Sep 11, 2015 I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. It is, of course, “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. In the commercial, this fact is never announced; the audience is expected to recognize the poem unaided. For any mass audience to. The point is that being a one-to-one function implies that the size of is less than or equal to the size of, so in fact they have equal sizes. One can also prove that is a bijection by showing that it has an inverse. The Math Less Traveled Blog at WordPress.com.
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He saw her from the bottom of the stairsBefore she saw him. She was starting down,Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.She took a doubtful step and then undid itTo raise herself and look again. He spokeAdvancing toward her: 'What is it you seeFrom up there always-for I want to know.' She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,And her face changed from terrified to dull.He said to gain time: 'What is it you see,'Mounting until she cowered under him.' I will find out now-you must tell me, dear.'
She, in her place, refused him any helpWith the least stiffening of her neck and silence.She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see,Blind creature; and awhile he didn't see.But at last he murmured, 'Oh,' and again, 'Oh.' 'What is it-what?' Just that I see.' 'You don't,' she challenged. 'Tell me what it is.' 'The wonder is I didn't see at once.I never noticed it from here before.I must be wonted to it-that's the reason.The little graveyard where my people are!So small the window frames the whole of it.Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?There are three stones of slate and one of marble,Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlightOn the sidehill.
We haven't to mind those.But I understand: it is not the stones,But the child's mound-'Don't, don't, don't, don't,' she cried.She withdrew shrinking from beneath his armThat rested on the bannister, and slid downstairs;And turned on him with such a daunting look,He said twice over before he knew himself:'Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?' Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it!I must get out of here. I must get air.I don't know rightly whether any man can.' Don't go to someone else this time.Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs.' He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.'
There's something I should like to ask you, dear.' 'You don't know how to ask it.' 'Help me, then.'
Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.' My words are nearly always an offense.I don't know how to speak of anythingSo as to please you. But I might be taughtI should suppose. I can't say I see how.A man must partly give up being a manWith women-folk.
We could have some arrangementBy which I'd bind myself to keep hands offAnything special you're a-mind to name.Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.Two that don't love can't live together without them.But two that do can't live together with them.' She moved the latch a little.
'Don't-don't go.Don't carry it to someone else this time.Tell me about it if it's something human.Let me into your grief. I'm not so muchUnlike other folks as your standing thereApart would make me out. Give me my chance.I do think, though, you overdo it a little.What was it brought you up to think it the thingTo take your mother-loss of a first childSo inconsolably-in the face of love.You'd think his memory might be satisfied-'There you go sneering now!' 'I'm not, I'm not!You make me angry.
I'll come down to you.God, what a woman! And it's come to this,A man can't speak of his own child that's dead.' 'You can't because you don't know how to speak.If you had any feelings, you that dugWith your own hand-how could you?-his little grave;I saw you from that very window there,Making the gravel leap and leap in air,Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightlyAnd roll back down the mound beside the hole.I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you.And I crept down the stairs and up the stairsTo look again, and still your spade kept lifting.Then you came in.
I heard your rumbling voiceOut in the kitchen, and I don't know why,But I went near to see with my own eyes.You could sit there with the stains on your shoesOf the fresh earth from your own baby's graveAnd talk about your everyday concerns.You had stood the spade up against the wallOutside there in the entry, for I saw it.' 'I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed.I'm cursed.
God, if I don't believe I'm cursed.' 'I can repeat the very words you were saying.' Three foggy mornings and one rainy dayWill rot the best birch fence a man can build.'
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!What had how long it takes a birch to rotTo do with what was in the darkened parlor.You couldn't care! The nearest friends can goWith anyone to death, comes so far shortThey might as well not try to go at all.No, from the time when one is sick to death,One is alone, and he dies more alone.Friends make pretense of following to the grave,But before one is in it, their minds are turnedAnd making the best of their way back to lifeAnd living people, and things they understand.But the world's evil. I won't have grief soIf I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!' 'There, you have said it all and you feel better.You won't go now.
