This little thing called FEAR

When I was a little girl I used to have nightmares about hammocks. Stop laughing. It's called hammockaphobia, according to the internet (do what you will with that piece of info). I would have horrible night terrors about falling out of one and breaking my nose. Not the “Marsha Brady football to the nose” kind of problem but the several surgeries to once again appear normal kind of problem. I would have these horrible nocturnal hallucinations that would cause me to wake up sweating, heart racing, and even trembling at times. I did grow out of those types of dreams but the fear of hammocks still lingered. As a matter of fact I can't ever remember actually getting on one even as an adult.

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that
something else is more important than fear.” 
― Ambrose Redmoon

Yep! My face may not be supermodel material but it's the only one I have and I'd like to keep it as healthy as I can. My nose being the prominent object on my face (sticks out farther than anything else) makes it more susceptible to accidental modification.

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” 
― Nelson Mandela

Okay Nelson Mandela, I get what you're saying. I am committed to becoming a better person. That means conquering my fear of hammocks. Sounds a little silly which is why I never really shared that tidbit of information until recently. Truth is, I'm a bit embarrassed that this is a phobia of mine. That is why I decided I would challenge myself.

This past week I happened to be petsitting for two households, both of which had a hammock. One house had a thick ropey thing hanging sinisterly over a cement slab of a back porch. No way was that going to be my choice! The other a bit less apocalyptic with its carpet like rug underneath. I sat in a nice comfortable stationary chair wondering what on earth would possess anyone to choose resting in an unpredictable nomadic contraption.

“Do one thing every day that scares you.” 
― Eleanor Roosevelt

As I mentally planned my descent into the cradle of condemnation, I also made sure I was prepared in case of emergency and had my phone tucked into my back pocket as well as the land line phone on the floor under the hammock in case I couldn't dig it out of my pocket or I land on it and break it. I started out small by touching it and giving it a little push. I stood watching it as it slowed. I turned around and grasped the side of the hammock with both hands and lowered myself into it. After the hyperventilating stopped, I leaned back and allowed myself to be cradled, my feet dangling off the side ready to grip the ground if needed. I did it Eleanor Roosevelt! I sat for a while contemplating the safest way to get out now that I had vanquished that little thing called fear. I then realized that I wasn't actually in the hammock correctly. I was sitting in it like a chair not lounging about like the confident hammock ace I had so recently become. I took a deep breath and grasped the side above my head with one hand and the other side by my legs with the other. One leg at a time I inched myself lengthwise on the hammock and exhaled. I did it!

“Laughter is poison to fear.” 
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

I laughed! I laughed so hard I almost started crying. I like this thing called hammock! I was laughing so hard one of the dogs came up to me panting and pawing. I reached down to pet her and calm her and in the process my weight shifted and off I rolled into the floor. I froze like a statue from shock then the pain materialized and I exhaled a small cry. Penny, the dog was licking my arm and whining. After realizing I landed on my back and not my face I sat up and sighed. I may not wish to lay in a hammock any more but I certainly do not fear that cradle of pain any more. I suppose facing ones fear isn't always pretty or successful but it is empowering. What are you going to do to empower yourself?  

The Lesson in the Lunch

Okay so, I wanted to keep this month light.  I have received many e-mails asking to expand upon last month's blog entry and I have also been asked a lot of questions. I will expand and answer those questions at a later time. For those of you who are impatient my answers to your questions are: Yes, Only when tired, sometimes, no, not really but I might have to try it, and mostly on Sunday's. ;-)  Look for part 2 later this year.  I usually post TBT (Throwback Thursday) pics on my FB page and this Thursday I thought about trolling some of my earlier writings for a little gem to share with you.  I found one that I wrote in high school that is fictitious but based on something that really did happen. So for your entertainment I give you a short little essay called The Luncheon.

