day 141. these are the days of miracles.

Ten years ago today my mother watched a miracle pull up the driveway in the form of a cop car. Two police officers stepped out of that car, walked into the bed and breakfast where she and her boyfriend had been hiding out for four months, and arrested the man that had been holding her heart captive for the last four years.

At 49 years old my mother was broken, penniless, and now – thanks to an unexpected miracle – free.

I was 16. And I was angry.

Angry at God. Angry at the world. But most of all, angry at my mother.

Having spent the past four years being put through hell by the man that she had loved enough to abandon my sister and I, I had a lot to be angry about.

Ten years ago today, in spite of the miracle that had occurred at 9:14am at a little B&B on the coast, I went to bed believing, as I had since that January, that my mother was dead.

It would be the next night when I arrived home to hear her voice on my answering machine, that I would learn she was still alive.

I can still recall the flashing red light on our blue and white answering machine. I remember pressing it and hearing her voice. “It’s me.” she said, “I’m alive. I understand if you don’t want to speak me. I just wanted to tell you that I love you. And I am so sorry. “

Hearing those words was like listening to a ghost. I pressed the big blue button on the machine again. I needed to be certain that her voice was real.

It would be another month before I heard her speak again. I learned later that my father had told her she was not allowed to speak to my sister and I until she had proved she could be trusted. (After four years of lies and broken promises this was not an unreasonable request – although given that she was my mother not his, I did harbour some resentment that I was not consulted.)

During this period, she had sent a letter to what she had thought was my email address. It was responded to with “You are not my mother. Please don’t email me.” She assumed that I had disowned her as a mother and figured that she deserved this. After all, in her eyes and in ours, she had failed us. Regardless of what she thought was my wish though, she kept sending the emails to assure me, that in spite of all the mistakes she had made, she did in fact love my sister and I deeply. She didn’t want her failure to be the end of the story.

It wasn’t until she decided to disobey my father’s orders and called me up shortly after my seventeenth birthday that she learned she had been sending her emails to the wrong address.

As she told me about the emails and the poor stranger who would write back each time with some configuration of “I am NOT your daughter” we both laughed. It was the first time either of us had done so in months.

Recovering one’s life after four years of emotional, psychological and physical abuse isn’t exactly funny stuff. But over the course of the past decade, as she has created miracles from the ashes that had become our lives, she has done so with laughter, with courage and with grace.

Tonight, as I read through the emails that she had inadvertently sent to the wrong recipient and later forwarded to me, I realized just how much courage sending those words must have taken her. How afraid she must have been that she would never speak to my sister or I again. But even in the face of our anger (and at times we could be fierce) my mother continued to put her love for us first.

Today, ten years after a cop car pulled up into the driveway of a B&B at 9:14 on a Wednesday in May, her life is whole, rich and she is truly free.

Today, my mother called me to tell me that she had published a report for the organization she works with and had failed to notice that the word “Count” had been spelled without the “O”. A month after it having been sent to numerous other agencies, she was notified by a client today. She didn’t call to tell me that she had failed as an editor; she called because she thought I would find it funny. And I did. But more than that, I realized as she relayed this foible of hers to me, that ten years later, my mother is still teaching me how to approach failure with laughter, with courage and with grace.

 

day 140. sucker-punching my ego.

I was speaking with a good friend recently who confided that she had been struggling with a little thing called her ego. She didn’t like to admit it, but she had come to a place where she was unhappy with with where she was at, because she believed, given her credentials and her age, that she deserved to be somewhere else. She told me of how she was learning to combat her feelings of entitlement with a tool that she referred to as “gratitude”.

As she began to tell me what she was grateful for, there was a noticeable lightness to her. It was not just her eyes that were brighter, it was her whole being. In the shift out of her ego and into gratitude, I could see that this incredibly capable and brilliant friend of mine had become unstoppable in designing a life that she truly loves.

As she shared her secret with me, I realized that although it was not her intention, her words were presenting me with an incredible opportunity to look at where in my life my ego is getting the better of me.

