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.

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.

Let's Make it Weird Together

Promise me something--today, I want you to tell your friends and loved ones how much you love them.  Please, make it weird.  Social media friends you've never met in real life but can't live without, the guy next to you at the gas pump, lifelong friends, spouses, your pharmacist, children, siblings, niblings, friends you haven't talked to eons, remote family members you need to catch up with, the cashier at the grocery store--reach out today.  Make today the day.  Gush over them.  Tell them how much you love them, how much you need them in your life, swap memories and laughter, even tears.  Text, or email them paragraphs.  Make that phone call you've been putting off.  Put that coffee, breakfast, lunch, together-time you keep talking back on the calendar for good.  Tell them exactly how you feel, why you need them, everything you wish for them in life, what makes them special to you, and why the world still needs them.  Tell them how they deserve the heavens and the earth moved for them, simply because they *are*.  Let your gratitude for them be known.

Please, put aside your fears of embarrassment.  Please bravely reach out today, and make it weird.  Do not let another day go by without all of this being said.

Tell them today how much you love them.

We never know when--or if--we'll get this chance again.

Domestic Violence Awareness Month

In the past, I've shared the story of losing my mother in law to domestic violence.  Every October--every day--I want her murder to serve a purpose.  I want some good to come from losing her.  I want other abused women, children, and even men to heed the warnings from her death.  I want someone to find hope.  I know she would too.  This world still needs you.  Please, you are worth leaving your abuser.  You deserve better.  Please tell a friend, family, doctor, hairdresser, the police, social services--anyone-- make a safety plan, and get out today.   

This year though, I've decided to share my own story.  

Shawn and I began dating in high school, but there was someone else before him. 

I was a child--a young teenager--and he was a man, an older high schooler.  He graduated from high school (during our relationship) before I moved up to high school myself.  We met on the school bus we rode together (only one of the many reasons I'm thoroughly against bus sharing among schools now, as a mom--yes, kids could always find another way, but the public school system should not be complicit in it), and I hid our relationship, knowing full well it was wrong, as long as I could.  Mind you, I did not hide the relationship because of the abuse.  I hid it because of the age difference (which was a form of abuse in its own rite).  My friends knew, and even covered for me, often.  One friend did threaten to tell her mom if I didn't tell mine... She quickly became no longer a friend.  I snuck him into my home when my parents were gone, conspired, lied about the many phone calls and committed so many other wrongs.  It was wildly uncharacteristic of me, the golden child, the good child, but I loved the feeling of getting away with something.  I laughed at my parents' complete ignorance.  During a time when my parents were utterly consumed by my sister and her problems, I also loved the feeling--the idea--of someone loving me and paying attention to me.  Then there were the bragging rights that came from being with an 'older boy.'  I didn't have any experience with boys and craved the attention--and status--of a boyfriend.  I had low self esteem and found my worth in relationships, which made me vulnerable.  He made me feel desirable and wanted.  I desperately wanted to be attractive to a boy.  Instead, my self esteem only plummeted further.

I knew it was wrong, but I don't think I ever comprehended just how wrong it was, not until a few years later.  At that point, it was too late and I was too embarrassed.  I'd professed my undying love for this man--I knew there'd be an I told you so, you wanted this relationship, you were not abused, or some other form of ridicule, especially from my mother.  I did not know how to call it abuse.  Gee Mom, I wonder why?

Want to know something funny?  My parents didn't believe me about the abuse.  My father never really said one way or the other.  My mother even argued with me when I came clean during my senior year of high school, laughing and saying, "You never had a black eye!"  I can remember everything about that day—I’d written an essay for school, detailing the abuse—which I asked her to read.  Standing in the kitchen, she rolled her eyes and was completely exasperated with my 'lies.'  My mother was always quick to share her theory that abuse victims can't see when others are being abused because it's normalized behavior for them.  I have a similar theory about abusers.  No wonder she couldn't see the abuse.  It's a real blow to your self image and self esteem when your mother doesn't believe you.  Parents, please believe your kids.  They need to know you're their safe person.  I stopped talking about it after that because if my own mother didn't believe me, how could I expect anyone else to?  Honestly, I don't share my story very often because she didn't believe me.

