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.

I'm the Villain but My Children are Safe

I need this out of my head, but I need to do so respectfully, and without turning it into gossip. I need to write about my feelings without giving too many identifying details. I need my rage on the page... Haha. I'm not writing this for pity, I'm writing because I need to release it, but also because--Listen. To. Your. Gut. Listen to your kids. If you feel like something is off, it is. Don't be afraid to speak up for your kids. Don't let the system run you over--be the one who runs the system over. You are your kids' best and only advocate. 

I'll admit, this one is a tough one to write about. The thoughts are all right here in my head, but organizing them is a daunting task--speaking them out loud even more so. I'm angry. I'm hurt. I'm sad. Watching my child struggle in this has made it so much worse. We are grappling with a rather hellish lesson about the humanity, the fallacy of christians. Humans are fallible, christians are human, ergo, christians are fallible. Someone who claims to be a christian and deliberately misleads others? Even worse. It's a shitty lesson to learn, and it's difficult watching your kid learn it, especially the hard way. My one comfort is he's learning it under the safety of our roof.

Last year was our sixth year homeschooling Avery and Ezra. Six whole years! Wow! I can't believe we're entering our seventh year. We've advanced so much as a family, and it's such an incredible experience to be able to watch our kids make headway in their own many ways as well. Progress isn't always academic, and that's been a great lesson for us. There's a huge sense of accomplishment that comes with each year that passes. 

We've been so fortunate with our co-op, finding/making family to teach and learn alongside, making lifelong friends and having fun while doing it all. We chose this particular curriculum because it aligns with our morals and world views, this particular co-op because we started with one of my "emotional support humans" and her boys. She encouraged us, showed us the way, introduced us to those women who have become my new emotional support humans, and their kids, who have become my kids' friends. Each year, our kids have landed the best possible teachers--other moms who stepped into these roles--who fulfilled every need and respected my kids' differences. Shawn and I rested, reassured our kids were safe and loved, and we were all exactly where we were supposed to be. As Avery aged out of one program and Ezra aged into it, I stopped attending classes with one child and began attending with the other. I no longer needed to divide my attention on Tuesdays, and could concentrate on Ezra's needs. Avery aged into the next program, and I trusted the adults I turned him over to every Tuesday morning. 

Unfortunately, things will look different for Avery this year though. We made a sad, but given the circumstances, not difficult, decision to change his curriculum. We did not make the decision without consulting Avery, and he was very much the driving force behind this change. We learned a difficult lesson last year--we could not trust the adult we'd turned him over to. It was disheartening. I trusted this person, I was friends with this person--and this person verbally and spiritually abused my child. I mistook this person's egotism for sincerity and friendship, her need for gossip and personal information were disguised as prayer offerings. She misused bible verses to distract from her own misbehavior. She took advantage. She abused my child. 

At the very least, I find her behavior morally repugnant. The absolute betrayal has left me so angry, so hurt, so frustrated. ANGRY. At the very worst, there aren't enough F words in the world.

I am angry with myself for allowing it happen. I feel so guilty for not recognizing the severity of what was happening to my child. Guilty for not handling it better, sooner. I failed my child.

In my anger and frustration, I confronted her in front of students. I raised my voice. I handled it incorrectly, but I was done with her behavior. I was having an incredibly horrible day, an even worse week, and I could not have disagreed more with the way she handled a situation before class had even started. Any other time, I might've handled it better, but I can't say that for certain. She'd gotten away with too much for too long. With two weeks left of the school year, the last one of which I already knew I was not going to force my child to attend, I'd had enough. I'd already planned on taking him home at lunch so he wouldn't have to stay the entire day that day. Numerous times throughout the year, I had attempted to discuss our ongoing problems. I was dismissed each time. I escalated to those above her, and was dismissed by them as well. All through the year, Avery begged to go home with me and Ezra at lunch. He would beg off Tuesday mornings, often feigning illness and other reasons he couldn't go to class. A kid who had found his place within this community, found acceptance and friends, learned that school can be fun, looked forward to class each week, excitedly talked--often non-stop!---about what he was learning, suddenly hated the very idea of Monday nights, dreading everything about having to go to class. In retrospect, I should have pulled him after the first semester. I wish I had.

