dearest daughters & son

On Being Too Much

Dearest Children (I named this blog before I knew or understood about non-binary gender identities),

I’ve heard it said that if you’re too much for some people, those are not your people.

I’ve also been told that everyone is different. It’s okay to be different. But, sometimes I feel a different kind of different. Like the world itself is too much for me. And it’s hard to know where my place in that world is.

Also I was recently told that I was too negative, hateful, judgmental and (when I give you the next word you’ll know where this is heading) accused of being part of the “trend” of reverse racism.

[As a side note: this person was not white, but Asian-American/Canadian. And while in theory it doesn’t surprise me, it makes me ever more aware that I cannot assume that every person of color will accept the realities of white supremacy in our society. I also learned never to underestimate the strength of white supremacy in a tiny, anxious, conflict-avoiding Asian woman.]

[And in full disclosure I believe that the initial challenges I put to her about the cultural appropriation (of her culture) confused her and my approach hurt her. It was definitely my white privilege at play, presuming how she should feel about it--when my act in and of itself ran counter to my whole point of her choosing when, where and how to share her culture--on her terms, to its increased appreciation (not appropriation) and to the monetary profit of her community. So I apologized, I think sincerely and in the manner true apologies ought to follow. And she accepted my apology. And I was prepared to leave it at that.  But then… in spite of resolving that issue and saying she understood better, she took the opportunity to let me know how uncomfortable I have always made her. Also I am now starting to think she may have been confused and thought I was accusing her of cultural appropriation! LOL.]

Related, I had a conversation a couple of weeks ago with another parent at school who said I/the School Librarian/anyone but racist Dr. Seuss himself--”ruined” Read Across America Day when they took Dr. Seuss out of its celebration. Among other things--like insinuating I was likening him to Trump supporters (you said it, not me) and saying “that’s how books used to be. Are we supposed to get rid of all the books with white people in them? What about this book, it’s all Black people?”--he straight out said: “I know all of that!” He acknowledged that Seuss was a racist and wrote racist cartoons. The Librarian said she was so shocked because he’s "the furthest thing" from a Trump supporter and “is nothing like that.” You know… a good, liberal white person who is just as steeped in white supremacy as the rest of us but refuses to see it. And, yet… welp, folks, that’s how white fragility and defensiveness works.

Um, okay. You cling to Dr. Seuss, buddy. Like that pair of jeans you don’t fit anymore and all the yarn you’re saving for “someday” while the goddess Marie Kondo herself is sitting before you, asking if it sparks joy. Not that I have experience conjuring Marie Kondo while holding dozens of skeins of yarn in my hands one at a time or anything. The more attached you are to your possessions and white supremacy, the more you realize how materialistic and white supremacist you may be.

And now, the chorus: “But not me!”

Sit with it.

I’ll admit I was a little shaken after my conversation. But I have never had more conviction about something in my life. I love a lot of things, but anti-racism isn’t about what is fun or what I enjoy doing. It is about a love for my country, my community, my family, justice and the God and Jesus that I know.

I know my talking points. I know it matters. I know I have a voice and I am entitled to use it. Obligated to use it--as an Asian-American, as a white-passing Asian-American.

So I wasn’t too overwrought with picking apart that conversation as I would have in the past, wasting my day (or week or midnight flashbacks for years to come). I’ve spent time angsting over lesser conversations about very unimportant topics. Did I offend her by saying that I don’t like bell peppers? What will she think of me now that she knows I ate the bell peppers anyway? Or, wait, forget it, maybe the meds are working after all and I don’t need to worry about bell peppers.

Anyhow, I did try to think about when and where I could have used some different language to not put him on the defensive immediately, i.e. something I saw recently on @teachandtransform’s IG account: “I used to think that, but now I know/learned…” I’m going to read more about “call out culture” so I can be more prepared for a “call in” that would lead to actual self-examination and dialogue. I thought about where I could have realized I needed to stop debating (because there was no point) and what more poignant, pointed thing, call to action I could have made. (Though I said several times, I invite you to google that. I shit you not, once he said: “I’m not going to do that.”)

So all this felt like quite the accomplishment as a highly sensitive person. I’m not looking for cookies. But, it was a tough week of seeing my psychiatrist who told me that I didn’t have ADD but was having a mid-life crisis about my efficacy and direction in life. Valid. Though the part of that sentence after “mid-life crisis” was my addition after some reflection.

Then, I also went to my therapist and it was one of the cry your eyes out but feel like you got to the nitty gritty situations. Also I went in to watch Babybel do a presentation for her “California Passport”--narrating how her ancestors ended up in California. AND I DIDN’T CRY. And I bragged about not crying to several people.

But, actually I did want to cry. I wanted to say EFFFFF. THAT. I am never leaving the house. I am never talking to anyone about anti-racism. I am never talking to anyone ever again. Also: my children are not growing up.

I know that it’s too important to give up. Lives are on the line. My discomfort with confrontational situations (and trust me, that is a huge discomfort to me) is nothing compared to the pain and violence that black and indigenous and (some, because I won’t say all) people of color face daily (for my or my husband’s or children’s plight is nothing compared with that of Stephon Clark’s mother Se’Quette Clark being told that twenty rounds of ammunition were fired at her son, inflicting eight wounds, six of them in the back and then finding that charges would not be made against the officers.)