You're crying. Close the door.The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up.Amy!
There's someone coming down the road!' 'You-oh, you think the talk is all. I must go-Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you-'If-you-do!' She was opening the door wider.' Where do you mean to go? First tell me that.I'll follow and bring you back by force.
Anything can happen. You know how JupiterWill mostly wait for clouds to gather headBefore he hurls the lightning? Well, just nowHe galloped his thunder cart and his horsesAcross a clear blue sky.
It shook the earthAnd the clogged underearth, the River Styx,The winding streams, the Atlantic shore itself.Anything can happen, the tallest towersBe overturned, those in high places daunted,Those overlooked regarded. Stropped-beak FortuneSwoops, making the air gasp, tearing the crest off one,Setting it down bleeding on the next.Ground gives. The heaven’s weightLifts up off Atlas like a kettle-lid.Capstones shift, nothing resettles right.Telluric ash and fire-spores boil away.
.Warning: What follows is nothing more than a stream-of-consciousness, vomiting of words. It has no point other than to get some thoughts out of my head and onto the computer.Seventeen days ago (it was just 17 days!), I wrote about the Coronavirus. Don’t panic, I said. Let’s take a deep breath, I said. Let’s keep it in perspective, I said. While those things might very well still be valid, we are living in a very different world now, JUST OVER TWO WEEKS LATER.Cases are rising. Schools are closed.
Bars and restaurants are closed. Gyms are closed. Libraries are closed. Many retail establishments are closed. Events are cancelled. More and more states are implementing a state-wide “stay in place” order. People are being urged to cancel play dates, gatherings with friends, trips to the park, and to otherwise practice “social distancing.” We are living in a different world.
Whether you agree with the restrictions or not, life is different now, and while this time will eventually end, none of us are coming out of it unchanged.I’ll be honest. I’m about as big an introvert as they come, and at first the idea of self-imposed isolation sounded lovely. I get to stay home ALL THE TIME! I don’t have to see people! I can wear pajamas all day!That elation was, however, short-lived.This is surreal.
I feel suspended in this state somewhere between reality and I-don’t-know-what. I’m scattered. I’m depressed. (Note to those who read my post: I’m okay. This is just unlike anything I’ve ever lived through before.)I’m finding myself sort of wandering through my house, not knowing what to do with myself. I’m working my way through my current – and second to last! – college class, but I’m lucky if I can concentrate for 10 minutes at a time.
I have books to read and projects to do, but for real, who can concentrate right now?? Even television, one of my favorite things, requires a certain level of attentiveness that I just don’t possess at the present time.Mike is now working from home, which is weird in and of itself. It was one of the things that made this finally click into “real” for me.
He was sent home under the edict of working from home “until further notice.” Not for two weeks, not for six weeks, just indefinitely.Paxton (19 at the time of this writing) is still working outside the house (which gives me its own sense of panic), because his job is considered essential. Tegan (12), our sole extrovert, is going absolutely stir crazy, and the other two boys seem to be handling all of this okay.But none of this feels real.
I feel like I can’t state that enough.I think the hardest part, for me, is just the high level of uncertainty. There is just so much UNCERTAINTY.
We, as a people, tend to like to be in control, and this is very much the exact opposite of being in control. We don’t know how long we’ll be isolated.
We don’t know when the economy is going to get back to normal. We don’t know if we – or our loved ones – are going to get sick. We don’t know if the stores are going to be stocked. Some of us don’t know where our next paycheck is coming from. Some of us don’t know where our next meal is coming from.I’m worried about my loved ones who are high-risk.I’m worried about what this is going to mean for the economy.I’m worried about the folks for whom this is a hardship, financial or otherwise.I’m worried about the mental health of, well, everyone.I’m just worried.And I get it. Some people say, “It’s not like there’s anything you can do about it.
