tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33642967080700373202024-03-05T02:08:53.883-06:00Contact Lens #21The conveying of thoughts.Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-37529586263655855232019-06-15T21:02:00.002-05:002019-06-15T21:07:50.666-05:00Father's Day 2019I watch Tony. <br />
<br />
Since 2000, I watched him be a father. I watched him give Devon bottles after carefully swaddling him. And I watched him clap at Devon's award ceremonies and laugh at Devon's silliness. It was just us three until 2004 and there were hundreds of times I watched him love his son. <br />
<br />
In 2004, I watched him learn how to change a girl baby's diaper. I watched him watch her getting her ears pierced, and I watched him pick out outfits for her. I watched him encourage a relationship between Layla and Devon, and I watched him guarantee fun family vacations in Tennessee and Florida. And many times, I watched him gently kiss their ouchies and say "All better?" <br />
<br />
In 2008, I watched him take in the news that Trent had Down syndrome and needed open heart surgery. I watched him take my hands as I cried. I watched him support me when I struggled with breastfeeding. I watched him take Trent to therapies and practice those skills. I watched him become an even more involved father. <br />
<br />
These days, I watch him gently wipe Trent's hands and face after a greasy hamburger. I watch him gaze at Trent with fierce love and protection. I watch him listen to Layla when she talks about fights with her friends. He knows how to empathize with her instead of rushing in to fix it. I watch him joke with Devon, both of them laughing at the same things. I watch him cook for our children, and I watch him help me with difficult conversations with the kids. <br />
<br />
Tomorrow, I will watch Tony celebrate another Father's Day with the crappy gifts I struggled to choose. He will cook his own steak and shrimp because I'm a horrible cook. He will thank the kids and I for our gifts and smile that handsome smile. The kids and I will smile as well. How could we not?<br />
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_190615_210150_059.sdoc-->Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-27620490924205549402018-10-23T19:53:00.001-05:002018-10-23T19:53:47.968-05:00The One Who Made Me a MotherOctober 26th is Devon's 18th birthday. He took 25 hours to enter this world and would have taken longer if the doctor hadn't said "Time for a c-section." Devon made me a mother and Tony a father, and although we were both so young, we gave ourselves and each other grace while we learned how to be parents.<br />
<br />
Devon is a remarkable young man. I'm sure there are things he has done that would make my hair even curlier, but I was once a teenager (and a wild one at that.) However, most of the things he has done have been confessed to me. He comes to me and feels comfortable telling me things, and that aspect of our relationship means more to me than any wild teenage thing he has ever done. He has a healthy respect for women, communication, and patience. His relationship with Trent is playful and loving. He and Layla may fight frequently, but that is normal, and I have no doubt he would be in her corner in a second if she needed him. <br />
<br />
He has his father's work ethic and sense of responsibility. He also has his father's concern for my emotions. He does chores without being asked most of the time. He is true to his word. He is a good friend.<br />
<br />
It hit me today that after the 26th, he could move out if he wanted to, and the tears came. I don't know how my first child will be 18 in three days. It is cliche to ask where the time has gone, but seriously, where has the time gone?<br />
<br />
He must register for selective service. I will make sure he registers to vote.<br />
<br />
We all know we love our kids, but there seems to be a switch for me at this time. I'm going from loving my kid to loving my adult son. He will leave the nest relatively soon. His room will become a catch-all room, and I will not hear his potty mouth while he plays video games. I will not hear his alarm going off for 20 minutes in the morning. I won't have to buy a gallon of milk every other day, and I won't get to say "You are having milk with<i> that</i>?" I won't have his friends around my table feeling comfortable talking to me about their own lives or pretending to like my jokes. He may still live here another two years, but I'm acutely aware of how fast time is passing.<br />
<br />
This is not the hardest thing I've faced as a mother, but it is surely emotional. I contribute to the man he is becoming, and he contributes to the woman and mother I strive to be. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-77673511899581456082018-04-08T12:15:00.002-05:002018-04-08T12:19:12.710-05:00My Side of the Bed and Its NightstandIn four days, it will be a year since my brother's suicide. I feel as though I've written every drop of grief out of it, but there is always more. As the day approaches, my mood has understandably fallen. I'm staying in bed during the weekends and crying more. I torture myself with songs that will be forever associated with a year ago.<br />
<br />
I once wrote a blog about The Babadook movie, in which grief takes the form of a monster and stalks a mother and child. My own babadook haunted one section of my couch and my side of the bed. The monster has thankfully left my couch but returns to my bed often. Yesterday, I noticed something else about my side of the bed. The nightstand is overflowing with stuff - books, a lamp, my eye glasses, a bowl of nail polishes, a canvas basket of junk with no other place, and two other items that are perpetual concrete representations of my life as it is now.<br />
<br />
The first item is a large plastic mixing bowl, which has been there for a few years now. It is Trent's vomit bowl. He sleeps with me every night, and I never know when he will vomit. It is reflux, post nasal drip, and the weird predisposition to get an upset stomach in the middle of the night. So I keep a bowl nearby and when I awaken from the sound of him swallowing hard, I turn on the lamp and grab the bowl. Making it to the toilet will likely never happen. <br />
<br />
The second item is a box of kleenex. Before Chad, I did not keep kleenex next to my bed unless I had a cold. Even during depressive episodes, I made do without it, instead just bringing a few pieces of toilet paper with me to bed. Chad's suicide, however, has made it a permanent fixture. Poetically, it sits in Trent's vomit bowl, which sits on top of the canvas basket full of junk. I have to replace the box every other month. This is more poignant in my head than I can put into words. While the babadook is a figurative representation of my grief, the kleenex is a physical one. That it needs to be replaced is an analogy of the cycle of grief. Even as others feel it is past time for me to stop needing the kleenex, it is not that simple. Time does lessen the acuteness, and maybe the box will need replacing less often, but for now, it is necessary. <br />
<br />
I am going to try to stop writing about Chad. I feel myself becoming stuck and writing about it seems to no longer provide catharsis. These things are always so hard to end when hope is running low. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-22229838511299991762018-01-27T18:41:00.001-06:002018-01-27T18:41:27.046-06:00Last Words"Well, text or call if you need anything." <br />
<br />
He replied with a thumb up. <br />
<br />
The next morning, I messaged, "How are you today?" but he never saw it. His last words were in a handwritten note of which I keep a photo in my phone, which is not at all smart as I forget it is there. Whenever I spend time clearing excess photos, it jumps out at me like a monster, frightening me and bringing darkness. Also, my phone could break.<br />
<br />
I have already written a blog about the things I would have said if I had known, but today I became fixated on the last words we say to people at the end of conversations. We fight with our spouse and passive aggressively text "ttyl" or say "whatever" and walk away. Or we say even worse things with no passivity, only aggression. We get so frustrated with our children that we yell "go to your room!" then marinate in our anger for hours. We have coworkers that we like tremendously but treat badly because we are so stressed with work and deadlines. We forget to say "I forgive you", "Hey, you did a good job today", or a simple "thank you."<br />
<br />
I'm not saying every conversation has to end with "I love you" and this echoes a Garth Brooks song, but what if there isn't a tomorrow? What would you want your last words to be, either spoken by you or spoken to you? <br />
<br />
Although "I love you" would have been better, I am thankful the last words I sent to him were to reach out to me. <br />
Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-31407933215546691162018-01-20T17:26:00.001-06:002018-01-20T17:26:24.110-06:00Down syndome and Moving ForwardI got the trend Ds tattoo of the three arrows facing forward symbolizing the three chromosomes and progress. It means something great to me, but it also brought pain.<br />
<br />
I admitted to my husband today that although I would never take Down syndrome from Trent, I would be lying if said I am not exhausted. The polite words of "How sweet, you will have a baby forever" when he was born are starting to feel like a curse. He isn't a baby; he is a 9 year old boy, but in so many ways, he is like a toddler. And no one, no matter how awesome the toddler years are, wants a toddler for 9 years. I.AM.EXHAUSTED. <br />
<br />
And I will be judged for being exhausted. We are not supposed to hate any part of this journey. We are supposed to be the chosen few mothers. Most days, I love the club I'm in, but some days, especially lately, I'm ready to have a child instead of a toddler. I won't even hope for the 9 year old child.<br />
<br />
