of this woman, because her illness was in her head, not in her body. It's gross. It's disgusting. It just baffles me how these people in the comments cannot see, they cannot fathom, they cannot connect their own behaviors to those same types of people and comments that wore Mickayla down. A woman is tragically dead. Her family and loved ones have suffered a massive trauma. Grow. Up. Shut. Up. Just shut up.

Much like someone dying of cancer, Mickayla suffered greatly. Just because her suffering wasn't visible, just because it was different than what most people consider terminal, does not in any way make her suffering less than.

Rescue is hard work. It's hard on the heart. It's hard on the body. I am only tangentially involved--I'm on the outskirts of it--and my heart grieves every day. I don't know how so many people get up and get their hearts broken every single day, often multiple times every day. The suicide rate is high. Those who may seem numb are merely doing what they need to in order to protect themselves and survive. They aren't detached or cold hearted or putting up walls, they are grieving heavily behind closed doors. If you think the comments about mental illness and suicide are bad, check out the judgment in the comment section of a rescue organization. There are always people who think they could do it better, they think they know everything about rescue--even though they've never even so much as donated a dime--they want to know why the rescue is begging for money *again*--"Can't you budget better and spend wisely?" They question and judge every little thing, and when a rescuer is already beaten down and spread thin--shit can go sideways. It's not because they're weak. It's not because they don't have Jesus. It's because they're tired. They're exhausted in more ways than most people, myself included, could possibly ever understand. These rescues? Each and every one of them have hearts of gold that beat for the animals they rescue and rehab, foster and adopt out. They feel every single loss in every fiber of their beings. 

The best explanation I've ever received about suicide came from my mentor years ago. I worked for her in the grief center she'd opened, after years of working as a hospice chaplain. Earlier that week, a single mom in our church had lost her son to suicide. It was absolutely heartbreaking. What was downright maddening though, were the "well meaning friends" who offered her comfort, asking her how she was doing, knowing she'd never see her son again. After all, he'd committed suicide, so of course he was in hell, right? No. As my mentor explained it, we cannot possibly know what is that person's heart in those last few seconds. There's no way to know. How DARE they take away any semblance of hope and peace she might have been clinging to. How dare they pass that judgment. How dare they tsk tsk in the hallway, heads together, whispering to each other, but pretending to care in her presence.

It mirrors Mickayla's death. This whispering. The finger pointing. The side eyes and heads together, tsk tsk-ing, but not in the hallway, or a corner--no, this is all done right there in public in every single comment section of every single social media post and news article. None of us know what Mickayla was wrestling with. We cannot possibly know the demons she fought. Her husband spoke of her autism and mental illnesses (Let's clear this up quickly: autism is not a mental illness, it is a neurological disability, a disorder, a condition. Do mental illnesses often fall under the umbrella of autism? Yes. But in and of itself, autism is not a mental illness. Let's also clear this up while I'm at it: Everyone has mental health, but not everyone has mental illness. Declaring that a person needs mental health, or has mental health, as opposed to needing help or having an illness, is just plain uneducated and ignorant. Stop it.), and the challenges they presented, the bullying--most of it from other rescues--she faced online daily, as well as her deep love for the foxes she rescued, and the fears she encountered for the ones she couldn't save. Mickayla was not weak. Her illness wasn't because she received a trophy for everything as a child. There is no proof she was selfish, or didn't love her daughter or her husband--quite the opposite, in fact. Simply? Or perhaps, not so simply, as there are so many intricacies of what Mickayla endured, many of which we'll never know, Mickayla's illness won. It killed her. 

I will end with these two final thoughts: 

1. If you cannot leave a kind, encouraging comment, if you cannot listen with sincere love, if you cannot say anything without being a judgmental prick--shut your mouth, close your computer, turn off your phone. If you have nothing helpful to add, just don't add anything at all, not even your "good christian" thoughts and prayers. And here's this thought, also--if you've read this far, and you are part of the problem--seek therapy. Seriously. Seek therapy, and shut up. If you have nothing positive to say, nothing helpful to add, nothing educated to discuss--then keep scrolling. That's literally all you have to do. You are not obligated to say anything. You are not obligated to be a dick. You can literally just ignore it and keep scrolling. You can even block the page/person if it upsets or offends you that much. Just keep moving along!