There's been no resolution with this. I've since found out this woman has a past with another community that should have prevented her from teaching in ours, and despite my many objections, she's been allowed to teach again this year. To say I was floored upon learning that would be an understatement. I've also learned I'm not the first, nor even the tenth parent to file complaints against her. I've learned we are not the first family to pull our child because of her, and other families have threatened to do so. This was all hidden, covered up, and continues to be. No one wants to be accused of being the town gossip. I am angry with myself for falling in that category: I can typically spot a narcissist a mile away, but I did not see this coming. Narcissists are so good at disguising themselves and their behaviors. Even before she was Avery's teacher, I began to feel gross being around her, I began questioning her behavior, there were things that bothered me, things that needled away at the back of my mind. I started to feel the same ways I did around my mother, noticing the way she treats her own children practically gave me PTSD. One particular instance with a toddler-aged child in the nursery one morning left me feeling very off about her. I chalked it up to different parenting styles, perhaps she was having a bad day—I brushed it off. I deeply, deeply regret not saying anything at the time. There's been no formal resolution, but life has taught me that resolution often does not look the way one thinks it should, or wants it to. Rather, it looks like walking away, it looks like resolving it within your own heart and your own soul because you don’t want to be that person—the bitter one, the one who can’t forgive, the one who can’t or won’t move on. It looks like not taking my eyes off Ezra, while keeping one eye on her, and warning other parents should the need arise. It looks like removing Ezra from this community next year because I will not support a community that protects an abuser. Resolution looks like having to start over.

This ordeal has drawn out over four months. What should have been resolved at the end of last school year, has now dragged into this one. I attempted arguing our side, I attempted to argue for the safety of the students. When I was repeatedly stonewalled, I made the point that my child is safe, then I wanted it dropped. Instead, I've been chased through texts, emails and phone calls, strongly discouraged from using the word "abuse"; encouraged to apologize for my part, encouraged to encourage my child to apologize for his part; I've been hounded with sermons about my "sins and bondage" related to this event, and bible verse after bible verse. Let's be clear: I will not apologize to my son's abuser, nor will I force him to. I will not allow my child to feel at fault for an adult's behavior. I do not owe anyone anything, not an apology, not an explanation, not a conversation, not a relationship--and neither does my child.

You simply cannot force an apology, and I will not extend an insincere one—I am not sorry for protecting my children, I am not sorry for attempting to protect other students, I am not sorry for speaking my mind, I am not sorry for the way things have worked out. 

The only apology I have issued, and will continue to issue, is to Avery. That's it. He's the only one who deserves one.

I do not know what this woman has told others about me, but I have a few ideas. Because I confronted her in front of students, even with my detailed email trails, it's turned into a she said/she said situation. I am unwilling to drag students, including Avery, into this, even if it exonerates me. I'm certainly the villain, and it's "just so sad." She misses our friendship, according to one email I received. She's not taken any accountability at all for her own behavior and actions. I do not know if she's been chased by the same emails and texts, encouraged to apologize in the same way, or preached to about her own sins and bondage concerning this situation. But here's something I do know, something I’ve learned about myself--I really don’t give a damn what other people think of or about me. Those who are real for me, who know me and won’t judge me, those who know our family—those are the people who matter. And they won’t believe what anyone tries to tell them. They will call out the lies and the liar, they will walk away from the gossip, they will protect my family. 

A quick, necessary digression: I've grown a lot in the past decade. I will do everything in my power to protect my children. I will go to great lengths to guard my own peace, as well as my family's. If you cannot or will not respect me and my children, I have matches for that bridge. If you insist on pushing my carefully constructed boundaries, my friends and I will ride at dawn. I've dealt with narcissists before. 

This is not my first rodeo, and I do not engage in head games. Go find another playground.

It's (Not) Just a Plastic Toy Box

 * Disclaimer: This post was inspired by the following blog https://herviewfromhome.com/grief-two-aidens-one-love/

There's a toy box that sits in our playroom. At first glance, it's just a mass-manufactured plastic toy box. 

But it's special.