Why worry?” Yes. But that doesn’t change the uncertainty. That doesn’t change the anxiety. That doesn’t change the very real feelings of being out-of-control.And so, I’m going to do my best to do the things I can control. It might sound silly, but today I put on jeans instead of staying in pajamas because I thought it might help somehow (the jury is still out). I’m going to keep writing, and journaling, and working on my class, and hopefully – if my attention span allows – being creative. I’m going to keep my nails painted.
I’m going to keep listening to good music. I’m going to talk with my kids, and eat good dinners, and drink plenty of water. I’m going to take all my meds on time, and I’m going to try to make sure I get enough sleep. I’m going to keep checking on Everett’s garden, and playing with Tegan’s hedgehog, and trying to read good books.
I’m going to make self-care a priority and an imperative.And still, I’ll worry. People are freaking out. Store shelves are getting emptied of toilet paper and bottled water and hand sanitizer and antibacterial soap. Events and travel plans are getting cancelled. People are being urged to stay home and avoid crowds. People are getting quarantined.
Schools are closing. Proper hand-washing technique is touted over and over again. Bizarre to me, because I thought that people already knew how to wash their hands, especially during cold and flu season. I’m being told that that is not the case.) In short, there is wide spread panic.Let’s take a collective breath, please.Some numbers, for perspective:At the time of this writing, 14 Americans have died from Coronavirus. All precious lives that should have been spared, to be sure, but in comparison:12,000 to 30,000 Americans have died from the between October 1, 2019, and February 1, 2020About 1 in 4 Americans die each year from.About 600,000 Americans die per year from.About 130 Americans die per DAY from.About 40,000 Americans die per year in.About 9 MILLION people, worldwide, die from each year.But let’s get back to coronavirus. According to nearly every report, the vast majority of people who will contract the virus will have mild to moderate respiratory symptoms and will recover on their own, The virus appears to be spread through droplets from the affected individuals when they sneeze, cough, and then touch things. (This is where the vigilant hand washing comes into play.) Like the flu, your best defense is keeping your immune system healthy, eating well, getting enough sleep, avoiding crowded places as much as you can, and yes, washing your hands.Also like the flu, the coronavirus is mostly a concern for those who are elderly, already have underlying health conditions, and/or are immunocompromised in some way.
I think it’s important to remember that we all know and love someone, or several someones, that fall into one or more of those categories, and that their lives have just as much meaning as ours. They shouldn’t be treated as though they are expendable, which is kind of what we’re doing when we shrug it off and say, “Oh it’s only dangerous if you’re over 70 or already sick.” Their lives matter, and for those who meet those criteria, this virus is scary! That talks about the problem with this line of thinking.
Those of us that are healthy should be caring about, and caring for, those who are not, which makes proper hygiene and precautions even more vitally important.Another area that complicates the issue is the oft repeated advice of, “If you’re sick, stay home.” While that is good advice, it’s simply not possible for a large portion of the population. Many people don’t have sick days, or vacation time.
Many people would lose their jobs if they stayed home. Many people NEED those jobs to put food on their tables and keep clothes on their backs. My husband has a good benefits plan, and could take as many sick days as he needed. He could work from home if it came to that. If his company experienced a shutdown, he would still be paid. It would be easy for me to say, from that place of privilege, “For God’s sake, stay home if you’re sick!” But many many people do not have that luxury, and that’s important for us to remember too.All of this means that A) people with active coronavirus are going to be out and about in the community because they literally have no choice, and B) everyone, including our more at-risk loved ones, could potentially be exposed.
It is not something to panic about, simply because panic never helped anything, but it is something to be aware of. It’s something to be prepared for.
It’s something to be approached with the appropriate amount of caution.In what was a first for my family, we did make a small, couple weeks’ stockpile of non-perishables, a package of toilet paper, a package of paper towels, etc. Not because we’re afraid of the coronavirus, but because the threat of shutdowns or mandatory quarantine feels increasingly real (And also, it’s never a bad idea to be prepared for any type of temporary emergency. There’s not too much of a chance of blizzards in Phoenix, but there are dust storms, there are power outages, etc.)But I digress.The coronavirus is real, and it’s likely not going away anytime soon. But panicking is not the answer. Taking care of our health, avoiding crowded places (if we can), staying home from work (if we can), and practicing proper and careful hygiene will go a long way towards tempering its effects, for ourselves, and especially for those who are ill.P.S.