So I looked. And the results weren’t pretty.

The ego is a funny creature. It fools each of us into thinking it’s keeping us safe, when what it’s really doing is keeping us small. I can only really speak for my ego, but I would say it spends 99% of it’s time  trying to make me look good. You’d think that looking good would be a good thing, but what I discovered as I did some inventory on my ego this weekend, is that always trying to look good is actually detrimental to my health, my happiness and the quality of my relationships. “Looking good” actually prevents me from being real.

Take for instance my relationship with my ass. This morning I caught a glimpse of it in the mirror and my ego said “Girl. You are twenty six years old, why does your butt look like your grandmas? Did you know all your friends have butts that look like supermodels. For the rest of this summer, you are not allowed to wear shorts-and you are definitely forbidden from wearing a swimsuit. Trust me. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself by looking bad next to a bunch of swimsuit models.”

And you want to know the crazy thing? Not only did I believe my ego, but I actually had to hold back tears because there is a part of me that feels that I am somehow entitled to have an ass that looks like Giselle’s and Alejandra’s. And the fact that I don’t makes me really mad.

How does this affect my relationships you ask? If my ego wins this one, I am going to spend my entire summer avoiding any possibility of having to be seen in public wearing either shorts or a bathing suit. I live a block from the beach and plan to run a half marathon in August-if I don’t get grateful for the fact that I have a bum at all, I’m about to spend an entire summer alone.

So, I’ve decided to sock it to my ego where it’ll really hurt, and I’m going to start on a steady diet of gratitude.

Gratitude for the body I was born with. The one that is unique and beautiful because it allows me to dance and sing and run and swim in the ocean. Gratitude for the career that I’m just starting now at twenty six years old-because I know that all the education in the world couldn’t have prepared me to the same extent that my life has. Gratitude for the money I don’t make because it’s teaching me to be resourceful. Gratitude for what I do earn-because I make it in the company of incredible people.

There is so much I have to be grateful for. Things that might not necessarily make me look good to the outside world or to my ego, but nevertheless make me who I am and lead me to the creation of a life I love.

 

 

 

 

day 139. a kid again.

Remember water balloon fights? And tag? And Red Rover? Remember anxiously awaiting the opening of the community pool? Remember playing in the dirt and jumping in puddles? Remember the dress-up chest and licking the cookie dough from the bowl?

Today as I watched a young brother and sister playing hide and seek between the racks of clothes in the store where I work, I thought of my own childhood and wished that life was still filled with all the wonder and excitement that it had back then.

Aside from the old black and white set reserved for sick days, television was forbidden in my childhood home. This meant that my sister and I were forced to develop rather wild imaginations as we sought to entertain ourselves without the aid of cable T.V.

I am reminded of just how wild they turned out to be whenever I see a dachshund now. What does a dachshund have to do with a lack of Shaw on Demand? Well, we had a family dog named Bella (who was a Bouvier/Bearded Collie) and each night we would accompany our dad to the local dog park with her. Along with Bella, L and I would also take our six delightful wiener dogs on this nightly stroll. While there is enough photographic evidence to prove that Bella did in fact exist, our six dachshunds were much beloved figments of our overactive imaginations. I cannot even begin to fathom how strange other dog owners must have thought we were as we chased around a pack of invisible wiener dogs.

On top of being avid dog walkers, L and I were also champion figure skaters. Given though that our rink consisted of kitchen tile and our skates were devised from the multiple pair of socks we would wear, we never did end up making it to the Olympics.

I feel it might also be worth mentioning that I have an ample background in the aquatic arts. I’m not actually referring to the two years I spent in synchronized swimming though, I’m speaking to my past experience as a mermaid.

Sometimes I think my reluctance to swim in the ocean now is that I have a secret fear that if I become immersed in salt water it will lead to my transformation back into a mythical creature with a scaly tail. See, my bathtub was actually a portal into the Pacific Ocean. Whenever my mom filled the tub with enough bubbles, L and I would swim beneath the waves to explore the depths of the deep blue sea. On these magical journeys we befriended countless dolphins and sea turtles and met numerous other merpeople who would lead us on daring adventures.

