In Their Shoes

Author's Precaution: This post discusses sensitive material, and may contain triggers.

By age thirty, Julie had experienced her third miscarriage. When she informed me of her most recent pregnancy, it was in stark contrast to her enthusiasm at age twenty-four, newly wed and eager.  The fear was so evident, like a shadow that hovered over her wherever she went.  Julie’s courage visibly trembled in fear’s dark presence.  I held her hand and tried desperately to be a harbinger of hope.  I smiled and said, “This time …” This time she would be able to hold that beautiful baby in her arms, to hear his first cries, to draw his tiny mouth to her breast and nourish him.  This time she wouldn’t awake in the night to blood dripping down her inner thighs.  This time the baby wouldn’t lie motionless inside of her, and she wouldn’t see the obstetrician shake his head in confirmation that there was no longer a heartbeat. I assured her that this time she would know only the pain of labor, not of loss.  But, I saw the doubt on her face and I felt it in my heart.  It took less than three weeks for the proof I was wrong.  She had given up on the trying, she said, because she couldn’t take the pain anymore.  She and I both knew, though, that sharp sting would linger for all her life.

 

Since age twenty, Trina lived with a secret deep inside of her -- a secret that stirred and scratched about yearning for release.  After being reminded of her loss as we jointly consoled Julie, Trina told me what she had not even told her own mother then.  She had left him years ago because she was pregnant.  She should have left him before that, but we often make decisions that are not truly in our own best interest.   He was the father by fact, but she couldn’t possibly imagine the life her own flesh would have should that child be exposed to the same physical abuse she had endured, always further numbing herself and foolishly excusing him.  There were moments of panic and indecision, and then there was the morning, which haunts her still, when she stepped into that clinic.  The child that had been growing within her was removed and replaced with a chilling hollowness that would torment her for all her life.  Guilt, like Julie’s companion fear, is the dark shadow that now slinks behind Trina and hides in corners of her heart.

I slipped on Julie’s shoes once, and quickly kicked them off.  I hated how they felt. Those shoes would never grow worn on me, for fear only briefly taunted me as opposed to becoming a constant companion.  I never tried on Trina’s shoes, as those high heels terrified me.  Yet, I somehow understand the way each now treads for simply knowing their stories.  In this knowing, there remains a confusion regarding why many individuals would be quick to comfort one woman and condemn the other.

 I know the pain is real for both women; my sympathies are not in competition.  Who am I to say one can hold on to hurt while the other doesn’t deserve ownership of her emotions? Who is any one of us to deny a woman her sorrow and suffering? Perhaps you have also paced in Julie’s ragged, tattered sneakers; perhaps you too have staggered in Trina’s strapped platform heels.  Maybe you have only known one pair of comfortable loafers your whole life.  Regardless, both women deserve understanding. It wasn’t easy for either of them and empathy is a preferred companion to guilt and fear.   




**Author's Note: Names have been altered to protect privacy.

 

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Some Days

Some days you want the world to melt around you, for everything to wash away.

Some days you feel glued to the bed, completely incapable of rising.

Some days you need to shut the blinds and pretend there isn’t a world outside those windows.

Some days you want to deny that there are bills to be paid and children to raise.

Some days you crave complete silence, and even the sound of the alarm clock sends you into a rage.

Some days the bed is your favorite companion, and you hide beneath the sheets from reality.

Some days you hate the skin you live in, and you wish you could shed your sorrow like a snake.

Some days you want to scream at the top of your lungs that it’s all just too much.

Some days you just want to curl up into a ball and cry.

Some days you want none of this – not the crying – not the screaming – not the hiding – but it’s all you can manage because the illness is winning. 

Those days are the ones when you most hate yourself.

Today is one of those days.