Wash your hands. I just saw an article come through my Facebook newsfeed with the title, “.” Now, you might very well be thinking, “Haven’t you written about this before?”. “Do you really need to write about it again?”. “Every time?”. Here’s why: the official parenting party line continues to celebrate meanness. It pats itself on the back over the fallacy that harshness begets well-behaved children (whatever “well-behaved” means.) It prides itself on “being the parent, not the friend.” And every time – Every. – that message is put out into the world, it deserves to have a counterpoint.
It deserves to have another voice, a voice that chooses kindness over meanness, connection over control, compassion over shame. Quite simply, people need to know, deserve to know, that there is another way a kinder, gentler, more respectful way to raise kids.The article in question really just makes three main points, but they all need to be addressed. Dismantling what we believe and why we believe it is important, and it pushes us to be better parents. It’s easy to follow the status quo and be mean to our kids, but if we want a good relationship with our kids if we want kids who are confident and capable and compassionate if we want kids who are in turn kind to their kids we need to do better.1) Being mean is necessary.
The author mentions several times that being mean is simply par for the course, an inevitable part of being a good mom. Sometimes it’s just a responsibility that one must accept if they’re to be a parent.But being mean is not necessary. Let me start there. Much ado is made of the fact that in order for kids to learn to pick up after themselves, to help around the house, or to take care of basic hygiene, that there needs to be meanness on the part of the parent. According to this mom, being mean is necessary to prevent her kids from becoming Neanderthals, or “feral heathens.” Four kids and 23 years tells me otherwise.
Children, like all people, respond best when they’re treated with kindness and respect, when they’re given genuine choice and control over their lives, and when they’re treated like people. Far too often, parents feel that children need to be trained as if they are dogs. But they are fellow humans, and they deserve to be treated as such.As for chores and helping out around the house, there seems to be an either/or mentality that states that either mom needs to rule with an iron fist to get anyone to do what she asks, OR mom needs to be a martyr, gets walked all over, and does everything herself. But there’s a happy third option in which we work in partnership with our kids, a place where there’s mutual respect, a place where we can ask instead of demand. If you had a roommate who had a persistent habit of leaving his dirty socks on the couch, would you be mean to him in order to solve the problem?
You’d have a respectful conversation. Shouldn’t our children, these young people still figuring out how the world works, be given the same consideration? At the time of this writing, my second oldest is 19.
He recently started working a full-time job, and has to wear a uniform shirt. I do laundry on Friday, and I told him I’d be happy to wash any shirts that he’s put in the hamper. But he needs them done more often than that, so he runs his own load mid-week, without my ever having had to be mean about it. (He also sets his own alarm, gets himself showered, and gets to work on time, despite my never having been mean about any of that either)2) Her kids are pretty perpetually mad at her. She says her kids are pissed off at her “on the regular,” and that there is whining and complaining and crying. Color me confused.
Is there any other relationship in your life where pissing people off is your barometer for success? If you were constantly pissing your friends off, or your spouse, or your co-workers, you would (one would hope) think about why it’s occurring and what adjustments need to be made.
Why, if it’s your kids, would it suddenly be something to pat yourself on the back about? If your kids are constantly mad at you, something is wrong. Yes, we’re all human. Yes, people get mad sometimes.
But if you’re deliberately causing anger, that’s something that needs to be addressed. It is not a sign of good parenting, and it’s certainly not a sign of a good relationship.I look at it this way: Sometimes, as parents, we’re going to have to make decisions that will make our kids angry, especially when it comes to matters of safety. (I’m thinking of the toddler that REALLY wants to stick the paper clip in the electrical outlet.) Sometimes, because of their own personal issues, our kids are going to be angry at us through no fault of our own.