Currently, I'm trying to teach him how to work the controller of the playstation to watch Netflix or his DVDs. No matter how much many ways I try to teach it, it just isn't sinking in. This is a first world problem for sure, but it still hurts in ways I can't explain. <br />
<br />
I am exhausted with diapers, with temper tantrums, with not knowing if he has outgrown his shoes because he doesn't tell me, with not understanding much of what he says. <br />
<br />
He is an amazing kid so full of love; I shouldn't be feeling this way. As the tattoo symbolizes, I should just keep moving forward, maybe silently. But really, I'm exhausted. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-37206436988347125322017-12-30T17:57:00.002-06:002017-12-31T19:17:40.858-06:00The Earth Circling the SunI keep thinking 2018 will magically make my life better. I feel as though the 8 replacing the 7 will change everything. This isn't a new thought, is it? Lots of people make resolutions and wax poetic about the new year. I know, however, that tomorrow night will not erase my grief, guilt, or mental illness. Nothing but the date will change. Still, the earth did circle the sun and that must mean something. <br />
<br />
2017 started off well. I entered into my last semester of grad school, and I felt proud of what I had accomplished up until that point. I won an academic award for having a 4.0 each semester, which was a specific goal I had and reaching a goal is always worthy of celebration.<br />
<br />
Early 2017 was also a great time of stability in my life. My medications were working, and my moods were mostly healthy.<br />
<br />
Then I got that call in April. "Your brother took his life this morning." I actually challenged her and said, "No he didn't." The tears came. From that moment, my life halved itself. I still attended school, and I still tried my best, and while part of me was excited about graduation, most of me was numb and simply surviving. I graduated in May, and my family took a trip to Universal Studios. It was a sweet distraction that lasted only as long as it could. During that time, I recognized that some people are true friends, through any and everything, and some people are there for the good times only.<br />
<br />
The summer came, and I found other distractions, some healthy and some not, but all welcomed. I rediscovered the way writing helps me. In a short few months, I made and lost a friend who had a deep impact on me. My marriage fell into a black abyss, and the last vestiges of my stability fell away. The help I sought was barely enough.<br />
<br />
The summer ended, and I began searching for a job, which came quickly. Working again has been a positive experience. I have supportive co-workers and supervisors, and I enjoy the job.<br />
<br />
These last few months, stability has been returning, somewhat too rapidly to be believed. The help I have sought is beneficial, and my coping skills are mostly healthy now. My marriage is floating back to the surface.<br />
<br />
I find myself saying "2018 will be better." Truthfully though, there is no way of knowing, and it is wishful thinking to claim it. It isn't pessimism exactly, just the knowledge that I have no control over what happens in a year. All I have control over are my thoughts, behaviors, and feelings in response to what happens, whether good or bad.<br />
<br />
I do wish everyone a Happy New Year, especially when it personally means beginnings and a sense of second, third, or fourth chances. I'm still making three resolutions: To cope better, to read more, and to write more. <br />
<br />
The earth circling the sun must mean something. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-19797287715524609822017-11-07T16:35:00.002-06:002017-11-07T18:33:26.394-06:00Poetry Passing TimeSeeing the Alliterative Psychiatrist<br />
<br />
A cedar ceiling and<br />
Color of walnut shell walls<br />
Secrets, hallucinations, horrors are<br />
Told within these neutral nodes<br />
As pitiful people tap their<br />
Fingers, feet flutter<br />
A fox betrays a bull pin<br />
On a box betraying brevity.<br />
Currently, guns gargantuan<br />
Too soon or not soon enough <br />
To talk tactics<br />
Anxiety, like aromatic bread,<br />
Warm raisin, rises.<br />
Some stare, cramped neck at<br />
a smaller box, cartoon caricatures<br />
fake feelings real faces<br />
can't contract. <br />
Dignify my designation so<br />
I can take my turn.<br />
Tell my tale<br />
Land Latuda<br />
Verify Viibryd. <br />
Manage monthly. <br />
Fucking fuck.Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-17256888160619103522017-11-05T12:11:00.002-06:002017-11-05T14:22:44.395-06:00Grieving When You Have Older Children WatchingMy husband is home on a two week visit, and even though I have often said I just want him to hold me while cry, I still cry on my own. In theory, I don't really hide it. I usually cannot control the first few tears before I lock the door to the bathroom and sob in the shower or announce I'm going to lay in the bed and "get some of these tears out." He seems to understand that although I don't want to grieve alone, the outward show of grief is somehow embarrassing for me, and when there are others around, I cannot be true to the grief in all its ugliness. I need to be able to make noises as I run out of breath, and I need to make those contorted faces that come with the waves that make your stomach actually hurt like a contraction. The fetal position in a bed isn't pretty, but it is the helpless infant we revert back to.<br />
<br />
My husband and my daughter left to go to the store, and I could not join them. I'm too randomly weepy.<br />
<br />
The youngest child is not here, but the oldest is. My bedroom door was closed, and he knocked. "Mom."<br />
<br />
"What?" I gargled this word because I had just experienced a breathless contraction in my stomach.<br />
<br />
"Can I come in?"<br />
<br />
"No, the door is locked." What I didn't say: <i>I can't get out of the bed to unlock it. I don't want you to see my face splotchy, shiny, and wet. </i>He knows though.<br />
<br />
He asked what he wanted to ask through the door, and he got the answer he wanted. He moved on.<br />
<br />
<i>What am I teaching him? </i>That thought came next. If I am embarrassed to be seen experiencing this pain, what was I taught growing up? Or did I not learn this at all and it is more just a personal preference? I think maybe a combination of both, but I also know I need to have a conversation with him and the other kids. Even if my actions do not match my words, I have to let them know that it is not a rule that one must hide in a room to cry. There should be nothing shameful in loving others so much that when those others are gone, our face contorts, we can't breathe, and the tears just flow. I don't know how to bridge that gap of processing this with them and actually showing by example, but I know they are watching. Perhaps the first step is telling, then building up to showing. Maybe it is tagging them when I share this on Facebook.<br />
<br />
I love Chad tremendously and the loss of him hurts me so deeply. The loss of him brings up earlier losses as well, my mom, my grandpa, my godmother. I do not want my kids believing that loving someone and losing them means secrecy and isolation. I welcome suggestions and personal stories of how grief is expressed in your own family. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-65676921189137203442017-10-24T20:04:00.003-05:002017-10-24T20:04:45.905-05:00Sacred Tears, Holes, and Jokes<div dir="ltr">
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of
weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand
tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep
contrition, and of unspeakable love.”<br />
–Washington Irving</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I
find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at
night. I miss you like hell.”<br />
— Edna St. Vincent Millay</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
I wanted to call him today to tell him that in the shower this morning I randomly remembered a
horribly corny joke that our step-grandfather told us when we were kids. <br />
<br />
<i>You are trapped in the jungle with a gun with only bullet. A camel, snake, and lion are all coming at you. What do you do?</i><br />
<br />
<i>You smoke the camel, erase the lion, and shoot the snake.</i><br />
<br />
(The joke rests on the teller having an accent when pronouncing "lion.")<br />
<br />
I originally did not get the joke; I was too young, but our step-grandfather repeated it for years and one day, I got it.<br />
<br />
So today I fell in the
hole and the power is flowing from my eyes, which is not to say I have been immensely better. I just have not been in a hole. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-21981091680980484222017-09-16T19:25:00.003-05:002017-09-16T20:08:10.405-05:00Out of the Darkness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This morning was the Out of the Darkness walk for the awareness and prevention of suicide. I had actually forgotten about it until about 2:00 am this morning. I was sleeping well but awoke with a start and remembered the walk. I thought there was no way I would make it; the emotion of it was too great, and I went back to sleep. At 7:00, Trent and I woke up, and I still waffled about going. As I sipped coffee, I remembered my friends and family who donated money on the premise that I would walk. I was positive none of them would fault me for staying home and crying, but I couldn't rest with that thought, and I felt certain I should go. <br />
<br />
As I drove to the coliseum, the tears flowed and I experienced an unusual (for me) sense of social anxiety at the thought of walking into a crowd of people by myself. I was wearing the t-shirt with the above picture and Chad's name with the years of his birth and death. I felt exposed and raw, as though I was carrying a great ball of pain and holding it out for all the world to see. I regretted my decision to go alone, and I wished for a hand to hold. <br />