THE LUNCHEON

I sat in total confusion at the raised eyebrows.  Why were they all staring at me?  Was there food on my face?  Did I suddenly break out in hives? Was there some sort of disgusting substance hanging from my nostrils? Just as I was about to reach for my napkin I cold sickly feeling crept up my spine. My eyes widened like the china saucers before me as I realized my folly. I had just drank from the finger bowl! How could I have let this happen?  I spent many dreadful evenings with Auntie Amala setting the table, naming plates and utensils, learning how to fold a proper napkin, and the lady-like way to eat soup sans slurp and dribble--all in vain. I wished at that moment to slip into the cracks of the floor to explore the world there. I know it seems silly but I clicked my heels together in hopes my patent leather shoes would have the same gift that Dorothy had in Oz. No such luck.

Early that morning I was forced into the tub, scrubbed from head to toe, and to my dismay dried with a stiff white towel.  I was lotioned down and powdered while being quizzed on proper etiquette.  I had to sit quietly while listening to how Auntie Amala's friends will be so impressed at how she turned that rough, tomboy of a niece into the vision of daintiness that was emerging from her tutelage. 

Auntie Amala squealed with delight as she stood back to visually take me in. Now for your hair she said as she guided me to her vanity mirror. I stood in shock at my reflection. I looked ridiculous in that frilly pink dress and now she was going to top it off with some sort of manipulated configuration of hair that will make look even more absurd.  "You're going to look perfect!" she exclaimed unfurling a lacy pink hair ribbon. I closed my eyes not wanting to see the crime that was about to be committed with my curls. I slowly opened one eye to peek at the damage as Auntie clapped her hands together "Perfect!  Just wait till they see you!" I forced a smile on my face as I surveyed the perfectly primped poodle shaped mass on my head. 

Auntie Amala's sewing circle met three times a month and today was luncheon day. Every month some unlucky lass had the pleasure of being introduced to the wonderful world of social graces.  There was Bela and Esha the gossips, Hazel and Lila the cheek pinchers who caused me to believe my face was paralyzed when they were done with me, and Ann. I didn't know much about Ann. She never spoke. According to Bela and Esha, if she did speak I would have thought I was in an alcohol distillery. Just thinking about being paraded in front of those circling old hens made me cringe.

When time for the luncheon came everything when pretty well but before I could stop myself the finger bowl was in my hand and up to my mouth.  I properly dabbed the corners of my mouth with my napkin as we had rehearsed and placed it neatly back on my lap. I didn't realize my stupidity until I looked up and there in front of me was a brood of old hens with raised eyebrows. I dropped my head to stare at the floor. I didn't speak. I just sat. I hated Auntie Amala for making me do this but I was also ashamed for disappointing her.  

"You can't turn a rag doll into one of fine porcelain! Do you realize I had to make her another dress after I caught her in a tree?  It was ripped and torn all over!" I listened by the vent as Aunt Amala verbalized her frustration. I really was a rag doll. What could she expect from a girl with five brothers and a neighborhood full of boys? I could out run, out spit, and out climb half of them.  Why wasn't that impressive? 

That night as I readied myself for bed I couldn't shake the look of discouragement I saw on Auntie Amala's face. I pondered the situation till bedtime until an idea surfaced. I prayed that this would break the uncomfortable air between us. We moved awkwardly around each other that evening and the lump in my throat caused a gagging reflex several times at dinner. This couldn't go on. I was visiting for a month. I gently knocked on Auntie Amala's bedroom door and entered with a tea service cart. When she looked up I smiled and pulled a finger bowl from underneath the service. 

"One lump or two?" I asked pouring tea into the finger bowl. She chuckled as she shook her head and accepted my offering. 

Sometimes in embarrassing situations you just have to laugh at yourself.  What was your proverbial finger bowl?  Did you take yourself too seriously?  Don't bother. Laugh on.

This Hunger Game Is Not a Work of Fiction

I mentioned in my first blog about some of the things I live and struggle with, and on any given day I may be waltzing around with more than one issue. Sadly for me there is one that has haunted me for what seems like an eternity, my struggle with EDNOS (Eating disorder not otherwise specified). I know that I'm not alone in this struggle of self hate and punishment but mine is not as simple as trying to be one stomach flu away from a size 0. It was never like that for me. I was never trying to look like a model. I was always feeling guilty about something and like many young girls and women I began to use food as a voice. (the absence of it and the over abundance kept me in a hellish love/hate triangle)