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Maybe they’re angry about something else, and we’re the safe ones to dump their feelings on. Maybe life’s unfair and they’re angry at everyone and anything. (We’ve all been there) Maybe their hormones are going crazy, and the fallout just happens to head in our direction. Both of those things are okay, and are even inevitable at some point in time. But constantly treating our kids in a way that makes them angry? It’s not kind, and it’s not something to celebrate.And finally,3) I’M THE PARENT, NOT THE FRIEND.
True story: I was telling my kids about this blog post while we were eating dinner, and one of my teens said, “Why why why why WHY do people think that being parents and friends are mutually exclusive?” Indeed.Not only do I think it’s possible, but I think it’s hugely important to be both parents and friends with your kids. Parents are protectors.
They raise, they guide, they nurture, they provide care. Real, true friends? Friends have your back. They’re your confidantes. They listen when you need to talk.
They give honest advice. They make you laugh. They’re your shoulder when you need to cry. They call you out on your poor choices. They are your biggest cheerleaders, and your soft place to fall. They’re the ones who stand on a wall and say, “Nobody’s going to hurt you. Not on my watch.” Why on earth would anyone not want to be that person for their kids?
For me, my friendship and my parenting with my kids is so intertwined, I could never separate the two. And I wouldn’t want to!
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In fact, my kids are some of my very best friends, and exactly the kind of people I choose to have in my life. They are kind, they are considerate, they are funny, they are intelligent. They inspire me to be a better person. If I took some sort of moral stance against being their friend, I would truly be missing out on one of the very best parts of parenting. Yes, I’m my children’s friend, and make no apologies for it.—————————————————————–My kids aren’t perfect, and Lord knows I’m not perfect either. We’re all just humans, doing our best, navigating this human thing together.
But this much I know: if I always try to lead with love, kindness, gentleness, and respect, I’m headed in the right direction. Tegan is a freshly minted 12 year old at the time of this writing. She loves her friends, her hedgehog and Stranger Things.
She’s a singer and an actor and a story teller. She’s super into skin care, loves experimenting with makeup, and carries her ionic hairbrush everywhere she goes. Things like dating are not even on her radar.But let me back up a little bit.Yesterday a really lovely lifestyle blogger shared a picture of her little girl and her husband. Her absolutely precious daughter was wearing a set of pajamas that read, “Sorry boys, Daddy says no dating.” I generally get bored reading comments that number in the hundreds, but 99% of what I did read said the same things: “So cute!” “Adorable!” “So funny!” Always the odd man out, I didn’t find it cute or adorable OR funny.
In fact, I find it kind of gross.The toddlers that these pajamas are made for are not going to be thinking of dating for several years. Let’s just start there. These are children, and to sexualize them in this way is creepy.But that’s actually not my biggest problem.Our children are not our property. Shirts like this, as well as the common trope of dad scaring off the boys with a shotgun, suggest otherwise. My daughter’s future dating life, as well as her body, belong to her, not to her father.
We might find it cute and funny to joke about dad and his shotgun, or about his beating the boys off with a stick, or otherwise intimidating anyone who dares come to the door. But it’s not cute. It’s controlling, and it contributes to the overarching problem of the male patriarchy.When Tegan eventually brings a boy. to the house, he will be welcomed, not turned away. He’ll be talked to, not interrogated.
He’ll be shown respect, not intimidation. In short, he’ll be treated like every other friend they bring through the door. Friends who I’ve come to love as my own children.Does that mean then that there wouldn’t be a conversation if she were dating someone that was toxic or otherwise unkind? Of course not.
Do I think it’s super likely that she will choose someone who is toxic or otherwise unkind? Not especially. She, along with her brothers, have so far shown a remarkable maturity in being able to set boundaries for themselves, and to distance themselves from unhealthy relationships.