<br />
I was forcibly calm as I walked into the crowds of people, registered, got my t-shirt prize from the money raised, and walked among the tents with brochures about suicide in the elderly, the military, and in the LGBTQ community. I collected as much information as my purse would hold. Suicide prevention is now a professional interest for me.<br />
<br />
As the ceremonies began, different metaphors and stories brought me back to tears: the pebble in a pond, the minimum of 100 people affected by each suicide, the memory of a service member who presented her life as perfect, even as she was suicidal. A young woman in a rainbow shirt held a sign that said "It is okay not to be okay" on one side and "You are not alone" on the other side. I wanted to hug her and tell her she was wise beyond her years. Everywhere, people had pictures of lost loved ones, smiling in their frozen moment of time, just as Chad smiles above. Yet, there was a joyful quality to the crowd, which confused me.<br />
<br />
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<br />
As the walk began, I was delighted to see we were walking on the beach sidewalk. At that same beach, I had once spent a day with my
siblings. I was 11 or 12 and Chad was 16 or 17. I wondered if we had
touched the spot I was looking at, if I had begged Chad to wait for me
as he went further into the gulf. Were we both blistering in the sun? Had we helped our younger siblings make a sand castle? Had we collected seashells with hermit crabs? The tears
flowed again.<br />
<br />
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<br />
As I walked, I heard conversations around me. Many were not about suicide, pain, or lost loved ones. I felt a bit angry but then noticed their t-shirts gave death dates from years ago. I was reminded that my loss is still fresh, and that in time, I will be able to walk and think of Chad but not feel so adrift and swallowed by pain. I will be able to have a conversation about something else.<br />
<br />
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<br />
The turn around point for the walk was near this lighthouse. Perhaps the metaphor is too heavy-handed, but there was beauty in that. If we are taking people out of the darkness, we need a lighthouse to guide them back. The sky was beautiful and the light breeze helped dry my tears. Each of us can be a lighthouse for our loved ones. <br />
<br />
After the walk, I talked with a new friend and couldn't control my tears. We hugged and she validated that my loss is still so new. Although I have always thought suicide awareness was a worthy cause, it had never been one of <b>my</b> causes. Now it is. I sometimes wonder how many causes I can hold dear, but the heart is elastic. <br />
<br />
Another new friend asked if I would be interested in starting a support group on the eastern side of the coast. I immediately balked at the idea as excuses flooded forth: I've just started a new job; the kids have all their extracurricular activities; I need a babysitter; on and on. Then I thought: A principle in the social work code of ethics is service. When I got home, I read it:<br />
<br />
<i>Social workers’ primary goal is to help people in need and to address social problems. <br />
Social workers elevate service to others above
self-interest. Social workers draw on their knowledge, values, and
skills to help people in need and to address social problems. Social
workers are encouraged to volunteer some portion of their professional
skills with no expectation of significant financial return (pro bono
service).</i> <br />
<br />
As a professor once said, "This is where the rubber meets the road."<br />
<br />
Next year, I will not walk alone. I hope to have my siblings, my children, my husband, my father, my aunts and uncles, Chad's children, and many friends.Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-52306342184959284252017-08-28T20:45:00.004-05:002017-08-28T20:45:49.436-05:00October 2013 and nowBack in 2013, I wrote a blog post about song lyrics that meant something to me. I quoted The Fray's "How to Safe a Life", particularly the lyric:<br />
<br />
<i><span>Where did I go wrong? </span><br /><span>I lost a friend </span><br /><span>Somewhere along in the bitterness </span></i><br />
<br />
<span>I spoke about all the friends I have lost over time, often because when a person gets too close, I tend to pull away. Back in 2013, I was already somewhat stable but still struggling to keep friends. After that, some new friendships were formed but also faded away<i>.</i> Or rather, I pulled away or I self-sabotaged or the friendship simply ended for a reason that had nothing to do with me. </span><span>Either way, the losses hurt over and over again, and I reinforced the negative behaviors of pulling away as people pull close. I told myself to stop needing people, and I idolized Estelle from <b>Great Expectations</b>, ignoring the happy ending of the story and only caring about her superb, controlled, and supreme coldness.</span><br />
<span><br /></span><i><span></span></i>
<span>Then I started grad school and there were new friends, and as I learned what I learned, I let two people in further than before. They nurtured me, and I tried my best to nurture them. However, since Chad's death, the problem has returned. Even with those two very special friends from school, I feel myself pulling away even as I need their friendship so badly. It has happened with others as well; they get too close; I need too much; I become frightened of more pain, and I close the door. I lose people in the bitterness.</span><br />
<span><br /></span><i><span></span></i>
<span>My social worker told me today that it is similar to having a phobia of emotions instead of spiders and snakes. She hit the nail on the head: I am afraid of emotions because emotions can become too overwhelming, and it is easier to have no emotions than uncontrollable ones. </span><br />
<br />
<span>I have been repeating to myself "This is what his suicide left behind" because I'm reminding myself that pain after a loss is normal, trying to avoid the pain is also normal, and engaging in negative coping mechanisms is normal, albeit not healthy. </span><br />
<span><br /></span><i><span></span></i>
<span>In a way, I'm back to the 16 year old girl who lost her mom and had no coping skills, didn't know how to ask for help, didn't know how to talk about any of it, and acted impulsively as a result. Fortunately, I have therapy, education, and honesty this time. </span><br />
<br />
<span>Ending these posts is always hard for me; I want to end on a positive note so everyone is left with a sense of closure, but honestly, there is no positive way to end this. It is what it is. </span><i><span></span></i>Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-37094591976848147032017-08-23T13:44:00.000-05:002017-08-23T18:41:07.302-05:00Thematic SeasonsI have a theory that our lives pass in seasons, and those seasons typically have themes. Before my current season of loss, graduate school was a season of improvement. I improved my mind, my discipline, my writing, and my skills as an empathetic and reflective listener. There were other, less prevalent themes of friendship, love, and advocacy, but the umbrella was always improvement. Other seasons of my life have overflowed with themes such as love, motherhood, lust, and dysfunction. There were seasons that seemed to have no theme, although I now question if the theme was not simply stagnation. <br />
<br />
This theory melds well with something my social worker and I explored during a therapy session not long ago. I was weeping for the loss of a season that was filled contentment, with smaller threads of love, happiness, and stability. I asked why; WHY does life, when we are so happy, rain down horror and sadness on our heads? WHY are we punished for being so happy? Specifically, what did I do to deserve such punishment? My social worker challenged me to think of life as sadness and horror and of happiness as the reward. Instead of being punished, I was being rewarded. The happiness was fleeting because rewards are fleeting, while sadness tends to be prevalent because it is the matter of which life is made.<br />
<br />
At the time, that answer gave me little solace. I rebelled against the ideas that life is composed of sadness, that happiness is fleeting, and that we are rewarded with happiness. I thought, shouldn't happiness be the default? However, maybe my social worker is correct. Seasons of happiness are our rewards, but seasons of loss and sadness are more frequent, or at the very least, feel more frequent.<br />
<br />
I am currently in a season of loss and sadness, but it is not only Chad that I have lost. During this season, there have been losses of friends, identities, mental stability, dreams, seasons that were better, and healthier ways of coping. I am grieving so many things at one time, I am unable to tease apart the knot of yarn. <br />
<br />
Today, I told my social worker that I do not know how much longer I can survive this season. I am so raw, and the pain is so overwhelming. Every loss, no matter the size, now compounds the loss of Chad and magnifies the pain. Next Thursday, I will experience another loss, and I will have to wall in the pain and find a way to numb it while I work through it. I do not see an end to this season or the forthcoming reward, but that is the way the theory works: the season we are in is the only season we can see. We may be able to remember past seasons, but we are unable to predict future ones. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-79532097083705483172017-07-31T19:51:00.003-05:002017-07-31T19:51:34.586-05:00What Suicide Left Behind and FriendsI had another episode today. There were variables that led to it, but I will leave those be as there is nothing good that comes from telling it. <br />
<br />
