Surprise! We have more in common than you think

Photo by Nuno Antunes on Unsplash
Ring Road of Iceland

"Mom, can you unlock your phone?"

"Why? What?"

"I need to unlock your phone so I can get the singer/song that played last - I liked his sound," Colton insists.

On coming back

It's me sitting in the gray loveseat that swallows me up every time I visit, my left leg tucked under me. I have so much energy and the words, they are flowing. I'm talking and talking, and talking so much. The filler words are not as prevalent because my thoughts are ordered and navigable.

He asks, "So is it incremental, like each day gets a little better, or a more dramatic epiphany of  'OMG, my brain is back?''

"It depends," I shrug. "Sometimes it's both. Sometimes I just fake it - being functional, ignoring the feelings - that I don't even see when it happens or even have an aha, it just becomes. This time though, like whoa, I got so much shit done for my final paper - and it's just like, so amazing because this time last week, I didn't know what I even would write. Hadn't done my lit review, no clear hypothesis of research questions to guide me, and now? I'm almost done. It feels good to be back."

Here we are again.
My fractured friend.
An unraveled heart,
A voice whose art
Is to say, "Come on, just be done"
How many times can this be overcome?

-- thoughts from a broken mind

These Shattered States

"Oh Jesus," I pray upon seeing the news of Santa Fe, heart shattering. "It's happening again."

Nine credits later...

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Or maybe just three.

One completed class out of three total this year. Two incompletes.

But the incomplete is a tool in a grad student's hand, I'm told.

I'm choosing to look at it that way, too, because otherwise, depressed Heather sees it as Exhibit #5967 in the case being argued in the court of my mind that I have lost my Sweary Magdalene™, no-bullshit-high-achieving mojo.

The f*cking prosecuting attorney.

How to do finals, working mom in grad school edition

Channeling my inner Glennon and trying to remember "I can do hard things."

You're in graduate school, so your finals are really just papers / essays. It's a lot of key-pounding and hitting the delete button like the woodpecker when you realize nothing you articulate makes sense.

There are some things you must do for success. ETA: I took 24 hours PTO off to do all of this, because, uh, balance?

1. Leave the house. You'll think, but the kids are at school, no one's home, this will be great!

You will be dead wrong.

Your dogs will think, "Mom's here, so let's go for a walk." You will be hungry and gain 100 pounds because you ate every thing in the house. You will be cold and fuss with the thermostat. You will smell something weird and begin to investigate the source, only to spend your time at home cleaning.

Leave the house - it will be better for all involved. Shower and makeup are completely unnecessary. Brushing your hair is optional.

2. Dress comfortably. Finals writing is intense, yo. I'm seen above in my 2XL Stranger Things, SO SOFT long-sleeved tee that I scored at Target last week for $3, yoga pants that don't hug too tightly and my fave pair of running shoes. I begrudgingly left my blankie at home.

2.a And....I'm all lathered up in Aspercreme because my muscles are aching from sitting at the library hunched over my lap top for 8 straight hours yesterday. See also, feeling like a geriatric admitting that. It hurts, hurts so good to admit my frailty.

3. Adding to 2.a - use the library computers, not your laptop. Because ergonomic chairs make the difference. Marathoners gotta have the right strategy. Select one closer to the bathroom - (the stall bathrooms, not the single user one that smells like butt EVERY TIME) because....

4. Bring ALL the COFFEE. If you don't do coffee, then insert caffeination of choice here, it is NOT optional. You are averaging 4 hours of sleep per night. You may be here far longer than you anticipate. (and you are an adult learner who has pushed 3 humans out of your body, so you see the need for proximity to the facilities)

5. Take SMALL breaks now and then, preferably to stand and stretch and maybe listen to an upbeat song to regain your focus. Do not open up social media and "just see" what's happening. You will be entering the quicksands of time, never to emerge with sufficient time for success

6. Maintain your sense of humor, but channel it appropriately. For the prof that is asking for a class synopsis, sure, insert wit. For the one you owe a research proposal? Not so much.

7. Repeat after me: "There is a light at the end of this tunnel. Just 10 more hours today, then 1 down, 1 to go." Adjust according to your coursework.

I wish I'd snapped a picture of the banner ad the library had running on the kiosks when I came in yesterday - it said:

Make Good Choices

Creative...from the archives

And as they continued to ask him, he stood up and said to them, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.”

I wrote this just over 5 years ago. It has beckoned to me several times over the years. Someday it will be fully developed into a full fledged fictional account of this biblical story.