Of course, if I was to exhibit any of the aforementioned behaviours these days, I would likely be committed.

Which quite frankly is rather sad.

Can you imagine how much more fun our world would be if we didn’t stop testing the limits of our imaginations?

What if instead of going to the bar on a friday night we all built a giant fort out of pillows and blankets? What if we wore our underpants over our outerpants and declared ourselves superheroes? What if we held a steadfast belief in the power of sidewalk cracks and didn’t censor all the questions that we have?

What if we played make believe about kings and queens and dragons instead of playing make believe in jobs and relationships where we know we don’t belong? What if we could solve all conflicts with a thumb war and The Golden Rule? What if happiness could still be found in a glass of pink lemonade and a ride on a merry-go-round?

What if it was actually kind of adorable to sing and dance in public spaces not usually reserved for singing and dancing? What if, like my sister used to do, we slept with our pajamas under our real clothes so that we could sleep in a little extra in the morning?

I watched two children play today and longed for the freedom that they had. The way they were so clearly at home in themselves. And I wondered, where did the child that I once was go? What happened to the girl that used to walk six imaginary wiener dogs and swim with mermaids before bedtime? And what can I do now to get that kind of unadulterated freedom back?

 

 

 

 

 

 

day 138. the crimson tide.

When I was in the third grade my friend Carmen told me that I had to stop wearing white pants in case my Aunt Flo decided to arrive. Carmen had two older sisters and was an expert on all subjects that our formal education had yet to cover by the third grade. I, of course, had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

She must have read the stunned look on my face, because she whispered in my ear, “once a month you’re going to bleed.” I thought she was referring to a nose bleed and had no idea what that had to do with white pants until she looked around and put her lips to my ear again, “Down. There.”

I was horrified. She told me it was actually called “my period” and only girls got it, not boys.

I had of course heard the word period before as my mother had told me that when I got this mysterious initiation to womanhood (that didn’t have anything to do with punctuation as far as I could surmise) I was allowed to get my ears pierced and paint my nails.

Now I was conflicted. I had been anticipating the arrival of this “sacred right of passage” and now that I knew what it was, I wasn’t sure I really wanted to wear earrings and nail polish after all. I had also hoped that Carmen’s reputation as a bit of a make-believer might turn out to be true.

Two years later in my fifth grade health class, I discovered the wretched facts . Carmen was not a liar and I was doomed to another who knew how many years of wearing only dark colored pants. (It was 1995 and pastel was all the rage.)

Unfortunately I was what one might refer to as a late bloomer and Aunt Flo didn’t end up making an appearance until the summer before eighth grade. Naturally, it just had to show up on the weekend I was staying at my dad’s house.

I remember seeing the long anticipated streak of blood and immediately bursting into tears. The following memories are a bit of a blur, but I seem to recall the utter embarrassment of my dad calling my mom to ask what the heck he was supposed to do.

The transition from being a girl to being a woman was not exactly how I had imagined it would be. At this point I had already convinced my mother that I should be allowed to wear nail polish and the thought of a nail puncturing my earlobe had lost its appeal. Therefore, my entry into womanhood was made without much ritual or fanfare.

The beginning of puberty did however mark my transition from “Anorexic Alexic” (the name I was christened by the seventh grade boys) into a shape they now referred to as “fat.”. (In retrospect this was far from the reality, but at thirteen years old nicknames have a tendency to take on more meaning than they deserve.)

And thus began the story of how I came to loathe my body. And why that dreadful monthly visitor became an unwelcome guest that convinced me that being a woman was both revolting and annoying.

To be entirely honest, I still have difficulty welcoming the arrival of my monthly visitor. Which is why I’m bringing it up now.

Today as I attempted to calm the agony that invades my ovaries on a regular basis, I wondered why I have never been able to view my time of the month with the same kind of reverence as my mother and various yoga teachers do. Am I some sort of jaded twenty-first century girl who would rather be a man than have to endure another week long bout of pain and cervical suffering?

