Battle scars

Okay so January 2015 is missing from my blog because I was in the hospital. I was there for 4 ½ days and while there January bled into February so this is a winter baby of sorts. My posting for January was unfinished and after coming home I didn't see the point of posting it for January when it was clearly February and... you get the point. Anyway, I'm back and who knows what will come flying off my fingers into the world of blog land so hold on tight this will be a bumpy ride.

WARNING: This post has info that may be triggering. If you have an addiction to self injury or any self injurious behaviors, this months blog may cause problems for you. Proceed at your own caution.

My addiction to hurting myself (Yes, that's right. It's an addiction) is a struggle that is more than just an every day reality but has morphed into this monster. I mean, think of the ugliest color one can imagine (Go on. I'll wait ☺) now imagine that it's clinging to every inch of your being, not just your body. It's thick like tar and when you think you've scraped some off you turn to scrape some more off and it grows back solidified and more tenacious. It crawls from your mouth, leaves its dark seeds on your pillow at night to sprout heinous ideas of yourself through your ears and into your brain and no matter how much you try it trickles and spreads it's tentacles around you and you become this drunken marionette under it's power. That my friend is what an addiction is and it sucks putrid hose water!

I am a burner. I burn myself with many things. Usually a candle and a bobby pin are involved. It's very ritualistic and I think that my OCD may contribute to that aspect. Yes, I feel it. Yes, it hurts. I'm not in some type of trance when It happens. It becomes it's own leech like creature that craves me and I'm at times too weak to resist. That has happened recently and I try hard every day to avoid falling down that rabbit hole. This time I tried to tell myself that it wasn't that bad because I burned the words “HELP ME” on my arm. I was after all asking for help in my own twisted little secret way. It wasn't as bad as the other words I'd done in the past. Just grab a thesaurus and look up the word worthless and assume all those and a plethora of others have been singed on my abdomen, arm and thigh. I wear a lot of long sleeves when going through those times.

I'm not sharing this information in hopes of gaining pity. I don't want it. I have enough of it.

“That's the difference between pity and compassion: Pity just feels sorry! Compassion does something about it.”- unknown

I challenge you whether your pity is being wasted on yourself or someone else, be proactive and expand yourself. I plan to do that today. Showing compassion for the self is a difficult thing for me. Baby steps are the process. It also helps me to show and be more compassionate towards others. That's important to make this world better. Before you think I've gone all rainbow colored glasses on you, know that this is my oath to personally make my world better for the people I love and care about and that process includes (gulp) self care. Now I shall wrap this up and rub healing oil on my self inflicted wounds because that is how I would care for a friend.

“Pity and friendship are two passions incompatible with each other” - Oliver Goldsmith

I Am a Masterpiece. I'm Just Still a Work in Progress.

I received an e-mail asking if I would write more about my problem with self injury and my eating disorder. I was also asked about if I remember what started it and if I look back is there something I could have done to stop it or if I can use that information to help me stop now.

Well, here's my take on it...

My self injury started around fifth or six grade. One of my brothers had a soldering iron and I had had a horrific day. I remember thinking I somehow deserved the bad day and the idea of the iron popped into my mind. I, one way or another came to the conclusion that I had to use the soldering iron on myself. I guess as some type of penance. I recall being of a younger age breaking my own toys because I didn't deserve them or making myself sit in my closet (I was afraid of the dark) for reasons I no longer recollect. I just remember feeling that I deserved the punishment. I guess I'm not sure when the “I'm a horrible person and need to punish myself” feeling started. I've always been very sensitive and causing disappointment or anger to anyone was more painful than any spanking I received. Emotions hurt me deeper than anything and I found the best way to cope with emotions was by injuring myself. Physical pain was something I learned early how to cope with. It was easy to switch my brain to focus on the physical stuff. That horrible day after school I burned marks on my abdomen and went to my room to sit with the physical pain. Giving my brain a break from the tsunami of emotions crashing in my skull.