Mercy's Fool

 She was cold, trembling with shame as the telltale signs of her chill were exposed, visible through the thin linen underdress, the customary sadhin, that she wore.  "Will they punish me and call me a harlot for this as well?" she wondered.  She crossed her arm over her breasts to conceal the evidence of her discomfort.  The men had taken her without allowing her to put her outer robes back on.  Her thin, almost threadbare, sadhin was a woefully inadequate grasp at any remaining shred of modesty she could claim, and offered no protection from their eyes.

Though she suffered the painful awareness of every carnal need her body was crying out for - warmth, food, drink, and sleep - she remained quietly aloof.  She knew the risk of her actions…that she had willfully sinned against the law.  To become hysterical and beg for undeserved mercy would do nothing for her but subject her to further judgment and cruelty.  She was exhausted, but death was certain, and despite her captors' own periodic dozing, she resisted to sleep, reliving the all-too-few memories she had of feeling loved, safe, protected in her life before it would all be taken from her.

Clearly these 'men of God' had no interest in following the letter of Moses' law, or else Nachum would be here with her, he just as guilty as she.  Nachum, her beloved, who had loved her their whole lives, and mourned the day her parents married her off to that horrid old man she now called husband. Nachum, who had tenderly kissed away the bruises left by Jubal.  Nachum, whose scent still lingered on her skin.  Did he know of her plight, and despair, realizing death was unavoidable?  Or, the more cynical side of her wondered, was he sated to have finally known her, relieved to face no consequence?  That thought stole her breath away, striking her heart with a searing pain far more excruciating than any of Jubal's beatings. "No," she pleaded silently with herself, "Nachum is an honorable man."

He had told her that first night that he was prepared to face death with her if they were ever found out, that he would rather die in the sin of loving her than live a righteous life, without her love.  Hot tears slid down her face at the memory leaving wet trails in the dusty floor as they fell.

Yeshua.  Throughout the night, she heard the elders who were awake talking, most of it unintelligible, frantic whispering.  But that name kept presenting itself in their discussions.  "Who is this Yeshua?" she wondered.  "No matter," she eventually decided. "Dawn is approaching and my fate will be sealed soon enough."  As the men were selectively following the law, she wondered if she would even be given the requisite trial before they executed her for her sin....

The story of the woman caught in adultery has been on my mind a lot in recent months.  As illustrated above, I've imagined many different scenarios that could be the back-story to what we read in John 7:53-8:11.  

In addition, I've done quite a bit of reading regarding the story's authenticity, as my Bible has a disclaimer above this passage: [The earliest manuscripts and many other ancient witnesses do not have John 7:53—8:11. A few manuscripts include these verses, wholly or in part, after John 7:36, John 21:25, Luke 21:38 or Luke 24:53.]  

I believe to my core that this passage is authentic because it rings true with Jesus' reactions to the Samaritan woman at the well and that of the sinful woman's washing of his feet with her hair, tears and perfume.  It is a story of love and mercy, which is what Jesus is all about, and has been a go-to passage for me throughout my faith journey because it resonates with me so loudly....

Spring Haiku

Forsythia glows
All golden while Dogwood's skin
Blushes up her arms

Christopher says it
Is April, the best month since
It is getting warm

Willow's leaves peek out
Chartreuse, with the promise
Lilac and Linden

Will soon scent the air
Accompanied by sweet grass
And sun-dried linens

Grills will be fired up
Creating Spring's miasma
Would that it could be

Bottled, put to sale
To be opened in the cold
Days of winter, a promise

Soon fulfilled as Sun
Warms the Earth, bringing forth life
And all its wonder.

Self-Care fo' Real: It Ain't All Play

It didn't really hit me in the grocery store just why this med container appealed to me.

I'd been in a serve and return pattern with my GP's nurse for a couple of days.

Can I get a referral to a psychiatrist? My depression is hitting especially hard.

You will probably want to check with your insurance to make sure that is covered and who is in your network. We don't really make referrals as much as advise or recommend providers based on their specialties.

Ok - called Anthem BCBS because I was too overwhelmed to navigate the online info. Also, I was on the phone while driving and maximizing my time. Gotta make those customer service reps earn their suppers, no?

The insurance peon emailed the list of eligible providers to me.

I then uploaded it to the patient portal app with a note:

Psychiatry is covered in my plan. Affordably so, even. Here is a list of providers that I am ok to see - could you please tell me which of them on the list specialize in brains dealing with undue societal gender norms in which we have to be super women? With a ton of traumas and two significant concussions in life? Mmmkay, thanks, bye.