In Your Youth

I knew I loved you before you were even born, and I instantly took to mothering you as my own.  You were my dear, sweet little boy -- blonde hair and bright blue eyes, chubby cheeks and joyous laugh.  You were cherished by everyone that surrounded you, and you returned their love -- in your youth.  You offered smiles and hugs; you wrote me letters and drew pretty pictures.  I adored you and you admired me -- in your youth.  I tucked you under the covers and read you endless bedtime stories.  I remember you first fumbling over words, then becoming more confident, until together we had mastered that first book -- Ten in Bed.  And the little one said, “Roll over; roll over,” those sweet words repeated in my head, happily inflated with pride.  You learned from me and you accepted my love -- in your youth.  

 

I was determined to protect you from everything bad and ugly in this world -- boogie monsters and bullies.  I could look under your bed and tell you no monsters dwelled there.  I could peak in your closet and holler, then announcing I had scared the beasts away.  I would protect you from dangers both imagined and immediate.  

 

I still remember him cursing and shaking you -- a frightened five-year-old.  He was angry, frustrated, irrational in his reaction.  I cursed back and pushed him boldly away from you.  I held you and rocked you.  You didn’t have to go to school that day if the kids were picking on you, and he wouldn’t be allowed to pick on you either because I was there to provide protection.   We stayed home and snuggled back in bed, and I again felt insurmountable pride for having kept you safe and sound.  I wanted you to feel secure and loved.  I could offer you that security and protection -- in your youth.

 

But then you grew, and we grew apart.  I learned I couldn’t protect you from everything bad and ugly because sometimes the monsters aren’t outside.  They can’t be defeated with fists or fights. They don’t live under beds or hide in closets.  They don’t push you on the playground or rage irrationally when you refuse to arise from bed.

 

The worst monsters live deep inside of you.  Those demons that dwell within you are familiar to me as well; I too have lived that hell.  They reside in the relentless, looping thoughts determined to convince you of your worthlessness.  They delight in the anger that boils up in your belly and trickles out of your mouth in wicked, unintended words.  Those monsters are liars and scoundrels, but you believe their blasphemy and let them conquer you.  In their reign, they have eradicated your childhood contentment.  You have forgotten the easy pleasures of your youth.

 

If I could, I would restore your youthful joy that I might see you smile sincerely once again. I would don armor and slay those monsters, but you keep them too well hidden to be defeated.  I could help if you would only take my hand, but the hatred that accompanies those beasts prevents this.  I’m not disappointed or angry, though, because I know.  I know how hard it is to ask for help.  I know how hard it is to fight those damned demons, but I also need you to know that I still adore you as you once admired me -- in your youth.

 
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But ...

I sat in the ER with my two-year-old daughter awaiting the doctor’s arrival.  The nurse had just been in to do a basic check.  Emily had a fever of 102.5, even after fever reducer.  Her hair was matted to her head, clinging to her forehead due to her profuse sweating out of her fever.   Her eyes were red and glazed over.  Her skin was pale and blotchy. She lacked the same emanating beauty and happy enthusiasm that she usually possessed.  Despite her miserable state, she listened wonderfully to the nurse’s instructions, and interacted with grace and intelligence. 

The nurse was so impressed with her behavior that he commented, “She’s only two years old, right? Wow, she is really a bright little girl.  Whatever you’re doing with her, keep it up.  We need more smart young people in this world.”  I firmly agreed with him, and was very pleased with his abundant praise of my daughter and my parenting skills.  PS – We read … A LOT. 

Then the doctor arrived.  “Well, Miss Emily,” he announced, “You’re not feeling too well, are you?”  Emily slowly nodded her head, completely devoid of energy.  I held her tiny hand as he inspected her to confirm the source of her fever. 

“I’ve never met Emily before,” he then spoke to me, “But I’m assuming she usually looks a lot better than this.”

I nodded in agreement.  My daughter was indeed a special little beauty – bright smile, lovely blue eyes, and silken blonde hair.  She’s a gorgeous girl – my beautiful and intelligent young girl.

The doctor, like the nurse, also commented on Emily’s bright nature.  However, there was something in the way he delivered it that disturbed me.  “You may not look very good now Emily, but you sure are a smart girl.” 