Because I’ve watched the tampon commercials that portray girls on their periods, and the only thing they make me think is that they are all a bunch of liars. If my failed attempt at a run yesterday was any indication of what periods are actually like, they bare no resemblance to kittens and rainbows and running the free world.

In fact, just thinking about the frequent plight my body endures makes me want to come up with some sort of “period cure”.

But since I’m not all that scientific it looks like for the time being I have to embrace the way I was created. I have to accept that my body is constantly changing and that in spite of what id like it do do I’m going to run my heart out and wear pastels and white pants anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

day 137. write here. write now.

It still amazes me that every time I sit down at my computer to input my daily entry, I find something to write about. I recognize that sometimes I blather on in a nonsensical way, sometimes my narrative is crap, and that more often than not my punctuation and grammar could use a little help sometimes. But at least I’m committed to the process anyway.

It is coming to my attention though, that due to certain time restraints and a recent bout of insomnia, I’ve been letting my life get a little bit boring.

Which poses a problem when according to my sources, the key to great writing is to do (or at least bear witness to) interesting things.

In light of that fact, and because I’m in big trouble if I run out of things to say, I’m devising a plan to make the next six months non-boring.

step one: turn off the T.V.

It has become a nightly ritual that after a lengthy day at our respective places of employment, J and I come home and turn on our version of a T.V. (We don’t have cable or a television so Netflix and a projector have become our main mode of tuned-out entertainment.) It has come to my attention that watching entire seasons of Mad Men in a week does little to fuel my writing nor does it make life more interesting. So, from this day forth, if I’m going to veg out on the couch, it’s going to be because I’m reading the pile of books I want to read or finally picking up the guitar I’ve had since I was 18 that I still don’t know how to play.

step two: get a bathing suit

This one terrifies me. A) It means I’ll have to go bathing suit shopping, and B) As much as I love the Ocean, I never actually go in. But I’ve been wanting to learn how to stand-up paddle board, kayak, and not suck at beach volleyball and swimming for a while now. So once the sun makes it’s appearance, Now is the time.Which means from now until September, if you want to know where to find me on my days off, head to the beach.

step three: schedule work. schedule play.

I supposedly volunteer for a non-profit that means the world to me. I say supposedly volunteer, because lately I have let the ball drop entirely. The work I committed to has been sitting on the back burner because I’ve been a disaster at balancing my paid work, my sweat and my play. Fact: When I don’t feel like I’m contributing to Project True (aka making a tangible difference in the world) I feel shitty. So, I’m breaking out the daytimer that’s been gathering dust in one of my purses, and I’m about to get seriously awesome at life again.

step three: do more yoga.

I know that my yoga mat is the most reliable source of anti-writers block, and yet somehow I have let my yoga practice slide to make time for other sources of sweating. As much as I love what running and barre have done for my strength, yoga is essential to my spiritual and creative well-being. So from here on out, I’m committed to my practice and therefore committing to a balanced and beautiful life.

step four: be write here, right now.

I’ve been stressing out about what will be, which is making it hard to be present to the magic that surrounds me. It is my greatest challenge as a natural born worrier. But this summer, because I’ll be working on steps one through three, I’m going to practice living in the moment and discovering the art of simply being.

So there you have it, my foolproof plan for increased levels of presence, awesomeness and productivity. Stay tuned as I recount what is sure to be a summer of incredible adventures (or at least a far cry from what it would be if I’d decided to continue hanging out with my self pity and my television screen).

day 136. skinny genes.

Does knowing you are completely delusional make it not so? Because I know that my self-image is slightly dysmorphic, but it doesn’t make my reflection any more beautiful.

See, I’m having a bit of a total meltdown. You’d think I’d have gotten over myself by now, but apparently my neurotic tendencies decided to stick around for a while.