Maybe it was a little different. Same idea. You get the point.

Almost as soon as my finger tips hit send on that hot little note, my phone rang.

It was my doctor's nurse. That woman is my freaking hero.

My doc is out of town, and she urged me to come into the clinic and visit with a lovely NP as well as the social worker (aka Patient Navigator), because it could be more than the depression.

True enough. Though not likely, having recently had all my thyroid and endocrinology panels done at a health fair.

Nevertheless, the message was clear: WE NEED TO SEE YOU.

Not to mention the fact that I was just spent psychologically because working up the nerve to coordinate all that shiz was a lot of Big Steps?

Exhaustipating.

So, yesterday morning I found myself sitting in the exam room, waiting for the NP to come in. I'd seen her before with one of the kids' ailments over the years, though who knew if she would remember me.

Soon as she opens the door, I lose it and turn into the bawling, sniveling creature I've been for the past month.

She is great.

We decide to up my Wellbutrin by 100mg a day since I have been on a conservative dosage. We also change it from standard release to extended release for a steady stream throughout the day.

Then the stuff I knew was coming.

How's the sleep?

Well, while I would totally love to cocoon myself and sleep the days away, I am still somehow a responsible, functioning adult and I make do with what I get. I rarely have trouble sleeping, but with homework and all I find myself getting 4 hrs here, 9 hrs there, etc. I know that isn't healthy and I have to regulate, but....yeah.

How's the diet?

So, it's been a whole lotta fish sticks and Poptarts lately because of time and schedule. What? That's not ok? [KIDDING] No, I know, I need to get back to more produce and whole foods, and I'm pretty good at it, it's just a matter of implementing.

So maybe ask your family for some support there in planning and prepping ahead?

Yeah.

How's your relationship with exercise these days?

Completely non-existent....which explains the newly acquired 10 lbs (since November health fair weigh in) your scale informed me of. Again, I was doing SO GOOD getting to the gym, walking dogs, etc. But since school started this semester....I haven't been to the gym since.

Ok, well, let's work on that.

And by 'let US,' you mean me, but yes, I'm aware of the need and that it will help, it always does.

By now, I'm tallying up the list of "small changes" that I need to implement and my head is about to implode.

After 25 years of dealing with depression/anxiety, I know, logically, intellectually, that these are key components of maintaining my mental health. But knowing and doing, especially when your brain is shutting down your motivational centers, are quite different things, it turns out.

And, the knowing of All The Things combined with the not doing of All The Things when your mind is wonky, turns into the "ONE MORE REASON YOU ARE A HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, NO GOOD HUMAN BEING!" cheer that depression does, ad nauseum - literally, in your head.

What about therapy?

I was seeing a therapist after Vegas. And, while it helped, I really feel like I could have gotten the same impact by going out with my girlfriend and talking - there were no tools, no exercises to work through that gave new perspective or coping mechanisms, ya know?

We talk about CBT and bio-feedback options and how the patient navigator could help me explore options regarding providers with those qualifications.

The patient navigator comes in and thank you, Jesus, she is amazing at her job.

We talk a lot about how difficult it is to disclose when you're in the field of helping. How you know people and they know you, but do you want them to know that? How while we preach no stigma, it is almost doubly stigmatizing to disclose our own diagnoses and struggles.

We talk Brene Brown and apps like Calm (which I've had on my phone for several months) and other mindfulness/self-help tools.

I show her the brilliance that I found on the website Unf*ck Your Brain, and she is impressed. The woman behind the site, Kara Lowentheil, is a BAMF feminist with the smarts to use cognitive neuroscience in her coaching - Sweary Magdalene approves.

"See, you got this!"

Heavy, shaky sigh.

"Yeah."

I go to the grocery store to get my new RX, determined to buy the fixings for a healthy dinner, but hey depression has my executive functioning by the balls, so to speak. I can't think of anything.

I have a Pinterest account with eleventy-one thousand recipes, most of them health conscious, at the ready on my mobile life manager - but that idea never even lands.

I walk to the magazine aisle, look at a couple of food mags, and snap pictures of a couple recipes that call out to me, then proceed to buy the items I don't have at home. How's that for coping mechanisms? Outta the box, I know. :pats self on back:

Go to the pharmacy department, pick up new meds. We're out of vitamins, so I grab some while I'm there. I recall being low in vitamin D, so I grab some of those. Out of the corner of my eye, the pill boxes call to me. The one I already have is too small for everything I need to put in it.