It has a place of honor, though not necessarily in the room itself. It has a more important place of honor in our hearts.

This toy box was lovingly gifted to us—never used before our three boys. It was brand new, once filled with the hopes and dreams of its first owner. It sat in a nursery, awaiting a much anticipated, much prayed for, very much wanted and already loved little boy. It was once filled with fervent prayers for just one child, a child to fill it with all of his favorite toys, a special keeper of his imagination, a holder of all of his childhood wonder.

Instead, it now holds the blocks, action figures, trains and other random bits from our own hopes and dreams come true, from our own answered fervent prayers--our overfilled prayers of three boys. It holds their imaginations and wonder, rather than those of the little boy it was intended for.

Just an ordinary plastic Little Tykes toy box, nearly 20 years old now, certainly not an heirloom by any typical standards.

Ordinary to anyone else, but anything but ordinary to our family, as well as its first family.

After hearing of our triumph over infertility, this mama, who lost her own battle, wanted nothing more than for us to have this toy box full of her own unrequited prayers.

She wanted to see it used, filled to the brim with favorite toys. She wanted it surrounded by the sounds of children's laughter, in a home filled with the chaos and busyness that only children make. She wanted it filled with everything she knew our growing family would provide. 

We both cried the day she gave it to me, standing in a parking lot over this ordinary-yet-not-ordinary plastic toy box. I remember everything about that moment: What we were wearing, how long that hug lasted, the weather, the prayers we said over both my growing belly and the miracle little boy inside, and that plastic toy box. The prayers we said for my new friend's heart and healing. The gratitude we lifted to the heavens above, and Abba within.

To some, it might be silly to be so attached to such a material item. To me though, it's a gift from one mama's heart to another's. A gift I've never taken for granted. A gift I've cared for, knowing how rough boys can be. I know wear and tear of everything is inevitable over time, but I've done my best to honor this seemingly simple piece of plastic. For me, it represents love redeemed. It represents joy, and two families joined into one.

Our youngest is nine now, and this precious toy box will be an heirloom—passed from one family to another, it already IS an heirloom. 

As our children grow older and the toy box grows emptier, we often debate its next assignment. Will we pass it on to the next mama who shares our stories? Will we keep it in our family for future grandchildren? Will we pass it to a church, a preschool, a grief center, or some other meaningful place?

I suppose we won't know the answer to that until the timing, or the mama, or the place, is right.

Until then, this not-so-ordinary toy box will remain in its place of honor in our home, forever in our hearts. It will hold the last remaining bits of childhood our boys leave behind. 

Whatever its future, this toy box, just a piece of mass-manufactured plastic to most, but so much more to us, will always remain cared for and honored for the memories it holds, and the love and gratitude it stands for, for us.

Ketameeeeeeen Makes Me Feel Fiiiiiine...

A little over a year ago, I sat in tears, describing the depths of my anxiety and depression to my FNP. 

I felt desolate. I wasn't handling life well. My meds felt hugely ineffective. I felt wildly out of control of my life, powerless. I had no power over myself or my life. Life was just happening to me. Around me. My brain, my body, my soul--every part of my being was in shut down mode.

I wanted a magic wand. Instead, my FNP suggested trying ketamine treatments.

If you've never experienced depression, it is this huge gaping hole. It just swallows you completely. Depression is this rogue wave and it knocks you off your feet, not allowing you to catch your breath or get back up before it knocks you over again. It steals, robs and violates--and not just you, but everyone you love, and everyone who loves you. 

This past winter, I admitted to my FNP, Shawn and my best friends that I should probably be hospitalized. I simultaneously acknowledged hospitalization most likely would not solve anything, could possibly even make things worse, as well as cause it's own problems. If anything, it might possibly have given me a chance to slow my world down for a minute or two, get my bearings and take a bit of a break. Possibly. It could also have intensified my sensory overwhelm, as well as my feelings of not being in control of my own life.

I've battled depression and anxiety for a little over 30 years. In addition, I've battled PPD, PTSD, and the oh-so-fun, roller coaster-y yearly SAD. I've cut and burned myself, and I've lost count of my suicide attempts. I was hospitalized once in college. None of this has been fair to my children and husband. They deserve a better version of me.