My bulimia started as a way to (pardon my pun) purge away the guilt. I remember as early as 6 feeling guilty for enjoying things. I would break my own toys and I remember punishing myself by sitting inside my bedroom closet terrified of the darkness inside but somehow feeling it was what I deserved. The actual purging didn't start till I was 13. I also had a brief relationship with pica as well. The pica was the ultimate in punishment for me. I felt like such a horrible human being and that I didn't deserve food. I allowed myself little bits of paper and in some cases little pieces of chalk. These things didn't taste good or didn't qualify as food so it was guiltless. I would shake the toaster upside down because I didn't deserve a whole piece of bread or toast but I could have the crumbs nobody wanted. My college years I would troll the 24 hour grocery stores late at night for food porn. (A feast of the eyes only) I would roam down the aisles picking things up and putting them back while the most pitiful pear that had obviously been dropped and maybe even partially rotted sat like a baby in the front of my cart. It rode around sometimes rolling and falling over creating more skin blemishes than a puberty ridden middle schooler. By then maybe I could have it. No one in their right mind (I obviously wasn't) would want it so maybe I could convince myself that I could have it. The person working the register always gave me a strange look as I purchased my sub-par piece of fruit.

The problem for me in this is that I am overweight. The truth is, the majority of people with an eating disorder are overweight or of average weight. The sad part is because of that many don't get the help they need. I was one of those people. After confessing to a doctor about my purging and my binge/starve cycle he chuckled slightly and said I don't look like I have anything to worry about and will probably tire of this behavior eventually when I don't get the attention I'm expecting. At the time I was 15. I started purging about 5 times a day after that. After all, the doctor said I had nothing to worry about. (Ruptured esophagus = death, weakening of the heart which leads to heart attacks = death, kidney failure = death, stroke = possible death etc.) He wasn't the only one in the medical community who made me feel like an attention seeking brat. I realized very quickly that unless I was emaciated (which can be too late to receive help) I would never be taken seriously. I was actually fine with that-- well, the part of me that believed I was a horrible human being and didn't deserve anything. That part of me began to take over after I stopped trying to get help. It reminded me that I didn't deserve to stop. I began to believe it and I fell into a very dangerous cycle of self injury, binge/purge, and starve behaviors. I was almost high with the sadistic rituals I put myself through. Later as an adult things got out of hand again. A stressful moment can start the madness and I'm 70lbs down in two months, my hair is coming out in clumps, I have dizzy spells, anemia, and big dry patches all over my body. I was once told by a woman who I suppose was trying to help that I was going to hell for treating (my body) the temple of the Lord with such disregard. (She was referring to my constant purging and negative words I had singed into my skin) I looked at her and responded “This is hell!” I even had a minister try to give me diet advice that was safer than what I was doing. Um...really?? WTH??? Look I know sometimes people just don't know what to say and in those instances I wish they would just keep their pie hole shut! Everyday and every bite I take there is always that thought “you don't deserve it!” “Spit it out!” It's terribly exhausting to hate yourself so much but then again isn't that the point. To exhaust myself to the point where I can no longer be. Where I'm just a hollow shell curled into a cupboard trying not to take up room because there are other people, wonderful people that deserve to be. At my lowest I wrote this poem.

ERASE ME

Erase me. I'm just a smudge.

This sketch would be much cleaner

If you'd cut me off or blot me out

Or whittle me much leaner.

Erase me. It's not a loss

My shadow soon unknown

Those that are left may walk in light

And not my hellmouth roam.

Erase me. I beg of you.

Don't make the torture longer.

White me out, scrape me off,

Just make sure I'm a goner.

Erase me. Don't recreate

For I'm not worth the space.

Don't watch me fade, evaporate,

Just let me be erased.

Erase me. I'm just a flaw.

Don't ruin your masterpiece.

Just peel me off, and carve me out

And make this being cease.

Erase me.

