Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Dear Santa.... (I am aware of the tardiness).

I forgot my Christmas list.

This should tell you the amazing amount of SUCKAGE lately, because I am usually all over my Christmas list like Hobby Lobby, by Labor Day. I like to give notice, plenty of notice.

I want a lot of things that Santa can probably not put under the tree.

I want a bed warmer. Seriously. Someone to warm my spot in the bed at night. Dogs, men, and kids all are capable of this, but... They. All. Stink. I want a non-farting person to make my spot all warm and cozy, who then leaves. Wrap that, Saint Nick.

I want a personal shopper. I hate shopping. Seriously, clothes shopping almost gives me hives. I need some basics, but I would like to give someone a list, and have them do the (fun) stuff for me. I prefer Wacoal, Seven, tissue paper tees, tights, boots,  chunky sweaters, and layers of silver jewelry. That, party peeps, is as far as I go on shopping...

Counseling. Not for me. I go to a counselor who is plumbing the depths of my West-Texas Soprano-esque upbringing on a weekly basis. She is aaaaaah-mazing, and I love/loathe her for shining a light in all of my cobwebby corners. No. I want counseling for everyone else. Because, all fragmented sentences aside, some of you people are batshit. I have to deal with more of your skeletons than I should ever have to even know about. I have to deal with your e-mails, your texts, your outpourings, your phone calls, your silent treatments, all of it. And honestly, some of you are just rainbow-sprinkled little cupcakes of c-r-a-z-y. Those of you whom I love, I want you to get good help so you can live the good life. And you others, like you with the crazy Hobbit hair and the overabundance of liquid eyeliner (you know who you are), get some counseling. In Nebraska.

A Scrabble tournament. I want to play with wordsmiths. People who cackle over double entendres with their triple word scores. (Although E is a worthy competitor, with her impressive use of kidney epithelial cells, which I cannot even remember the spelling of...).

Lightness. Much sadness this past year, and I am ready for my heart not to be heavy. I want to wake up not feeling dread, I want my dreams not to shock me out of a cold sweat. I want to open my emails and texts without dread (see cupcakes of c-r-a-z-y above). I want to be able to breathe without feeling a crushing weight. I want lightness.

Not much to ask for, right? Pretty sure that I am on the good list. I ate my veggies, recycled, hugged trees, only ate free-range and organic meat, volunteered, tithed, stocked at the Soup Kitchen, said please/thankyou, and did not kick those Hobbit Hair people in their dangly bits, even when it was probably okay. Yep. Definitely on the nice list.

Love,

me

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Feliz Navidad.

I have two thoughts often running through my head this holiday season. I wish they were beautiful and sweet thoughts.

Not so much.

"Breathe." and "FYYFF."

These are my holiday thoughts. I would like for December 26th to be here. Now.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Nothing Explainable

I have been struggling for six weeks with writing. Six weeks of so much going on, that I have neither the energy nor the honesty to write.

And then there is the awfulness of Sandy Hook. I cannot bear to read about it and yet I cannot bear to look away. I feel like it is my responsibility to read every bit, every crumb, that I can about these babies that lost their lives. I need to look at their toothless grins, read about their wish lists to Santa and their desire to be soldiers and firefighters. I need to read about their last minutes, like somehow my acknowledging it will give it meaning.

The media, and many of us, are searching for meaning in all of this. At the end of the day, there will be no meaning. There will be no 'aha' moment when the police unravel the mystery of Lanza's smashed hard drive. There will be no big realization when they pour over footage of shooting ranges, searching for Nancy Lanza and her son.

Mental illness does not wrap things up in a tidy red bow. It doesn't make sense or have meaning. Mental illness is a big messy mess- colors splashed on the canvas that no one can decipher or explain. All the experts in the world can try to explain or find reasons for Friday, but nothing can explain it.

I dropped Timesboy off this morning at 8:53AM. I had this moment of not being able to breathe, as I saw the teacher open the door to the school, and then close it after he went in. When he climbed out of the car, I looked at his lopsided grin, his messy hair, and his untied shoes, and my heart shattered a little bit. I watched him lope through the doors, and knew that my boy would be safe today. I don't know how I knew this fact, but I did, and I hurt for the parents who won't get to pick their stinky boys up from school.

I ramble. But I struggle to make sense of that for which there is no sense. I want to squeeze my monkeys, whilst knowing this would probably alarm at least one of them. I want to make us have a dialogue about mental illness, and I want it to make a difference. I want us to recognize that one in four Americans will be diagnosed with a mental disorder in our lifetimes- this makes the conversation an important one. You love someone with a mental illness, you work with someone with a mental illness, and you may well be someone with a mental illness. We need to quit tiptoeing around those two words, and have a frank and open national discussion about how to deal with mental illness as a society. Mental illness doesn't mean our loved ones will commit violent crimes, but doesn't it mean we discuss that they need the same ribbons and bake sales that other diseases get?

Hug your monkeys, peeps. And if they are mentally ill, hug them harder. Don't hide it. Don't try to swish it under the rug. They all deserve better.