Time of Year

Some years it sneaks up on me, at others times I can feel it coming. From about mid-September until mid-January, I struggle. In the strange irony that supposedly makes life interesting, this is also my most favorite time of the year, my favorite season, by far.

I love fall the most, when the air gets cooler, and unfortunately just when all of "this" starts to set in, and on the years I forget it's coming, or when a few more weeks have passed before whatever this is “hits”, it breaks my heart all over again that I can’t just get past whatever is hard-wired in me to drop a little lower this time of year.

It’s the only way I know to explain it. I think people that have had relatively "normal” lives, (I use the word normal with caution here- it’s hard to define what is normal, so just bear with me) with no severe depression or anxiety, with no trauma--or timing tied to that trauma-- who didn’t experience abuse or severe dysfunction-- well, there's a certain base level in life that they walk along, their pathway if you will, with some hills and valleys, but nothing that consistently sets them reeling that is tied so close to the earlier suffering.

For the rest of us, the category I find myself in, I don’t really know what to call it—but that “level” I tread on is a bit lower. It’s closer to more pain, more associations with trauma and traumatic events, and memories that won’t erase or ease, no matter how much therapy or time I throw at them. It’s where I reside, and I understand that it also makes me who I am, and there are things about that level I am grateful for—deeper compassion, understanding those who suffer similarly, and just an overall awareness of my tenuous place in the world.

So, there I am walking on this lower line, and the thing is, that’s during the rest of the year—spring and summer. That is my “normal” line or level, lower than some others—but it’s there. And it’s fragile. And I know that.

Then, as in the past, let life throw in a curve ball like getting laid off from a job, severe financial stress, the loss of a love, experiencing an abusive relationship, or just re-hashing family pain to the point of insanity, and there’s a crack that gets bigger and bigger on that level, until I fall through. How big the curve ball, how close it is to past pain, defines the width of the crack, and I can either (barely) hang on to the edges and climb out, or slip through and fall. And fall. How low, how deep I fall before I try and catch myself is key--and it varies. 

There have, at times, been moments when it felt better to fall and fall, rather than to try and catch myself, grasping  on to dirt and rock that gave way constantly, knowing then that I would just have to fight with every ounce of strength to climb and cry and struggle to get back to my semi-normal level. But I have done it. More than once. Not without scars. And certainly not without help.

This year, the crack came fast and opened up and swallowed me quickly. It wasn’t some obvious curveball this time. It was a combination of things where I kept nodding and saying “I am ok”, until there was no more “I am ok” left. My lower level gave way. That overpowering feeling hit me--hard. I am tired of this. I am tired of feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, and dealing with not ever feeling like I have had what I would have deemed a normal life one day-- looking ahead through ten-year-old eyes.

I am finally smart enough now to know that when that crack opens, I need to call for someone with a good, strong, ladder to send down to me in that dark place and help me climb out a little easier. I called a therapist. I found her randomly on my insurance website, and hoped that I would get lucky. Sometimes it takes a few tries to find the right person who fits and “gets” you and what will help. I told her I was trying to be proactive before things got worse. I called just to make the appointment and I told her I was terrified I was going to slip back into a massive depression as I had before. I told her I was scared to come because somehow, it would throw me further down the black hole.I told her I was talking to friends, and my husband, maybe that would be enough. I even tried to call back and cancel.

She was having none of that. She gently pushed me to keep the first appointment. And boy, did I ever get lucky. This woman is the most perfect therapist I could wish on any human.

She listened for a few sessions as I lamented that I didn’t understand why I was falling through the crack again, why I couldn’t just be a normal person and get through things without feeling this way. I have love in my life, I have my husband, I have a house-full of rescue animals that are an incredible comfort, I have these good things--I have a childhood friend who checks on me constantly when I am like this. Why isn't it enough? I cried a good bit. She helped me catch my breath.

After a few sessions, she reminded me that I lost Lucy last year at this time in a very traumatic way—and that I had to quickly press on with everything else, while not necessarily having the time to grieve for what happened and the horrible way it all took place. Anniversaries are hard, no matter how tough you are, and I am approaching that one.