BUT.  He said BUT.  He said BUT as though his compliment was some kind of condolence for her current lack of beauty.  It felt like those “but she has a real great personality” comments you make to your male friend when you’re trying to set him up with someone you know he won’t find physically attractive.  It was like being intelligent was runner-up to being beautiful. 

Doesn’t society prioritize women’s worth that way?  Was it really something I should be judging this man for?  It was a compliment of my daughter all the same.  Yet, his BUT reminded me that women are valued first for their bodies and brains only become valued, almost necessary, where beauty is lacked.

It was determined that Emily had an ear infection, and she was prescribed medication that will help her get better.  What prescription should we give to society to help us be better?  We need to stop placing so much emphasis on beauty and start prioritizing intelligence, imagination, and creativity in young girls.  One simple word spoken in a hospital room helped remind me of this, and I hope my words help to now remind each of you to make intellect the highest measure of a woman’s worth – and not simply a “but” behind attractiveness.



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Why Would Anyone?

Author's Precaution: This post discusses sensitive material, and may contain triggers.  The author respects your choice to avoid this post, but would encourage you to read and share as a means of ending the stigma and misunderstanding surrounding mental illness.  Thanks!

“Mrs. Ryan, come here!” a young male requested.  “Look at this!” he then demanded, and turned his computer screen to show me an image of a slim white wrist that had obviously been cut by a razor blade.   

 

This image, undoubtedly disturbing to view, was prominently posted on a young woman’s facebook page, as though the injury were a point of great pride.  To seemingly boast about self-injurious behavior is a trend I understand only as a cry for help.  The student who shared this image could not comprehend the act itself. “God, that’s just gross! Why would anyone do that to themselves?”  

 

Many individuals may wonder this as well, and would likely be alarmed by the high prevalence of such dangerous behavior. According to Mental Health America, an estimated two million people in the U.S. injure themselves in some way, with rates highest for adolescent females. While cutting is the most common method of non-suicidal self-injury (NSSI), other behaviors include burning, punching, and drinking something harmful.

 

You are not alone.
Let love speak louder than self-doubt.

In recent years, I have observed many students treating SIB (self-injurious behavior) as a comical issue, rather than the complicated illness it genuinely is.  I have far too often heard the sarcastic jokes like, “Oh no! I’m so sad now.  I think I’m going to go home, listen to My Chemical Romance, and cut myself. Woe is me.”  

 

Certainly, self-harm is far from amusing, and is an issue that should be addressed with a sincere attempt at understanding.  Therefore, when the student inquired “Why would anyone do that?” I didn’t shrug or act sickened.  Rather, I provided him with my honest reply.

 

The truth is that SIB is a complicated illness that is challenging to understand, even for those individuals who perform such acts.  Without a doubt, SIB is an undesirable behavior.  However, it’s most frequently a symptom of a very valid mental illness.  Self-harm can be a symptom of a many major psychiatric illnesses, including anxiety disorder, major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, and borderline personality disorder.

 

The “rationale” behind such behavior can be varied, but is most often related to either punishment or control.  Imagine that you suffer from bipolar disorder.  You feel like a disappointment to your friends and family.  You can’t seem to do anything right, and thus carry strong feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy.  In short, you believe yourself to be a “fuck-up.”  In your mind, then, you deserve to be punished for your shitty, pathetic existence and cutting creates the pain you must suffer as penance for your perceived failures.

 

In that same scenario, because you suffer from manic-depression, your mood often swings violently between elation and deep depression.  You rush between assurance and anger – contentment and chaos – happiness and hopelessness.  This whirlwind of emotions leaves you feeling restless and unrestrained.  You hate feeling irrationally irritable, or weepy and woeful without cause.  You don’t want any of this; you just want calm and control. In the seconds or minutes you run the razor blade  across your soft, fleshy skin, you are fully responsible for the pain you’re  feeling and that kind of discipline is decidedly desirable. 

 

Upon presenting this information and these scenarios to the inquiring student he then asked just one more question: “Have you ever cut yourself?”

 

I had, so I knew why someone would all too well.