There was a wonderful honeymoon phase--he doted on me, wrote love notes, kissed me, showered me with compliments, showed up to my hockey games.  After my parents found out, he started going to church, coming to Sunday dinners, and spending holidays with us.  He showed up to my therapy appointments and sat in the waiting room.  Suddenly, I was with him all seven days a week, one way or another, and I had no escape.  There was no room to breathe.  I really thought I was in love and I dreamed about our wedding.  I listened to love songs and ballads, always picturing him, envisioning our future together.  I was a 14 year old girl.  He was a 19/20 year old man.

I didn’t get truly scared and realize how wrong it was, not when the emotional abuse started.  He would yell, give me the silent treatment, withhold affection and gaslight me into believing I was imagining it all.  He behaved passive aggressively.  There was name calling, dangerous 'pranks' and cruel jokes at my expense.  He controlled everything about me, from my hair cut/style, to my friends, isolating me from them.  He didn’t like when I talked to anyone, but in particular, other boys/men.  I romanticized--fantasized--so much of our relationship.  I played a lot of pretend in my own head.  I rationalized and normalized everything to myself (it wasn't as much of a stretch as it might seem, as I'd already learned abuse somewhere else... Thanks, Mom and Dad).  The first time I tried to break up with him, he threatened to kill himself.  It scared me enough that I took him back.  He said he couldn't, and didn't want to live without me.  

I didn't get truly scared and realize how wrong it was, not when the physical abuse started.  I started lying to my friends.  I learned how to cover a black eye with make up.  I stopped wearing shorts.  I hoped the marks on my arms and legs weren't noticeable.  I hoped no one noticed when we changed for gym, and I started wearing sweatpants instead of the school-issued shorts.  I learned how to concoct believable lies.

I didn't get truly scared and realize how wrong our relationship was until he started pushing me for sex when I was 16.  He wouldn't take no for an answer and was forceful with it.  It did not matter that I was not ready.  I pushed back, resisting, because I did not want to 'end up' like my sister.  That's when I knew I had to get out.  One morning I woke up and and I saw a glimpse of my future with him.  I realized this would not be just the rest of my life, but it would only get worse.  There wouldn't be college, only babies and misery.  I had plans for my future, and while they'd included him for the longest time, when I looked ahead, I only saw despair.  I knew I did not want to bring children into that.  When I finally developed my spine, breaking up with him for good, he threatened suicide again.  That time, I told him, "Okey-dokey!"  That said, he still did not make it easy to leave him.  He didn't disappear from my life overnight.  He stalked me for weeks, called several times a day, and left gifts and notes at my house, all of which I hid from my parents.  I was scared to be alone, but equally scared to tell them.

He always apologized, and I always believed him.  I knew I'd provoked him, and I deserved whatever he dished out.  If only I were a better girlfriend.  I smoothed things over, I promised I'd do better the next time, I promised there wouldn't be a next time.  After all, he had to put up with so much from me, and he really did love me more than I deserved.  I didn't even deserve him, and yet, he stayed by my side through all of my horrible, disrespectful, rude behavior. With the way I behaved, I was lucky he stayed with me because certainly, no one else would.

I honestly can't remember how my parents found out.  I do remember wanting--needing--my father to be the protective father figure I craved; instead, he barely reacted, and my mother flipped her lid.  She was positively livid--which was to be expected, but not in the ways you would think.  They allowed us to continue to see each other, however.  I don't know if they were exhausted from dealing with my sister, if they figured they'd tried to forbid my sister from doing the many things she did and it backfired, so they decided on a different approach with me, I really don't know what their thought process was.  I was allowed on dates with him (I was 16 by then), he was allowed over to the house when my parents were home, and I was allowed over to his house when his family was home.

He was so charismatic.  He could've charmed a snake.  Everyone in my family loved him.  He was Dr Jeckyl and Mr Hyde.  My bonus grandfather even gave this man his blessing, telling me I’d found a good man.  He played with my sister’s kids, brought flowers to my mother and did simple chores around the house for her, attempted to find common ground with my father.  He had everyone fooled. 