They possess a friend-picker that is far more refined than any I had at their ages.Does that I mean I don’t think there will ever be problems? Will there be bumps, and hiccups, and missteps, and heartbreaks? Communication is paramount, and we’ll navigate the world of dating like everything else: as partners, not adversaries. I want my kids to be able to be open with me, about anything.
Using controlling stances and scare tactics pretty much closes that door. Dating is just another chapter in the parenting playbook, one that we’ll figure out with time, patience, and mutual respect.And it will never, ever involve threats of being met at the door with a shotgun.————————————————————————————-. I used the word boy because at this point in time, it appears to be the most likely. But a girl would be equally accepted. Billie Eilish is an 18 year old former unschooler who just won five Grammys, including Best New Artist and Song of the Year. She broke records in the process.
Crazy successful by most people’s standards, she also has a close-knit, loving family (she co-writes with her brother, and calls him her best friend), and still lives in the same two bedroom home she grew up in. I think she’s amazing. Of course, being such a huge public personality also means she has her vocal detractors. Yesterday, I read one such detractor bemoaning how “dark” her lyrics were, and how she shouldn’t be someone to look up to, since she’s spoken about and written about depression and mental health. The best part? When she said, “ThOsE wItH mEnTaL hEaLtH iSsUeS aReNt SuCesSfUlL.” (Weird emphasis is hers.)Now, I don’t want to spend any more time talking about an ignorant, and obviously categorically untrue, statement. But I do want to say that those with mental illnesses are absolutely successful, and that success doesn’t have to look like five Grammys.
People working a 9 to 5 job are successful. People going to school are successful. People who are raising babies are successful. And sometimes?
Sometimes just getting out of bed and breathing in and out is a lot of work in and of itself. And that’s successful too.But because the world seems to like the “big” success stories, I wanted to share a – partial – list of some celebrities that have been vocal about working and living with mental illnesses. I share this list for 1) the people who have mental illnesses and may doubt themselves because of it, 2) the people who are afraid to speak up because of the stigma that still exists, and 3) the people who just need a little bit of encouragement. Anything is possible, and having a mental illness does not have to stop you from living out your dreams, no matter what those dreams might be.
In fact, it may even help! I still maintain that the same part of my brain that gives me bipolar also gives me my creativity.A couple caveats on the list: Many people fall into more than one category (as do I), but I only listed them in one just to make an already lengthy list shorter. Also, I only included the celebrities that have spoken themselves about their illness, not celebrities that have been speculated about / diagnosed by strangers. And finally, I only included a few of the possibilities. For example, there are no categories for PTSD, eating disorders, or addiction, all of which many celebrities have been open about as well.
When Tegan was a toddler, I used to write a lot about her on my blog. In fact, her antics were what inspired me to write, which is the post that brought a lot of you to my blog for the first time. Can you believe she is turning TWELVE in a few days?! I write about the kids less and less as they get older, partly for privacy reasons, and partly just because things change and seasons shift. But yesterday, I woke up to a Tegan message that made me laugh, and I told her she should write a blog post for me sometime (while she was eating chicken, as you’ll read down below.) She is still the same sassy, spunky, kid she was when she was three, and I couldn’t possibly love her more.
Here is her original message to me, and her first ever blog post. I started slipping sometime in November.Looking back, it’s always hard to pinpoint an exact moment in time, but I do know it was in November. I saw my doctor on November 7th. I’d just weaned off a medication (a medication that, in retrospect, was working very well for me) because of some side effects that were starting to interfere with my life. To her credit, she promptly said, “Okay, let’s see what we should replace it with.” And me being well, me full of confidence and bravado, said, “I feel good.
I’d like to just try going without it and see if the mood stabilizer is enough on its own.” (Spoiler: It wasn’t.)I had maybe a good week or two after that, and then I slowly, slowly started going off the rails. I was completely free-falling by Christmas, and had all but crashed and burned by the new year.It’s always such a hard thing to describe to someone who’s never been there, but picture this:You’re walking (Alone. You’re always alone) in a black forest. It’s getting blacker by the day. You’re getting consumed by the blackness. While you’re walking, you’re forced to pick up and carry everything you come across: Rocks.