And then I see it, the rainbow stacker pictured above. Toss it into the cart, and don't think anything more of it.

Until this morning.

As I took my meds and the promise of a new day glimmered anew before me, it hit me.

His promise.

I "subconsciously" picked a daily pill box that will constantly remind me.

You will not be destroyed. 

You can do all things with Me. 

Nothing will EVER change that.

So may it be.

Shine that Light

If you experience suicidal thoughts, the following post could be potentially triggering, as I share some of my own struggles in this area. If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386, or reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

Sunday morning I was in the church nursery with a little body in which the biggest spirit I've ever known resides.

He's a special boy, who has overcome so many developmental barriers in his short life that his mere presence in a room teaches a thousand unspoken lessons. Too often I admire him and his family from a distance because of The Busy Life.

Together, we tentatively, shyly at first, sang that old song, This Little Light of Mine, giggling at the joy he displayed when we hid our little "lights" (index fingers) under "bushels" (our cupped hands) and then ripped them away as we stage shouted our "No's."

This little light of mine

I'm gonna let it shine

Hide it under a bushel?

NO!

I'm gonna let it shine

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine

Sometimes that light is to help guide others to a path that is right. That is the context Matthew 5:16 affords to the two verses preceding it and in which it is often preached.

Other times, that light serves to illuminate the dark within us.

The pain and courage it takes to summon that light, share it, and let the world gaze at all that is wrong within us is one of the greatest paradoxes the lived experience offers us.

The paradox continues in that this brightening process holds the key to our self-perpetuated prisons, offering freedom from shame and heartache.

Yet The Jailer* stands guard, whispering, "You can't tell them - they will never see you the same way again - all they will ever see is your weakness. Attention seeking, pathetic weakness."

That Jailer is a liar, but oh, how we fall hard for that tired old routine.

So...I did a thing today.

Well, really, I did a thing yesterday, the ramifications of which lead to this thing I did today.

I had a bit of a melt down at work yesterday.

I was the woman who cries at the office. 

And not because I was telling a sentimental story.

No, this was full-on depressed Heather riding the spiral of disaster ALL THE WAY DOWN because she just couldn't even, heaving sobs in reply to the non-stop barrage of inner self loathing that roared louder than the supportive words of my co-workers.

It was irrational. Completely crazy, if you will.

Which heaped up more shame for The Jailer inside to sling at me. 

I had class to get to and begged off finishing the meeting. 

A hand reached out.

"Are you ok?" was asked. 

Not the Captain Obvious variety of the question, rather, the "Are you ok to end the conversation/move on?" sort. 

The kind that implies "You're not going to do anything harmful to yourself, right?" 

The kind that makes me feel like a gigantic zero.

A muffled wail of, "No, but I'll be alright," was my response. I was humiliated, and of my own doing.

I fled the building, hot trails of disgrace snaking down my face.

I got to class and avoided eye contact, knowing the tell-tale puffy red look would elicit questions that I didn't want to, couldn't, answer.

Over the course of the next two hours, I re-gained my composure, even managing the nail-hitting commentary of the night. 

Home and straight to bed, skipping church.

I woke up this morning and had the same sense of dread wash over me as soon as my feet hit the floor.

Damn, still there.

Got through the motions of getting everyone off to school and arrived at work earlier than normal since Chris had a before school choir practice.

Had an unanticipated "so, about yesterday," conversation with my supervisor that went really, very well. 

And yet....

He said, "You're doing amazing." 

But I heard The Jailer, five times louder, screaming, "LIES!"

The sobs came to visit again.

My best friend brought me out to lunch, and I fell apart a few times during the conversation.

She said, "You're in the midst of a flare, Heather. It's ok. It happens, and you will recover, just as you have in the past."

The Jailer started up again, squeezing my heart, "This will never end. You're mine."

I silently mustered up the strength to counter, "No, I'm God's and God's alone. You don't own me. I will do my time, and then I'll be free again."

I rode the roller coaster of emotion the next several hours, culminating in a silent drive to FLTI tonight with Kelsey. 

Occasionally, the jailer's hurled insults and my recounting of the day resulted in fresh tears. The skin just under my eyes is so damn raw, y'all,

SO. MUCH. SHAME.

We got to FLTI and I sent my supervisor a text. 

"Thanks for the talk today. I'm in the midst of a depressive flare and I'm struggling..."

This little light of mine.