And so I struggle speaking out (IRL, because obviously in my social media life I post everything, all the time).  Because I’m me: I’m sensitive. I’m sensitive, that’s why I care. I care, that’s why I’m passionate. And why I’m compelled and obligated to keep speaking up to the people in my circles.

Okay, let me take you back to being different. Being sensitive.

When I say sensitive, I’m not using the terms as most people do. They add the word “too” in front of it. And that is commentary enough about what our society thinks of and understands sensitivity. There are other connotations and I think you’d be able to tell me what they are.

But, what I speak of is a gift, a skill, an ability to sense (if not verbalize) the emotions in a room, in a story, in a piece of art. It’s a gift that most “creative” types are plagued by. It’s something that when seen as a detriment and not embraced, when a person is not given awareness or tools about this part of them, leads to a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Because being in the world, anywhere but a dark, quiet room--it’s too much. What do you do in a room full of anger or disappointment? What do you do in an arena of thousands of excited, elated and also loudly screaming fans? Especially when you’re a child? What do you do when you can feel every emotion and sometimes all at once? And then you’re told to buck up, to stuff it down, to not be so stressed?

Yesterday, Danjo and I went to our family therapist. We happened to talk a little about this way of being different. The therapist mentioned the countless adults, including myself, that he has worked with who didn’t fully realize the significance of their sensitivity. “That’s a thing?” we are amazed and relieved to learn.

Because as children, we’re assured that everyone is different. We all feel different. But there is a different kind of different. It makes it hard for people to “get” you, for you to connect with people. You want to fit in like everyone else, but it’s harder for you than they know.

I talked later with Danjo about not feeling like I connected with anyone for most of my childhood. I saw it as a failing. I was sad and anxious and ashamed that I wandered around the playground alone; that I didn’t fit in. Rather than seeing that no one fit me quite right.

In retrospect, your chances aren’t great of finding a kindred spirit when there are only seventy-five second graders to work with. The therapist noted that to find someone who “gets” you, they may even be older (which never even occurred to me even though I found that resoundingly true) and finding that person is almost impossible in second grade.

Also, that person doesn’t have to be the same as you. They certainly can be. But it definitely takes a special person to like, fall in love with, appreciate an angsty, lonely, ball of emotion. It wasn’t until I made a sarcastic comment during my First Year orientation at college that someone who happened to be standing next to me “got me.” She read through the sarcasm and (while I’m racked with guilt to this day for saying such a thing about someone who will probably one day be president)--to this day, my bestest friend (who I will never let go of) assures me my observational commentary was nonetheless accurate.

And the awful thing is that I still think of Katherine, my family and other friends as “tolerating” me. So, we’re back to the beginning of this letter and being “too much.”

And the intersection of being myself, being vocal about anti-racism and being told that I am angry, hateful and judgemental. That someone can only “connect with ideas with others who speak on the same topic with a different tone.” Please google: tone policing.

Okay, I concede the topic of this letter is everywhere.

Also, I don’t know where it’s going.

I guess it’s to say that I’m growing into myself. Into being different. Into being too much. Into that difference and “too muchness” being an asset. Into using my “too much,” spending my discomfort and privilege.

Yet, I’m also faced with questions about acting as a bridge, as I suggested before in the context of the Dr. Seuss conversation. Women, in general, but BIPOC, specifically, are expected to be a “bridge” #thisbridgecalledmyback a.k.a. a definitive college read.

While my anger and ferocity are fueled by a righteous love, should I be “toning it down”? Do I have more of an obligation to temper my anger, coat it with sugar because I’m Asian-American, because I’m white-passing? Are there ways that someone (who is more troubled by the mention of racism than by racism itself) could hear me better? Ways that I could change my tone or words? Or are those folks already set on not hearing it?

Proof that your mom sometimes has more questions than answers.

Love you no matter what,

Mommy

To Stevie Bee on the Occasion of Being Fourteen Months Old

Dearest Stevie Bee,

I could’ve told you that you wouldn’t have a one year letter. In fact, I think I said as much in your first (month) and only letter thus far. And also in your sister’s last birthday letter which I wrote on your birthday.

Such is life, as Lola says.

It’s not that there’s nothing to write about. Or that you’re boring. It’s that there aren’t enough hours in the day. And when your sisters were your age I was more concerned about pumping out weekly (if not mania-fueled daily) blog posts than I was about sitting around watching them play, enjoying their joy, observing their curiosity and making sure they didn’t find THE MOST dangerous object in the room to do THE MOST dangerous thing with--not that they did that last one. That’s all you.

[Inset segue into developmental milestones here.]

[Not enough time for poetic segues.]

[Stepping away to pull you out of a pit of vipers--no idea how or when that materialized. BRB.]

[List of baby milestones that are only exciting the first child go-around. And whose dates I couldn’t remember if my life depended on it, but I assure you were behaviors exhibited all well within the appropriate developmental age range. I mean, I think. I couldn’t find a single pen or piece of paper in our house to write anything down. And if I had, I would’ve recycled it on accident anyway. Side note: I recently unintentionally sent a sharpie inside of a package of Christmas presents. The recipient was worried I might have been looking for it. But I told her I could hardly keep track of my children, let alone my sharpies.]