I think, the only person we did not have fooled, our family in entirety, was my youth leader at church.  I remember the day she cornered me before church started, telling me she knew what was going on in our house.  My sister had several babies already, having started at 17 and marrying, and I was dating a man--both of us were desperate for attention and approval from the men.  At the time, I coldly replied, "You have no idea what you're talking about."  I was determined to fiercely defend and protect my father, and her accusation made me angry.   Fortunately for me, she was spot-on and knew exactly what she was talking about.  Having broken up with Shawn freshman and sophomore years of college, I continued to seek out emotionally unavailable men who took advantage of me (which I allowed), still desperate for that affection and attention.  Shawn had treated me well--giving me healthy affection and attention--and I understand now that scared the life out of me.  I had no idea how to react to it, so I sabotaged our relationship.  We talk about it sometimes, and he says there were parts of me he didn't understand until we married, when he was suddenly up close and personal with my parents.  Yes, my church leader knew more than I did.  As a mom, with the wisdom of an extra 30 years behind me and a husband who loves me, I understand why she said what she did, as well as why she acted.  I would do the exact same thing now.  A few weeks ago, I tracked her down through social media and thanked her.    

Did his parents know about us?  Yes.  From the beginning.  So did his younger brothers who were both much closer to my age.  He himself was closer to my sister's age.  Did they have any idea what their son was capable of?  I honestly don't know.  I do know his mother advised him to not get me pregnant.  I remember hearing her say that and being absolutely horrified that's what she thought of me.  Looking back now, I realize she was looking through the lens as his mother, watching this young girl with her son.  While most people would raise at eyebrow at him for his behavior, she raised hers at me.

I was hospitalized for an intractable migraine my senior year of high school.  He was working at the hospital, but I didn't know it.  Waking up to his face, alone in my hospital room, was terrifying.  He decided to hang out with me and my parents after his shift and I felt like a trapped animal.  All those old feelings came rushing back and horrified me.  I was terrified he'd come back when I was alone.  Shortly after that, my niece needed bloodwork and I can't even begin to tell you how I felt when they told me he'd been the one drawing her blood.  I hadn't talked about the abuse yet, and I had such fear he would retaliate using her.  Years later, I ran into him at the grocery store when Avery was a toddler--literally turned the corner and came face to face with him.  I immediately regressed to that scared teenager, speechless, breaking out in a cold sweat, scared and shaking.  My heart felt like it would pound right out of my chest, even as my chest was feeling tighter and tighter.  I think I finally mumbled, "Excuse me," then I grabbed Avery, left my cart in the middle of the aisle, and went directly home.  I did not want to have to make nice with him, pretend to be able to carry on a conversation.  I did not want him even looking at my child, or knowing anything about me.  So many years later, I hated realizing he still had that grip on me.  I felt weak and stupid.  But to be able to go home to Shawn, I realized I was safe.

I purposely did not share all the sordid details here (notice I've not used his name; he's simply my 'abuser').  I don't want to focus on what he did, but rather, what I finally did--and you can too.  LEAVE.  I know it's not easy, but you can do this.  I want my story to be a cautionary one about hope and perseverance.  Do you feel as though you were reading an autobiography?  Thirty years and a wonderful, healthy marriage later, I do still have trust issues.  I still struggle at times.  What happened, that relationship, such as it was, never should have happened.  I had no business being with him, and my parents should have never allowed it.  His shouldn't have either, nor his parents.  There are names for people who prey upon those younger than them.  I know there is a fine line between disciplining teens and their willingness to rebel, but this never should have been allowed to progress as far as it did.  I would never allow it for my own child.  I'm not angry anymore; anger takes too much energy.  He took a few years of my life--he doesn't deserve the rest of it.  I do not want to dwell on it, as it's long gone.  I want to only share it with those who need  I have too much good now to allow his shadow to continue to mar my life.  He does not deserve continued headspace.

If you or someone you love is being abused, please contact The National Domestic Violence Hotline to make a plan to leave, to be supported, to look for counseling and other forms of help.  They can be found online, https://www.thehotline.org (you can use their online chat feature), reached through their hotline, 1.800.799.SAFE (7233), or you can text, "START" to 88788.  Their website also features instructions for erasing them from your search history.  Please, please, PLEASE, you deserve better.  You deserve to be healthy and loved.  Please contact your church, your family, your friends--and tell them, "I'm ready to leave." You are loved.

The Fire: A Distraught Mama's Perspective

*This post was written and published with permission.  Noah and M reserve the right to write their story in their own words, or a follow up, which I will publish if they choose.  This is written from my perspective as Noah's mom, living in a different state, unable to be with him.

