I spent the weekend at the Oregon Coast with girlfriends, doing the things girlfriends do together. Spilling about family. Trying to make sense of life. Getting tips on feminine hygiene products. ( <– Holy Diva Cup, Batman! How come I never knew??)
We window shopped and talked to artists and watched the sun set over the water. We ate at places with great food and friendly people and terrible decor. ...
Hey, guess what?
GREAT NEWS!
I found the Ladder out of Depression!
The LITERAL ladder.
^^^ Bad news is, it looks like this. ^^^
……….
Several months ago, I found myself back in the Depression Hole, which was an enormous surprise given the fact that I wasn’t sad. An occasional teeny, tiny raging bitch, perhaps. Nearly beside myself with anxiety anytime I left my children, sure. More and more reclusive, absolutely. And having a terrible time breathing through it all. But not “depressed,” per se. Evidence mounted, though, that I had a Big Problem and that the only way out was to start climbing. Again. Which felt very pppffffftttt. And blerg. And OOF. And it’s been slow going, this determined walk toward slow hope, which seems kind of sucky except when I remember that “slow going” and “slow hope” include the words going and hope which are enough for now because they’re progress, and progress is better than being stuck. ...
I won the Mother of the Year Award – the one for which my girlfriends and I rigorously train and compete – the year I took my son to his preschool graduation, stayed for the picnic at the beginning and then suddenly remembered I had to grocery shop, and took him away before the actual ceremony and concert. The ceremony and concert for which the class had practiced for 4 months. The ceremony and concert for which my son, the one who has massive expressive and receptive language disorder, had learned all the words. To perform. For me. ...
Tracy was my best friend in elementary school, and, though her motives remain unclear, I suspect she chose me as a friend because she was kind, compassionate, and knew I needed her.
And because she lived across the street so I was hard to avoid.
Not that she ever made me feel like she was avoiding me. On the contrary, she always made me feel welcome and wanted and loved. ...
I’ve always told everyone who loves me to never, ever, EVER throw me a surprise party.
Ever.
Because is there anything more terrible than a surprise party? Is there?
I mean, I understand why some people like them. They’re the Extroverted people. The Enjoy Being the Center of Attention people. The YES, PLEASE CELEBRATE ME people. And I like those people. They’re fun. ...
Last week, I asked you to send me your Back-to-School Photo Fails. Maybe because our pics were less like the First Day of School and more like the First Day of the Zombie Apocalypse.
Mm hm. I’ll be framing that one and nailing it to my entry way hall next to this self-portrait by my daughter. The one where she was supposed to replicate the other side of her real face. ...
We were at the lake this summer when I saw her, the woman with my body wearing a bikini, her thighs round and her stomach rounder, both decorated with long lines chasing each other up her skin, identical to my own stretch marks which go on into infinity. I stopped and I admit I stared, although I hoped she didn’t notice because I couldn’t say what I wanted to say or make her understand that I meant it, which was, “Good for you, mama” and, “I wonder if you know how beautiful you are?” And then she was off, into the water, playing with her kids, splashing in the sunshine, living her life with her scars on the outside like the playing and the living were more important than the flaws. I loved her in that moment for being brave and being herself and teaching me to love myself a little better. ...