I'm not certain I would have (because communication in my household was not something that happened) talked to my mom about what I was feeling and there was no way on God's green earth I was taking this information to my father (our relationship was a complicated one) It's never easy being the weird kid but being the weird kid and the fat kid (check it out! I was an overachiever) made things more difficult.

As far as the eating disorder, that started around 7^th grade. I remember shoving my fingers down my throat after lunch. I had already convinced myself that I didn't deserve lunch. Why? Not sure, had something to do with not having many friends like my brothers. Someone sat at my lonely little table. I was busy sketching in a notebook. They said “Hi” offered me a french fry. I accepted then felt enormous pangs of guilt after I started chewing. I excused myself to the restroom and the rest is history. The purging started because I failed at my limitations. It was meant to undo something I didn't deserve. The eating disorder seemed to become a part of the self injury and they would ebb and flow and sometimes replace the other as a coping mechanism.

I don't see myself doing anything to change that behavior that happened because it has already happened and not having a time machine makes that even harder. I just have to keep working on me. I'm always a work in progress so don't expect perfection. That stuff doesn't exist.

Which reminds me, as we embark on a new year we expect the invasion of new gym memberships, diets, and a plethora of other promises that will soon be broken and abandoned. The habits that we promised to leave behind were indeed released but left nearby. These things are easily picked back up (we as humans are creatures of habits) We dance around the fact that the habit has been released letting our brains fill with magical sugar plum fairies. We look but don't touch. We become those people we use to roll our eyes about. We have well planned schedules, meals, even family time is outlined in details. We have control of our lives, finally! Then February rolls around and we hit the snooze button too many times and have to skip devotions, exercise, time with our creator, etc. It's easy to fall back into the soft cushy arms of laziness. It beckons us to rest. We've done so well all last month. We deserve a break. So we do. We gather up our former patterns. We only released them after all. They are still there. Releasing is not enough. That's right. I said it! You can release anything. It may fall behind the bed or land in a corner with the dust bunnies. We tempt ourselves with this now forbidden fruit the very thought of it causes a craving, your mouth waters, you try to resist, and before you know it that decadent habit that doesn't serve us is back. Chill! You're human. Get back on track to being a better you. We all trip and fall.

“The greatest glory in living
lies not in never falling,
but in rising every time we fall.” 
― Nelson Mandela

So this new year, arise!

The Sweet in the Sour

This holiday season is known for spending time with family. Those moments can be joyful, dreadful or a nauseatingly sickly combination of both. For every high there is a low and with sweet comes the sour. There is an opportunity in most situations to turn the setting on its ear and find the joy in the sorrow. Hold on! Don't worry, I haven't turned into some glassy eyed Pollyanna. I'm about to get honest. I have found myself in plenty of situations where I've sat marinading in the sour. I'm human and prone to have occasions where I pout, or sit with arms folded the inside corners of my eyebrows wrinkling downward at the thought of not getting my way (and that's just yesterday). But today I'm going to share something that happened over 10 years ago.

I once worked in an office that was in the refrigerator section of a warehouse that supplied grocery stores. I worked the late evening shift and I was the only female there in the evenings. The men who worked in the warehouse pulling orders off of pallets and stacking them in big trucks for shipping would come in to get their orders from me. It was a very eclectic group of men but like most environments they would break off into groups like high school cliques and have some varied reason to argue, spew profanity, or hate each other for varied reasons. One evening it became particularly toxic. Racial were slurs flying through the air like shrapnel. This particular evening was the war between the American's and the South Americans. Visual daggers, obscene finger language, and verbal assaults were growing and I honestly thought at one point there would be actual physical altercations. On my dinner break I left the warehouse to get out of that noxious cloud of negativity. Driving around trying to clear my head was futile and the days events flooded my mind. “Okay God, what do I do?” I said as I made my way into a grocery store parking lot. At that moment I remembered something my Grammy said to me regarding an incident with family over Thanksgiving. “When things get tense, and people start to act ugly, bring out dessert. It's hard to argue with sweet deliciousness in your mouth.” I smiled then sighed realizing I hadn't the time or a kitchen to make dessert and I was certainly unprepared to spend a wad of (non-existing) cash. I dug around in the bottom of my purse looking for any change then proceeded to dig in my pockets. A crumpled up five dollar bill and some change was all I had and I seriously doubted that was enough to feed the masses. I found myself wandering around in the 24 hour grocery for several minutes when I saw a basket with discounted items. As I rummaged through at the very bottom was a bag of miniature lollipops. I pulled out the bag realizing it was residual Halloween candy. The bag was pretty big so even if it was fifty percent off I may not have enough funds. I took the bag to the register for a price check and was pleasantly surprised that I had exactly enough. Divine order. :-) 

