Tuesday, March 10, 2015

“I think I am struggling a little with depressions.” I say as tears well up and then silently slip down my cheek trying to escape to the dry ground before anyone notices their presence. 
It’s just me and my husband on the trail at this point but that is enough and I am exposed.
“You probably will your whole life,” he says.
“Nope” I say flatly and I mean it even as more tears escape.
“Good” he comments with a slight sense of pride.
He reassures me that I have done a good job at keeping myself out of depression. He praises me for my efforts to beat it. And I am glad for this.
I am glad that he understands and is supportive of my intense desire to beat it. To change that aspect of me so that I don't have to struggle with it my whole life. It has been many years that I have struggled with depression and it has brought me very near to breaking points... Or I may have broken many times but I am not beat by it 
and I can proudly and confidently tell you that it is not a struggle for my whole life. 
I have beat it because I know it. I know what it looks like, I know when it is coming, and I know what to do about it. I know how to take care of myself and I know how to beat it again and again until it is not a struggle and it is not a burden of my whole life to wallow in. 
I am a better and stronger person because of it but eventually I will lose touch. 
I will forget what it is like to go through and I will be yet another person who just doesn't get it, not because I never have like most who don't get it, but because I have lost touch. I have healed, I have beat it, I have outgrown it and I have moved on.
I am happy to know that and I feel better already.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

my five senses.

A good early education will move from concrete to abstract to make sure the student has a solid conceptual understanding of the subject.
I think so much of our lives has become so abstract that we often forget how to live concretely. How to live in and enjoy our real life physical surroundings and existence.

Often we want answers. I often find myself praying. Then I find myself looking for the answer. Wondering where and who to turn to to get the answer I am looking for.
...Because God is silent.

But what if He wasn't?
What if he gave solid answers.
I have been trained to believe that he does and yet it is a code you have to decipher and while no one else can receive revelation for me I am supposed to turn to certain books and people for answers. Who have been trained and conditioned in the same way. and sometimes they are wrong.
So why isn't God himself giving me answers that I know are actually coming from him? That I know I can trust? I am sure I am not the only one to feel this way.
I am not one who likes to believe down the line. I like to go directly to the source or at least as close to it as I can get and then figure out and decipher for myself how to interpret that data.
There is so much data out there.
And data can be changed, tweaked, manipulated for what ever purpose people have.
It's exhausting.
No wonder there are so many crazy people.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

I once rolled my car by over correcting.
My metaphoric mind was thinking about all those "crazy" people who tout loving and forgiving yourself, and all the good karma ideals that occasionally frustrate me. (We can include at least one of my alter egos among the tout-ers.) But I think the thing that can frustrate is when I see those who fully love and forgive themselves all the time instead of changing the offending habit. I feel a bit apprehensive to fully accept myself as a good person when I am not yet.  It's tricky.
On the one hand I realize the power of forgiveness and that I'll not be capable of change if I don't forgive myself and give myself some credit and yet I don't want to excuse my own bad behavior. To correct is good.
...But to over correct can be just as bad and at times even worse.
I rolled a car once because I over corrected.

Monday, September 9, 2013

Sometimes I think I just might say "depressions a #@*$^*" but I think the censored word is quite offensive and degrading toward women and it bothers me that there isn't a term as equally degrading to be directed toward men.  Or maybe "man" is offensive enough. Kidding, that is my super-feminist alter ego trying to overtake.  I'd really rather the world just be less derogatory toward women. But I digress.
Those thoughts weren't even on my radar when I logged in to write about my bouts with the depression and anxiety that are recently trying to overwhelm the system.
Depression is a beast and it's not easy.  It seems to lie patiently waiting for any break in the system. Pressing on all sides just waiting for any little crack to open up so that it can ooze back in and slowly, or rapidly depending on the size of the gap, attempt to drown out all hope, ambition, light and joy.
A sinking ship.
But I've come up before and I will again. My ship will not go down today nor tomorrow. And it most certainly won't go down without a fight.
So to repairs before all sides collapse against the weight!

(and the little iconic friend is the first patch)

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Sometimes I feel as if locked inside of me are the secrets to the universe.  Deep, deep down lie all the answers I am searching for. Just don't know quite how to tap into them and utilize my enlightenment.  Should I ever access those reserves...

Tuesday, May 1, 2012


A punching bag.  At sixteen that is all I wanted for Christmas.
My dad tried to convince me that I wanted a little speed bag.  He said "you'll get out more energy and aggression with that."
He may have been right but it was not what I wanted. Not what I felt like I needed.
I wanted to hit something.  But I wanted to hit it hard. I wanted to be able to hit and kick and punch and tear it a part with all of my pent up fury.  I could punch it, kick it, push it and even body slam it.
I couldn't do that with a speed bag.
I got a punching bag for Christmas and my dad hung it in the basement for me.  One of the last unfinished rooms in the house.  It was my dads old work room, so-to-say, full of wood for the construction and completion of our house that he and his brothers had built.  There was a tall black and wood table for a large radial arm saw (or at least I think that was the type of saw), a couple of five gallon buckets, various tools, a few hidden treasures left from us kids when we'd use it as a play room, several spiders no doubt, and who knows what else.  Now in the center hung my punching bag.  A large blue bag suspended from shiny silver chains with the word "Everlast" stamped on it.

I'd bloody my knuckles on that bag.

Sometimes my aggression would result in a black and blue hand, or two.  I didn't have gloves but I eventually got some wraps. I had to learn how to keep my thumbs in and hold a tight fist.  Little things like that.  Then I could unleash and beat the crap out of that bag, the blood scars evidence that I had won... And yet I didn't feel any less defeated.

Sometimes I feel that same pent up aggression. Fury.  The desire to tear something apart and roar like the Hulk as he turns green with rage.

In the car I felt like ripping the steering wheel right off and throwing it through the window.  I didn't because I understood the consequences of my actions. I knew that would mean no car and a pricey repair or replacement.  But I really wanted to unleash.  It would be so satisfying to just tear it right off and hear it crashing through the glass as it shattered into a million little pieces of sparkling satisfaction. But I wouldn't even try because I knew I didn't want to cause damage that would later be regretted.

At least I have learned that much.

...But I'm not strong. This hadn't occurred to me before.
Then the thought, "I probably couldn't actually tear the steering wheel off... really."  Probably I wasn't actually strong enough to get it all the way off.   I realized I have never actually tried. Always resisting because I didn't really want to deal with the damage.

Then my scientific nature set in and I wondered if I really actually could (How come I had never considered this?).  I still was reluctant because really I didn't even want to cause minimal damage. "I'll just give it a little tug," just to satisfy curiosity.  It was completely resistant to my effort. Not the tiniest bit of insult. So I decided to give it an honest yank.  Completely solid.  No tension on it at all.  My best effort could not yield even the slightest stress on that steadfast steering wheel...