I pulled myself together and put a semblance of a mask on. I'm all pro at that. Have had a lifetime of practice.

I felt my heart lift more and more as the evening went on. 

Fully doing life and getting outside of your head will do that. Not saying it will replace talk therapy or monitored medication, lest y'all think I'm going all David Avocado Wolfe on you. But it does help.

At the end of the session, we had our closing circle as always.

"Aha's" first.

I raised my hand.

I'm gonna let it shine.

"My aha tonight was what a powerful mood booster you all can be. I've been struggling, really struggling, with a flare of my depression all week, I was crying on the car-ride all the way here tonight, and you all have made me laugh and feel lighter than I have all week."

Let it shine.

It's slightly terrifying to share with people who know you in the community, in a context where this kind of vulnerability could potentially damage your career / reputation. 

But, as Sweary Magdalene™ (Kelsey's new name for me, given my last post) would say:

FUCK THAT SHIT. 

That kind of thinking blows the light right out, and makes everyone think you're doing Just Fine.

Most of the world isn't doing Just Fine.

Our kids getting shot up at school is not Just Fine.

The deep-seated racism that continues in our country is not Just Fine.

The tremendous lack of access to safe, affordable housing and quality childcare  is not Just Fine.

The so common it pains me to think about occurrence of #MeToo events against women in our country is not Just Fine.

And really, so much more.

Bottom line is that we ARE NOT JUST FINE.

And I'm not going to perpetuate the lie that I am anymore.

Am I in a forever state of sadness? 

No - God and friends and family and the miracle of Wellbutrin have all gotten me through this before. I will get through this again.

Anyway, back to my point about tonight.

After our circle, I encountered the largest, tightest group hug ever.

The love. The light. 

It was shining BRIGHT.

Every body there was the power of Christ (Higher Power) that is laid upon us when we boast about our weaknesses. Because in that power, that fulfillment of humans living in relationship, as God intended, is freedom and life.

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Sidenote: In FLTI, we believe that what happens in FLTI stays in FLTI. I wish to make clear that I have honored that in this account in that I have only shared what *I* own to share and none of my peers' actions/statements.

*The Jailer is a creative literary device to symbolize depression in this story. I have chronic depression, not psychosis via delusions and hallucinations.

In which I out myself

Photo by Max Brown on Unsplash

If you experience suicidal thoughts, the following post could be potentially triggering, as I share some of my own struggles in this area. If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386, or reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

There is a war going on in my head

I've shared this before. Several times.

Why do I struggle so much with my depression?

Nature? Most definitely, my genetics are rampant with mood disorders and addictions. I'm medicated and unafraid to say so.

Nurture? Equally causal. It wasn't a rosy-glow picture.

Trauma? Multiple.

Systemic oppression? Check.

Spiritual battle? To the extent that I believe God made doctors and pharmacists to improve and save lives, yes, I would say the converse is that the fallen nature of this world means that biological ailments occur and can be used to rob people of their joy and peace. What I am NOT saying is that mental health conditions can be prayed away. That's bad theology and I won't have it.

Stress? You have no idea. BINGO.

I kind of stacked the cards against myself this semester; 

• Motherhood (which is now being acknowledged as the workload equivalent of 2.5 FTE)

• A full-time job (which I enjoy, even if it's fairly taxing)

• Six credit hours of graduate study/week (and that's just class time, not counting homework

• Participating in the leadership development program for which I work (with Kelsey and that has been a great bonding experience with her and my peers, also takes another 4 hrs/wk + homework)

• My marriage is turning 20 years old this year and both Seth and I are staring at mid-life somewhat disillusioned that neither of us are where we pictured ourselves at this point. We've changed and grown a lot. In some ways together, and others apart. And marriage is HARD WORK.

• The developmental task for my teens to think outside of their amygdalas (amygdalae?), utilizing critical thinking, empathy, self-control, is a task of MONUMENTAL proportions and is taking all of me to not eat them and be done. Kidding, I don't really have a taste for humans.

• I seem to be the only one who is both bothered by the chaos of unattended chores AND is willing to spend lengths of time doing them in our common areas. There is a child who is very meticulous about their space, but that's it.

• Two of my children are in high school. And one is driving, working a part-time job (struggling with time management and stress as a result), has been in relationship for two years, and is going to be a senior next year. This equates to a daily prayer of, "Dear God, please don't let me f*ck them up any more than I already have," and new strands of glitter hair making their debuts, contributing to my future as a peach-haired geriatric.