She listened as I told her that I lost a friend of decades recently—only a few months ago. He was always one of my closest friends, I considered him (and others in his family) within the small circle of people I trusted-- one of my safe places. And then, with great pain, I discovered that to him, I had all along really been (along with a line of other women) nothing but an odd person to have in reserve for ego boosts to draw from when he felt inadequate in his life. Several times recently, he tried to overstep with me (with confidence behind a virtual screen)—completely disregarding my marriage and his, and making me feel used, sad, and foolish for believing he had always been a close friend. It hurt both me and my husband, and I ended all communication with him. I didn't know how to handle the situation. The realization of the truth of this friendship--or lack thereof--made me doubt my value as a friend--and a person. I feel so insecure about the few truly close friends I have, and losing one that I trusted was devastating. (another situation over the last few weeks that I kept telling myself “I was ok” about).

We talked about how recent layoffs at my job have left me covering extra duties, when I already work so many hours. I told her how overwhelmed I feel at times when I can’t be on top of everything at work the way I like to be---and how that can feel like failing—when somewhere in me, I know it’s not.

She reminded me that even though I am no longer alone for the holidays, that I was for many years and it was so painful, and that paying some type of homage to surviving those times was going to always linger with me. As I told her stories of painful moments from so long ago—from childhood and in college that very few people know—that I write off as just my family history-- she listened.

During one story, she got a look of horror on her face as I shared a particularly difficult Christmas eve episode—and she told me I wasn’t grasping how strong I was to have faced all of this, survived it all—and found the strength to reach out for help. That anyone in my situation would need help to navigate all of this loss and pressure. That I was strong, not weak—which is how I always feel when I reach out. Why do I do this--even knowing the value of therapy and how it has helped save me before? Why do any of us? Why do I think I have to have superpowers in the face of a lot of things going wrong, or just too much to handle all at once?

She is helping me re-define that. The strength in reaching out. No matter how much I preach it to others on social media, or in one-on-one conversations with others who are struggling, I see myself as weak for needing help. 

So many of us do. We think we are more flawed, more unworthy, more wrong about things if we ask for help. We are not. Life is hard. There is love and joy and beauty and friendships, and surprise moments that make the ride worthwhile, but it is hard. For all of us.

Today I left my session feeling so empowered, that I could take on everything in front of me, including these ghostly memories, these haunting associations, these struggles, pain, losses, and just my exhaustion, and crawl back up to my “normal” level a little faster.

This therapist of mine...she is wonderful. She has a beautiful, long ladder, and as she lowers it down to me, under my breath, I thank her as I climb every single rung to the top.

There is breathtakingly beautiful art throughout this post. All of  the black and white gorgeous pieces can be found on etsy in The BlackraptorArt's Shop- Unique black and white art by Joonas Ennala.

The beautiful angel kitty photo is by Krista May and more of her work can be found in her etsy shop

And finally, the ladder image, named (appropriately) Above All Odds, is by the artist Daniella Fishburne. More of her beautiful work can be found in her etsy shop.

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Back to Me

Take the pain from my heart this night-
Let it be swept into the undercurrent that frightens me.
Bring it to the surface clean, another beginning--back to me...
Allowing me to forget the hours and time before.

Take this ache from my being-
In unnamed places, grief in flashes, that won’t solve mysteries;
The somber cloud that promised never to come--back to me...
Yet slithered through the inky black cracks of night to find me.

Return the things I gave away-
Too easily, too cheaply, at such a high cost.
Then, their honest value could never be returned--back to me…
Not in any way that resembled my true worth.

Lead me back to an unknown winter-
Snow so deep, the air so silent--small flakes dancing;
Promising the beauty in my beating heart--would always be mine…
No need to come back to me; just safe and warm in my unbroken soul.

ksg 

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Here Before

Usually when I am at some sort of crossroads, when I am struggling or hurting, the words are everywhere. I can write and write, no matter how tired or busy or how little time I have. But, that hasn’t been the case for the last four months. It has been almost physically painful to write, and I haven't been able to find my way out of whatever writer's block or obstacle I am up against. I have worried that I am too far gone this time. But really, I can’t be any more far gone than I have been before, can I? There are too many good things in my life now that I never thought I would have. Too many right things. Too many things that should make everything easier.

This time of year always sneaks up on me. Even though fall is my favorite season, this time of year – heading into the holidays, has always been hard. Even though I have a husband who loves Christmas with such passion that he reverts back to a six year old’s excitement over every ornament, decoration and Christmas movie on television, it can’t erase over 30 years of this being a really horrible time of year for me. I honestly love this time now, as we have our own traditions, and I don’t have to make excuses to avoid going home (and feel guilty for it) or feel like the most single person in the world (as the holidays can really make you feel). But I think there is something to the fact that my body, soul, and spirit learned to start preparing for hard times around September, and somehow I haven’t “unlearned” that yet. I get more emotional over everything, and think too much about everything, and in general, feel a little more of the weight of the world on me.