The majority of these three and a half decades, my mental illness has been considered intractable, untreatable, unresponsive to medication and various treatments. I've been on every single antidepressant on the market. I wish I were exaggerating. I'm currently on two antidepressants and one anti-anxiety medication; one of my anti-seizure meds is supposed to have a helpful side effect concerning mood imbalances. They have little effect, but they do keep me alive. Still, depression and anxiety often rule my life. Still, they often rule our family life. Still, nothing about it becomes more familiar, nothing about it becomes easier, nothing about it becomes normal.  Day to day, month to month, season to season, it can--and often does--change on a whim. I am a slave to these chemical imbalances in my brain. 

I have, unfortunately, passed these chemical imbalances on to my children. I hate it for them.

Shawn has watched me suffer and struggling, suffering and struggling right along with me, trying to keep me going. I hate it for him.

Two and a half weeks ago, I had my first ketamine treatment. 

Over the past year, my FNP has acquired every single piece of specialty equipment, she's attended multiple trainings, and provided several in-services for her staff. We've hit roadblocks, we've prayed, we've wondered if we were doing the right thing.

And then, it all just came together, all at once.

This first treatment--this first step towards a better me we all deserve--was the fruition of all of that effort and preparation. 

Not knowing what to expect, I took two books along with me; my FNP laughed as she put them aside, telling me I would not need those. I also had my pillow. Babysat by one of my FNP's nurses and hooked up to various monitors, I experienced the most peaceful forty minutes I've had in four and half years, the most pain free forty minutes I've had in countless years. It was absolutely incredible. It was a day worth celebrating. Even though we are only using the depression protocol, we are hopeful to see positive changes in my pain and seizures, as well. 

A week later, I had my second treatment. We increased the dose a little, and I did feel a little loopier. I slurred my words a little trying to speak to my FNP halfway through the session. They had a good laugh when they realized I switched up and was responding with ASL--can't slur my hands! Once the treatment ends, I'm up and ready to go within about ten minutes. I'm somewhat cognizant throughout the infusion, but also somewhat unable to really engage; I can hear the traffic outside, I hear the pump beeping as it administers the medication, I hear people outside the room, I hear them asking me questions, but I'm unable to open my eyes or verbally respond. I do nap for a bit once home. Ten days after that--this past weekend--I had three treatments in a row. In two more weeks, I'll have another round of three. After that last treatment, we'll break for two months. 

Thursday's session--my body's response to it--caught me off guard. After talking with others who have experienced similar treatments, I've learned that is the most typical, expected reaction. It is also the most beneficial; it means your brain, your subconscious, is trying to work through all the stuff you've crammed in there and attempted to bury.  As one person put it, "This stuff will humble your ass real quick." I'd spent the previous night, and several days beforehand, yelling at God. My guard was down. Which begs the question, am I too guarded for this to work? I don't like being vulnerable. I don't like feeling exposed. Will this work if I can't be vulnerable? Those forty minutes on Thursday were not the pain free bliss I'd encountered my first two sessions. I cried through the entire treatment and a bit afterwards. Curled in the fetal position, I heard myself angrily yell at God, "YOU CAN'T HAVE HER TOO!" One of my dearest friends is battling cancer. She's trying to be realistic and prepare all of us, but I'm in complete denial. No. I am not ready to face any outcome besides complete healing. I cannot lose her too. Her family cannot lose her. The world as a whole--it still needs her. God cannot have her, not now, not for a very long time. I not only put my wall back up Friday and Saturday, I reinforced it.

Weirdly, I'm the pioneer here. We've only sort-of joked that maybe it would've been wiser for her to choose a different patient... If (when) this goes well for me, my FNP will be able to offer the same opportunity to others like me. Others like me with families and friends who need more tomorrows with them. I want it to work for other people, I want it to be an option for them. I have a fear of letting my FNP down, of this not working; then what's the point of all the money she's sunk into this project? I don't have to be the one leading the charge, yelling, "WE'RE STILL HERE," but I do want to be the one in the back cheering that charge on. 

I'm still here.