When I arrived back at the warehouse things were not any better so I made my way back to the office with a plan. As I handed someone an order I also handed them a lollipop. Before long the whole place was quiet and I walked out into the warehouse smiling as the men were driving their pallets around loading and unloading items with little white sticks protruding from their lips. Little pacifiers of sweetness to plug up the raging sour.

So this holiday season when your Aunt so-and-so gets a little sour. Cut her the biggest slice of cake and relish in the sweet quiet. (Unless of course she's diabetic, then there would be that awkward moment when she realizes you're trying to kill her) That's not exactly what I had in mind. ;-)

Recognize the sour and replace it with the sweet. 

The Guilt Trip

Have you ever been on a journey or an excursion that is always available? I'm talking plenty of seats, no blackout dates, no deadlines, or cancellations. This is an odyssey I tend to take on day by day and it is known as The Guilt Trip.

Negative emotions like loneliness, envy, and guilt have an important role to play in a happy life; they're big, flashing signs that something needs to change.

Gretchen Rubin

Okay, my big flashing neon sign is guilt. I think I came here with it. When I say that, I mean that one of my earliest memories is of a feeling that I didn't like. It made my head swim with a particular scenario, made my belly queasy, and I remember not knowing how to make it stop. According to my mother I was two years old and waiting for her to make lunch but the doorbell rang and she went to answer the door. I being young, hungry, and resourceful ascertained that I could make my own lunch. I climbed onto the table and proceeded to take a bite out of each piece of cheese before deciding to eat one piece completely. I apparently pulled the bread onto the floor and took a bite out of a couple of pieces. After having my fill, I found my water cup and was sitting nicely back in my chair awaiting my mothers return. When she saw what had happened an “Oh no! What have you done?” escaped her lips followed by a look of disappointment and a sigh. The look on my mother's face gave me a funny feeling that I didn't quite understand. Later, my vocabulary and comprehension expanded to a realization of the word guilt.  According to my grandmother, I was always a sensitive little soul. My mood fluctuating with my environment. I was also a sympathy crier as a baby. Guess I was like a little emotional sponge absorbing the pains of others and I felt liable if I couldn't quell it. Thus began the start of a troublesome journey for me.

 I was extremely gifted in conjuring up guilt. Many times not long after waking. It became my morning breakfast routine. Heaping mouthfuls of dry, gritty, and bitter lumps of guilt weighed like a stone in my gut. I carried this around pretty much all day feasting on a similar lunch and dinner all in reference to the days happenings. Now as I look back I find myself grimacing at the fact that much of my childhood I spent with this feeling about my person. Why? Still working on figuring that out but I find myself in similar situations where I play a sequence of events over in my head until they morph into this monster and I berate myself for letting it happen then it settles as guilt and I walk around feeling this shame and a hollowed out kind of heart. Truth is, I know now that these types of things feed my depression and self hatred. My goal is to try and stop myself before it swells to massive proportions.

Guilt is anger directed at ourselves - at what we did or did not do. Resentment is anger directed at others - at what they did or did not do.