What suicide left behind is grief confused by cognitive distortions, which is a $5,000 term for wrong beliefs. Of course, I learned a great deal about cognitive distortions in grad school. I know how to recognize them and challenge them, but knowing both of those things also means I know how to talk myself right back into thinking those faulty beliefs. A person without my education, when their cognitive distortions are challenged, may say, "Oh wow, I've never thought about that!" For me, I have thought of it, and I've also thought of 10 more reasons the challenge could be challenged. <br />
<br />
So today, this happened:<br />
<br />
I felt guilty. I read my brother's poetry years ago and saw the suicidal themes, but when I saw him, he was smiling and telling jokes so I let the language in the poems go. I was once asked by a family member, "Aren't you in school for this?" and that is what repeated itself today: Wasn't I in school for this? How on earth did I miss the signs? (Rereading his poetry is like a huge neon sign.) And I am paranoid other people are thinking it as well: How does someone with mental health training and education miss the suicide waiting to happen in her own family? And how does that bode for the future practitioner in me? <br />
<br />
As I regurgitated these and other cognitive distortions to the amazing Megan, she text back the following:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div dir="auto">
<i>It is unwarranted guilt and a major distortion. Also,
the lack of guilt from others compared to you possibly stems from the
fact that you are your family's confidant, you know each of your
siblings on a very deep level, and feeling like you missed it makes you
feel like you failed them. Also, you nailed it on the head with those
last texts. You feel inadequate as a mental health provider that you
couldn't prevent this from happening. Holly, they are not going to blame
you, but you have to find a way to accept what happened, because
chances are, with the population you want to work with you will lose a
patient to suicide, even though you did EVERYTHING you could, EVERYTHING
right, you may still lose someone. You have to remind yourself 1) you
are human you may not catch everything, especially if someone didn't
want you to see that. 2) recognize the steps you did take, and given the</i></div>
<div dir="auto">
<i>history
there wasn't a risk, he was going to bed. 3) it's okay to hurt, it's
okay to feel a little guilty, but it CANNOT consume you--grieve yes, but
don't let guilt get in your head, that doubt, that voice saying you
could have done something--fact is, Chad had that same voice I am sure,
he did have a choice in this, and he made his decision and it has
destroyed you, but my question to you is do you want that guilt to have
that much power over you?</i></div>
<div dir="auto">
<i> </i></div>
<div dir="auto">
I don't know exactly why I'm sharing this. I have been keeping a private journal for much of this mess that I will likely not share with anyone, but there is something in this, perhaps Megan's words, that need to be published for all to see. Because even if you, my reader, aren't grieving a suicide, you are probably grieving something. You are experiencing cognitive distortions about yourself and your family members. Just know that there is hope, and if you can find "your Megan" in a friendship, or a therapist that is half as good as Megan, reach out and be honest, even if it is the hardest thing you to today. </div>
<br />
Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-69029788937209102302017-07-24T21:01:00.001-05:002017-07-24T21:11:34.655-05:00Death AnniversariesJuly 25th marks 22 years since my mother passed away and almost 4 months since my brother died. <br />
<br />
I have not been quiet regarding my struggles with grief complicated by mental illness, but I am attempting to be more proactive and less reactive, which my writing has been. To prepare for this death anniversary, I spent time meditating on pleasant imagery. As an atheist, I struggle with afterlife imagery. I do not believe my mother or my brother can see me or are proud of me. I do not believe they are together in some place such as heaven, but oddly, I found myself imagining that very scenario a few days ago. Perhaps family and friends who are believers will attempt to tell me that my imagination is actually trying to convince me of a cosmic truth, but I ask for mercy. My atheism is a result of many years of research, contemplation, and severe emotional distress. This is not an open door for evangelizing, and in complete honesty, such efforts would cause me pain, which would result in anger and mistrust.<br />
<br />
A few nights ago, I did 20 minutes of yoga then I laid in the corpse pose and slowed my breathing. I cried a bit and attempted to imagine a beach, but the beach turned into road. The road was long and my brother and my mother were walking towards each other from opposite ends. They both wept as they embraced. I let go of the image because it was too much, but I sought out poetry. For me, words have a way of comforting and producing other, perhaps easier, images. A friend who knows thousands of poems, both popular and obscure, assisted my search. I was clear about what I was searching for but will not share that here. Here are two favorites. There was a third, but it could be considered offensive, and I do not wish to offend. <br />
<br />
<div class="c-hdgSans c-hdgSans_2 c-mix-hdgSans_inline">
<b><span style="font-size: small;">Wanting Sumptuous Heavens</span></b><span class="c-txt c-txt_attribution"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="c-hdgSans c-hdgSans_2 c-mix-hdgSans_inline">
<span class="c-txt c-txt_attribution"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">by Robert Bly </span> </span></span></div>
<div class="c-hdgSans c-hdgSans_2 c-mix-hdgSans_inline">
<span class="c-txt c-txt_attribution"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span>
</span>
</div>
<div class="c-feature-sub c-feature-sub_vast">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>No one grumbles among the oyster clans, </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer. </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>Heaven to be, and God to come, again. </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>There is no end to our grumbling; we want </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven. </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>But the heron standing on one leg in the bog </i></div>
<i>Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="o-vr o-vr_12x">
<div class="c-feature">
<div class="c-feature-hd">
<div class="c-hdgSans c-hdgSans_2 c-mix-hdgSans_inline">
<b>“Hope” is the thing with feathers </b></div>
</div>
<div class="c-feature-sub c-feature-sub_vast">
<br />
<div>
<span class="c-txt c-txt_attribution">
By Emily Dickinson</span><br />
<span class="c-txt c-txt_attribution"> </span>
</div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="c-feature-bd">
<div class="o-poem isActive" data-view="PoemView">
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>"Hope” is the thing with feathers -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
That perches in the soul -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
And sings the tune without the words -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
And never stops - at all -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
And sore must be the storm -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
That could abash the little Bird</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
That kept so many warm -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
And on the strangest Sea -</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
Yet - never - in Extremity,</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>
It asked a crumb - of me.</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<br />Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-24756346979730811522017-07-17T19:48:00.000-05:002017-07-17T19:53:12.861-05:00Today at the MallToday, I remembered why being the mother of a child with Down syndrome, apraxia, and Sensory Processing Disorder (currently not recognized by the DSM-V) can be really, really hard.<br />
<br />
Every year, I have to buy my children school uniforms, and every year, I swear that I will get a babysitter for my son. However, I convince myself that he needs exposure to people and places in order to gain some tolerance, so I pack him up, and we go with the best intentions.<br />
<br />
Immediately upon arriving at the mall, I had a bad feeling. The parking lot was too full and there was water on the concrete. He wanted to splash and run, and I had to hold his hand tightly. He squirmed and fussed. Once in the food court, he chose pizza with relative ease but wanted to hold the floppy plate and drink, which was not a good idea considering the amount of people walking around us. As I spotted an open table, he followed but kept increasing the distance between us, and people hurried in that gap. He finally settled at the table and began eating. A couple a few tables down stared at him as he ate in his typical messy way. When their eyes met mine, they did not smile or frown, just looked away. As he ate, he yelled, which is typical for him when he is happy, which is typical when he has food. People everywhere stared. I asked him to be quieter, but my heart truly didn't care. I like that he gets excited about his food; it would just be nice if people didn't act as though he is from another planet. <br />
<br />
After eating, we went into a store and began shopping. The music was loud and the lights were bright. He worked to calm down, and I was proud of him. He laid on the floor a few times and more people stared. My heart raced, and I just wanted my other children to pick out their sizes, try on the items, and finish. I became snippy with them. I became snippy with my youngest. "Get off the floor." "Don't rub your face on the clothes." "Don't unfold that!" "Come here." "Stand here." Don't, don't, don't! After awhile, constant correction made him feel like a failure, and the lights and noise took a toll. More people stared, and my heart raced faster.<br />