2. If you have found yourself in the same ocean as Mickayla, I'm begging you, PLEASE, talk to someone. PLEASE know you are loved, needed and wanted--and so unconditionally worthy and deserving of that love--without having to earn it or justify it. PLEASE STAY. Please stay, just one more minute, one more hour, one more day. Take it in the time increments you can handle. If you want to know how and why I speak out so much about these topics, why I want you to stay, it's because I've been there--because I'm still here. I still struggle with depression every day. I fight it every day, determined to never let it win. If you ever want to hear my story, please just ask. No skeletons, no closets here, just honesty.

I've included several hotlines and helplines below. 

*The National Mental Health Hotline, https://mentalhealthhotline.org/ , has 24/7 hotlines for anxiety, PTSD, Schizophrenia, depression, Bipolar and panic attacks. You can reach all of these through their website, as well as their phone number, 866-903-3787. This hotline is available for those in crisis, as well as those who may *only* need some questions answered, such as finding local mental healthcare. All conversations are confidential and free of charge. 

*The 988 Lifeline, https://988lifeline.org/ , is also 24/7. You can dial, text, chat or use their deaf/HoH services, by using your chosen method to dial 988 (I recently learned they've cut their LGBTQ-specific line). This number can be used for those in crisis, those who are struggling but may not consider themselves in crisis, and those who are concerned for their loved ones. Lifeline's services are confidential and free of charge.

*The Trevor Project, https://www.thetrevorproject.org , specifically for LGBTQ+ is 24/7, free and confidential. You can reach them by texting 'START' to 678-678, calling them directly at 1-866-488-7386, or starting a chat with them through their website. 

*Trans Lifeline, https://translifeline.org/ , specifically offers trans peer support. Their services are free and confidential, but unfortunately their availability appears to be limited to Monday-Friday, 10 AM – 6 PM Pacific, 11 AM – 7 PM Mountain, 12 PM – 8 PM Central and 1 PM – 9 PM Eastern. They can be called or texted at 877-565-8860. They encourage you to continue trying to call or text if are unable to reach someone the first time.

*The Autistic Self Advocacy Network, https://autisticadvocacy.org/ , offers resources (for example, legal, education, professional) and support for autistics, from fellow autistics. You can reach them through a contact link on their website. Side note: I've seen this website also listed as "the-asan.org"--this is in correct. The link highlighted above is correct.

*The Crisis Text Line, https://www.crisistextline.org/ , offers help for many difficult things we face in today's world from anxiety and depression, to bullying and grief, to self harm and suicide. For a more comprehensive list, you can visit their website. If you need their help, please text "HOME" to 741741. You can also chat with them through their website and WhatsApp. 

*Last, if you feel you are absolutely out of options, feel unsafe, you know you are in absolute danger of harming yourself or others, you are out of your meds and unable to reach your provider, or for any other reason, 911 and your local emergency room are also options. This also applies if you are concerned for a loved one and feel out of options, you have proof (or think or know you do) your loved one has a suicide plan, or is otherwise in danger of hurting him/herself or others. I know many of us feel this not last option, but absolutely not an option at all, for many good reasons. It is up to you to carefully weigh the pros and cons. 

I said those would be my final thoughts, but you know I'm seldom short for words, and my final thoughts often lead to my actual FINAL, final thoughts. I just want to say this--if we are friends on social media (even if we've not met), if you are someone I talk with on a regular basis in a store, on the street or anywhere else--you matter to me. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, your pets, your kids, your lives with me. I look forward to hearing from you, seeing your photos, and catching updates. I worry when you've been gone for a bit, and I check in on you because I care (seriously, don't make me stalk come looking for you!). I love seeing you happy, I love the way you laugh. I want to hear your dad jokes. I want to see your deep thought reposts, the memes, the reels--all the things that make your brain tick, that we all end up spreading like wildfire because so many of us are dealing with the same things and have the same sense of humor. So many of us stand for, believe in and are passionate about the same things. It's who we are. We're friends, and you matter very much to me.

I will say this one last time, because I truly, really want you to hear this--Please, PLEASE STAY. I know your brain is telling you so many things right now. It's yelling and screaming at you. Can I please tell you something about those things? They're all lies. Please find someone who will walk with you, someone you can talk to. You are needed here on this earth. You deserve to know this, to believe this about yourself. There are people here who would deeply grieve your sudden, tragic absence. There are people who would never get over losing you. I know your brain is screaming otherwise at you, but please believe me when I tell your brain is a liar. When I talk to my children about suicide, I tell them there is nothing so awful we can't figure out together--yeah, it might require jail time--but please don't make a permanent decision over a temporary situation.

 I know it sounds cliche, but I'm telling you the same thing: Please don't make a permanent decision over a temporary situation. I know you're battle weary and worn, but please, please--STAY.