- My family
- Sex (sorry, I had to say it)
- My favorite Ine’s : Caffeine, Nicotine, Benzodiazepine, etc.
- The Internet
- My friends
It’s too easy…
to lose sight of the things that are really important. When I’m entangled in my laundry list of woes, I tend to get tunnel vision, all centric to problem solving things that maybe really don’t need fixed.
It’s important to take a time-out. Step back, and breathe. Life can get a little easier to manage when I take the time to stop and smell the roses. I appreciate the little things, though it’s too easy to take the for granted when they remain constants in my life.
Therefore, I am creating a gratitude list to be referenced when I start to lose sight of what is really important in my life.
Writing your gratitude list
1. Take a clean sheet of paper (or brand spanking new blog post) and get comfortable.
2. Write down as many things as you can think of that you are grateful for about your life (no matter how insignificant it may be.)
3. When you have finished, read the list aloud and allow yourself to feel the gratitude.
4. Keep your list somewhere safe so you can add to it in the future when new things you are grateful for come to mind.
- Blogging Friends
- Email friends
- The Ocean
- Clear night sky
- My home
- My in-laws
- Xan’s job
- Our income
- My marriage
- Uplifting television
- Inspirational blogs
- Good people
- The life I was gifted
- The medicine that keeps me going
- Doctors that treat me
- Kind nurses
- Androids and smartphones
- The ability to buy necessities
- Noise reducing earbuds
- Places of solace
That will never happen to me!
There was a point in my life where I took things for granted. I had a relationship, friends, a reasonable income, relatively stable mental health and no physical ailments to worry about. My life was full off laughter, smiles, regular sex, all the hugs you could imagine and a future that anyone would be proud of.
If you had told me six years ago what was about to happen to me I wouldn’t have believed you, in fact, I would probably have paraphrased Spike and asked if you were stoned!
Like the vast majority of us, I took my life for granted. Like most I thought ‘it would never happen to me’.
Today, and for many years now, I am eternally grateful for everything I have.
Most have heard the phrase you don’t realise what you have until it’s gone because it is 100%…
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Finding out about HPV and cervical cancer
Warning: The following content can be considered graphical in nature. It may contain material that may not be appropriate for certain audiences. Children under the age of 18, those of the male gender, and others faint of heart may want to take extra care while viewing this. Use your own discretion.
One Bad Apple . . .
Twelve years ago, almost to the day, the relationship with my first love started. We had gone circles for over six months. He eyed me, and I fancied him. We spoke almost daily and we had become great friends. There were many late night conversations, spilling out our hopes, dreams, fears… But, he was forbidden fruit, the tastiest of them all. He was my best friend’s boyfriend. After over a month of clandestine meetings, secret phone conversations, secrets, and lies, I came clean. And within six months after that, we were no longer…
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When Xan and I were getting together, I once wrote in a journal, “What’s the difference between a best friend and a lover?” The only answer I could muster was, “The fact that they aren’t physically intimate. That’s about it.” Not that two people aren’t attracted to each other, but that two people were not being sexual. It was the only hard and fast line I could define.
Even that line begins to blur at some point.
I had my first kiss at thirteen. It was New Years Eve and we were sitting up on a snow covered roof with a friend. We were close together, wrapped in a blanket for warmth. We all were talking about life and love, and it was so silent outside besides our own voices. Suddenly, the world burst to life with people shouting and pots and pans banging. Our friend started to hoot and holler. I looked at my friend, and had so many fond, but conflicted feelings.
That’s when my best friend put her hands on my face and kissed me deeply.
We were the best of friends for over a year at that point. In that year, I began to become symptomatic. She was my confidant, and I poured my heart and soul out to her in the early hours of many a Saturday morning. Her hugs were the warmest and tightest, the kind that brought a person back from the brink and back down to Earth. She rooted me, and often became the sole reason I didn’t slash my wrists right there and then.
Her parents were divorcing at the time. She was forced from her family home into a tiny apartment with her mom. Her mom started working, so we had a lot of time alone. Somehow, we both managed to date guys, but we never really had boyfriends. I always had strange feelings for her. I kept them to myself, because bi-curiousity was not encouraged in my area. I didn’t want to be that weirdo that had a lesbian crush on her.
It turned out that she had the same feelings. She was never one for expressing herself through words, so she just went for the kiss. I was shocked, and didn’t know what to make of it. Was it for the shock value in front of our friend? We were so known for that. Anything to shake it up, or make people laugh. We were an entertaining pair.