It all began this weekend when I went to put on my white pants for opening day at the Yacht Club. (Yes I do realize that the previous sentence sounds completely ridiculous, but trust me I am not as glamorous or exciting as it sounds)

You know the saying “No white pants after labour day”? Well, the reverse of that rule occurs each year on opening day of sailing clubs around the world. J’s parents have a sailboat and each year, at the beginning of the summer months it is tradition that everyone adheres to the white and blue dress code and celebrates a fresh start to the sailing season by heading out on the boat.

Last year I bought a pair of crisp white jeans for the occasion. This year, I had to wear a nautical striped dress with a pair of cut-off Wunder Unders underneath. Not because I was determined to wear my Wunder Unders, but because I could barely get my Opening Day jeans over my thighs.

I didn’t want to care when I tried to zip them up and discovered they don’t fit anymore. But Oh God, I did care. And I still do.

I care that my body is taking a shape that is unrecognizable.That there is a softness that envelopes my bones that didn’t used to. I care that my flesh is spilling out of clothes that once hung from the edges of my frame. That I can’t seem to stop myself from saying yes to breakfast, lunch and dinner and dessert.

That what was once forbidden has become all that I long for.

I didn’t want to mourn the loss of my skinny jeans, but I do.

I miss the way the space between the denim and my skin told me that I had everything under control.

I mourn the way that people looked at me. Their envy. Their pity.

I didn’t want to. But I do.

I wanted to recover from my E.D. without the inevitable gaining of pounds. I wanted to change the inside of me but have everything else remain the same.

I should have known better. Known that the women in my family whose bodies are lithe and lean are only that way because they have starved themselves too. I should have known that after years of denying myself the right to enjoy the things I love (namely, wine and bread and chocolate and cheese) that I would want to make up for my self-inflicted deprivation.

I should have known too that after months of keeping myself distracted, I would slow down for a moment and realize the cold hard truth; Recovery doesn’t happen unless you are willing to change it all.

Your habits. Your thoughts. Your heart. Your body. Your mind.

You can’t give up your eating disorder without giving up your skinny jeans too. (I think my therapist might have told me this, but at the time I chose to ignore her.)

Today my white jeans are sitting in a bag of other clothes that no longer fit me by the front door. I have intended to take the bag to Covenant House this week. I know my old clothes will find a good home on someone else.

But I can’t seem to part with them. It is as if in doing so I am admitting to the part of me that is still dying to be thin that I’m not ever going to be that thin again.

So tonight, I’m changing my mind.

And tomorrow, I’m going to tell those jeans that what I’m not going to be is sick again. And I will donate them to someone with skinnier genes than I, and I will let go of one more thing that is preventing me from loving the whole of who I am.

 

 

 

day 135. i was here.

When translated into the English language, the Inuit word Inukshuk means “in the likeness of a human”.

Found throughout the circumpolar world, these gravity-defying stone monuments have been used for thousands of years as a means of communication and survival by the Inuit people.

It is believed that the traditional meaning of an inuksuk was to say “Someone was here” or to let future adventurers know “You are on the right path.”

Tonight as I ran along the seawall that heads toward English Bay, I stopped to take a picture of the sun setting behind the inuksuk that has become a landmark of this city since it was erected there in 1987.

Along that stretch of seawall one can spot dozens of smaller stone monuments that have been carefully placed atop larger rocks by patient sculptors. Although these modern forms lack the geographical meaning of their ancient predecessors, they are stunning structures in both their simplicity and in they way that they remain upright against the odds.

Across the arctic circle, one can still find inuksuks that were placed there hundreds of years ago. I imagine that for the semi nomadic people of the far north, these structures were a welcome sight as they traveled across the vast landscape to find shelter and food. I wonder if the people who placed them there knew that they were reaching forward into time, sending messages to future generations?

I look at these structures and begin to wonder about my own ancestors. What structures did they put in place to mark the way? Did they know that one day I would be here? Did they know that one day a strange girl would want to uncover the stories they left behind?

I realize that there is no answer to this question. I can trace my lineage back a hundred years or so, but after that, I don’t even know who my ancestors are. I can look only into my own heart and hope that I am somehow on the right path.