Now that I look back on this and sad to say many other poems and essays I wrote I can see how far I've come. Maybe not as far as I want (I tend to be impatient with myself) but the fact that I don't feel like this on a regular day to day basis is amazing. I was dying inside, hollowed out, and severely depressed. I may not always be rainbows and sunshine but I no longer wake up disappointed that I didn't die in my sleep. Truth is I don't go a day without condemning myself whenever anything crosses my lips (even raw vegetables) There is always that nagging feeling of not being deserving of that salad or piece of cheese. The sour bitter remembrance of bile on my tongue and how easy it would be to just rid my stomach of any culinary sin. I know that slippery slope all too well. Awakening the beast inside and knowing I won't be able to stop. It scares me. Today, I survived this hunger game. Every baby step is a victory. So no matter your gait, just keep moving forward.

Square Wheels on a Train

In reference to the stop motion animated movie Rudolph (the red nosed reindeer) & the Island of Misfit Toys; I always saw myself as the train with the square wheels. I believe if there was such an island I would be stuck on it. In the movie, Rudolph and his friends find themselves on the Island of Misfit Toys. Each toy on the island was a reject. I, like the train with square wheels, was all wrong. I grew up with two older brothers and a neighborhood full of boys that taught me how to belch the alphabet, climb a tree while holding a jar of bugs (don't ask why. I was a kid and have no idea of why that was a useful skill), how to catch fireflies, newts, salamanders, and caterpillars. I was also shown the correct way to spit long distances and make fart noises with my armpit. I joyfully did all of these things to the dismay of my mother who wanted a dainty little princess. I also received frowns of disapproval from my peers. “You chose to play the trumpet? But you're a girl”. I acquired objection for wanting to play peewee football with my brothers. “No. Girls don't play rough games like that. Here's a cheerleader uniform. That's what girls do”.

The whispers I remember overhearing throughout my childhood and adolescence started to make me very self-conscious. The way women would squint their eyes and tilt their heads to the side in order to take me in or figure me out. They'd suck their teeth telling my mother how round I was or odd I was. My hair was too big, and so was my body. My knees and legs were usually covered with dirt, bandages, or scratches. Their poison hiss in my mother's ear ”She was such a pretty baby. What happened?” “Better do something about it now before it's too late”. Me feeling overwhelmed by the feeling of bursting at the seams and leaking out contaminating all that was pure, beautiful, and girl-like. I was apparently too much. How could this be? All of this time I thought I wasn't enough. Not smart enough, not thin enough, not tall enough, not pretty enough, The list goes on but in reality I had this realization of my muchness. How can I be not enough and too much all at the same time? (Hmm...does that make me an overachiever?) I began to hide and shrink myself. My hair long and thick would be pulled in front of my face to protect others from this hideous creature who takes up too much space and is too much to have to deal with. Along the way I developed unhealthy coping systems that resulted in self injury and an eating disorder among other things. (that's another blog for another time)

The critical, cryptic language of girls and women began to constantly ring throughout my head and made me a bit neurotic. Have two X chromosomes? Then you know that conversation all too well. I feel ugly. I feel fat. These statements constantly roll around in your brain. If you are alone they pierce the silence with icy sharpness numbing any semblance of truth. If you are in a public place they buzz wildly over the din crushing any crumb of self worth into dust. If you are simply standing in front of a mirror applying makeup, brushing your hair, or any other grooming ritual they shoot daggers and shatter your already thinning confidence. Good heavens! What are we doing to ourselves?? The

truth is “ugly” and “fat” aren't feelings. We as women use these words incorrectly but why? It starts early, this veiled language of sabotage. I remember in 8^th grade watching some of my classmates stand in the mirror in the girls restroom during a school dance. “Oh my lord, I feel so fat!” (I actually being a fat girl secretly rolled my eyes at the twig like being commiserating with her ilk). The other young females join in some anthropological tug of war on who feels fatter or uglier. The truth peeks out a bit later before they leave the loo. Apparently one girl is nervous because the boy she likes hasn't asked her to dance yet. Therefore she feels nervous (not fat) that the boy doesn't like her. Her friends in turn, instead of saying “Fat isn't a feeling. What's really bothering you?” (Like that would ever happen with a gaggle of pimple clad middle school girls). Instead they chide themselves with “I feel __insert incorrect negative word “ in a rite of adolescent communication. What's that smell? It's not teen spirit. It's the distinct smell of bullshit and it's sadly passed on from girl to girl and woman to woman. Let's take some inventory of our true feelings. Fat and ugly are not feelings. They are physical descriptions used in most situations as opinions (everybody has one). “I feel fat” and “I feel ugly” become a wet blanket statement for any unfavorable thoughts we have about ourselves. When I refer to these statements as wet blankets I see them as a cover to extinguish the flames of true emotion under the surface. As women we are mature enough to fully express ourselves. We need to teach and be an example to the next generation of girls that we can communicate our needs in order to have them met or to be understood. To help set this in motion I submit words that are real feelings. I've taken some of these words from the Feelings Inventory list by Center for Nonviolent Communication for full list please visit their website at  www.cnvc.org Email: cnvc@cnvc.org Phone: +1.505.244.4041.