Fallen trees. You can’t put anything down. You have to keep walking as your load gets bigger and bigger.
You can’t do anything else. Your entire lot in life has become carrying this crushing weight through the forest.I walked through that forest for nearly three months. Every now and then a hand would appear through the blackness. Sometimes I’d acknowledge it. Sometimes I’d even hold it. But I never, ever let it pull me out. For reasons that are unbeknownst to me, there is comfort in the blackness.
There is familiarity in the blackness. There is safety in the blackness.
Leaving that forest is scary, unfamiliar, and too. So once again, I gave in. Gave in to the darkness.
Gave in to the ever-present weight of the burden on my back.Until I couldn’t do it anymore.Because the thing is, that pile you carry? Eventually it gets so high and precarious and unwieldy that a simple leaf could cause the whole thing to topple, crushing you under its weight.This time that leaf came in the form of a Facebook comment. It wasn’t even a mean comment. It was a condescending comment for sure, but it wasn’t mean.
On a healthy day, it would be a minor annoyance. On January 28th?
It was the last proverbial straw on the camel’s back. It was the tiny little leaf that upset the balance enough to cause everything to fall. It was the thing that caused the weight of the world to finally crush me and bring me harshly and violently and helplessly down to my knees.
It was the thing that felt like it would very likely kill me.Something inside me finally broke. My reaction to the comment was so swift and so severe that I had no control over it. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.
The events that followed came from a primal, guttural place that just completely took over. First, I deactivated my blog’s Facebook page (the scene of the comment slash leaf), then I deactivated my personal page. Then Messenger. Then Instagram. Then my blog itself.
The official party line is that I just “needed a break” – which, to be fair, isn’t entirely untrue – but that’s not why I did it. It was so much deeper than that. In that moment, in that frantic and desperate moment, I was trying to get rid of myself. To get away from the agony that was emanating from within me. I was trying to escape the pain, but the pain was coming from INSIDE ME, so there was nowhere I could go. Somehow scrubbing myself off the internet felt like an immediate solution.Except it wasn’t.My internet massacre did nothing to stop what was happening, and I am indescribably thankful that I somehow still had the presence of mind to do what I did next.First, I called my doctor, and jumped in on a cancellation that had fortuitously just opened up for the next day.
Then, I called Mike at work, and while I will never remember the exact words I said, the overall message was this: “I am not okay. COME HOME NOW.”For the next forty minutes I sat shaking and crying on the couch, while a friend tried to keep me in this stratosphere by reminding me to breathe, and asking me what I could see and feel and touch. (My pajama pants were fuzzy, and that felt very important at the time.)Later, once he got home, Mike would ask me if I was safe. I answered with a rather vague, “Well you’re standing right next to me. You can see I’m safe.”But the fact is, when I called him, I felt absolutely, very much, Not. And it wasn’t even that I thought I was going to harm myself, although to be brutally honest I don’t really know what would have happened if I hadn’t made those phone calls. Still, it was something more visceral than that.
It was more like the depression had given birth to a panic attack, but a panic attack unlike anything I’d ever experienced before (and I am WELL VERSED in panic attacks). I was being eaten alive from the inside out, with a fierceness and voracity so severe that I was certain I was going to die. Right there, right in the middle of my kitchen, on a random Tuesday afternoon. And I felt powerless to stop it.I had officially reached rock bottom.What happened over the next few days was nothing more than a blur. Everything happened under a thick, thick fog. It wasn’t painful anymore, but only because I’d completely lost any capacity to feel. Except I wasn’t.