• In a world that bases the value of a woman on her appearance, the daily reminder of time beating along via the mirror's reflection of the more-than-fine lines on my face, steady accumulation of inches on my waist, and the fading of what has always been my crown jewel, my red hair, I'm not exactly feeling bodycon these days.

Add in the family dynamics of being between the parents of teens and launching center stages of the family life cycle, where family role strains are highest, and I. JUST. CAN'T. EVEN. 

In the grad school realm, I feel lost. Where I've always been a quick study, both socio-perceptively and intellectually, I'm struggling to focus and comprehend the pretentious linguistics of scholarly articles, much less to be able to recall specific details on which to base any intelligent fodder for the class discussions.

Part of this (most?) is for sure a bandwidth issue - I am well aware of that. 

Perhaps another underlying issue is that I'm in a program in which I do not have an undergraduate foundation. I feel like the proverbial fish out of water in many regards as my classmates readily draw upon knowledge from an undergrad class they had with my professor(s), and I'm like, "Uh, I know about sensation and perception, socialization, and human development. Maslow, Piaget, anyone?" And....crickets. Not really.

While I feel confident that this is the right program for me, in the classroom full of young adults who are closer to my daughter's age than my own (that was made clear, again, tonight) and did study political science, or in my other class (in which I am the only master's student - the rest are all PhD candidates), sociology, I feel like I'm missing some of the basics, and often feel inept in comparison.

I know,

But being a PT student in a program that is heavily skewed toward FT students (classes only offered every 3-4 semesters) and no summer session classes, kind of required me to do this if I wanted these classes before 2020.

Scale back at work, you say? At a financial cost  - the tuition benefit I receive as an employee is pro-rated to FTE %. So, if I were to negotiate a reduction in my hours, I would have to make up the difference cost-wise. Being that we don't have a nest egg for Kelsey to attend college and that is in the near future, I would rather not rob her of any educational resources we could offer her, spending them on myself instead.

Also, grad school is competitive, and I yearn to do better than I did as an undergraduate, where I simply attended, gained, and applied knowledge without participating in student activities or forming relationships with the faculty because I was a working, married, 1st generation student who just kept my nose to the grindstone. Because this is important to me. This experience is something that will help me in furthering my goals of working for social justice through policy. I also hope for the advanced degree to serve as a means to facilitate Seth's future career change as manual labor continues to take its toll on his body, offering a higher income on my part to offset any losses that might be incurred in that life transition.

All of that is a lot. A freaking shit-ton of life burden.

I'm more sweary than I'd like...while I appreciate a well-executed curse on occasion, I'm not such of fan of the ubiquitous use of them that many are. That may be scandalous to some of my church friends, but I like to think I'm a bit like Mary Magdalene in that regard (aside from the whoring bit), and she and Jesus were tight.

I find myself crying a lot. Like "pre-natal a lot"....BUT IT IS NOT THAT. We took care of that...and had it confirmed. 

I lost my car in Denver, causing unnecessary stress that initiated the self-fulfilling prophetic cycle.

The negative self-talk is relentless.

• You're a crap mom, your kids wouldn't fight like this if you were any good at mothering.

• You don't belong here. (In grad school, at work, on earth in general - and PLEASE KNOW, this admission carries so much guilt and shame with it, because I KNOW that it isn't true, but that voice isn't one of knowledge and objectivity. Besides if God had meant for me to be gone, I would have perished with The Great Pneumogedden of 2009, among many other things which I have overcome. Also, no, I don't have a plan.)

• You were never meant to be..

• Nobody actually likes you, you know? 

• The only one who looks after you is you, and you can't even do THAT well.

• You FAIL

And that is just the beginning of the self-inflicted cruelty.

We could go all day. Oh, wait, I already do.

I try to combat it with affirmations, meds, therapy visits, and self-care the best I can. It's exhausting, and I'm just SO TIRED.

I am fighting my damnedest to get through this though. And enlisting help, so rest assured I'm not in this alone.

Looking at life a bit like Avery did when Jerry Maguire said he wanted to break up with her.

"I did the 23 hour nose-route to the top of El Capitan in 6 hours! I can make this work!"

I've done it before.

As my boy Bruno says, "Don't believe me, just watch."

*I totally should have been doing school work while writing this, but I chose to take care of my mental health by putting this out there.

Dude, Where's My Car? A Cautionary Tale of Distracted Femininity

Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash

Lately I have been channeling Green Day's Basket Case on a daily basis.

Things are pretty overwhelming.