As I'm typing this post, my eyes keep wandering to a sticker on my computer: "and if not, He is still Good."  He is still God.  He is still Abba.  Tonight, I am immensely grateful for this.  For Him.  For the safety of my child and his girlfriend.  MY childREN.

I have yet to stop whispering quiet thank you's to Abba.

Early this morning*--3 am--brought a phone call no one ever wants to receive, especially parents.  Make sure your kids know no matter the time, no matter their age, no matter how close or far apart you are, they can always, ALWAYS call.  The absolute terror I felt seeing his name on Shawn's Caller ID.  I knew it was bad, not just because of the time, but because he called only Shawn and it wasn't a FaceTime call.  The only reason I heard Shawn's phone ring was because I was battling insomnia.  Did my subconscious sense something?

I never want a phone call like that one ever again.

"M, the boys** and I are safe, but our apartment is on fire."

The distress in my son's voice.  

Groggy from sleep, Noah's words jolted us wide awake.  

Practically yelling at Shawn, WHAT HAPPENED WHAT IS WRONG ARE THEY OKAY, yelling at him to put the phone on speaker, my panic rising.

We couldn't get the details fast enough for our own relief, but did our best to give Noah the patience he needed from us so he could get his thoughts collected and words out.

I've never wanted to be able to reach through a phone so badly. 

Today I'm very grateful, unable to describe how relieved I am, and I cannot put into words the ache I feel from being so far from my son and M during this time. 

I need to see them for myself.  I need to hold them.  I need to hug them hard.

If I could've hopped on a plane this morning at 3 am, I would be there by now.  I need to be with my kids.  That far away, my kids need me to be with them.  That far away, I need them to be with me.  

I kept it together while we talked him through it early this morning, but lost it as we hung up with each other, as I laid in bed wondering how I was supposed to go back to sleep after that (I didn't).  More tears made their way out when we found the videos of the active fire, and again later, when Noah sent us photos of the apartment building (no, I will not be posting those).  My son walked away from that.  It's a miracle everyone--anyone--walked away from it.  It all feels very surreal.  They all made it out as the third floor collapsed into the second, as the second story stairwell collapsed into the first story stairwell.  Seeing my son so defeated killed me, and seeing M's face puffy from crying broke me.  I can't fix this for them.  I can't make this better.  Every time I see the photos and videos and hear his words in my mind, I get that hitch in my chest and tears push forward from the back of my eyes.  

I have to keep repeating to myself:  They're okay.  They're safe.  They made it out okay.  Everyone is safe.  They're alive.  They're okay.

Just when I thought I'd cried everything I had inside me, the littles approached us with their savings.  Having overheard us talking about what Noah and M need, how much, how we're getting it to them, and so on, they'd run upstairs and grabbed their piggy banks, asking us to send their money to Noah and M.  Avery is very concerned--his heightened anxiety has sent my own anxiety through the roof--and Ezra keeps repeating, "At least they're safe, that's what matters!" (This sounds like a perfectly normal, appropriate thing to say, but please understand, as an autistic--as my 'most' autistic child--he's repeating what he hears us say, so he has very little concept of what happened and what all of this means.)

I can't fix this for them.  There's no magic wand, no snapping of fingers, no spell to chant to make this all go away.  All of this is far beyond my control, and I really don't deal well with beyond-my-control situations on a good day, so imagine how this is going right now.  This is one of those times I have to trust Noah and M to handle this on their own (they're doing a fantastic job--I really admire the way they're trudging forward and dealing with this, I would've folded into a pill bug in the corner at this point, but I'm seeing so much in Noah the man he's become), and trust the insurance company, Red Cross and other helpers to do their jobs and fill my role.  I really admire Noah and M for their courage, the way they’ve forged ahead, handled the situation.  I know they’ve (rightfully so) crumpled a few times.  But they’re amazing.  Even if I was there, I still wouldn’t be able to fix it.  I hate this for them, but damn, they’re amazing.  I’m so proud of them.