Feelings when your needs are not satisfied:

Afraid

Annoyed

Angry

Confused

Disconnected

Embarrassed

Fatigued

Sad

Vulnerable

Yearning

Now to follow through with this example I will share a true feeling with you that I have been struggling with. I am nervous because I am job hunting and I need encouragement so I will stop throwing wet blanket statements at myself. My confidence is broken. *Deep breath*

It's almost Spring so open up those emotional closets and do some cleaning! Blessings!

The shift hit the fan.

I had planned for this year to be a blossoming time of wisdom. I hoped for a time where I would grow and gracefully unfurl a tender new leaf of growth, control, and maturity. I wanted to take each life lesson with a deep breath and release what stunts my growth, be in the moment to learn what I needed, and move along as the enlightened adult I am. But to be honest, January ended and February started with a bit of an emo vibe. Dealing with myself lately is kind of like dealing with a teenager. Do you smell that? That's me reeking of insecurity, angst and pimple cream. Why? Because not only am I dealing with this awkward faze of proverbial lanky limbs (verbally stumbling whenever I open my mouth) but apparently my skin has decided to join the blatant attack on my self esteem and grace me with acne. Hey life, while you're chucking those lemons can you at least help a sister out and toss in a few strawberries? Okay, so I'm whining a little. I was all set to post this wonderful blog entry on loss that I felt was touching and helpful. I had completed it early accept for the ending. I just figured I would tie it all together in about 15-30 minutes tops then post a polished piece of perfection that I would be proud of. Instead I couldn't do it because that big writers block of cement wouldn't get out of my way. So in this day and age of technology I just decided I would put an end to this. I would nip it in the bud. I wanted a smooth conclusion. I wanted it now and the internet was the way to find it. I know I'm not the only one who has ever had this problem. I'll find a snippet about this issue and be done with it. I took a deep breath and said “Okay God, I release the hold of negativity I have allowed in my life. My devotions this morning was about acceptance and I accept this new shift as it moves the block that does not serve me”. Then it popped in my head. Quotes about writers block would be fast and easy I could find one that would be the answer. A drive thru window for my McProblem. I type “quotes for writers block” in my search engine and behold a plethora of answers at my fingertips! Another deep breath “lead me divinely” I whispered then clicked.

“The problem is acceptance, which is something we're taught not to do. We're taught to improve uncomfortable situations, to change things, alleviate unpleasant feelings. But if you accept the reality that you have been given- that you are not in a productive creative period- you free yourself to begin filling up again.” 
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

Seriously??? Click back arrow. Okay, apparently I didn't make myself clear. I NEED to complete this almost already finished piece. Please open a divine door. Scroll next page and click.

“Writer's block is caused by forcing your will on the Divine.” 
― Chriscinthia Blount

I groan then throw a mini tantrum. I get up and leave the house pouting. I really wanted to post about my father and loss and it wasn't going the way I wanted. I decided if I couldn't write my way I wasn't going to write at all. I made my way to a bookstore in hopes for inspiration but I was still in pouting mode so I wandered to the magazine section for brain candy. I scan the magazines. News Weekly, too serious. Maxim, as if. Sports Illustrated, not if it was the only one left on the planet. Fashion mags are not usually my thing but why not? I grab one and flip through the pages casually scanning then open on a page that was an advertisement for something called Plan B. I started laughing. I really started laughing out loud. I put the magazine back on the shelf because I was unable to stop laughing and the stares from strangers began making me self conscious but I couldn't stop giggling. I made my way home and sat at my computer still giggling and started my plan B. I know that ad wasn't meant to sell me on shifting my direction in the writing experience but I suppose a shift in my attitude was highly in order. The blog on loss is obviously for another time. My writing muse shook her head smirking welcoming me home as I cranked out this far from graceful human reality. Be gentle with yourself. If you are to grow strong and healthy you have to endure some rain and deal with some manure along the way. Just shift your face toward the sun and become. Sprout on!  