But then, aside from my confessionals here, most people just see the outcomes that get produced, and think, "I don't know how she does it [all]."

Truth is, I am barely getting by [in my head, anyway] and this semester is thoroughly kicking my [rather large and growing daily] behind. Add in a touch of Heather's Crazy [un]Luck™, and well, things have been interesting to say the least.

On any given day, I've got a gazillion "browser tabs" open in my brain from meal planning, to chauffeuring needs of my children for their various activities, to bill paying (read: juggling, given Seth's recent medical leave), to two graduate courses' weekly duties/contents, to relationship maintenance, to blah, blah, blah. It never stops grinding, this ole cerebral system of mine.

A week ago Monday, I had to get off work early to take Kels to turn in her new job paperwork at Taco Baco.

It had snowed.

I got overly invested in the work I was doing and ended up leaving later than I intended.

As I walked out the door, I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket and called her to say she needed to be at the ready when I got home. 

I do NOT like to be late. Ever. For meetings/appointments, assignments, deadlines. None of it. And, when I am, the self flagellation that ensues is nothing short of neurotic, especially if said tardiness is caused by external, uncontrollable factors. But I digress.

Walk to the parking garage, go to grab my keys.

And. They're. Not. There.

I rush back into the office to see if I left them there. 

Nope.

My phone rings. It is my gym calling to say that someone picked up my keys and called them, and that the woman also works on campus, in the Biology Center.

I wrack my brain, trying to mentally locate the Biology Center. The campus has changed immensely since I originally arrived 20 years ago. A flash of memory hit me with the revelation that I walk past the new Biology Center on my way to Clark every day. It is further away and I'm going to be still later.

Stress thermometer ratchets up more.

I walk to the Biology Center and go to their "front desk" area, per my gym's instructions, tell them like 5 times what I understand to be true only to be greeted with blank stares of confusion.

My inner voice is swearing a blue streak at this point.

Did they mean the new medical center?

I don't know, did they?

Add stress.

So I head out to check that alternative, when a train blares through the midst of my pathway, blocking my progress. I think to call the medical center - inside the Biology Center for quiet - and they say, no, no keys have been reported.

Ok, think, McFly!

Go to walk back out and see a woman I'd seen when I went into the parking garage, and just as I notice she has my keys, she asks me, and I'm like, "Yes,thankyou, lovetostayandtalk, butIgottago."

Call Kelsey's manager since this is MY mistake, and he's like, "Calm down lady, no big deal" dismissive.

All's well that ends well.

Fast forward a week to this Monday, and I'm heading to Denver to attend a meeting on my boss's behalf as he has yet to figure out how to be in three places at the same time. Will someone get on that, btw?

The balance in the checking account was -$1.20 (payday was the next day), my gas tank is half full, and I'm running on fumes. 

The ever present stress is simmering.

I have $10 cash in my pocket and roughly as much on the credit card in my wallet.

Google chimes, "Your destination is on the right," while I observed downtown parking had gone up considerably. 

I drive around shopping for affordable parking lots, feeling my anxiety rise as the time ticks further away from "on time."

I make note of the lot's general area, and decided to leave my heavy bag with my wallet in it, because I know I have to hoof it quite a ways to the meeting (roughly a mile).

It's a nice day, sunny and 60 degrees, so my black blazer will suffice.

I make a slightly less than fashionably late entrance, with some of the other attendees - solidarity! 

Learn, network, and fin.

I go back the way I came. 

Or so I thought.

I walked roughly 6 miles, back and forth, stopping to talk to some Homeland Security dudes. 

See also: this is a branch of law enforcement whose officers are less than impressive in their intellectual reasoning abilities. They were like, "Bruh," :shrugs: "maybe call DPD?"

Walk a bit more, notice it is getting dark. 

I know where I am, I just don't know where my car is.

I'm on Champa and 21st...aaaaaand there's CCH. These are my old stomping grounds, when I worked in homeless and affordable housing issues. The nature of homeless behavior has become more aggressive in Fort Collins in the 15 years since I worked in the field - legalized marijuana and the opioid epidemic has made the homeless more volatile than they used to be.

And I'm chilled. 

My feet are killing me. 

I'm not being kind to myself at all.

I walk to a 7-11 and I notice Seth has tried calling and texting.

I text, "I did a dumb thing....call you in a min."

When I tell him, he is incredulous. How?

Well, I was in a hurry and stressed and apparently my recall was screwed by the cortisol in my system. Also, do you not think I feel stupid enough? Because I assure you, I feel like THE village idiot on which the archetype was based.