You started standing up in the middle of the room around nine-ish months. Most babies pull to stand then “cruise” around the room holding onto furniture or an adult’s hand while working on balancing. You were all squats, all the time. For some amount of time. Then after that amount of time you started taking steps. For another amount of time. Then after that amount of time you were walking. Then running and spinning. I just know I’ve been chasing after you for a few months now.

We’ve already been to urgent care when you fell face first on the corner of a wood step stool. You split the skin right near your eye and facial wounds being what they are, it looked like your eye exploded as it pooled with blood. Thankfully, it just looked dramatic and was actually just a tiny old thing, millimeters from your eye. And now we have a round stool. Which honestly--aside from the kitchen cabinets--is the extent of my baby proofing. Because I’m a parenting blasé, lazy, rebel like that. Can you be all those things at once?

Well, since you learned to defy gravity all on your own, you have no concept of holding hands. You didn’t need one to stand up. You didn’t need one to steady yourself. So why would you need one for walking? Or climbing stairs? Or crossing streets? Or parking lot sideshows? Or public transit commutes?

Luckily you are also a teeny tiny pumpkin doodle (on the scale, on the percentile charts and in my heart) so you are easily into-my-arms-swoopable. And you are only on the cusp of not liking this. It depends on what you were doing pre-swoop--playing in the dirt, playing with sticks, playing in the dirt with sticks, looking at garbage cans, touching garbage cans, picking up litter to put in garbage cans.

Okay, aside from physical development, your brain has been doing it’s thing awhile too. I’m pretty sure your first word was dog and you were maybe seven or eight months old. I don’t know! I didn’t write these things down. You were definitely crawly. Or climby, grabby. Because I was still nursing you and I would bring you into bed in the mornings, trying to cling to any minutes of sleep you’d give me. After you’d nurse for about five to ten seconds, you would muscle yourself over me and practically fling yourself on “du!” who sleeps right next to my bed.

Everything was “du!” then “dug dug!” for awhile. Then came “Dada” and shortly thereafter “Da-yell”--sister #2. You started to call most adults “Dada” and kids “Da-yell.” You didn’t say “mama” until about two weeks ago. Maybe I wanted it too badly even though I tried to play it cool. We finally noticed you were saying your oldest sister’s name, but who knows? You may have been saying it for weeks now but we were too dense to notice. Also, you call her “ba-bal” which--even though that’s what her cousin called her when she was little (more like: “ball-ball”)--is a pretty loose interpretation of her name. So, can you blame us for being a little slow on the uptake?

You are just entering the stage of being able to parrot words though you don’t do it on command. More like when I drop my phone at the grocery store and say “oh, shit!” and you say “osha” and I just tell the people around me that you’re very concerned about worker safety. JUST KIDDING, PEOPLE! I don’t say that! I say “oh, fuck!” JUST KIDDING AGAIN! It’s really more like when we’re reading “Brown Bear, Brown Bear” and you say “ba br” or “yell duk” and our minds are blown and you smile your huge, dimpled, proud of yourself smile.

I feel like in our modernizing world, kids don’t act their age anymore. There are parts of the world (and even in our country) where tiny people are responsible for caring for OTHER tiny people in their family. Or have to actually work to help support their family. But many American children try to act older than they are. We have this whole new category of kids called “tweens” which are basically kids who spend four years wanting to be teenagers. Though it’s sort of a paradox because they also seem increasingly immature to me. They’re in such a hurry to grow up yet they balk at any responsibility.

Like, Stevie, you want to be just like your sisters; you want to read books and stay up late; you arch your back in protest every time we put you in your car seat; just yesterday you started hitting; you basically want to hurry up and enter your Terrible Twos already. But you don’t want any of the responsibility of being a two year old like holding your own bottle or getting up at six in the morning to do your farm chores and milk the cows to fill aforementioned bottle. I mean why else do we (us specifically, but also as a society) keep having children other than to do the farm chores? Or bring us our phones from across the room? This world is already overpopulated and our resources are overtaxed, so you better be worth it. You better learn how to bring me my phone ASAP.

To be fair, our pediatrician friend has said that this is technically your second year of life so it makes sense that the Terrible Twos, the back arching and hitting would start--which really amounts to your frustration at not being able to communicate in English what your wishes are. It’s one of my pet peeves when adults belittle their children, laugh at them for crying or melting down over things we deem illogical. You have your own logic and desires. And I respect that. But also, I mean, c’mon, just use your words!? Okay, I’ll give you a couple more years of crying because you want your noodles over here and your glass of rosé over there or because your shadow keeps following you around. I know that it’s pretty easy in theory to use your words, but sometimes adults don’t get it right either. [Raises hand.] So, I’ll give you a break.