 

 

 

 

 

There were times in my life when my emotions were so out of control that I believed cutting was the only answer.  I was wrong, and there are far better means of coping.  If someone you know self-harms, please seek help.

 

 

 

 

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I Am Changing Woman

"Remember, as different as we are, you and I, we are of one spirit. As dissimilar as we are, you and I, we are of equal worth.  Unlike each other as you and I are, there can be no harmony in the universe as long as there is no harmony between us."

-- Changing Woman

 

------

There is a Navajo Indian legend of Changing Woman, or Asdzaa Nadleehe. Changing Woman represents the cyclical path of the seasons, born in spring, maturing in summer, growing old in the fall, and dying in winter.  Upon encountering this brief description of the revered mythical woman, I felt an undeniable affinity to her.  I identified with Changing Woman, my moods so often cyclically aligned with the seasons. My connection with Changing Woman was not solitary; rather I found myself among a great sisterhood.

 

In the spring, rebirth arrives, and I await the sunshine and the warmth as desperately as an addict craving the next fix.  I need the snow to melt as severely as I need air to breathe, for with the melting of the snow comes also a sloughing off of my heavy depression.  In the summer, beneath the nurturing rays of the sun, I bloom and grow.  I feel joy and contentment, expressing greater gratitude for the gifts of this earth.  I feel more connected to the universe when I am able to smell the dew on green grass or relax in the sandy pebbles of lake beaches.  As Changing Woman was a child of the Earth, I feel most alive when the land too seems to be at its greatest height -- when the heat most warms the body, the trees bloom the boldest, and the birds chirp the loudest.  

 

As autumn arrives, and the leaves celebrate change in a brilliant display of colors, another shift falls upon me.  There is a mellowing in mood, yet this is no cause for sorrow.  My heart does not grow somber, but instead overflows with warmth and wisdom.  The breezes blow through my body’s frame, reminding me to keep moving on for my maturation and search for knowledge should be a journey without end.  Despite these blessings of astuteness and cool comfort, I suddenly become stunted with the violent approach of the proceeding season.

Winter comes on like a heart attack, dropping me to my knees.  My heart literally aches and my tears fall like snow, creating icicles inside my soul. It becomes increasingly difficult to arise, smile, laugh, as this illness builds inside me.  I lose myself and become a shell of that exuberant summer girl.  My mind turns to darkness and a piece of me expires with every wicked winter.  As Changing Woman alters herself continuously, but never dies, I do not fully decease either for then spring arrives and rebirth accompanies her arrival.

My own ever-changing moods often cause me to doubt my value.  Who would wish to be companion to a woman who cannot be constant?  We all desire smooth sailing, yet rough waters rush alongside me.  When self-loathing floods upon me, I then wait for the words of an unknown source to gently remind me that the most beautiful stones have been tossed by the wind, washed by the waters, and polished to brilliance by life’s strongest storms.

 

Like Mother Nature, who brings those winds and waters, Changing Woman represents the power of the earth and of women to create and sustain life.  I alone am not Changing Woman; each member of my gender is this legendary goddess.  Among the Navajo, becoming a woman is something to be proud of and announce to the community.  Therefore, my fellow women, let us stand together and announce our brilliance, not despite, but because of our many battles.  We can create, change, and witness our own rebirths.  Although we differ in many ways, we each have worth in this world.

 

 

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Accept their Love, Eat their Casserole

When I am feeling well, I readily claim my illness. I own my bipolar disorder because I know it has shaped me into the person I am today – strong, considerate, and extremely empathetic. However, when I am feeling ill and the depression leaves me to suffer my defeat alone, anxious, and afraid, I suddenly become ashamed of my illness – embarrassed to be sick in a way that too many people misinterpret as a choice.

It is not a choice to feel like a total fuck-up. It is not a choice to tremble at the thought of leaving the home. It is not a choice to become irrationally and excessively irate.  It is not a choice to erupt into a waterfall of tears at the thought of truly exposing myself and seeking the help I desperately need. In my mind, to accept help, is to acknowledge and concede to the belief that I am burdensome.