The next day, in the confines of my bedroom, over a cigarette, we talked. She was serious. She had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to kiss me and make it count. There was no other way she could get it across to me.
And truthfully, I fell in love with Kat. I wrote in a journal once, “She was the first person I really fell in love with. No confusion between a best friend and a lover.” At that age, I can see the confusion. But, it’s more than fifteen years later, and I still feel the same way. I loved her. I didn’t care that she was a female. I loved everything about her. I loved her fire. Her art was intoxicating. There’s still one piece that I’ve been attempting to replicate for years. But, I’m not her. I don’t have that kind of talent.
We complimented each other. I was a writer and a musician at the time. She was an artist. I would write things and she would illustrate them as if she was in my head. She always knew what was in my heart and on my mind. We stole kisses in the night and behind buildings. We shared my twin bed to sleep in on the weekends. I never thought it was strange, even before we were together.
Together, in italics, meaning we were secret. Therefore, we were never really defined. I never understood the rules of our relationship, and I still can’t make sense of them today. We were part-time lovers, apparently. Eventually, friends and family started to get suspicious, because we stopped dating boys and dedicated all of our free time to one another. So, she hatched a plan.
“I’ll date this boy and you date his friend.”
It would have been a perfect cover if things had gone according to plan. These boys lived towns away, and without cars, it was difficult to maintain anything beyond a phone relationship. Her and her boyfriend had a passionate, but turbulent relationship. I was starting to get confused about who she had affections for anymore. I’d ask, and she’d reassure me. But, there were times where she’d push me away. She was constantly breaking up with the both of us and getting back together with the other, when she wasn’t trying to manage the both of us.
Eventually, the boy and I grew closer. And one night, he admitted his love for me. I had longed for him and his kindness, being so jealous of her and him and not having that affection. I confessed my own love and longing, and that was the day we called our anniversary for the next four years. We had only a month before I finally gave in and told her.
Something strange happened. I went away on a long summer vacation after that. When I returned, she contacted me telling me she missed me. And we were back on until the late autumn. On a icy November morning, she was silent with me. We used a singular computer to type back and forth to one another. She asked me to choose between the two of them.
“It’s not fair,” the print on the screen read back to her.
“I’m not changing my mind. You can’t have us both.”
“I have to choose him. I love you. I’m sorry.”
Things weren’t the same after that. We tried to go back to being just friends, but I could see the agony in her eyes. As far as I was concerned, she made her choice when she stepped out on me the first dozen times. I was just finalizing it for her. Several months later, she set me up to get in trouble, and it was the perfect cover for her to duck out on me.
I remember that Friday in March, two days after everything had thrown down. She always rode my bus home with me, because we were going to babysit down the street. I knew I wasn’t included anymore. She gave me what was coming to me for all of the horrible things I had done to her. I had hoped that there would be some redemption. She sat behind me, and I turned around to talk to her. She ignored me, like I wasn’t even there, and went prattling on to a mutual friend sitting beside her.
I had become a ghost to her – to everyone who had anything to do with the both of us. It had been like this at the lunch table, in our classes. My life was stolen from me, and I deserved it. I told her so, and begged her to talk to me. She finally faced me and refused. “I’ve had enough. I’ve taken so much from you in the last two years. You are dead to me. Don’t talk to me again.”
I was confined to my room after the incident, so I just isolated myself to my bed. I went to bed early and woke at dawn. I looked up and out my window into the never ending grey sky. And I said aloud, “If I hadn’t done any of this, she would be beside me right now.”
Later, I wrote a letter to her in my journal to say goodbye. And I wrote, “In the end, after everything, I just wanted you to know that I always loved you more than anyone.”
Inspired by Ruby Tuesday, who wrote Trust Me, I Know, I’d like to just bare all and show the contents of my purse. Now, up until I saw Ruby’s everyday purse, I thought I was a serious bag lady. I don’t know if other women have this problem where they find that each purse begins to get bigger, and bigger with age. I started out late with purses, having my first one gifted to me as a joke in college. Now, after a husband and a son, I started wearing ones with a strap across the front, just because my poor shoulder couldn’t handle it anymore.
Mind you, when you see the contents, I have spared you the sight of the occasional diaper, wipes, and Chris’ car keys – all of which have become my responsibility somehow in the last four years.
Now, we spill . . .
I decided I’d like to make this into a contest. The first one that names all of the items correctly automatically gets first dibs on the Blog for Mental Health 2013 badge.