I saw my doctor the day after I’d broken down, and we decided on a new medication to add to my cocktail. She made me promise I was safe, that I would call if I needed her, and made a follow-up appointment for four weeks. I then spent the next several days waiting. In that horrible interim space of wondering if a new medication is going to eventually help me, or if it’s going to make my intestines explode, or both. I was dizzy and nauseous for three days, felt physically better by day four, and started seeing slivers of light through the clouds on day six. I felt loved and supported by the few people who knew what was going on, and my family was amazing as always.I still have all my social media locked down, but now it’s because I want to focus on getting well without the distraction (and also because I think it’s probably healthier for me to stay away for the time being). And while I’m writing this post on February 6th, I have no idea when I’m going to push “publish.” But eventually, I will.
Because eventually I’ll be me again.As for now? Each day is getting a little bit better than the last, which is bringing a cautious optimism. The forest isn’t as thick.
The load isn’t as heavy. The sky isn’t as black.
I’m starting to see colors again. I’m remembering what it feels like to laugh. If I were a broken leg, I’d be out of traction, but still need to wear a cast for 6 to 8 weeks.And so, I’ll focus on getting better, being gentle with myself, and doing my very best not to beat myself up too badly up for the fact that I should have gotten help sooner.All while being grateful as hell for the timing of the patronizing internet stranger that set off the chain that finally stripped me raw and forced me to address the bleeding.
I just recently learned that Drag Queen Story Hour is a thing. It’s exactly what it sounds like: people dressed in drag reading stories to children at libraries, bookstores, and schools. I haven’t really thought about it long enough to have an opinion about it (and my kids are all well past story time hour age). But it did make me think of Provincetown.If you’re not aware, Provincetown – also dubbed P-Town – is a tourist town on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. It’s known for, well, tourists, as well as its high population of local and visiting LGBTQ folks. We actually ran into our favorite bank teller there once, back when we still did our banking inside an actual bank. He was a very sweet gay man named Eric, and he was there with a friend or partner.
We said a mutually surprised and friendly hello (doesn’t it feel weird when you run into people outside of your normal environment of interaction??) and all went on our merry way.Anyway, growing up on the east coast, we went to Cape Cod fairly often, and always spent at least one evening strolling around Provincetown. It was the best place to go for salt water taffy, and it was fun perusing all the different shops selling everything you didn’t know you always needed.One year, we were staying there with a bunch of extended family, and as we were about to embark on our customary trip down to P Town, the question was asked, “What are you going to tell the kids??” Meaning, what were we going to tell the kids about all the LGBTQ people, and/or people in drag that we were going to see.First, let me say that parents tend to way over-complicate this question. It’s a very easy thing to say, “Those two men are holding hands because they love each other, just like your dad and I love each other.” Done and done.Two, it’s not like people are having sex in the street.
Fun fact: once when we were at a family friendly Rattlers football game, a young (heterosexual) couple directly in front of us was canoodling so hard I was about to offer them a condom. I’ve never seen anything remotely as overt at Provincetown.But what about the people in drag??
It’s definitely true that there are a lot of people dressed in drag, especially in the evening. I remember they would stand outside their venue, greeting people, handing out fliers, and otherwise mingling with all the salt-water-taffy shoppers. A child would likely, and understandably, ask questions about that. They stand out. They want to stand out. But that’s also an easy question to answer: “Some men like to dress up in fancy dresses and wear makeup.” Full stop.But it’s sexual!
It’s a fetish! Maybe, maybe not. But that’s not something children need to be aware of. People fetishize (I’m being told that’s not a word. I’m keeping it anyway) a lot of things. Children don’t need to be aware of that either.It’s only a big deal if we make it a big deal.Children don’t care, nor need to know, about the ins and outs (no pun intended) of what adults may choose to do behind closed doors.
Simply SEEING a gay couple, or a transgender person, or an individual dressed in drag, is not going to harm them. If we’re uncomfortable with it, that’s an “us” problem, not a “them” problem. No one is trying to recruit them. No one is trying to turn them gay.I’m far more concerned about my children witnessing unkindness, or violence, or prejudice.I’m not afraid of a man in high heels and a wig, and I don’t want my children to be, either.
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AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
March 2023
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