My traditions, my history, my identity have all been created in a modern age. And like my ancestors left only mysteries in their wake, I have a sinking feeling that a thousand years from now, there will be no evidence that I was here.

I am afraid that in my wake, I am only leaving behind destruction. That my footprint upon the earth is far more detrimental than a pillar of stones. And if this is the case, if the legacy I am leaving behind is my consumption and my pillaging of the earth, will there even be predecessors to wonder if I was here?

 

 

 

day 134. right to speak.

I should begin by saying that as much as I wish it were not the case, I am completely ignorant when it comes to the political processes of nations around the globe-including my own. Whenever I attempt to follow politics, I inevitably become bored and quickly move on to far more pressing topics. Like what Angelina wore at the Golden Globes. (I know, I’m an embarrassment to Democracy, feel free to cast your judgement upon me now)

That being said, in the summer of 2011 J and I spent six weeks travelling from Johannesburg to Capetown. During our time in South Africa, the country was engaged in the process of municipal elections. Wherever we went, talk inevitably turned to politics. As visitors in a country with a political history vastly different from the Canadian experience, J and I were eager to understand the political climate and followed the election via our hosts and local media.We heard various opinions on why the government was corrupt, the democratic system skewed, why certain leaders should or should not be elected, and accounts of the history of ups and downs that has been politics in South Africa over the course of the last 40 years.

After a month-long visit, you would think I would be able to better recall the platforms and promises of the ANC or the DA parties, or be able to at least give you a break down on how the democratic process in South Africa works, but quite honestly I know as much about the way the system works in South Africa as I can recall from my eighth grade social studies classes on the Canadian electoral process. In other words, I haven’t the slightest idea.

What I do remember about election day in South Africa though, was seeing parades of thousands of men and women (many of whom were barefoot and/or carrying multiple small children) walking along the highways for miles and miles to get to the polling station on time.

As I watched these men and women showing up for the future of their country, I realized how for granted I had taken my right to vote as a Canadian citizen. Given that some of my childhood heroes included the likes of Nellie McClung and Emily Murphy, (who I later discovered in addition to being Suffragettes were also racists- but that’s beside the point) you would think that this epiphany would have come a bit earlier for me, but it took a trip to the other side of the world apparently.

Today, I showed up at the voting station (which was conveniently located a block from my house) and I waited in a two person line to cast my vote.

As I placed a check-mark next to my desired representative, I thought about the millions of people around the world that aren’t even afforded the right to vote. People who have no choice in who the leaders of their countries will be, let alone in the manner in which they will govern them.

I realized, as I thought of the voiceless millions, that the little X on my ballot represents so much more than my support of the Liberals or the Conservatives or the NDP. That little X means that I support democracy.

For regardless of how corrupt or flawed I think the government might be, or how disenchanted and disillusioned I’ve been with the results of the past, my vote today means that I am in favour of a different tomorrow.

Today I wasn’t voting in the B.C. election, I was voting for a world in which one voice may not be louder or more powerful than the masses, but at least it counts for something.

day 133. my own cure.

I have struggled with depression for the better part of my life. I suppose it would be more accurate to say I battled it, because that is what it has felt like. A secret war I have waged against myself.

For approximately twenty years I chalked up my extreme emotions to a case of being crazy. I figured that I was born wrong. That God had made some horrible mistake in sending me here. At times I was convinced that I was possessed by evil. How else could the kind of hatred I had for myself be justified?

I would see my sister, who had been raised in the same world as I was, and I could not find an explanation for our extreme differences.  It seemed plausible to assume that there must be something terribly wrong with me. Something dark and terrible that nobody else could see.

Our personalities were night and day. Where she was adventurous, I was afraid of everything. Where she was witty, I was serious. Where she was so easy to get along with, I was difficult to read. At times my intensity must have been downright terrifying.

I am not sure if it was a blessing or a curse, but my sensitivity towards the darkness, meant I was also equally drawn towards the light. While I was easily moved to tears by sadness and anger, so too was I moved by joy and beauty.