It's a new years revolution!!!!

Okay, so now that 2014 is here I am back. I had some family stuff with my mom being ill and in hospital then my father following suit but then passing away from colon cancer.

I always planned to come back to this place of writing and posting at least once a month so here is January's edition of my blog. I guess this is my introduction of what is to come. I would love to say new and improved but that wouldn't be entirely true and to be honest I don't know if that is possible. I mean, we all are growing, learning and, changing. I guess some measure of improvements would be relative. I hope to improve as a person and be a better me but mostly I wish to be able to flow a bit easier this year. 2013 was not exactly kind and saying goodbye to those that didn't ring in the new year with me has brought a great deal of grief and moving through loss (in some cases still doing so). It makes me wonder if my words will transform and melt into a giant mass damming the labyrinth in my skull. Maybe I'll be at a loss for words when I write of my grief, struggles, and triumphs. That is not the writer I am!!!! Is it? I shall see.

This year I plan to stand proverbially nude and let my scars show (physical and mental). My goal is not to be afraid of my humanness. I want to open up and let those soft tender parts of me that I fear will be manipulated and cursed, or scrutinized and magnified for the sake of shaming me and slashing at my integrity be revealed. My goal is to be that woman who is loud, bawdy, and fearless to speak my truth. My aim is to be genuinely pleased to flaunt every flaw that I wear on my person and in my soul. This is the year where I not only find myself but bring ME out of hiding even when I'm dark, and ugly, or cold, and angry. I will have a conversation with the self that needs comforting and guidance. Because for every negative word I fling at myself in whispers and thoughts to break my own heart before I give anyone else that satisfaction. I will come up with a counter move in love that will stop that cycle of self sabotage and hate. I had become my own worst enemy and imprisoned myself and that is not acceptable. I'm not promising a rose colored glasses experience here. I promise not to tell you to sparkle and shine for I'm not a Stepford wife and I don't expect to constantly float in the river of denial and say all is candy and flowers. If that's what you're looking for you've stumbled on the wrong blogging stone. Leave now or you may end up thinking for yourself. :-)

I'm not making this a resolution because I generally hate it when people talk of the perfection they are going to achieve with their “new year resolutions”. They usually come with good intentions but flounder and that is not my goal I call this an internal uprising and a “new me revolution” a war on the negative monster that keeps me from the divine purpose. I hope to inspire you but also myself because that makes our world better.

So in conclusion I ask you to be gentle with yourself as you greet yourself anew on every sunrise and lull yourself gently with every sunset.

Be bold, and more importantly, be you.

A Hamlet Decision

As I mentioned in my first blog post I will be exploring and writing about the things in my life that I struggle with. Some of those things are ugly and dark and this one is one of the darkest I've written so far. It is of course the truth and although it is about one of the dark times it is a reminder to me that I survived. Not that I was kidnapped or forced into heroic deeds to save myself or others from impending doom. This fight was against myself and it is still one of the biggest fights of survival I have faced. Depression and self hatred is one battle that is fought on almost every given day. This day in particular was life and death. I'm glad I chose the first one. I have been on both sides of the coin. When I say this I mean I know what it's like to lose someone from suicide. 3 someones in particular and knowing what it feels like to be in so much emotional pain and woe that it seems like the only option. I sympathize but I pray I never hurt my family and love ones in that way.

“To be or not to be...” this opening to a Shakespearean soliloquy is one of the most frequently quoted partial lines I have ever heard. Hmph! Shakespeare would be the one to make the prospect of suicide poetic. Truth of the matter, being in the moment of contemplation is anything but. It can be a form of madness, a chasm of grief, but poetic? Sad to say I have thought about this more than once and I have been in and put myself in situations that it is a wonder that I am here now writing about it and not six feet below in a dirt nap.