We’ve been trying to teach you a little bit of sign language. Your sisters especially love this--Bel even checked out a book from the school library about sign language. We are by no means a baby-can-sign-and-read-and-poop-in-the-potty-at-fourteen-months type of family. More power to you and your babe, but also--to borrow a super judgy term from the kids these days--so #extra. So we teach the very, utmost essentials: milk, more and all done (which you’ve got down pat), water, orange (which really is a stand-in for clementines which are your fave), cookie, cheese and meat (obviously the most important foods). Of course, you don’t care at all about using any of those other signs. You look at us, then the food item, then sign “more”--clearly your adults are idiots if they don’t pick up what you’re putting down. Food words that you do have:

• “m-n-ms” or any form of chocolate
• “tapatas” or blueberries
• banana--I think that one is obvious
• “snacks”--which is more lip-smacking than it is a word.

Non-food words, some already noted above:

• dog
• Dada
• “Da-yell”
• “Ba-bel”
• Mama
• “Doe-doe” or Lolo
• “Doe-da” or Lola
• Ta-ta (I think, cousin Ava’s name)
• TT (cousin Travis’ name)
• Uh-oh
• Wow (which you used to say all the time--because I do--even in your sleep! Side note: you talk in your sleep)
• No (obviously)
• “Mo-na-na”--your favorite movie
• “Da-yell” (facing TV) or Daniel Tiger not to be confused with the sister version of the word said facing said sister not a TV
• “tees” or trees
• “bubbas” or bubbles
• And I’m sure a bunch of words that you fully understand the meaning of, but I frustratingly (for you) have yet to pick up on--some of your favorite things: garbage, chickens, stick, dirt, etc.

You are gaining words, feelings, hypotheses and ideas by the minute. Hypotheses about gravity and inertia a.k.a throwing things. Ideas for getting into dog food or prying open and emptying cabinets. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next. But also, I can wait.

This third edition of infancy and too-quick toddlerhood has been everything your sisters’ early childhood wasn’t. While they could hold still and I could reasonably expect to find them in the same spot I left them in when I ran to the bathroom or the casinos--you, on the other hand, cannot be left unattended. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be admitting to leaving a fourteen month old unattended--even in your gated, outlet-covered, “safety” and “yes zone” of a room. So, do me a favor, forget the last few sentences.

The past fourteen months have been different in amazing ways too. I am a slightly different person that I was nine years ago. I’m more present. More in the moment with you. Gentler with myself. So, when I start to think about all the Shoulds and Coulds of my day or my Life’s Purpose, I snap out of it and think to myself, “would I really rather be folding laundry or dismantling the school to prison pipeline?” Or would I rather be reading you the same book a hundred times and sniffing your head and handing you objects to throw away? And I think for right now, we know what the answer is.

[Though you know me, we’re dismantling the patriarchy and institutional racism every day! Click through the links below if you’re a parent and fed up with the daily news about sexual predators that don’t look like our idea of creepy people but actually look exactly like our bosses, coworkers, pastors, parents and, hm, presidents. Or if you’re tired of another form of bullshit--racism in all its forms, possibly including our own parenting! I want to note that if you have any repulsion or even uneasiness with clicking on the below links, you might want to sit and think about that for a minute. Then, be brave and open and click away!]

[How to Raise a Feminist Son, New York Times

25 Rules for Raising Feminist Boys, Scary Mommy

Here's How to Raise Race-Conscious Children, Buzz Feed

It's My Job to Raise Children Who Are Not Only Not Racist But Also Anti-Racist, Huffington Post]

I diverge. People often say that being a parent is “the hardest job” or “the most important job” and I used to roll my eyes because to a stay at home parent it sounds a little condescending. But, I realized I didn’t value what I do enough--because I’m an overachiever perfectionist with a valuable education that people have suggested I’m wasting (so I feel insecure about that), because society and paychecks tell us work by women isn’t valued. But, then I look around at all these jerks coming out of the woodwork (but c’mon, who are we kidding, most women and POC knew they were there all along). And then when people vote for them!? I know what I’m doing with one tiny boy (and the girls too) is SO SO SO important. My kids will (and do) roll their eyes at my daily diatribes, but as my best friend assures me, they are sponges, soaking it in. And one day it will pour out of them.

So, to finally conclude this magnum opus of a letter, making up for a year of no letters, here’s to you and I, testing hypotheses and thinking up ideas, learning to use our words and our feelings, soaking up the good stuff and literally and figuratively throwing away the garbage!

I love you no matter what!

Until the next letter (whenever that may be),

Mommy

mental health helpers: rest, recharge, reframe

Dearest Daughters,

It’s been awhile since I last wrote to you about some serious stuff.

The seasons have changed, as they do. And so too: my mental health. I’ve begun to expect (or accept) that there will always be ebbs and flows in my life.

In March after a whirlwind of activities, I went on vacation with your daddy. And just when I was supposed to unwind, I started having recurring panic attacks.

There are small tells that give away the condition of my mental health—things I should pay better attention to—but panic attacks are my big tell, my end-of-the-rope-can-no-longer-cope-on-the-path-to-dysfunction tell.

And in the midst of all that, we proceeded with packing up and moving out of our house to put it on the market. I’ll spare you the details of all of this, which we are still sorting through while we live with Lola and Lolopop. Suffice it to say, it’s not been an easy Spring.

I didn’t write about all this at the time, because it’s become the same old story: mania, depression, panic—all forcing me to finally (however late) take care of myself as I should have been doing all along. Reminding me that I have to HAVE TO have to put on my oxygen mask first or else I end up barricaded in my parents’ guest bedroom unable to care for myself or for you kiddos.