<br />
Typically, he loves escalators, and it was my fault for assuming he would this time. I got on right before him, but he hesitated. As the distance grew, he called for me and took a big step. He had one foot on one step and the other foot on another. He began to lose his balance, and as I turned to step down, the heavy bags on my arms threw my balance off. I began to fall as well. A woman behind my son caught him, and I gained my balance enough to step down to him. He was laughing, but I felt sick. I thanked the woman and unleashed my fury on the other two kids. "Why am I holding these bags and your arms are empty? Why am I expected to do everything? Hold these bags right now!"<br />
<br />
The rest of the shopping trip witnessed a miserable scowl on my face, unhappy children, and a rush to just buy whatever fit and was affordable. I kept muttering "never again", but what am I supposed to do? Never take him places? Never force him out of the safe spot of our living room with his favorite movies, where he can yell, dance, and roll around on the floor with complete happiness?<br />
<br />
So many disability posts remind people not to stare. I just read one a few minutes ago, but who am I kidding? People will always stare. Some people will even roll their eyes and sigh. I'm just tired of it. I know typically developing children also have fits, disobey, and embarrass their parents; it is just so much harder when your child gets stared at for things beyond his control. For simply existing as a person with a diagnosis. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-75967562040583275612017-07-13T12:27:00.002-05:002017-07-17T19:10:53.981-05:00Weary of the GirlThe girl was always me. Putting her in a bell jar, looking at her from the outside, was safer, but I'm weary. I'm tired of pretending, then ranting about stigmas on mental illness and suicide.<br />
<br />
A friend texted today and asked for an opinion. I struggled to give my opinion, then I was honest. "I'm sorry but I can't help you with your decision. I am so depressed, it is hard for me to make the decision to get out of bed each day." She did what good social workers do, she made sure I wasn't suicidal, and she gave great suggestions. "Don't isolate yourself." I know all of this as it is exactly what I will tell a client one day. I will also understand that sometimes the depression is too deep and sinking lower means rock bottom. If you don't do what my brother did, you bounce up from the bottom. I will not do what my brother did. I will not cause that kind of pain in others because if there is a hell, I will be there from guilt. I'm already there now, from pain.<br />
<br />
So then my husband, helpless 8000 miles away, told me I should be honest to his parents so that they could help. The theme of not isolating myself was repeated. Yet it is what I do. I isolate, and I pretend that the girl who is seriously mentally ill isn't me.<br />
<br />
Another friend calls, and it is fun for a minute to rant about rape culture and injustice. We hang up and I crumple to the floor. This friend would have been here in a minute if I had told her I was drowning, but I could not and it is easier to isolate. I come to this blog where I can spill all this pain, weeping, then when someone calls I say "No, really I'm ok. I'm not in bed."<br />
<br />
I tell my 16 year old to come home quickly. Children shouldn't ask "What is wrong?" to be told, "I'm really depressed. I need you to bathe and feed Trent for me." Trent asks "What's wrong mama?" I have never told him his uncle is dead. But frequently, he names family members and Uncle Chad is one of them. He will stop naming him in time. I don't know if I crave or dread that moment. <br />
<br />
I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder at 18. I have been suicidal. I experienced Postpartum Psychosis after my first child was born and actually had visual hallucinations and delusions. My diagnosis changed to Bi-Polar II a few years ago, and new medication made all the difference. Then Chad did what he did, and I cannot grieve normally. A mood disorder makes grieving normally impossible. <br />
<br />
So I look for any way to feel better, some ways healthy and some not. Changes in meds and an added prescription that gives me mixed episodes, which means I am hypo-manic but depressed at the same time. So I can write and I can clean and I can shower, but I cannot stop crying, and the cognitive distortions continue. My doctor doesn't necessarily mind the mixed episodes, but when the stimulant wears off, I am in full depression. No writing, no getting out of bed, no showering, very little eating. This is one view of mental illness. <br />
<br />
There is no working like this. I cannot help a client when I can't help myself. I graduated and wanted to do great things for other people, I was full of fire just a few months ago. I wanted a career in mental health. It makes me laugh because it would be like the inmates running the prison. Until I am stable for at least year, I need to stick to jobs outside of mental health. <br />
<br />
I wonder what cognitive distortions my brother and I shared. That we aren't anyone's priority? That we are bothersome to other people? That everything someone says to us is actually negative and judgmental? That we will never be better? That we will never be happy again? That a certain amount of happiness is allotted to each of us, and we used up our allotment at some other point in our life? That love is finite and can only take so much? That we are shitty parents continually fucking up our kids? That there is no transcendence at the other side of this pain? That hell is actually this life, right now? That loneliness is the only true state of being? This is one view of mental illness: where every thought feels true, even when some logical part of your brain tells you isn't. He lost all hope, likely because of these thoughts. They swirl so fast and so frequently, they become overwhelming. He was overwhelmed and I can picture the last moments. I just wish he hadn't isolated. That he had gone to the hospital. That he had wrote a fucking blog and published it so that the darkness was vomited in public, like coughing up a disease. There is power in telling this to people and being honest. <br />
<br />
I have therapy at 6:30 tonight. By then, the stimulant will be wearing off so I will have to force myself to drive there, but she will see the truer depression. She will have to gauge my safety, and that aggravates the piss out of me for some reason. I cannot fully explain how much suicide feels like a personal insult at this point. I know the clinical, scientific truth of it, but it feels like a really low insult. <br />
<br />
August 11th, my husband comes home for three weeks. The end of that three weeks frightens me the most, when he gets on a plane and the loneliness immediately seeps into my bones. I am already frightened for something almost two months away. <br />
<br />
This is one view of mental illness, and I'm not putting the girl in the bell jar anymore, where the air and dust are removed. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-81093378393631400822017-07-02T11:52:00.000-05:002017-07-02T11:52:00.436-05:00Sunday MorningA friend shared a poem with me this morning, <i>Sunday Morning </i>by Wallace Stevens. A poem about religious uncertainty, it is achingly beautiful, and I wept as I read it. <br />
<br />
My grief over my brother has been both incredibly lonely and oddly mystical. The loneliness comes from the night time being my worst time of the day. I lay in bed and cry myself to sleep without my husband to hold me and smooth the hair from my face where it sticks to my wet cheeks. At least when the sun is up, I can call my friend in San Diego and receive her invaluable counsel. I remember this feeling when I grieved the hardest with my mother, when I felt like being alone was the absolute scariest position in which to be. I also remember the cognitive distortion that everyone I love will leave this earth before me, and only I will remain. <br />
<br />
The mystical part of this grief is that it has a life of its own, like the Babadook in the movie. It stalks my bed at night and the living room, specifically the far right side of our sectional couch. I only sit there occasionally, in the dark, with a glass of any liquid. We likely all have our favorite spots on our couches, but this one is my grieving spot. The window's placement allows me to stare outside and contemplate what it means to feel pain this deeply. I also have a writing spot, which I am sitting in now. <br />
<br />
I will one day explore the religious uncertainty of the poem from a view point not tinged by my overwhelming grief, and I expect to see something different then. Perhaps something poignant about the feeling of a Sunday morning to an atheist that does not seek fellowship and liturgy with the majority of the rest of the world. The way a Sunday morning can feel dreadful, lazy, full of promise, or silent. <br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>Elations when the forest blooms; gusty </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>All pleasures and all pains, remembering </i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>The bough of summer and the winter branch. </i></div>
<i>These are the measures destined for her soul. </i><br />
<br />
It was that stanza that brought forth the tears. My mother died in summer, and that date is fast approaching. My brother died in spring, and I have a little less than a year to prepare for that anniversary. Winter is a fairly unremarkable time for me, but just the nature of the dreary weather can cause changes in my mood. Winter is a depressing season all on its own. <br />
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<i>We live in an old chaos of the sun, </i></div>
<i>Or old dependency of day and night, </i><br />
<br />