It started in September, when everything I read and heard on the news and from my friends just started weighing on me. Just the unfairness of life. Just hard stories and hard times and sadness that seemed to be outnumbering the goodness and kindness in the world. I kept telling myself I was just seeing things that way, and I was honestly getting scared for myself. We have been under so much financial stress for such a long time it seems. That will wear on a person. That, and family stress and every day stress, and just life has seemed, well, so heavy. I worried that, like addiction and other life-long battles people have to fight even once they are recovered, my depression was always going to be something that I had to keenly be aware of, sitting in the corner beckoning for me when I feel this way. At times, it felt as if I was fighting not to be taken in. I think we all have low moments, and I know I have had enough on me to justify feeling overwhelmed.

A few key moments stopped me in my tracks. The first was on the drive into work a month or so ago. I was already emotional that morning, and traffic was backed up on my regular route, and I had to take some back roads as I neared my office. I got a little turned around, as I always do with my lack of direction, and as I pulled up to a stop sign, trying to figure out which way to turn, a homeless man sat on a tiny patch of pavement between me and the oncoming lane of traffic. He held a small cardboard sign, with messy letters in black magic marker that read: Dreaming of Tacos and a Clean Pair of Socks. He was looking off in the distance and the pain on his face and that sign…well, I lost it. I was sobbing in my car, soon serenaded by multiple car horns pleading with me to move on. It just broke my heart that someone wanted such simple things and didn’t have them. The next morning, I tucked a pair of my husband’s socks into my purse, and went the same route to the office, but the man was no longer there. I cried again. I see so many homeless people here. Every day. And my heart is torn every time, and especially when I see elderly people or when I know someone is mentally ill and lost in a world that has discarded them. But this man’s simple sign has stayed with me. I have tried to remember that and be so thankful for all that I have. I have punished myself for feeling down when I am NOT by the side of the road begging, and I will sleep in a warm bed and have food tonight.

The other key moment came just a week ago. I was at work, and got a call on my cell phone from a sales person, trying to sell a conference sponsorship. She was trying to reach me, but in connection with the company I last worked for. When I explained that I no longer worked there, she responded, “Oh, Kim, I hope you are doing something  you love to do, something you’ve always dreamed of doing.” I sat silent. She and I had worked together briefly at my last company, and she let me know she had enjoyed working with me so much, and was glad to see I had moved on (my last working environment was not a very positive place to work). And while my new job is much better, much more geared to my work strengths, and while I make a good salary, what she said made my stomach drop. It was such hard timing when I have been struggling to write a single sentence for months and at times have given up on my dream of ever publishing a book. I want so badly to finish my novel and just try to get it published, and to just really feel that first and foremost, I am a writer. I know that can’t happen all at once, but I have always felt I was working my way there. Lately, I have felt like it just isn’t going to happen, like I am losing something, a part of me, a key core of who I am. I know I am so lucky to have a job in a time when people don’t. I know we are lucky to be paying our bills when others can’t. It is just so frustrating to be working so hard and turning over what feels like every cent to just cover our asses—barely—and it’s not even doing what I love- what I really want to do. But, that’s life. I know it. This is no surprise. It is just harder right now for some reason.

I feel time ticking by right now, it feels like the clock is speeding up. I had to check my age on a form recently, and I have a birthday coming up in a few short weeks. I will be 44. FORTY FOUR. How in the hell did that happen? And how did I LET that happen, without going after some of these dreams sooner? How did I let depression rob me of so many years? I know I didn’t “let” that happen, and that second question kind of answers the first, but it hurts my heart all the same. I know I still have time. I am constantly telling people that it is never too late. And it isn’t. It just feels that way right now. I just want to make up for lost time, and go grab everything I want to do, and do anything and everything that makes me feel better, and worthy, and hopeful about the world, and most of all, myself.

One thing that helps, so much, is this. 