Talking with one of my best friends the next day, I lamented how just when you think your kids can't possibly scare you anymore than the last incident, they up the ante--or life does, at least.  With Noah, we've been through a knife fight on a missions trip, a school lockdown his freshman year due to a student with gun, firefighting, moving as far as he did, and now this.  The word terrified doesn't even begin to cover it.  One night when Noah was at the station, a deputy showed up on our doorstep at 10 pm with a jury summons, but the fear I immediately felt having a deputy at my home so late was beyond compare.  When he told us why he was here and why so late, I nearly leapt at him: "JURY DUTY????  DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU JUST PUT ME THROUGH IN THE PAST 30 SECONDS???"  He had to deliver a second summons a week later; that time he started out with, "Your son is fine, I'm just giving him more paperwork."  It's very possible I told him "stop doing this to me!"  Noah has officially met his allowance of hair-raising, gray-hair-causing, ulcer-inducing events.  Someone be sure to tell him that, okay?

The important things:

They are safe, as are the other 62 residents.  All pets except for one hamster have been accounted for (that does sadden me, as it was most likely a child's pet), including a kitty the firefighters found during their search and salvage.  The poor guy escaped his owner's arms in his panic the night of the fire; he spent a day on oxygen in critical condition, but he's recovering well and his people have him back.  Noah and M made it out with the boys, and the clothes on their backs and not much else (Noah doesn't have even a pair of socks right now).  They still have Noah's computer and all of their tools, so they are able to return to work easily enough, and Noah won't miss his classes.  M grabbed Noah's baby blanket, among other items of importance (idiotically, the first thing I blurted out to Shawn was "He lost his blankie," which made me cry, so knowing he still has it made me cry harder), including the watch we gave him for his 21st birthday, which he wants to turn into a heirloom for their children.

I see the way she loves him and that makes me love her more.  She 'gets' him.  Like we told them, if they can survive this together, they'll be able to withstand anything.  But damn, what a way to begin life together.  

This could’ve been so much worse and I’m trying to not dwell on that.  They had her parents’ home to go to after the fire.  They’re safe and healthy.  The boys are safe and healthy.  All the residents, including a beta fish, a cat who was found hiding in a washing machine, and a dog locked in a crate (please be kind to this owner--please remember this was beyond her control and she would never purposely put her dog in harm's way) who survived the fire, are safe and healthy.  Help is pouring in left and right.  There might be a few things they’re able to recover.  Noah’s insurance agent has been phenomenal.  The important thing is it wasn’t worse. 

You want to know the dumb, ironic, thank-you-baby-Jesus, hug-her-sister-for-me thing?  They are alive because of a fight M had with one of her sisters.  Noah and M were still up talking about it when they heard a big boom of thunder, saw the lightning, and the vent in their room sparked.  Then they realized they saw and smelled smoke, then saw it billowing up from the roof.  Their smoke alarms didn't go off; if they'd been asleep they might... I can't even say the words.  I won't.  They might not have heard the third floor alarms.  They might not have seen the spark in their vent.  They might not have investigated the boom, alarms and spark, which means they might not have seen the smoke from the roof.  Most of the other residents were already asleep as Noah and M went about floor to floor, banging on doors to get people out.  Saved by a fight, of all things.  The smoke detectors on their floor weren't working, the sprinklers failed, and rumor has it, the hydrants didn't have water, nor was the building up to code, despite having passed inspection.  A brand new apartment building my son chose because he thought it would be safest, nearly became a death trap. 

Each time I'm tempted to entertain the 'what ifs', I'm reminded to look for the helpers:  Residents from other buildings left their own beds in that wee hour to check on everyone and offer clothing, extra rooms, extra beds, couches and transportation to hotels, friends' homes, wherever, and anything else that was needed.  My son, M and the boys have a safe place to stay while they wait on a new apartment, they have food in their bellies, and they're still able to work.  They both have renter's insurance, so even though they lost everything, it will be replaced.  My children cannot be.  The Red Cross and a local thrift store have stepped in to provide necessities and help with what is needed.  Furniture has been donated to the victims.  I have a friend out there who offered to help out how she could.  Others are stepping in and offering help, filling gaps.  As the firefighters began the search and salvage portion of the job, they've been able to return some belongings to residents.  An outpouring of love and concern from our friends, all of them immediately asking, "What do they need?"  My niece's first question: "Are you okay?  Are you ok after hearing this?  I'm on my way over, I don't care it's 4 am!"  

They're okay.  They're safe.  They made it out okay.  Everyone is safe.  They're alive.  They're okay.

*the fire was three weeks ago

**the 'boys' are cats