Peter McWilliams

Well, there it is. Anger at myself. I can dissect it more if need be but for now lets stop here. I have been told that my tendency toward self injury is anger towards myself. At first, I laughed. Not me. I don't do anger. “Then what are those words you burned on your forearm?” asked a nurse at the hospital. “'I hate you' is not something somebody says to someone who they are happy with” The blistered letters were dark and puffy and starting to scab over in certain places. “You burned 'I hate me' on your arm. That says to me I'm angry.” I scoffed and rolled my eyes. But that conversation played over in my head like a song on repeat. Truth is, I had a lot of resentment as well but felt guilty for that and in the process my brain figured out how to turn it around on itself and make me angry at me. Me...Me, I can control. Me, I can fix. Me, I can change to help others. Right?

Guilt can stop us from taking healthy care of ourselves.

Melody Beattie

Yep. Been there. Done that. Brought back souvenirs. The challenge here is to figure out how to keep from cashing in my frequent flier miles on this particular trip. I constantly book it when I know the outcome. I believe it also triggers my eating disorder. That chasm that must be filled, the aching emptiness, and the insatiable craving to feel comforted becomes a goal then feeling full of guilt, hopelessness, and food leads to the purging of those sins of indulgence that was so undeserved. This cycle repeats itself. Sometimes it's one after the other till I'm reduced to once again booking myself on the flight of disgrace to the land of guilt.

I thought about coming up with a mantra to say when I catch myself going there. My hope is to eventually no longer book these draining guilt trips but until then I will settle for canceling the reservation. I started laughing out loud when I visualized the strong me. For some reason I saw myself as Yosemite Sam. (Hear me out! I know it sounds ridiculous) In his bold southern voice I hear him say “I'm dismissin' your expedition!” That throws in a speed bump and halts my travel plans. I then try to redirect myself with a positive order of thought. “I breathe in all that makes me better and exhale that goodness back into the world” In time I hope to never wander back to that place of stigma. Don't forget to cancel your guilt trip and widen your horizons!

Blessings!

True Colors

True Colors

In America you are defined by many things but for me, one thing in particular has always been the subject of many insults, debates, fits of anger, and despair. That subject is my blackness. (or lack there of) So what is this talk of skin delegating whether my brown is too much or not enough? The majority of my friends being of the lighter persuasion (you know, Caucasian) and even though they are my friends still feeling the need to step lightly and not truly be myself for fear of my brown round peg self falling into the stereotypical round hole. Why? Because apparently there is supposed to be some truth in the labeling which is why it stings when you are categorized, broken down, and told to go to the back of the bus. 

What brings on this Moor monologue for the month of September? What snide ignorant remark or question broke this camel's back? An email. I received a very lengthy email from a former friend. Bear in mind this person had just started to come back into my good graces after apologizing for other offences and in an act of empathy I cracked a door that I should have left closed to her. I wont make that mistake again. I will still be civil but it will never ever be as it was before. 