These lines also brought forth emotion. My rhythms of day and night are scattered right now. Some days drag on and on and blend together. Some nights are short, full of distressing dreams I can't interpret, while other nights feel like what I imagine my brother's last hours must have felt like. I depend on the sun and moon to tell me when to sleep and when to rise, both bring order to the chaos of my grief. <i></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The poem is cathartic, just as writing this has been. I will spend some of my evening tonight searching for more catharses in written word or music. Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-66779418171145756772017-06-17T23:40:00.001-05:002017-06-17T23:40:29.534-05:00PainI've been pressing repeat on Imagine Dragons' "Believer". The main refrain tells 'pain' to "break me down and build me up" and "make me a believer." Then "My life, my love, my job, they came from pain." The word 'believer' is left ambiguous.<br />
<br />
I've had many conversations with my younger brother about the yin and the yang, how nothing can be complete without it's opposite. The conversation was always a little too metaphysical for my taste, but here I am recognizing that recently, for every laugh I have, I will have 20,000 tears hours later. The tears empty out my heart so that laughter can surface again, and the laughter is so much sweeter after the tears. So which one is better? Is it actually possible to have a better? As long as the pain does not become chronic and unable to manage, it is simply the darkness to the light, the empty to the full, the deep to the shallow. <br />
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Pain grounds us at times, and it inspires us to create art. Some of my best writing has come from pain I couldn't keep inside. It has a purpose. <br />
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Embracing pain and putting it in the necessary-for-life box is new to me, but it feels healthy. The walls I usually build around the pain to keep it from spreading also keep out the laughter, so then I'm left feeling nothing. Just a person constricted by walls in a maze of numbness.<br />
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Break me down and build me up, I'm a believer. <br />
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<br />Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-18749779329633007472017-06-03T14:36:00.001-05:002017-06-03T14:51:55.677-05:00The things I would have said and done.As usual, the only way to stop the thoughts is to put them on paper. I do not believe in an afterlife so it is odd that I should try to tell you things, but I can't stop thinking them and the thoughts are making it hard for me to go about my day.<br />
<br />
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If I had known you were going to take your life that day, I would have said:<br />
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There is nothing on this earth that can't get better. Try therapy, try meditation, try medication, try quitting a job, try trikking across country, I don't care. Just try anything to make it through the hardest time. Suicide is such a permanent solution to a temporary problem.<br />
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I love you immensely. Dad loves you immensely. Drew and Heather. Your kids. So many people. Can that be enough? It has to be enough.<br />
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I'm driving over there. I will slap you, hug you, get you drunk, take you to the hospital, bitch at you, tell you beautiful stories, cook for you, trikke with you, ANYTHING to make you not do this.<br />
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You are an imperfect human being. We all are. We have made so many mistakes. Those mistakes do not define us.<br />
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I'm sorry.<br />
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You are good enough. I would not say it if I didn't mean it.<br />
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I'm not above guilting you. You will devastate this family. Trent will not understand, and he will wonder about his Uncle Chad.<br />
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Now that you are gone, I have these thoughts:<br />
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I have enough education to understand self-determination, hopelessness, and mental illness. All the education in the world doesn't make this easier, and in fact, it might be impeding me because I analyze every thought and feeling.<br />
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I've been hopeless at different times myself, but when the act is complete, it leaves a trail of destruction behind you. I'm not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but you have left this mess behind. And I'm angry with you. So angry.<br />
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I shouldn't feel guilty and I know that. But I do.<br />
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I interviewed for an amazing fellowship a few days ago. I didn't get it. I blame you because my heart and mind is elsewhere, and looking back, I probably blew the interview. <br />
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My career has stalled because of this. That makes me feel even guiltier, as if it is all about me, but that is how I feel. <br />
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"I CAN'T BELIEVE" was your and his joke. I will probably never hear it again. I'm not sure I want to.<br />
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If you had seen the amazing people that came to your say goodbye at your funeral. You were loved.<br />
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There were things I believed about you that weren't true.<br />
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Trent didn't like most of Universal, but I keep wanting to tell you about the parts he did like. I keep waiting for you to comment with a Jesus meme or corny comment. I wait and wait. <br />
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I can't follow one of your directives. I'm trying and I'm sorry, but I can't right now.<br />
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Hasn't this family suffered enough?Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-60593904946318571862017-04-15T21:15:00.000-05:002017-04-16T00:11:40.941-05:00To Chad, With Love<span style="font-size: large;">You held me not long after I was born. There are pictures of your goofy grin and the awkward way your arms cupped my body. You lost your only child status when I came along, and I have no doubt you resented me, at least a little. But you likely kissed my head and said "awww, baby sister." You were 4, and I was your baby sister. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We sat on a porch and ate wild blackberries with sugar and milk. There is a picture of us and our mouths and teeth are deep red, but we are tremendously happy. You were 5, and I was your baby sister. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You were going to school and I wasn't. I imagine I cried on mom's lap, wanting to ride the yellow bus too. You were 7, and I was your baby sister. </span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You sat next to me Saturday mornings, watching <i>Thunder Cats</i>, <i>Sheerah</i>, or <i>He-Man</i>. We ate cereal and lamented that other kids had cable and could watch cartoons anytime they wanted. You were 9, and I was your baby sister. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We were in the yard making mud pies, which were filled with grass, twigs, and maybe rolly pollies. The pies dried in the sun and we watched the process. My kids have never made a mud pie, and I need to remedy this problem. You were 10, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Your friends came to spend the night, and I wanted to play too. But you said, "Mom, tell her to leave us alone." And I cried, "But mom, I don't have anyone to play with. It's not fair." She told me to ride my bike. You were 12, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Your friends came to spend the night, and my crushes began. I hid in my room most of the time but snuck glances at your friends from across the table at breakfast. You were 14, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We were in the living room, and I was jealous of your report card, your time in the woods with dad, and that you were older than me. Everything about you made me jealous. You were 16, and I was your baby sister. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You got in a car accident, and I was worried about you. I also took a small amount of pleasure in the fact that you totaled our parents' car and they were angry with you. You were 17, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You graduated high school and began college. I was proud of you but jealous again. You were 18, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Mom became sick and you were living in Baton Rouge. She died as we sat on her bed next to her. I'm not sure we ever talked about that exact moment. You were 20, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You found out I was no longer a virgin and that I was drinking heavily. You were furious with me. You said girls shouldn't act that way and wait for marriage, and I told you "mind your own fucking business." You were 21, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You danced at my wedding with a broom decorated with a dress and wig. You did it without any sense of shame, and I adored you for it. You were 22, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You found out I was getting a divorce, and you supported me. I didn't want you to mind your own business because I needed you. You were 24, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You found out you were going to be an uncle, and you were happy. You were 25, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We had both finally found the love of our lives and had children. You were 27, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My family was in the middle of Hurricane Katrina, but I still had cell service. I called you and told you the water was coming into the house, and I thought we might die. You remained calm and told me you loved me. You were 30, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had Trent, and you sent me poems, stories, and videos about Down syndrome. You told me I was chosen for Trent. You became an advocate for people with Down syndrome. You were 33, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My family went to Disney with your family, and I remembered how much I liked having you as a brother. You were 37, and I was your baby sister.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Your sadness overtook you. You were 42, and I am your baby sister. </span><br />