Always, new awareness emerges, equipping me to better deal with it next time. And I’m accepting that there will always be a next time—not because I’m complacent or because I’m fatalistic (which I am) but because I’m a perfectionist and until now I wanted so badly to be “cured,” to be done with all that Stuff, to be Fine once again.

But I’m finding that loving and caring for myself is a daily process. I have to wake up every morning and do it all over again or else the tomorrows just get worse and worse (see above: huddling mass in the guest bedroom).

Here are three things I’ve been working on:

Rest
Sometimes you just have to give yourself permission (and girl, am I working on this) to rest. Not just at night when you sleep, but as much as you need and however you need. This is no small task for someone like me who is always running my body or my mouth. In my mind, I would rise with the sun and spend the first moments of my day in peaceful meditation. But for me right now, this has involved a lot of HGTV watching. It helps my body and brain to hold still at the very least.

Recharge
I’ve been keeping a small daily journal where I list in one column the things that have depleted my energies. In the other column I list things that renew my energy. I start my list the night before, looking to the day ahead and what To Do sorts of things are on my agenda. Then I try to plan for something that will recharge me: watching TV, talking a bath, taking a run or a walk. I revisit this list at the end of the day. I add or cross things out based on how the day actually panned out. Did I stick to my plan? Usually not—usually I’ve skimped on the self-care side of the list. And I make a little note about my mood that day. So, I know going into my next day how much recharging I should do and how much draining stuff I shouldn’t do going forward. Sometimes this means the groceries won't get bought, but that's why they make packaged ramen.

Reframe
My list-making in my little journal helps me to look back on my day and think carefully about the moments in my day that brought me joy, comfort or even just pause—when Danielle forced me to cuddle, but it was so pleasant after all; when I went shopping with my mom which was a taxing activity, but when we reminisced about my crazy grandma, a smile spread across my face. Reframing, I begin to think about what I am grateful for—which always helps one to put one's life into perspective. Making a gratitude list won’t cure my bipolar disorder. I’m always going to be sensitive, a deep-thinker and mostly negative in nature, but this practice helps me to notice the fulfilling parts of my day that I wouldn’t have otherwise acknowledged. Typically, as your daddy gets home from work, I note that “nothing” happened today, even though a million and a half good and bad and neutral things crossed my path.

Am I better? No.

Am I better than last week? Yes.

Will things stay the same? Do they ever?

Do I love you no matter what? Yes!

Woods, April 1, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You go to the woods to be alone.
I brought two dogs
and my unquiet mind
the bill for the new tires
the loan paperwork
the full house and the empty cardboard boxes
the question of my sanity
my stability
my ability

To climb this hill
to move a step forward
to move down the street
to move a step backward

My dogs, my thoughts and I
we climb high enough to see
the bay, the cities, the trains, the traffic
the airplanes taking off into the clouds

I hear a hummingbird chirping angrily
I watch the vultures circling
I notice the wildflowers
the aquamarine lake in the valley below

We walk higher still
above the trees
to see the approaching storm
rolling in from the west

I feel the power of the storm
The wind strengthening
rustling leaves
creaking the tall and wavering eucalyptus

The first drops

We descend
the rain cold
sheets then blankets
stinging
not comforting or picturesque
painful
and real and true

None of it is in my hands

I am not alone
not in my mind
not in the storm
not in the woods

On the Occasion of Being Sick, In Pain or Generally Miserable

Dearest Daughters,

I brought Babybel to the doctor this morning where he confirmed double ear and sinus infections.

My stoic babe, I wish I could have taken away your suffering sooner.

When Danjo, my “less healthy” and—let’s face it—whinier child emits even the smallest of whimpers, I rush her to the doctor, one-hundred-percent certain she has an ear infection. Multiply that by about a million times and you’ll know what the past three years have felt like.

All the while, sweet girl, your germs were festering. And I only put two and two together when you woke in the middle of the night with your head throbbing, crying because you needed help falling asleep. You’re such a sound sleeper and haven’t needed help falling asleep since you were an infant.

I’m not writing this letter to rake myself over the coals.

It’s that, in this moment, I see myself in you. I see my inner five year old. And I want to tell her so many things.

Maybe it is my stoicism that helped me mask my mortal weaknesses like illness or depression or the simple ups and downs of life. Or maybe it was those things that lead to my stoicism.

Either way, I see the same thing happening in you. You act so strong and so brave; and I want to tell you that you don’t have to act that way. That you just are, even in your weakness, because of your weakness. We are born strong, reslient. You have nothing to prove.

No sooner had the doctor written out your prescription than you fell apart. I shouldn’t say you fell apart so much as you finally had permission or allowed yourself to be the sick five-year-old you have been the past few days. You suddenly felt sad and worried and just plain crummy.

And that feeling resonated with me—the floodgates opening after so many days, months, years of holding them shut.

As I held you in my lap while waiting at the pharmacy, cradling your barely-cradle-able body, you shivered, your body fighting back germs, and you fighting back tears.

All I wanted to do was to tell you that I’m here, that you’ll be just fine, that there’s no reason to cry. But, the truth is: I won’t always be here, that sometimes you won’t be fine and that you have all the reason in the world to cry.