I posted a picture on a social media site with the statement “Um...say what??? Color me flabbergasted! Only in Texas”.  The picture was of some dolls that were titled “Color Your African” and another that said “Color Your Mexican” A friend of mine (Caucasian) stated That's offensive. I wonder who thought that was a good idea? The former friend I mentioned earlier wanted to know why it was offensive. (I was at work and wasn't aware of the conversation until I came home that evening) and was pleased when I realized my friend who said it was offensive (I agreed) answered with The phrase "color your Mexican" sounds like ownership to me. It just doesn't set well that the dolls are named by race. I have no problem with ethnic dolls. I'm all for that. These just seem like they could have been more sensitive with the packaging and just not the best idea. Once again after reading her response I was in agreement and continued to read responses. She again was still not understanding the offence (even though I thought it was well stated) and again asked why it was offensive because the dolls were originally made in Hong Kong and they probably didn't know it would be offensive.  She then decided to do research on the dolls to argue the point that it wasn't offensive because she didn't think the company meant for it to be. (Whether something is meant to be offensive or not is not the point here. My point was I was offended) Meanwhile my personal inbox was flooded by those reading this social media onversation and asking why I was friends with this "person" (the words they used weren't as nice) So once again, in my absence my friend tried to explain by being a bit cheeky (she is after all my friend) So the shop owner that sells these in Texas was probably not from the USA. They probably can't see that this sounds offensive. They probably are not racist nor are they getting a little laugh out of it.That wasn't meant to sound sarcastic. I'm just trying to think the way you do. (I admit, I giggled) I understand what you are trying to say ------. However, the company that made these dolls Craftoy and their parent company both have websites that contain proper English. I found no obvious grammatical errors either. They apparently used someone from this country to create their websites. They could have done some research on our culture and values. Having said that, the bigger problem is that a store owner in this country has no problem selling this product even though it is offensive On one more note, I also wish this world we live in as a whole was more sensitive to others feelings. Even in our country as great as it is, there is room for growth and consideration of others thoughts and feelings. I am not one of the ethnicities that this product would offend and yet I find it offensive. If I can see the problem then it would stand to reason that others would as well. So well stated that I didn't think I needed to elaborate on what she said. I was wrong. Reading this

still bothered me. I felt unheard by the person who is now my former friend I finally got tired of dismissing it as just the way she is and letting it go. We had had many discussions involving offensive terms and she ousted them as silly because she didn't understand why. So I called her out. She was always bold in speech. Apparently explaining things to her as I have before was not effective. I would usually change the subject or give up because I was asked "Why?" more than a toddler who's overdosed on candy. I was bold and matter of fact and gave examples. (That's what she did in asking why) I showed my humaness (I know that's not a word) and told her about herself. Personally I felt deeply hurt that she worked so hard to reject my feeling of violation. I may not have handled it the best way but it needed to be said.

History and the Present

I recently explained to my niece that the way physician's clinics now have a sick waiting room and a well waiting room is how it used to be in the United States of America only one side of the waiting room labeled “White Only” and another “Colored” The only look on her face was that of confusion. “Isn't that illegal?” I answered with a “Now it is.” It was called separate but equal and in all reality there was nothing equal about it. As I share slices of history with her I want her to embrace and love her little brown female self. I want her to see her beauty when the media or some bitter soul tries to tell her that her black isn't beautiful, her body is wrong, or her hair is too much.

I usually try to keep this blog under a page but this subject needed to be vented for my own sake. So let's take a look at my melting pot American hide and see what my DNA has to say. My ancestors lived in North America (The Ojibwa Nation), Africa, India, and the island of Samoa. Look at all the minorities! (that's right, I said it!) Ding, ding, ding... it's a brown out!

Here are some of my thoughts and feelings on some things racial

It isn't a matter of black is beautiful as much as it is white  is not all that's beautiful. Bill Cosby quotes 

On skin tone

“Black coffee no sugar, no cream” is not just part of a Hip-hop lyric. It is what a man in my neighborhood used to say when he was talking about his wife. It was not said as an insult but as endearing. He loved his dark chocolate, strong, black woman and gladly shared that information with whoever would listen.

The color fight in the USA is still a struggle not just down south either. The separation of slaves into "house slaves" and "field slaves" the lighter skinned slaves (either from not being outside in the sun all day or a product of the master's lust) made you "better", closer to being white, and afforded you privileges.

As a child around the age of 8 a woman at my church asked me what happened to me because I used to be such a pretty baby but now I'm too dark. Yep, An adult light-skinned African American woman said this to a child. I learned at the age of 8 that some people (in my own racial community) saw me as ugly because I was no longer as light or lighter than a brown paper bag. (Google The Brown Paper Bag Test for your own educational knowledge.) 

In middle school, I was infatuated with a dark skinned boy named Aaron. When I was brave enough to tell him I was rejected with "Sorry baby, I don't like any cream in my coffee" 
Wait... what? So, I'm too brown and yet not brown enough?
My infatuation in high school was a Caucasian guy named Jesse. "Sorry but if I date outside my race they are light-skinned girls". Seriously???
Apparently my love for all tones of America was rejected by a big brick wall of bigotry.