It’s a sad irony that the periods in my life when I most need help are also those points when I am most reluctant to seek support. I shut down and seal out those individuals that are willing to help. I don’t grant them the opportunity to love me the way I deserve to be loved. Phone calls go unanswered and e-mails remain without reply. I don’t even entertain the questions of “Do you need anything?” or “Is there anything I can do to help?” The reply is an immediate and resolute negative, but I don’t ever mean what I’m saying. I do need help.

Right now, there’s a two week old e-mail message from my friend Angie asking if I need anything and letting me know that she loves me and is there for me always --- through thick and thin. I know she means it when she says this. It’s not just some kind of greeting card warm offer that she hopes I never take her up on. She would be there, and she indeed has been there in the past. However, I have not replied to her message, and probably won’t. It’s stupid and stubborn, but it’s true. It’s this same damn shame and stubbornness that has left my friend Kim still seeking an answer the week old question of “What can I do to help?”

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know what I need, and that’s why I can’t answer you. If I knew what I needed, I wouldn’t still be feeling like this. I give my mother-in-law the generic answer of “prayer” when she presses about how she can be of comfort or service. I do indeed need prayer, but I also need understanding and anti-depressant medication without so many uncertainties. I need drug companies that care about creating cures – rather than increasing consumerism. I need to find a blend of medication that works so I can stop being a fucking pharmaceutical guinea pig.

Right now, there’s also a message on the answering machine from my pastor – stating that he intends to pray for our family that I get through this terrible depression. He also asked what our family needs – be it coming to the home for a blessing or congregation members to stop by with casseroles, easing some of the everyday responsibilities while battling this beast of an illness. His final words on that message were, “just let us know what you need.”

I wish it were so easy to give me all I need, because what I really need is a better mental health care system in my county and this country. I need a mental health care system that will accept me and provide me needed care as I am – feeling broken, but not bleeding. “Your insurance won’t cover your stay if you’re not cutting yourself or seriously contemplating suicide,” were the exact words my psychiatrist said upon discussing hospitalization today. I had visions of running for razor blades, slicing my wrists, and returning to her office with blood dripping off my fingertips and unto her beige, bland carpet: “Can I get the care I need now? Will someone, anyone, give a shit now?”

People do care, though -- friends, family, co-workers, and my church community. And what I really need is to learn to seek the help of these individuals who care because they love me and are deeply, genuinely concerned about my well-being. I need to answer phone calls and admit to my deep pain. I need to let go of pride and provide a reply when a friend or family member asks what they can do to help. I need to seek support and welcome warmth. I simply need to accept their love and eat their casserole.

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Frozen in Fear ... Warmed by Love

I groggily arose from the bed, and rubbed the tired edges of my eyes, having crusted over with cold symptoms.  As my eyes finally opened wide, I glanced out the bedroom window to see that thick layers of snow had accumulated, while I slept restlessly, upon the land and the tree branches.  The snow rested heavily upon the limbs of pine trees, weighing the branches lowly down, nearing the ground.  With this sight, I felt as though the weight of this heavy snow was weighing down upon my own body, crushing my heart, making me feel stuck and immobilized. 

I began to hyperventilate.  My mind began to race.  I don’t want to go out there. I can’t go out in that weather.  It could happen again.  It can’t happen to my children like it did to me.  I won’t go out there.  It’s today, the exact day. These racing thoughts flooded upon me; I was drowning in waves of anxiety and fear.  Flashbacks that had formerly been erased from my mind came back to me.  I saw the vehicle come crashing horizontally into me on this day, February 11^th, over a decade ago.  Over a decade ago, but the event lingers with me in diagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I tamped my hands over my ears believing I could hear the loud, crashing, grinding sound of metal automobile exteriors slamming rapidly into each other.  I could hear the sirens this morning, even though they existed only in a memory over a decade away.  I could hear the calming voice of the police officers explaining how I would be removed from my vehicle with the jaws of life, I not fully understanding their gentle intonations as I could only hear my own violent screaming and sobbing, staring forward at a spider webbed windshield, frozen and disoriented in that moment. These violent memories engulfed me. 