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<br />Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-46409175530991407492016-06-28T18:34:00.000-05:002016-06-28T18:46:14.410-05:00If I Don't Write It Down, The Thoughts Swirl Too Fast<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I have not been secretive about my dislike for the state of Mississippi. Most people know that I am a blue bleeding heart in a red state, that I am an atheist in the Bible Belt, and that I prefer progress to stagnation even if the progress is only for progress' sake. It does not matter that I have many diverse friends here in Mississippi and down I-10/I-12 into Louisiana, and it does not matter that some aspects of southern culture will always be in my blood. (Namely, <i>y'all</i> and <i>sha baby</i> will always be in my vocabulary and southern food will always be my favorite.) The truth is, I do not fit in here, and I do not have the energy, time, or knowledge to fight for Mississippi. Going to the capital with my picket sign, outrage, and loud voice was awesome, and I felt powerful...but then I felt defeated. When Mississippi consistently ranks last in all the good things and first in all the bad things, I feel defeated. I have a friend with a daughter with Down syndrome who has already fought with our school district, and trust me, this mom is a grizzly for her daughter, but she received slammed doors in her face at every turn. I can't. I really can't. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">None of this, however, is really about me. This is about Trent, Layla, and Devon. Mostly Trent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is a list of the top 10 states for people with disabilities. (The list also mentions the bottom states. Mississippi has placed last three years in a row.) I can no longer allow Trent to grow up here, where resources are scarce, inclusion is not the norm, and the entire state's education is dead-last. So when I graduate in May, we hope to move to one of the states on the top 10 list. There are, of course, cons. We will be taking Devon, Layla, and Trent from the only home, friends, and school district they have ever known. We will be moving away from friends and family who give us love, emotional support, babysitting, fellowship, meals on Saturday, fun...<i>just so many perfect moments</i>. Trent's heart will be broken when he can no longer see his Pops, Golgie, Little Man, and Maggie, and their heart will break as well. We will no longer be a few hours from my father and my siblings. My heart will break for my kids as they move away from extended family. They do not understand that the services we get for Trent now will help his independence in the future, which is beneficial to all of us. Then there are logistics: selling or renting the house, jobs, moving. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then there are pros: we are looking at states where people with Down syndrome are valued. Better education, inclusion, job opportunities, college programs, clinics specifically for Ds, <i>a workable budget</i>, and then for Tony and me, careers with advancement opportunities. Higher ranked schools for Devon and Layla. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Here is the crux: No matter what option Tony and I pick, we are hurting someone. If we stay, Trent's future is on the chopping block. If we go, his future becomes brighter, but everyone else experiences emotional pain. As any mother of a child with special needs can attest to, the child with special needs becomes the focus of the world, and because of this, everyone else's life is altered for the betterment of one. If I'm going to write out these feelings to stop the storm in my brain, I need to be honest: There is guilt in these waters, and I fear there will be resentment as well. Resentment of me, Tony, and most devastatingly, Trent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I cried about all of this today. There are underlying disability, social justice, and cultural themes that make it much more complicated than what I can write here with the time I have allotted myself, and it doesn't really matter because I'm not willing to battle the entire state of Mississippi. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The words that keep circling, either because I'm trying to convince myself or others: <i> I cannot sacrifice Trent. </i></span></div>
Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-44698427547627733602015-05-15T20:35:00.000-05:002015-05-15T20:44:26.705-05:00On Atheism and Humanism<div style="text-align: center;">
I received a lovely compliment today. My Christian BFF told me that she tells family members her BFF is an atheist AND one of the kindest people she knows. I like being described as kind; I think kindness is very underrated and should be practiced more often. She also said that other members of her family who have met me and then learned I'm a non-believer, stated, "Wow, she is such a sweet person."</div>
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It saddens me that, in general, atheists are thought of as unkind, angry, and immoral. But you know what, I readily admit that there are angry, unkind, and immoral atheists. There are also unkind, angry, and immoral Catholics, Baptists, Christians, Muslims, Wiccas, blacks, whites, males, and females. No one group has the market on bad behavior. Furthermore, some atheist are not really angry people, just angry about certain things. This is a good comprehensive list and I agree with most of it: <a href="http://gretachristina.typepad.com/greta_christinas_weblog/2007/10/atheists-and-an.html">http://gretachristina.typepad.com/greta_christinas_weblog/2007/10/atheists-and-an.html</a></div>
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So anyhow, I'm fairly certain I saw a post comparing atheists to Hitler today and that hurt me. Here I am, just a 30-something mom trying to get through my days like everyone else. I work, clean house, feed my kids, feel a wide range of emotions, put my pants on one leg at a time, and poop and pee, but it doesn't seem to be enough. The only difference between me and others is I don't believe in Zeus, Ra, Hera, Allah, Thor, Flying Spaghetti Monster, Odin, the Christian God, or any of the other thousands of god worshipped by mankind throughout history. I also don't believe in wood nymphs, purple unicorns swimming in the ocean, or Santa Clause. Not one single unprovable being do I believe in. It is not personal and I'm an equal opportunity non-believer. If I don't see evidence of it, my brain doesn't allow it, which is to say that this is not a choice I made. In the past, I had faith and I believed. Then I had doubts. I tried to ignore the doubts, then I begged, pleaded, and attempted to pray for them to go away. After awhile, I figured I better start reading and researching so that I could find peace within my own brain. With the reading, the doubts evolved, questions were answered unsatisfactorily, and I stopped believing. It was never a choice. More like my brain, with its powers of reasoning, came to a conclusion. If anyone that doesn't understand this point can force themselves to believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster as the only true god, please let me know and I'll begin forcing myself to believe in a god as well. </div>
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As to what I do believe, I consider myself to fall under the label of Humanist. For clarification, not all atheists consider themselves humanists but most humanists are atheists. Wikipedia defines: "Humanism is a philosophical and ethical stance that emphasizes the value and agency of human beings, individually and collectively, and generally prefers critical thinking and evidence (rationalism, empiricism) over established doctrine or faith (fideism.)" </div>
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Like most things, there is debate if that is the best definition. I like it and use it as a mission statement. To me, it means I use empathy to decide how I should behave and the way I want to interact with the world. It has served me well and I often feel that I am having a positive effect in my small slice of the world. </div>
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I have no desire to change anyone's beliefs. However, I have some desire to change the way many see atheists, as though we are horrible people just chomping at the bit to commit genocide, rape, and theft. Which brings me to the idea that if a belief in a god is <strong>the only thing</strong> preventing someone from committing atrocious acts of hurting others, wow, we better hope that person never loses their faith. Maybe, just maybe, I don't need a belief in a god, any god, to be a good person. Maybe, just maybe, if there is a hell and I'm going to it, that will be between me and whatever god decides to send me there. If I'm wrong and all my research and logical thinking condemns me, in all seriousness, so be it. I will not apologize for my brain, with its awesome powers of reasoning and decision making, coming to a conclusion.</div>
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I sincerely wish all of us peace and happiness. </div>
Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-35163418338258486482014-08-12T07:57:00.000-05:002014-08-12T08:59:30.479-05:00Mental IllnessI realize I haven't spoken of the girl's story in a while. Robin William's death, with the subsequent talk of depression and mental illness, brought it to my mind. More about that soon.<br />
<br />
The girl has a new diagnosis. Bi-polar II. It is different from Bi-Polar I in that the manic stages tend to be hypomanic and depression is the more frequent pole of the two poles.<br />
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It took the girl decades to get this correct diagnosis. Some doctors and counselors suspected it before but didn't ask the girl the exact right combination of questions to sift through all the depression episodes and find what lied between. What lied between was that for all her beautiful life and loving family, beyond her smile and laughter, despite her sense of humor, her life passed in stages of behavior. Her love of writing only showed up every couple of months, thundering like a waterfall before drying up to dust. Her days of laughter were limited to a week before turning bitter and fake. Her sleep requirements ranged from 6 hours one week to 11 hours the next month. Her passionate obsessions that people found smart and endearing could just as quickly turn to apathy. <br />
<br />
For the girl, the hardest question on a silly internet quiz was always "Do you consider yourself an introvert or an extrovert?" She could never answer that question because the answer depended on the week, day, hour, second. Perhaps if a therapist had asked,"Do you have trouble answering introvert/extrovert questions on silly internet quizzes?" she could have shouted "YES! I feel crazy because I have no idea what kind of person I am. I love and hate people all at the same time! I am a walking, talking, writing contradiction! To compensate for this, I put on a happy face. Overly happy. Overly friendly. I play the part of the extrovert at all times because it is so easy to fake a behavior that I truly have occasionally...I mean when the mood strikes just right. And I make people laugh. But shit, I'm really fake. I'm all over the place and I don't know why." (New medication has worked wonders for the girl. Those that know her best see the most improvement.)<br />
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It is no one's fault technically. She didn't know what to say and therapists were doing the best they could with the information she gave them. But what about society? Does society make it easier or harder for people like the girl and Robin Williams? People who are suffering mentally, but are outwardly so happy and gregarious? It is so hard to believe, isn't it, that a person so full of life and talent and humor was also miserable enough to seek death? Perhaps that is what society needs to understand about mental illness. It does not play favorites. The people that seem the happiest may be among the sickest.Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-52333734292683065122014-07-15T00:19:00.000-05:002016-06-28T18:51:18.217-05:00Reincarnation, in a movie. <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I'll admit right off that I know very little detail about reincarnation, nor how differs in each religion that believes in it. I plan to learn more for the sake of knowledge and because the movie <i>Cafe' de Flores</i> has not left my mind since watching it two days ago. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Without giving away to many spoilers, in 1969 Paris, a mother of a child with Down syndrome loves him fiercely. Almost obsessively; he is her entire life. She bucks society's rule about placing him in an institution. Instead, she places him in music, speech, boxing, any class and activity that will help his cognitive ability. He attends a general education school. One day, a girl with Down syndrome begins attending the same school. The children fall in innocent love immediately. Their parents have to literally pry them apart at the end of the day. In the end, the mother makes a drastic, horrible decision because love has become too painful for all three of them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">(There is something about the love portrayed between the mom and son that tore at my heart, but that is a post for another day. Or not. It is complicated.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In present day Montreal, a man deals with his guilt over leaving his wife and children for another woman. After so many happy years with his ex-wife, he didn't mean for the marriage to fail, but he and the other woman feel fated for each other. He wonders if a person can have two soul mates at a time. The ex-wife begins having nightmares and sleepwalking. The love triangle is too painful for all of them, and there is a clear chaotic spiral taking place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the end of the film, the reincarnation is revealed. Forgiveness is asked for and given. Peace comes for all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, I have no idea if that is the classic theory behind reincarnation or not, but I like it: That the people we love, <i>really love</i>, and who really love us, form this continuous circle where all involved must make peace before the soul is allowed to move on. Or maybe not move on, but then perhaps stop meeting the same loved ones' souls in the next life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is a beautiful thought. That perhaps the people I love the most, and subsequently hurt the most, will be there next time. We can perfect our love and take out the hurt. We move from being the mother and son, father and daughter, whatever to being siblings. Or husband and wife. Or best friends. We just circle each other life after life until we get it right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is a beautiful thought, but I don't believe it. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I believe we have this one time, this one life. No afterlife, no karma, and not much time to get it right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The chances for peace, forgiveness, <i>getting it right</i>, are unlimited. Until death.</span> </div>
Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3364296708070037320.post-83956600018556522672014-05-17T18:38:00.000-05:002014-05-17T18:38:06.319-05:00No Longer Needing<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When my mother died at 42 years old, I was 16. The anger, fear, and sadness carried me only so far. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I began looking for a mother substitute to replace that void. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I really wasn't picky. Pretty much any older woman that showed me attention and affection was elevated to a pedestal rather quickly. Of course, I connected with some better than others just on the basis of personality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Looking back, I'm sure these connections served a purpose, but I can also see where there was an element of unhealthiness surrounding it all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I forced intimacy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yearning for love and a mother figure, I forced women to try to fill that role. When they couldn't fill it to the deepness that I craved, I became angry with them, as though it was their fault that they couldn't love me the way my mom had. The expectations were always too high, which always led to a crash. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had an epiphany this morning. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I no longer have the need for a replacement mom.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I tried to pinpoint when I stopped needing it but can't. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The need just....cured itself? Vanished? Was outgrown? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I don't think it really matters when. There was subconscious freedom in the loss of the need and even more freedom in the realization that the need is gone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I thought long and hard why the need left, and I think the reason is that I have finally become the mom I needed. </span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I have found what I needed in myself. </span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There is still pain, still insecurities in most areas of my life, but I know no one can fill those voids except for me. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I can certainly accept love from relatives and friends, but the ultimate love must be the love I have for myself. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">There is a peace that was not there before.</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Dedicated to the women, who through no fault of their own, could not be a mother to me, <b>but so lovingly tried</b>:</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Becky Miller (RIP)</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Karen Olivier</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Carole Fuselier (RIP)</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Karen Smith</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Debbie Young</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Donna Fontenot </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Darla Brown (RIP)</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Marilyn Johnson</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Linda Miller</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Cynthia Hollier </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Lynn Hall</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">Rose Mary Miller</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Ann Michel</span></i></div>
Holly Fedelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15859850388777427849noreply@blogger.com0