Outside, listening to U2 and the competing birdsong. Winds colder than an hour ago. No one home but g-dog and the neighbor next door. Even an entire day of alone has rendered me speechless here. My paralyzing fear of writing too little to feel relief or too much to scare, has ratcheted up my anxiety. Yes, I am the face of anxiety. And depression. And unsure, unbalanced wife and mother. This is where I tell the truth, here, in these words and commas and incorrect grammar. Here in my head I wrestle with what should and what wants to spew. Word vomit. Shit sandwich. Cursing. Pitying. Streaming my consciousness until unconsciousness takes lead. I will burst open soon if I don’t confess. And confessional in catholic church is not my destination.
I am not angry today. I am unsure. I am the face of avoidance.
So much, too much is happening in my chaotic normalcy. I thank God for the angel I found called therapist. Therapist knows me, instant understanding the first meeting. She asked to read my blog within the first hour…she’s the first to ask to be let in. How can this be any easier? It’s hard. As I’ve said to my clients while psych nursing, “it may become worse before it gets better,” or something versed more professionally. You get the picture. I choose to dive into my past to figure out what in the hell I’ve been believing and if I believe it now. My investigative cap is on and I’m smoking my pipe. In order to give myself fully to my husband and daughter and son, I choose to give myself fully to me. I have heard the objections to rummaging in the attic of childhood and parental influence. I have listened to the ‘today is now’ crew. I feel both of you. I feel like living now. I just don’t know how…yet. Foreign to some. Others in my blog community will understand.
The niche I’m making for myself as a psychiatric nurse is rewarding and fulfilling and vulnerable. Vulnerabilities are shining in neon purple behind my eyelids. My doubts are surfacing through the scum covered pond called denial. With each client I serve, each story they tell me of abuse, neglect, depression, mania, hallucinations, family issues, eating issues, med compliance, denial….I hear parts of my stories. Inevitable. Not all bad. Not all hopeless. I find parts of myself at work. Lost parts hidden or parts unknown. I am a medical professional. People look up to me to lead. People ask my opinion. People welcome me into closets full of skeletons. I am humbled, thankful, proud. My supervisor and I discussed my performance yesterday and I was offered a raise. I’m here. I’m at a fork in the road, at the point on my lifeline labeled ‘career.’ Goal set and reached. Dreamed and lived. My idea nurtured into my career. This is a milestone for me. A first. Something people around me doubted until recently. Doubt, the reason I isolate. The reason I waiver. The reason I am anxious.
When I was a little girl I roamed our safe suburban neighborhood with other children. I enjoyed my sleep-overs and lunches at neighbor’s and sharing our backyard pool. I enjoyed family time with brother and sister and parents. I learned to trust. My mind holds those first ten years as primary colors and pleasant smells. I remember conversations had with kids and teachers in elementary school. I remember memorizing Shel Silverstein and cross-stitching patches for our centennial year quilt. I remember the time my dad took me to school late because he and mom were arguing. I remember standing in line to see the principal during lunch recess because I was caught throwing a snowball…I feel the nervousness as I stood in line, fearful of being in trouble, yet ballsy enough to walk out of line and back to class unseen. I was a good girl. I was a happy girl. I wore two braids everyday, my mother’s doing. I held a house key and unlocked the house after school in fourth grade for little bro. The round kitchen table hosted family conversations of dad’s business and birthday cakes with marshmallows in the frosting. I liked my childhood. I belonged there. I was happy. I was me.
Depression found me soon after we moved into a different suburb. Soon after our parents divorced. Soon after we became dad and three kids. Soon after I began questioning. Soon after hormonal changes and scary new school and being teased for braids and crying at school. Soon after I became best friends with the cool girl who I thought hated me. Again a few years later when best friend moved out of state. Again after stepmother number one and step sister number one moved in. The colors faded and the aromas unrecognizable. I don’t blame. I remember. I have to remember myself. I’ve tried to forget and avoid and pretend I’m ok now. That isn’t working well. I confess.
I’m grown up and responsible now. I have an obligation to know myself. I want to know myself. When my husband asks me what I want in my life, what I aspire to do, what I feel compelled to accomplish and succeed at and share with him and the kids…I cant answer. I have not allowed myself to explore these answers. I have not looked inside for answers. I have used outside influences to right my wrongs and lead my decisions. I have followed stronger personalities toward destinations of their choice. This must change now. Thus I seek professional help, remind myself to pop that Zoloft pill each day, write to relieve the pressure, shoot photos to expand my sight line, and close my mouth more often so I may hear more life music.
Wilco and I have a strange relationship, speaking of music. Their music moves me. The old stuff, the new stuff, it’s all good. Poetry in motion. No matter when I listen to Wilco, no matter what decade the writing, I feel connection. I’m not obsessed, just impressed. And thankful for each experience to enjoy other human beings’ talent and creativity. To know that these men write for and share their innermost thoughts with strangers is comforting for me. The years they practiced playing their instruments, reading music, composing, fighting personal demons, living relationships, feeling tired after touring and recording and transitioning through personnel changes…and helping little ole me feel happy. Thank God for creative, compassionate souls.
My turn to give, create, share, add value. I am the face of creativity. Peace. ~L