 

1988 Buick Electra after the accident - I truly believe this car saved my life

I managed to slow my breathing, call my husband to explain my fears, and then go to the medicine cabinet to find and consume my clonazepam – an anti-anxiety medication.  Yet, even as I write this, my legs are restless, my mind restless, my memory haunting and my mind bound up in irrational fears.  I was alone then, but I would have my children with me if I were to leave today.  No. Not on this day – not February 11^th.  I can’t bring harm to them.  The seventeen year old boy in the passenger seat who was declared dead upon impact.  The seventeen year old boy in the driver seat in a coma for four months.  No, no, no.  My children will not meet such a fate, so I must stay home.  I must.

But, fuck, I don’t want to miss any more work.  What do I call and say?  I’m sorry I can’t come to work today, but I’m fucking crazy and I’m terrified that if I leave I will kill my own children in an automobile accident.  The weather is making me anxious, and I can’t form cohesive thoughts.  I’m not okay, okay? It’s embarrassing, but this is my reality. 

I hung up the phone with my husband, who was on his way home from work to make sure that I survived the day and that the children would have one competent parent home with them.  I felt foolish and embarrassed and why didn’t I just suck it up and straighten my shit out, get to work, and stop letting nightmares of past events corrupt my current life.

Another view of the Buick

 

Shortly after I hung up with my spouse, my mother called.  “Are you going to work today, Angela?” she asked.  I replied that I wasn’t, and, with great shame and self-judgment, I tried to explain the flashbacks and the terror– how I felt sick to my stomach and frozen in fear.  I thought she would judge me too, and tell me to get over it already, get the kids ready for day care, and get in the damn car so I don’t put strain on my employer, having to find a substitute with late notice.

She said none of this.  Rather she said, “I know what this day is, Angela.  I know that was a long time ago, but I know it still hurts you.  If the roads were clear, I would tell you to be brave and move forward.  But, Angela, I just went into town and the roads are awful.  I don’t want you to go to work today.  Let your employer deal with it however they need to.  You need to protect yourself and your children.  Your PTSD is real.  Did you take some of your clonazepam?  And will Sam be home?  Okay. Okay.  You’ll be okay.  Just relax and give those children all your love, knowing they are safe at home.  I want you and them safe at home.  It will be okay.”

It’s hard to believe it’s going to be okay now as I sit in tears watching more snow fall upon the roads.  It’s hard to believe it’s going to be okay given the guilt I feel over missing work, and also knowing my husband is losing wages by coming home to take care of me and the children.  It’s hard to believe it will be okay when I feel like such a god-damn burden to those that love me.  But the most important part of that statement is that I have so many people who love me.  My spouse, my children, my parents, my in-laws, they all love me and they all know that my illness is real --- this manic-depression, this seasonal affective disorder, this anxiety, this post-traumatic stress disorder. 

The best medicine for all of these, while I still rely on mood stabilizers and anti-depressants, is the love and support of my family.  I am choosing to believe my mother today.  I am missing work, and the memories that accompany this snow fall weigh heavily upon my heart, but it will be okay.   It will be okay.  I am loved.  I won’t suffer any loss today in the warmth of my home.  Maybe it’s irrational to need to stay here, to be brought to hyperventilation by the thought of traveling those roads, but the safety of my home and the support of my family is what I need today.  It’s my medicine. 



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There's a Reason I Punched you in the Throat

I was sitting at a table by myself reading a book.  She approached me and I looked up as I heard her nearing.

“Well, what do you do now?” she questioned.

“Hmm?” I asked in return.  I had no idea what she was asking about.  No conversation had existed before this time as the impetus for this question.

“Well, this isn’t where you want to be, is it?” she asked.  She wasn’t talking about me being alone at that table or in that place at that exact moment.  I knew what she meant when she asked this because I felt it almost every minute of the day.  I’m not in the career I want to be in.  I don’t even believe you can call my current position a “career.” 