(Dearest Readers, if you’re burnt out on my mindfulness and emotional coaching lectures, then you can stop reading three paragraphs ago.)

One of the hardest things to do as a parent, is to sit with you in your pain, to let you cry and feel sad, worried and crappy. To let the tears flow. To tell you that it is so, so, so okay to feel everything you are feeling even if it means more tears and even a little bit of hysterical vomit.

So, we let your tears flow some more, let them mingle with my own, reminding myself it’s okay to cry too (in our second week of illness)—let the people in the pharmacy line tilt their heads at us, wondering if they should call a relative, an authority, an emergency responder or some combination thereof.

And when I’m (mostly) done crying, I know it’s my job to coach you through those crappy feelings—as I have done so many times for myself.

I sat there, praying to God that the pharmacist would call our name already, wanting to go home too, wondering what I could possibly do—not to make you stop crying, but to help you through your pain to the other side, as I like to think of it.

And I imagined my most helpful ally in times of anxiety and panic: water—from whence we come, quenching thirst, the first medicine, the ocean, tears and sweat and baptism.

I told you a story about the waves. I asked you to imagine yourself floating in the water peacefully, maybe in a boat or on a blowup alligator. And you looked at me like the crazy, crunchy momma I am. And I told you that feeling sad and yucky is like a storm. The waves are really rough right now, but the storm will pass, you just have to breathe.

I’ll pause the mumbo jumbo melodrama for a second to say that breathing, prayer or reciting mantra will no more cure you of your sinus infection than they did my depression. But, it sure does help you make it through the storm.

You have to know that a storm can’t last forever. That you can ride the waves, let them wash over you. That soon the pain-reliever and antibiotics (thank you for modern medicine) will start working. That your fever will subside. That your pain will diminish. That you will find comfort and relief (in your lovey, netflix and mommy’s hugs). That your strong and wonderful body will do the work it needs to do to heal. That popsicles and crackers will sustain you.

That you can trust in all of this and in the knowledge that you are safe and secure. That you can let go of trying to feel better, let go of the yuckiness and finally rest (literally, please, go to sleep).

And in this small instance when you wake, the storm will have subsided. And, it is my hope, that you will have learned a little bit about how to weather life’s storms no matter how small they are or how big they feel.

Love you no matter what,

P.S. By the time I published this, you woke up, your fever was gone, you ate some jello, kept down your antibiotics. You were back to your healthy self, thoughtfully asking your sister about what you missed at school and whether you could eat the Valentine's candy she brought home for you. That is to say, you survived the storm, more importantly, Mommy did too!

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With my commitment to taking care of myself and my mental health--in addition to (or in conjunction with!) taking care of my family--I'm not able to post here as regularly as I would like or as much as I did in the past.

Lucky you! I'm pretty active on the Dearest Daughters Facebook page. So, make sure you like DD by heading on over to our page or clicking the Facebook button on our sidebar (over to the right). And you'll keep getting all the Dearest Daughters' latest and greatest!

Relationships Suck and Other Wisdom I Can't Keep Under 1000 Words

Dearest Daughters,

Today, being Valentine’s Day, seems as good a day as any to talk about relationships. I can’t predict what the nature of your relationships will be, what hurdles or wonders they will hold, and you’re not likely to listen to anything I have to say anyway.

Nevertheless, I’m going to talk about relationships. Marginally, about my relationship with your daddy and, mostly about holding up my half of the deal. This probably isn’t what most kids would expect when their parents want to talk to them about relationships and this ain’t no fluffy stuff, so hold onto your seats [car analogy #1, it will all become clear].

While The Mommyblog Movement (that’s what I’m calling it; may or may not be a real term; haven’t googled it) has led to frank, open discussions of parenting (a little bit about that), the same is not resoundingly true for discussions of relationships and marriage.

People who have been together a long time will vaguely tell you that there are rough patches, but no one really gets to the nitty gritty.

As a society, we idealize and idolize marriage, we present a glossy magazine image of it (have you read a Mormon mommyblog lately?—related salon.com piece from a million years ago) and we’re so shocked when we discover that someone’s marriage did not work out.

Glossy image of marriage. No, literally, glossy. Not matte.

[I don’t mean to write a diatribe on marriage or divorce. I also know I’m leaving out a whole discussion of marriage equality.]

While we make gallant efforts to maintain the facade of marital bliss, we are often poorly equipped, unable or unwilling to deal with our little blips, bumps and failures along the road and we get lost [car analogy #2, in case you’re counting]. It’s kind of like ignoring that clanking noise in your car while simultaneously refusing to ask for directions [bringing it home with car analogy #3].

For me, that clanking noise has been my inability to feel, accept and express my feelings. Achilles’ heel, much? Good thing I know how to ask for directions. And anyway, I had to work through my own stuff (as I’ve written about a thousand and a half times here) in order to even come out the other side and see how my relationships have been affected by my tendency towards emotional closed-off-ed-ness (unavailability?)

In terms of feelings, my default factory settings were dialed to sensitive and wired to repress [last and final car analogy #4, sorry for all the car analogies, but it works, right?] Anyway, a lot of emotions come up over seven years of being with someone. Heck, over seven minutes or seven decades!