Working in an office no matter where can be a dehumanizing experience and with the idea of global corporate takeovers things can become even more so with drab cubicles and mundane ideas of buying out something being run by people who care, and have feelings to an artificial form called a corporation. Corporate is black and white. People have gray areas. Those gray areas are what make people different it is what makes Sally outgoing and happy and what makes Mary shy and sweet. Corporation’s job is to squash all of that. Take that out of an equation and make Sally and Mary the same. As an artistic type, that was the beginning of work week misery.

(Okay, I hate the corporate ideal. You got that part. Don't worry, I'm moving on.) As a person dealing with depression, I would like to mention that I hadn't at this time been seen or treated chemically for this matter. I hid my sorrow publicly with jokes and sarcasm because it was a coping mechanism that had seemed to work so far. This particular day was different. Aside from the self injury rituals I was performing almost daily, I was also starving myself. In two months I lived off 4 foods celery, raisins, pickles, and on occasion half of a 100 calorie snack pack. I was also purging when I slipped up and ate a pear or cookie. Anything that varied was a reason to hate myself more. This particular dark day was evaluation day. The day most people look forward to as a day to get a raise. It's also known as the day your boss gets to tell you how you don't measure up according to corporate (Oops! Thought I was done). I had gone above and beyond my job description by being available to doctors and some staff as the “Spanish translator” some people teased me with that. Truth is I should have sent corporate a damn bill. My job was to prep charts, relieve front desk, relieve switchboard, answer the phone as medical records, which was another umbrella for whatever the heck no one else wants to do. I also had to get records from satellite clinics for insurance companies on behalf of patients. Not to have to go into exam rooms and see people in many forms of undress and tell them that they have cancer. In any language that sucks! I did get a thank you but it followed with how I will never get a perfect evaluation because we always have something to improve on. Those words rolled around in my head all day and by the time lunch came around I was screaming in my head that I was worthless and no matter what I do in my job I will never be perfect. I will always be striving for something always unattainable! At that moment I was done. I had been longingly gazing at the parking garage every time I passed one of the offices with windows. Not because my car was there and I wanted to drive off in the sunset and give corporate the proverbial finger but because I had started having twisted fantasies of throwing myself off the top. On most lunch breaks people make decisions between the spaghetti or the salad, to eat outside or inside, to eat what is in the brown bag you brought from home or spend extra cash on a restaurant choice. That day mine was Shakespearean. I stood at the top of the parking garage slight breeze blowing the hair across my forehead and I touched the wall. It was warm. Not what I was expecting. The sun had been beating down on it. “Is this high enough?” My spoken question startled me. I had spent most of the day in my head. Every question and every word had been unspoken. I glanced at the lager hospital parking garage visible from where I stood. Nope. Too close to the hospital. Need to make sure this is over. I need to make sure not to waste anymore space. I stood there playing tug of war with my psyche. Angry with myself for not achieving enough and knowing this would be penance. How? This would be a nuisance to whoever had the unfortunate job of cleanup. This place is better without you. You are poison. Will my bills be a burden to my parents. This place is better without you. You are poison. How will my best friend handle this? This place is better without you. You are poison. Everyone of those questions were answered the same. Now I had to look for a car old enough not to have an alarm. One close to the wall I can climb on and see where I would land. No, I might change my mind if I look. This place is better without you. You are poison. I need to get a bit of a run and leap. Do I really want to do this? Yes, this place is better without you. You are poison. My dog, what will happen to Freckles? This place is better without you. You are poison. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! “Shut up!!!!” For the first time ever I told that negative voice that reminded me all my life that I wasn't enough to shut up! Why? I don't know really. Maybe it was the India that wanted to live. Maybe because I stopped being selfish and thought of how my precious beagle who had done nothing and had spent earlier years chained to a stake outside until I brought him home to live with me. He deserved a good life and I couldn't insure that unless I was here. (Call bullshit if you want but at that moment that is what I clung to).

So in the moment of hopelessness and despair, what do you cling to?