After being laid off from my full time teaching career, I am now a part time study hall supervisor.  No, it’s not exactly what I had imagined for myself.  I don’t think anyone tells their high school guidance counselor that they really want to become a study hall supervisor in the future. Yet, there is where I find myself now, and I’m determined to find blessings in this situation.

“So, do you just wait and hope something opens up?”  she continued.

I answered in the affirmative.  Yes. What more can I do?  I’m not interested in moving.  My family is here, and I want my children to grow up near their grandparents. My husband is employed here, we have a beautiful home, and I enjoy the natural beauty of the area.  I am also unwilling to commute more than a half hour with two small children at home.  That leaves me exactly two districts in which to work, and nine English positions, all of them currently filled. In the meantime, I am thankful that I’m working with secondary students in some capacity. 

I continued, “Well, while this isn’t ideal, there are also benefits.  I love having more time with my children.  My daughter is only two and my son will turn seven months this week.  When I was teaching and coaching, I was often gone from 7 am to 6 pm.  Even when I was home, my time wasn’t usually my own because I had lesson planning and essays to grade.  Now my time with my family is fully my time to enjoy.  My work stays at work, and this is such a low stress job.”

“Well, you know what they say …” she smiled.

I knew what they said.  I’ve heard it repeated time and time again over the past year.  Externally, I would nod and smile when I heard this anticipated expression. Internally, I was screaming and yelling that the ability to find good in an ugly situation didn’t make things suddenly okay.  It didn’t excuse the assholes, and it wasn’t part of some grander design.

And then she said it … “Everything happens for a reason.”

 

She’s a kind woman, a good woman, and I know she had the best intentions when she said this.  However, I still imagined the same fantasy I had every single time someone uttered this phrase to me.  “Everything happens for a reason,” some good intentioned individual would tell me, because it felt too harsh to simply say, “Yeah, you’re right, Angela.  That situation fucking sucks.”  People think the idea that everything happens for a reason brings some kind of solace to the grieving individual, some kind of hope.  In my fantasy, it just invoked a wild rage in me.  I jump out of my seat, and kick my chair out of the way like some bad ass Kill Bill shit where I take my vengeance out on any individual who attempts to offer me solace with this expression.  I kick the chair to the side, the object slamming against the wall in slow motion. A loud thud echoes through the room and then the scene focuses on me – suddenly, miraculously fit and leather clad, ready to throw a fierce right jab. My eyes focus in on the speaker’s mouth, the words coming out slowly, “Everything happens for a r-e-a-s-o-n.” The last syllable falls from the lips of this individual as my fist pummels right into her fucking throat.  The individual looks bewildered and pained and shakes her head back and forth in protest of my action, and then I look stoically onward and mutter: “Everything happens for a reason, bitch, and there’s a reason you just got punched in the throat.” 

Of course, this is not how the scene actually played out.  I nodded and went back to reading my book, but inside I was still screaming. Don’t fucking try to tell me that it was somehow acceptable that I got lied to, abused, discriminated against, bullied, and betrayed so that I could enjoy my children more.  Don’t tell me what happened was justified or predestined because I have less stress and I can be a better mother.  Shit didn’t need to go down like that for me to enjoy my life, my time, and my family. 

Ultimately, I don’t know if things happen for a reason or not.  I don’t have all the answers, but know this: I know it’s not your fault and you mean well if you tell me “everything happens for a reason,” but don’t be surprised if I punch you in the throat.  Sorry.  I know shit didn’t have to go down that way, but life isn’t fucking fair.



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Side Effects

It was a beautiful anniversary party.  All of our friends and family had joined us in the ballroom decorated with white and lilac balloons, the colors a tribute to the bouquets that were carried by the bridesmaids five years ago.  Everyone was joyous, laughing and chatting happily, and then he entered the room.  Why was he there? 

Why is he here? Why? Why? Oh my God. Why?

My heart started to race as fear masked my face, the happy, loving, confident me suddenly hidden and this frightened whisper of a woman once again returning.  I looked to my husband, who looked to me and then looked up and too saw him – my ex-husband.  I could see my spouse look around the room for the children too and then he ran to this unexpected, most definitely uninvited guest. 