On the “N” word

I am a member of the African American community and I detest that word. It doesn't matter if it's said ending in an “er” or an “a” That word does not come from my lips. The original root word ("er") is a name given to a group of people as a means to inflict oppression and inferiority. It bothers me when it comes from the mouth of my own people but I feel angry when it comes out of the mouth of a person that is not of African decent. As my friend Shawn once stated “Yes, membership does have it's privileges”. If you don't get that, it's okay. Just know that the majority of African Americans find it offensive and you may face unknown consequences for using it. Moving on...

On hair
This one still baffles me. If you haven't heard the expression "good hair" I recommend Chris Rock's documentary with the same name for your educational purposes.
Apparently "good hair" in the African American community refers to straight, wavy, or loosely curled hair (Google "The Pencil Test Apartheid"). Ask any cancer patient, or person with Alopecia and their answer would be vastly different. Having your own hair regardless of it's texture would be good.

I used to heat straighten my hair it took over 4 hours (I have a lot of hair) I got over it and wear my corkscrews proudly. I have also tried relaxers not for me but nothing wrong with that if you choose. Madam C. J. Walker (born in 1867) was the first African american female millionaire. Can't be mad at that.

On Injustice

“The drums of Africa still beat in my heart. They will not let me rest while there is a single Negro boy or girl without a chance to prove his worth.” 
― Mary McLeod Bethune

Do I believe racism in America still exists?  Yes and I will believe it  does until a brown child can safely walk down any street in America carrying only a snack of Skittles and an Arizona ice tea. I will believe it still exists when an unarmed brown man is shot to death after surrendering to police.

Do I believe in the use of Affirmative action? If I didn't receive long lengthy emails from people using it as an excuse for knowing what it's like to be racially discriminated against. (yes, former friend went there and I shut her down) If there wasn't a need for Affirmative action we would not be having these conversations. She just took my statement and manipulated it into being about her! 

Truth is, there is white privilege. Ignorance says it isn't so. Just because in high school you were blocked in the hallway by three black girls who wouldn't let you pass because you were white. It was during the time when segregation and "bussing" in schools was in the early stages. That doesn't mean you understand racial prejudice. I had the same thing happen to me. It was not because I was black but because it was high school and girls can be mean. I bet that experience was scary for you but try to imagine what black kids your age was going through. Try everyday being threatened, spit on, beaten, hanged, and shot for being black. 

As for me, I'm reminded almost everyday of the struggle still being real. Try everyday having  someone question your motives or try being watched closely while shopping for being brown. Try having all eyes looking at you when something goes missing because you are the only brown face present. 

I now step down from my soap box until another time.

Open your mind. learn about others, and grow.

 

My Scarlet Letter

In Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel (The Scarlet Letter) about a woman (Hester Prynne) in the 17^th century forced to wear a scarlet “A” for her crime of adultery and sent to prison for not giving up the name of her lover (spoiler alert: it's the town minister) Truth is, the way people gossip and speak of the imperfect humans that we all tend to be. Before any holier than thou self righteous zealot pipes up let me remind you of Romans 3:23 For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. There. That out of the way now I continue. The letter was pointless. She knew what she did. The town did too. Hello? Baby daughter born while husband was away for two years.

When thinking about this piece of literature I started to reflect on my life. (I'm doing a lot of that considering I'm about to complete my 40^th rotation around the sun in a few days) I realize that I tend to persecute myself a lot. I force myself to don my red “A” for everything I feel ashamed for. My “A” one day for my bouts of anxiety that I just know everyone can see and it cripples me so badly that sometimes I have driven myself on Sundays all the way to church parked the car and have been unable to get out. Frozen with fear even though I know it's a loving community and a group that has always accepted me and shown me love. I fear to disappoint in some way and panic my way back to my house and hide beneath the covers to hide the self branded “A” blazing on my chest.