I call DPD. 

"So, do you have a receipt - the address should be on there," the dispatcher says, kind of annoyed by my plight.

"See that's just the thing - it was a cash only lot. No receipts, just the slots system. It was $7, the sign was red and white, and it was somewhere near 20th and Stout, I thought. Seriously, the dumbest human trick I've ever done," I admit, defeatedly.

He tells me that he's sending an officer to me, but it will be awhile because they are busy.

I inform the cashier that I'm not casing her joint, but that I am waiting for the police because I'm an imbecile.

Then I post on Facebook.

And my friends - y'all are the best, you know? - tell me my Google maps should have a timeline (YES! It does! but, I've looped around no less than a dozen times, and there is no way to drill down to detail on my screen and see where I started/stopped) tracing my steps. 

Dark blue is driving (before and after I lost the car - we drove right past it several times). Light blue is my foot work. Imagine this on a smartphone, and every time you try to drill down or change from landscape to portrait, it zooms out and you have to start all over again.

Another friend (of the fabulous Tales of Public Transit) lives nearby, and comes to rescue me. 

The DPD officer comes at the same time and is awesome.She also looks just like Sylvie Brett on Chicago Fire and my pop-culture loving brain is dying to mention it, but, objection, your honor! Relevance?

My friend buys me a bite to eat (I haven't eaten since breakfast and it is now approaching 8 pm). We then drive around searching for this parking lot that has somehow been covered with an invisibility cloak. 

No dice.

The panic is real.

Amy is amazing - keeps me calm. I think if I can look at my Google timeline on a larger screen, I can pinpoint where we need to be. 

Except Google says, "You're logging in from a strange device - let's send your phone a code to make sure it's really you." Which is great, really, Google, I do appreciate your security, but my PHONE WAS DEAD. 

I use my backup e-mail to send Google a note that I was stranded and unable to get in with a phone code. Hope for the best.

I'm housed overnight, sleep a little and set out with her Amy's husband in the morning. 

Second lot we see is the one! 

And there is my Silver Subie in all her unadulterated glory. 

Car starts, bag and wallet are in, and I'm on my way.

I get to FoCo around 8am, stop at home, change my clothes, go get the cars registered (due the next day), and go to work, then class, then meet the fam for dinner and pick Kelsey up from work at 9pm.

This is my life. 

I'm exhausted all the time. 

There's more to it than the sheer bad luck and stress response clouding my judgment and/or memory (a nagging reminder of the scene in Still Alice where she hides a gun for when she loses too much of her brain to Alzheimer's occasionally plagues me when I'm really in brain fog).

My mind is packed to the gills with new information from classes, umpteen schedules, things I want to say (and often don't) to my loved ones about how important they are to me, dreams...

There's this stupid insecurity and self-doubt of a 1st gen student popping up that never manifest itself in my undergrad studies. It keeps the stress dialed up. 

There's the mom guilt of not being there for ev.ery.thing. Am I spiting the quality of their childhoods by chasing this dream?

And before anyone gets all self-righteous about "But HOW?" could this happen and they would never... let me remind you that this crazy, American pace of life has had more tragic results than mine.

One mom got so into auto-pilot that one day when the routine was upset, she forgot her son in the back of her hot car all day. He died. My heart breaks for that family still, because I can totally see myself in that situation. But for the grace of God go I.

And sometimes, it's not just busy mom dysfunction. Our human minds are feeble, quick to take shortcuts, especially when the primitive brain is in control and being doused with cortisol, adrenaline, and whatever external stimulants we're feeding it. [I'm living on a caffeine drip these days...this is stupid, I know, but you do what you hafta].

For instance, the Australian woman who was raped in 1975, and accused a guy who couldn't have done it because he was speaking on the news at the time of the assault. You would think in such horrific circumstances, someone would KNOW who attacked them. But, like commonly happens, her mind mis-recalled and subsequently misinterpreted the cues she had seen.

The moral of the story is that when stress compromises your executive functioning, there is hell to pay.

---PSA - Had I "dropped a pin" on my phone in the parking lot, none of this would have happened.

Had I realized my confusion before walking around in circles for hours, I could have read my timeline better, and maybe figured it out.

Links are for your benefit. 

This is Heather (actually Emma Stone, but she's pretty and I like her voice better than my own - I would totally cast her to play me in a movie of my life).

Don't be like Heather.

I'm here to serve. So you don't have to.

You're welcome.