Sam pushed at this intruder’s chest, his mouth uttering words meant to usher him out of this place.  I couldn’t tell what those words were, but I remember my former flame’s first words: “You’re last.”

He intended to kill my husband.  I saw it in those fiery evil eyes, those eyes that I once so god-damn foolishly had fallen for.  He glanced around the room, “Where’s the newest one, Angela?  Where’s your son?”  His voice sent shivers racing down my spine and my entire body trembled.  An image flashed through my unquiet mind: my six month old son a fatality to the gun that I now glanced in this man’s hand, his tiny body twisted and deformed, no longer recognizable as a child of God, just a victim of the devil’s work – this devil who wore a disguise so clever he had once convinced me to say “I do.”  I saw tiny bits of brain matter and bone, and my body twitched and turned, agitated and wanting this nightmare to end.  I found myself mute and locked in this awful reel of absolute horror.

Then another image flashed quickly across my racing, restless mind.  This time, it was my mother, who had noticed as he entered the room too and knew, had always known in her heart, what this monster was capable of.  She had run with the children.  I saw her locked in the coat closet, her arms wrapped tightly around my two children praying to God that they wouldn’t be found and they would be kept safe.

He didn’t try to find them when they were not easily located.  Instead he said, “I can’t find the boy.  I’ll move on then. “ His eyes darted across the room until they locked upon my dear friend.  “You,” he hollered and approached her with an alarmingly determined rapidity.  “You were there!”, he grabbed her arm and yelled loudly in her face. “Why were you there?  If you hadn’t moved, it would have just been us.  I could have kept her alone and dependent!  You came and reminded her she could be happy and herself!” He shook her body fiercely as though she were a mere rag doll, her strong, tempered body suddenly falling limp in his arms.  I could see her fear, smell it, taste it; it was so real for me – so fucking real and I couldn’t stop it as hard I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t happening. 

“Fuck you!” he screamed in her face, further startling everyone in the room, as we all looked on helpless, frozen in fear, unable to make this end despite our deep desires.  There were no heroes here; it was all horror.  “Fuck you! Fuck you!” he screeched even shriller, as he now took a knife from his pocket and sent the razor sharp blade plunging into her temple, again and again and again until her screams became silence, and my voice had finally been found.

I jolted up in bed with a deafening scream that woke my husband.  I was sweating profusely, my body trembling.  Tears ran down my cheeks as my spouse made himself more alert and attempted to calm me.  “It’s okay, Angela,” he whispered as he rocked me in his arms, “It isn’t real.  It isn’t real.  It’s just a nightmare.  It’s okay.” 

But it felt so real, so fucking real; the horror and fear was palatable.  My heart was beating rapidly and my mind was whirling.  I tried to shake this nightmare off of me, but it remained with me.  While my husband tried his damndest to assure me that it wasn’t real and everything would be alright, I didn’t feel safe, and I didn’t feel assured.

I rocked back and forth and pulled myself out of his comforting arms, allowing myself to fall back into that nightmare in my memory.  I started bawling, my cries now nearly as strident as my shouts.  “He would have killed me if I had stayed.  He would have killed me if I had stayed. “ I repeated these words like some menacing mantra and blocked out the reality that I was safe here in my home with my new husband and loving family.  That former life didn’t have to haunt me anymore, but it did.

“He would have killed me if I had stayed,” I repeated.  I knew these words were truth as I spoke them again and again.  The party and his vile presence had been a nightmare, but this knowledge was a reality.  How, then, could I have ever married such a malevolent man?  Why couldn’t those vows also be nothing more than a nasty dream?  Maybe then he couldn’t still haunt me. 

I shared these fears in my latest therapy session.  I was there informed of the side effects of Effexor:  vivid dreams.  This dream was so real it crippled me, and I stayed at home too afraid to leave, an anxiety attack having proceeded the nightmare, and depression joining the fear and anxiety in a toxic combination – but none of these, alone or together, as toxic as that relationship had been.

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