This is the end of my day every day. My dog Bear. This face in the window. There are no questions or worries here from this sweet boy, just love. It amazes both me and my husband just how much love you can feel for a dog and how loved you feel in return. On my way home from work, when I honestly have cried a few tears for reasons I can’t explain, when I need to feel needed and worth more, and need to know that I am making my mark and a difference in the world somehow, I pull into my driveway, and Bear somehow knew five minutes before that I was turning on our street, even though I never arrive home at the same exact time. He looks out the window and waits. He sees me walking up to the door and explodes into a happy dance and pulls to get to me so much that my husband cannot hold him back until I have put my bags and purse on the kitchen table to turn to him. There is such joy in me just being there, just arriving, after only hours away. It seems small, and maybe even silly to those of you who aren’t dog lovers, but I can tell you that there are days when that moment is everything. 

It's a small sign that in a world of weight and sadness and lost and forgotten dreams, that there is boundless love waiting for me, just behind my front door, and somehow, I am doing something right.

 The beautiful painting featured in this post is called "The Fisherman's Wife" by Scott McLachlan. More of his work can be viewed here.

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Comfort Food

I constantly search for a way to quiet my mind once it starts whirling—a way to stop thinking, worrying, and fretting. At times when I feel overwhelmed, I need something to escape into. For many years, cooking has been a source of passion and comfort for me-- a way to sink into something else and change my focus.

Having been single for more years than I would like to count, it has too often seemed a waste, or at times too costly to do the kind of cooking I like to do. Nothing makes me happier than a crowd to cook for. I love all of it—the planning, choosing recipes, finding out who likes what, and then the shopping, preparation and unveiling the finished product. To me it is sharing love, giving of myself, and I enjoy so much watching others enjoy a good meal—and the camaraderie and laughter that accompany it.

I never questioned whether or not I would be able to cook…it was something I saw my mother and my grandmother instinctively do—with rarely a cookbook or recipe card in sight. I assumed it was a learned behavior like reading or riding a bike.

I do believe that part of that mentality is from a southern upbringing. At least from my mother's point of view, it seemed expected for a woman to be a good cook—it was all part of getting (and keeping) a husband. But for all of the backwards and sometimes time-warped southern traditions, I am thankful that learning to cook--feeling the need to cook is in my DNA.

In my grandmother’s tiny mountain cabin, which lacked a full plumbing system, and barely enough room for all of us to stand- let alone sit- in her house, she created aromas I am not sure have been replicated to date, even though my mother holds many of the recipes. Her gravy and biscuits still makes me ache for Sunday mornings, and even though I have watched my mother countless times, and have made more attempts than I care to mention, I can’t make them taste the same.

Because my mother grew up very poor, my grandmother’s cooking skills were put even more to the test, trying to stretch a thin budget to feed five children. Even still, my mother recalls my grandmother’s dishes with great admiration and nostalgia, and these same dishes have graced our table over the years.

And while growing up things in my house were strained, tough, and at times incredibly unhappy—some of the few peaceful times we shared as our disconnected silhouette of a family were around the dinner table. Looking back, it was almost as if when the kitchen timer sounded—all the chaos took a time out for dinner. My mother was and has always been an excellent cook, and many nights out of the week, we sat down to a great meal.

There is a calming effect with food—the anticipation, savoring, the focus. In the midst of the end of a workday, an argument, or just a swirl of activity, everything has to slow down, at least somewhat.

For me, cooking was always a little for daydreaming, too. I always imagined honing my skills, and how I would one day be a wife and mother, preparing meals for my family—my fresh start—to heal and begin anew. Over the years as that seemed further from reality, I still took comfort in cooking for my friends, coworkers, and my surrogate family members throughout all the cities I lived in.

And so many times when I was concentrating on the dreams that I didn’t see coming true, I didn’t realize that in many of my closest friend’s houses, the kitchen brought me a sense of family. I think of Judith’s kitchen in Atlanta, sharing so many meals in her home, the back of the house awash with light over early dinners of “mom’s special dish” (her son’s favorite). I think of “Nanny Rice” made with so much love in Debby’s kitchen in NC that I grew up associating it with comfort and her heart for me. I think of cooking meals at Patrick and Kristin’s house for friends and for their little girls, remembering when they still sat in booster seats giggling at me from across the table. And in just the last few weeks, my best friend Kim and I have shared and made each other’s recipes more than once. She is my teacher as of late, and I love knowing I have her expertise at any moment.

As I made a pot of homemade soup tonight at the end of a stressful day—after too many worries about money, work, and tough decisions- I found myself slowing down, as I chopped and sliced, sautéed and stirred. And a little bit of each of those kitchens—from my grandmother’s to Judith’s to Debby’s—and finally, my own-- helped me ease my mind and feel a sense of comfort and family.

And there is nothing more delicious than that.

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