I painted, I wrote, I sang. I danced, I read and I took to the stage. I wanted to escape the darkness by creating something beautiful that might erase the depth of my rage.

Of course, I didn’t realize that if I was going to conquer my demons, I would have to finally face them instead of just trying to escape.

Trying to escape finally landed me in a doctor’s office in January of 2012.

It was here, weighing 93 pounds and exhausted from the war that I’d been battling my whole life, that I finally surrendered to the idea that everything I had been doing was just not working for me.

I had seen people before-doctors and psychiatrists who had been quick to prescribe me drugs-and I’d refused their help. I figured if I was going to beat whatever it was that was eating at me, I was going to do it my way.

My Way meant I was not going to accept any fucking help from some concoction of chemicals that was bound to dull my creativity, my emotions, and most likely my sex-drive.

I don’t know what it was about that visit, I may have just been too tired to keep fighting, but I decided to give “treatment” a try.

And I really, really, really don’t like saying this, but I have little doubt that the little pills I took helped to save my life.

And I am the last person I ever though would say that, because even now, I remain pretty anti-anti-depressents. But if I’m going to be honest about my battle with depression and disordered eating, I’ve got to come clean about my use of them.

Using them was not a quick fix kind of decision. Nor was it my first choice. In fact, I even fought with one of the leading specialists on disordered eating in North America as to why I was going to beat my Bulimic behaviours and suicidal tendencies without them.

For years I had hoped that I could kick my mental illness in the face with a little yoga, some deep breathing and a solid dose of therapy. What I had to finally accept, was that given where I was at, I didn’t have the emotional (or the physical) strength to look at what I really needed to in order to finally address what was at the core of my deep shame and anger.

I was terrified to go on medication, but my doctor presented his case with a compassion that I had not seen from any other health professionals. After weighing my options and  hearing about the success of Prozac in the treatment of disordered eating and Major Depressive Disorder, I waved my white flag and filled out my prescription.

I have struggled for months about whether to write about my use of prescription drugs- not because of the controversy I know that the topic invites, but because there is a part of me that still feels like I must be really messed up if I needed a drug to save my life.

I am telling you about my year on Prozac, because it is a part of my journey. And now, as I am coming off of my meds and learning how to be in recovery without a little extra help, I am realizing how vital it is that I reconcile the guilt I feel over needing to be on them in the first place.

day 132. a mommy poem.

My mother is a storyteller.

A Scheherazade in an age of lost hopes and broken dreams.

She picks up words and images discarded on the streets,

And weaves them into masterpieces.

She is also a painter.

Give her a raw canvas and a brush-

She will craft the emptiness into something beautiful.

She is a sculptor too.

Her touch will warm the most stubborn of substances

Into something malleable.

In her hands,

hardened clay is transformed

Into priceless works of art.

She is a dancer too.

She doesn’t need a band or a beat-

She trusts in the wisdom of her own feet.

I know she is a dancer,

Because when I was a child

She would twirl with me as I clung to her hip

And we would spin until we were dizzy and nearly falling down.

My mother is a songwriter.

She listens to the music of her heartbeat

and sings it out loud.

She doesn’t always sing on key-

But she is a singer anyway because

When I was very small,

She would sing me to peace

With nothing but her voice and all the pretty little horsies.

But of all the things she is,

my mother is a poet most of all.

She notices the magic when no else is able to.

She hears the whispering in the trees

And the song in the sunshine.

She watches poetry forming

out of the silence and the darkness of the night.

 

My mother looks deep into the soul of the world

And reads between the lines

To discover all that is

Beautiful

All that is

Breakable

All that is lost

And all that is found.

She sees the world through the poet’s eyes

And writes the stories down.

She has a reverence for stillness,

Celebrates the chaotic and the joyful

And gives a voice to the secrets of the ones who have been left behind.

She has the kind of faith in the divine artistry of the universe

That only poets truly know.

My mother is a poet.

And her life is her greatest poem.