Some days I wear an “S” for stupidity because I don't feel smart enough so I keep quiet in hopes others wont realize my ineptitude in all things. Or the days I feel unattractive and stamp the big red “U” for ugly. There are days I can fight through it and parade myself around in my self prosecution as penance.

Truth is my history would sew such a letter on my person, not for adultery but for guilt. Before my father died I shared some information with my parents about my childhood. At the age of 4 or 5 I was taken into the woods near my house where I was beaten and raped. Just had to take a break from this blog posting to quell a panic attack. This is me naked. I promised not to leave a stone unturned in this venture of truth, self discovery, and becoming a better me. I knew this was going to be some heavy excrement when I sat down to do this today and I'm already shaking.

Like Hester I refused to name the boys involved because for the most part they were also still children and I still have a sense of pity for them. They know what they did and sad to say my dishonor happened quite frequently afterward with other neighborhood boys who received word and sans original beating I endured by staring into space and usually vomiting afterward. My self hate grew and thrived easily subsequently and it became it's own being melding itself into me. I still struggle. I purge trying to make myself empty. Another form of penance. I also have a history of self injury burning lines or words into my skin making my scarlet “A” more permanent. I will go for days without sleep. This usually, is followed by depression where all I do is sleep and refuse to execute any form of self care. Why am I writing about this? Because I need to tell my secret. It gives it less power. Maybe this encasing of darkness that coats me will start to melt away. I don't cry often. I'm quite numb sometimes but if I can learn that form of release maybe I can stop the ritualistic self harm I do. I'm not proud of it and I will probably hide out for a bit after posting this. I will return. But until then, rip off your own scarlet “A”. We are all human and beautifully imperfect. Self prosecution only stunts your growth and robs people of the gift you are.

Blessings

The Trouble with Angles

No. This is not a typo referencing the 1966 (by the way I wasn't born yet) Haley Mills comedy. Well, maybe the title is but that's not what this month's blog is about.

I remember as a child noticing how water warped my drinking straws. It's called refraction (Thanks, Kelly) I remember running to find other things to plunge into my drinking glass with a sadistic sort of glee rendering it undrinkable and extracting a strange glare from my mother when she saw what I was doing. “Kid Magic” is what I call prisms, shadows, fireflies, or anything that bewitches a child's mind into an enchanting world of wonder until the school system calls it Science and tells you that you will be tested and graded on it. Anyway, I noticed early on in life that your perception depends on your angle (and sadly sometimes your attitude) For example the angle at which you observe a perfectly round coaster on a table from directly above verses eye level with the table two totally different perspectives on the exact same object. If I can easily stand up and see a perfect 360 degree coaster and squat down to see it turn into an oval then I should be able to easily change my perspective on other things non physical. I find myself snorting and chuckling at that last sentence. That is definitely the trouble with angles. Motivating oneself to move or shift your aspect. One of the biggest challenges for me is my change in attitude. My history of EDNOS (Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified), SI (self injury), and depression does play a role in my demeanor of negativity (especially to myself). My goal next month is to try to redirect myself and change my view and once again find my “Kid Magic”

I reread my January blog entry about becoming a better me and to be honest, I have been slacking. To combat this backsliding I have given myself an assignment of doing something I enjoyed as a kid every day. Whether it's something simple like wearing miss matched socks, or just coloring a picture or something dramatic like wearing a fancy princess-like dress for no other reason than going to the grocery store. I will try to write in my journal about it every day or week and blog about it next month. I hope doing these little things will help me to change my outlook on things.

If there is one thing “Kid Magic” has taught me, it is that things are not always what they seem. Refract some items in your life and look at it anew. Some things aren't as stale and dull as you may have once thought. Take some time to see the many facets of life. The rainy day may bring dark clouds but the mud pies are fantastic! Take the time to shift, reflect, and grow.