We sat together, alone on a Friday night. What an atypical Friday night, without people hanging from our rafters and music blaring. A couple of cans of beer and a pack of cigarettes were the only occupants of the old grainy table with red paint peeling. I chipped at it a little carelessly while watching him intently. It was him and me, peacefully alone, deep in light, airy conversation.
I was mildly distracted by the clarity of his voice. No ambient noise of idle chatter engulfed his words. They slipped from his full pink petal lips, with the crispness of mildly intoxicated honesty, confessions from a fortress of a man. He explained his position, the station in which he found himself in within his own self. My ears perked up at the heaviness of the content, and I felt the weight shifting from a crushing burden of existence onto him, sliding onto the table, begging for me to grasp it.
Befuddled, “Need me how?”
“I need to be with you. I want more time with you.”
Those two sentences struck me with the force of a wrecking ball, crumbling every wall throughout each layer, penetrating me into a sweet surrender. Simple words completely ravished me, turning my entire world on it’s ear. And in this entire duration of the last six months, I had been none the wiser.
I wrote an article for A Canvas of the Mind entitled, “Disorder and Love: What We Do and Don’t Know”. It went into a detailed analysis of relationships and how disorder can come to affect them. I wrote:
Mental health disorders have a way of putting blinders on a person. I have to say, there are a lot of things in this world that I miss. Whether it’s because I’m wrapped up in my own head, or I have one of the different shades of the multiple pairs of glasses I don on, I know that my own perceptions are often distorted. In short, I miss things. Sometimes, I miss very important things.
I am not one to take a hint. So, one of those subtle things, such as love, often slip past me or whiz over my head.
This admission was far beyond my own powers of perception, interpretation, and insight. Riding a ten year roller coaster of various states and natures of friendships and romantic partnership, I came to expect that no further surprises existed. He had seen me in the worst of lights, beyond any imagination of my own personal wreckage. This is just as he had seen me in my greatest successes, radiantly reborn each time out of my own ashes. And I witnessed him in his own pits, disheveled, yet hiding it well. With each crack beginning to show, every time pulling himself back into flight. We ran our own cycles again and again.
People don’t change, they just become more so. Murphy was sorely mistaken in this context. And I had made some serious fallacious conclusions in this progression.
Have I folded into myself so tightly that I failed to see this? Clearly, this desperate longing existed within him, stirring and quaking for eternities, extensively understated. Had I walled myself into such complete introversion that existing within his own mind and heart was an impossibility?
It no longer mattered. The blinders came off, and he had never been so radiantly focused though my own eyes. We were unencumbered by the shackles of responsibilities and obligations. In that moment, we were young lovers, engulfed in each other, professing each perfect droplet of affections in fine, caressing detail. The purity of those exchange brought definition and order into our world of chaos and illusion.
That simple phrase was so multifaceted, in such a simple package with a little satin bow. He had lost me, the pure, undistorted, unadulterated me before him now so many times. He had lost me to our child, sacrificing so much time and energy that there was not much left to give. Again, I disappeared into the abyss of postpartum psychosis, and dropped even further into the depths of bipolar disorder. Each relapse must have been more inexplicably painful and confusing for him than it was for me. A wild woman emerged in each episode of psychosis, severing him from me as reality slipped through my fingers and out of my grasp. In the last six months, he had to have been suffering the same loneliness and mourning for the life and love we shared.
“I’m not going back there,” I assured him. “I am better, and I will keep getting better. We know what’s wrong with me. And we can make me better together. You don’t have to lose me again.”
“I just want it to be us.”
And it is. And forever will be, us.
- Disorder and Love: What We Do and Don’t Know (acanvasoftheminds.wordpress.com)
- Disorder and Love: What We Do and Don’t Know (sunnywithachanceofarmageddon.wordpress.com)
- Blog for Mental Health 2012 (sunnywithachanceofarmageddon.wordpress.com)
- Every New Beginning . . . (sunnywithachanceofarmageddon.wordpress.com)
Today could not have been a more perfect day to meet her.
It was one of those days when everything was just so seamless. I climbed into T.D.’s new, twin, big-boy-bed to wake him for his last OT appointment. He was curled up in the center of the bed with books encircling him. I smiled and thought it was so like both C.S. and me. He opened his eyes, and he was all smiles too.
T.D. met most of his goals in his ISFP, and exceeded expectation in some. I showered and mentally picked out an outfit. White slouchy tunic and black and white floral skirt – with wooden and bronze jewelry, of course, for a more bohemian look. Wavy or straight? Easy, wavy. I was showered, dressed and out the door in less than an hour.
Everything was so fluid.
I stepped onto the sidewalk to a gorgeous day…
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