In my seven-years time with your Daddy, I have struggled with: a long-distance relationship, a short engagement, marrying young, a rapid transition from a family of two to three (that’s you Bel) to four (that’s you Danjo), becoming a SAHM, loss of autonomy, increases in responsibility and in accountability, learning to compromise, sacrifice, cross-cultural understanding and communication, my identity, mental illness and, just this week, coping with a spouse who travels so much.

Through all of that, for the most part, I felt nothing or tried to feel nothing (because feeling was too hard to bear, which I’ll explain in a few paragraphs).

Below the surface of nothingness, things were stewing, and the truth is that I felt, in no particular order: insecure, immature, incapable, afraid, disdainful, vengeful, annoyed, uncertain, worthless, undesirable, betrayed, guilty, dishonest, alone, abandoned, resentful, frustrated, sad, angry, misunderstood, taken for granted, burdened, jealous, unhappy.

I just have a lot of feelings. #namethatmovie #butitstrue

I thought that feeling any of those feelings in relation to my spouse, would unleash an avalanche, a tornado, an earthquake that would level my marriage and destroy me. (Are natural disaster analogies any better? Not really.)

(Side note: it doesn’t help that I had a therapist who took any hint of misgivings or expression of unhappiness as proof that I must hate my husband and my children, want a divorce and a first class ticket to Freedom. And so that’s why I had a nervous break down. The End. She didn’t make me feel exactly safe to explore my true emotions, because I had learned not to listen to or trust my feelings and I feared that maybe she knew better than I did.)(It’s taken therapy just to recover from that therapy.)

As I got deeper into marriage, into children, into the complexities of life, to protect myself and, I thought, my marriage, I continued to repress my feelings so much so that I began to act as if I did not need my life partner, as if I could care less if he left for weeks on end, as if I didn’t even love him—sort of a “dump him, before he dumps me” mentality. The truth is: by being a robot-zombie, I hurt my spouse and our relationship. Private apologies forthcoming.

All the while, you guys, that whole list of emotions that I was trying not to feel? Guess what? They’re totally normal! They are totally part of being imperfectly human and being in imperfect human relationships. Whew, I don’t have to be a robot-zombie after all!

Here’s the thing: relationships (of all kinds) are often unpleasant, painful and miserable. And here’s another thing: it’s totally okay to feel that way!

I'm not a robot-zombie after all. I can feel! We can both be Not Fun. But, we do love each other!

And maybe we don’t talk about it to protect our delicate pride or our children’s ears or our spouse’s reputation or just plain ourselves. We compare our lives to others (he doesn’t travel as much as So And So or there are hungry children somewhere) and we make concessions (he doesn’t beat me, he works all day, I’m bipolar and a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps Puritan).

But, there is freedom in saying: this sucks and it’s okay and it’s normal.

And then, you truly let it go—a weight is lifted when you stop working to maintain a facade for others and start living your own authentically, totally and completely normal life.

And maybe my perfectionist expectations of life were a little off? My bad, working on that!

Okay, that was all nice back story, but Dearest Daughters, I want you to listen For Reals now:

It is life-changing, relationship-changing to realize not only is it okay to acknowledge really awful feelings in your relationships, but it is also okay to let yourself feel them, to feel pain and anger and sadness, to feel alone and helpless, and to feel resentment during the NFL playoffs. #goniners

It does not make you weak, it is not a betrayal, it does not define you; it is just part of being human, of living and experiencing Not Fun things with someone else who is sometimes Not Fun.

And if you ignore your natural and emotional survival instincts and can allow yourself to be really vulnerable, puppy-when-its-born vulnerable, chick-out-of-its-nest vulnerable, fish-out-of-water vulnerable (Animal analogies? No? Still?)—if you can be (get this) humanly vulnerable with the person you say you entrust your heart to, then do it.

Be vulnerable with each other. Not just in that moment you fall in love or when you say your vows. But, the whole damn time. Talk about why he sucks, why you suck, why the kids suck, why life sucks. And if this is sounding depressing and so (so, so, so) sucky, I’ll tell you this:

When you stop spending time and energy attempting to appear strong, unaffected and flawless, guarding your heart, protecting egos, avoiding authentic interactions, going through the motions, wondering how you got here anyway—when you can open yourself up to All The Feelings, you get through the rough stuff. You get to the Joy and Delight, to Connection and Trust, to Honesty and Gratitude, to Security and Worth and Contentment. And, above all, to Love.

And suddenly, instead of feeling alone and helpless and resentful all the time because your husband is away on business, you find yourself at the end of the day, after the kids are out of the tub, taking pause to savor the smell of your daughter’s clean hair as you comb out her tangles, to absorb the energy and light of your three-year-old’s body as she squirms from her towel and knocks over a Duplo tower her sister built—and in the moment right before the screams and cries begin, you think fondly of your beloved, your partner, you miss him and wish he were here to share this slice of life, this beautiful, perfectly-imperfect moment with you.

But since he’s not here, you hope he will come home with a box of French chocolates.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Love,

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With my commitment to taking care of myself and my mental health--in addition to (or in conjunction with!) taking care of my family--I'm not able to post here as regularly as I would like or as much as I did in the past.

