They tried to bury us. They did not know that we were seeds.
June 29, 2016, 12:58 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

I have never liked orchids. I always thought there were pretentious, fragile, strange looking.

Then, my husband bought me one for a holiday.

At first, I rolled my eyes. I won’t lie. I looked up how to care for it, it seemed pretty simple so I parked it on a windowsill and enjoyed the colorful blooms in my living room.

A few days later, the blooms all fell off in one graceful ballet of flora. I looked at the ugly, twisted stem that it left behind and frowned. It’s always the expensive plants that last the shortest–big, sudden rushes of color and beauty and before you can exhale, the moment has passed.

Isn’t that how most of life works? We set these benchmarks for ourselves that, ideally, we should pass through in order to continue on in life. Proms, graduations, weddings, pregnancy. Large bursts of color and beauty, and then the reality sets in; falling out of touch of friends, student loans, morning sickness and postpartum depression. These are the ugly stems that remain.

I moved the pot with it’s ugly stem into the kitchen. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it. It sat there for days, weeks, maybe a month. One morning I was making tea and looked over at it. Large, green buds were forming on the ends of the gnarled branches. They looked like they were about to burst, like nature’s great fireworks display.

Two days later, they opened and bloom after bloom filled the once ugly stem; more blooms than there had been eventually.

When all you have left in your hands is the ugly, crooked stem, it is hard to imagine that anything can come from that. It is hard to hope, believe, persevere, when there is no physical proof that things will change soon.

But then, we wake up, and the world around us is full of bloom.


No longer how long you remain dormant, do not give up on yourself. Keep yourself watered, give yourself sunlight, and prepare to dazzle the world.





I’ll Show You Mine, If You Show Me Yours
June 16, 2016, 11:32 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I have been a selfish person.

Let me explain–



When you are, emotionally, in a position like myself; when you find yourself pulling your heart  out of your chest time and time again and using it as a beacon for your friends, your family, strangers you may never know…

When you find yourself constantly using your pain to help the pain of others…

You get used to it. The wall between embarrassment and bearing your soul becomes thin, easy to climb, crumbling.

And in that sharing, you are often met with echoes of your own emotions–your own fears, your own pain, your own healing.

You extend this little box out towards a person. The box holds the ugly things from your soul. “Here. Look. I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”

Most of the time, the hurt souls, the wretches, the lost will gladly place their box next to yours. You pull item after item out of the boxes and find the similarities. You hold hands and mend simply in the power that is empathy.

But, what if you extend this box to someone; what if you show all of your dark places, your sadness, your self sabotages, and they don’t reciprocate?

What if I show you mine but you don’t show me yours?

What if you tell someone of your depression, your past, your terrible thoughts and they take these things in their hands and handle them carefully? They take what you’ve given them and made the load lighter. You feel lighter, happier, alive. Isn’t that all we can hope for, in our wretched states?

Then, as goes this dance, you ask them about their hearts.

” I am a safe place. Look, see, you still hold all of mine. Let me hold yours.”

They falter, they recoil, the push you away. All the while, holding your heart in their hands. “It’s nothing personal”, they say. They just don’t do that sort of thing.

You find yourself banging against a brick wall. It is futile; surely you can’t change anyone nor would you want to.

But it happens. There are people out there who are wonderful people, compassionate people, people who would do mostly anything to make sure you were happy and safe.

But they ignore their own self care. They let themselves deteriorate in a dark room with the door locked.

It happens all the time–mothers who are not yet ready to discuss or even face their postpartum issues, people who suffer from PTSD, anyone who is not yet ready to confront their monster. I don’t blame them; every time I open a blank page in this blog, I have to look at my monster dead straight in the eye. It’s terrifying.

But it’s hard to not take it personally. I do not think I am anyone superior. I do not think my words weigh heavily than anyone else’s. I do not think my story is more important than any that go unheard.

I cannot help but  feel as if I have failed as a tiny soul on this earth if my heart, my story, my hand being extended is not enough for someone else to follow suit.

People who think that they can keep swallowing their sadness will eventually find that the sadness has taken root deep inside of them. They will one day wake up, and they will be that sadness.

Breathing it out, like carbon monoxide, separates you from your problems.

At least, that’s what I apparently preach.

Sometimes people are not ready, they may never be ready.


What I’ve learned is

You can always be ready, just in case they suddenly are.


Toilet Anxiety Attack
June 4, 2016, 4:40 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Dear Readers,


I have been doing fine. I have been trying to force myself forward to a scary, unknown change…but, fine nonetheless.

Last night, however, I had an anxiety attack.

And I feel like I need to write about it, because I am seeing more and more people claim that they are having “anxiety attacks” and “panic attacks” when in reality they are probably just a little stressed and suffering from procrastination.

Now, truthfully, I have not had a lot of legit panic attacks. I had one at work last year and I had to go to the emergency room and get an IV of Ativan.

My anxiety attacks, however, always wear a different face. Some days they look like dread, some days they look like fear, some days they look like self loathing.

Last night was the last fellow.

I had been in a weird place all day at work. I had felt very close to the edge. Also: I was out of Klonipin. What could go wrong?

Late in the evening, I was still alone in the house–my husband was still at work–I found myself sitting on the toilet. That’s right, a girl is admitting to being on a toilet. I’ll accept the Nobel Peace Prize later.

Anyway, I was sitting there and I happened to look down at my lap. My thighs were touching and exceeding the edge of the seat. Now, I am sure this is how my thighs have looked for a long time. I am sure most women, no matter how small, have this happen when they are seated in such a way.

But that’s the thing about anxiety; just like depression, it lies.

I sat there, feeling my face get hot and my vision go blurry. I tried to push them in, making them look smaller. I got up. Went to my bed. Laid down on my side and heaved and sobbed. My skin felt hot. It was so hot I couldn’t breath. I went downstairs, put the thermostat on 65. I sat on the steps and sobbed some more. “I used to be small. I used to be so much smaller. What happened?” This sentence over and over again, like Hail Mary’s.

Of course I know what happened. I grew up. I had a baby. I turned 30. It’s fine.

But last night, it was not fine. I was obsessed with this thought of self hatred.

It was intrusive and terrifying. I looked at my counter covered in medications and thought how easy it must be for people to accidentally over-dose on these things. When something has a grip on you that hard, speaking so loudly, you will take whatever you need to silence it.

I took two of my sleeping pills and curled up into a ball in the bed and fell asleep, still crying.

I woke up at 4 in the morning, freezing. My husband had, of course, come home and slept next to me, with a sweatshirt on–hood up. He’s been with me for so long that he no longer asks questions.

I sat up in the bed and stayed very still for a moment. Had that really happened? Had it been a dream?

I put my hands on my thighs. No, it had happened.

And it will happen again, wearing a different guise each time.

But, in the end, the only important thing is that I made it through to the other side.