Lucky you! I'm pretty active on the Dearest Daughters Facebook page. So, make sure you like DD by heading on over to our page or clicking the Facebook button on our sidebar (over to the right). And you'll keep getting all the Dearest Daughters' latest and greatest!

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Five Years Old

My Dearest Babybel,

I haven’t written a Monthly Letter in a long time. A lot has changed in the past couple of years. While I don’t write to you as often as I used to, trust me, this slowing down, this breathing, this mindful attention to the present has been a decidedly good thing for all of us.
   
The past couple years have been the most difficult of both of our lives, but also the most wondrous. The transformations we have both experienced, as I grow into myself at the age of twenty-nine-not-yet-thirty, watching you grow into the person you will become, ever becoming—well, it just leaves me in awe. Truly, awesome.



On your fifth birthday, here are five awesome things about you:

1. Your Sensitivity
I have spent most of my life trying to not be sensitive, to not let people see me cry, to not be affected, because I saw my sensitivity as a weakness. I know that there are moments or days when, through bleary eyes, being sensitive seems so hard to bear. But it is your sensitivity that allows you to feel so deeply, to have empathy and compassion for others. It is your sensitivity that allows your little sister to press your buttons, but it also allows you to proclaim—in your own tearful way—when you feel injustice or outrage, when something shakes your core. Stay with that feeling, stay sensitive.

2. Your Thoughtfulness
Since you were developmentally able, you have truly considered the needs and wishes of others, often before your own. Whether a drawing you made for a specific person or a proclamation in the toy aisle that cousin so-and-so would really enjoy that particular toy—you think of others. You think to help set the table without being told. You think about your Daddy while he is away and what you will do when you reunite. But, when I say you are thoughtful, I guess I also mean you are full of thoughts. You are pensive and like to turn things over in your head, giving careful consideration before you speak, before you decide, before you make a choice. This can take anywhere between one and thirty-seven minutes.

3. Your Intelligence
I know every parent says that their child is a genius; I’m not saying that. But, I am saying that you are pretty damn smart. You’ve always been extremely verbal, with vocabulary and grammar that impresses. And, always, you’ve asked questions, even with my long and circuitous answers, i.e. lectures, you continue to ask. Now, you’ve reached the age where you know things; you know things that I don’t know. And you are happy to pay me back in long, circuitous answers.

You know how to do things too. You have spent the past five years watching, observing, examining, taking notes; and the physical world has become your mental playground. You like to know how things work and why, exactly—and I do mean exactly. You have a mind for engineering and I hate to put you in a box, but that’s a pretty good box to be in.

The parents of the 80s and 90s may have done a disservice to our egos by telling us how smart we all were without our even trying. So, I’ll tell you not only how smart you are, but also how you stay so smart: you think hard, you exercise your brain, you color outside the lines, you give yourself a break and then you try again, you solve problems. I’d be remiss to not tell you that you have a great brain and that you can use your brain to do whatever it can imagine.

 

4. Your Creativity
Sure, you make stuff at school, most of which I put in the recycling bin. Your true creativity shows in the rolls and rolls of scotch tape that you’ve used to connect things to other things, in the cardboard boxes you’ve transformed, in the laundry baskets you’ve commandeered, in the yo-yo strings and balloons and sticks and paper towels rolls you’ve rigged together, in the puppet shows and fashion shows and, even, in that annoying voice you use when you make your lovey “talk” [shiver]. Your creativity is limited only by my scotch tape budget—and maybe, your ability to use a stapler, but that will change in due time, my dear.

No matter what you think or what the world says, please believe that your creativity is limitless. Childhood is a fluid time, the time before you solidify into a grumpy-unchanging-see-the-world-and-yourself-through-one-lens-stick-in-the-mud. Please don’t lose your creativity, but more than that don’t lose you ability, your propensity, your desire to see the world and yourself in all the lights, from all the angles, with all the colors of that rainbow drawing hanging on your bedroom door.

5. Your Beauty
Our society focuses too much on beauty. Or, rather, on what it defines as beautiful. We could go on and on about the whole inside and out beauty, but I want you to believe that you are beautiful. Not because society says so, but because I say so and I am your mommy and what I say goes.

You are gorgeous. When you light up, I do. When you laugh, I want time to stand still and to live in your laughter forever. When you have an idea, your eyes get big and you point your index finger skyward before you rocket off to pursue your thoughts. When you cry or yell, I feel your power. You are a presence, a sight to behold, created in God’s image—and maybe mine and your daddy’s. You are a little clumsy, you have what you may come to see as unruly hair and a silly gap between your two front teeth; and all of it is you, wonderful, beautiful you.

I, and many women you know and will never know, have spent too much time wondering, questioning, doubting our beauty. Measuring, weighing, comparing, primping, waxing, painting, covering up. I don’t want you to believe that you are only your beauty, but in case you ever do, see: 1-4 of this list.

I want you to be able to look in the mirror every single day (or better yet have no desire to look in a mirror, but if you must) and I want you to like, love, celebrate what you see. To trace the constellations of your “beauty marks” (as we call them and as Lolopop called them when I asked about my own when I was little.) To see the way you shine when you are happy. To see the wisdom in your own eyes. To see all the sadness, anger, worry, fear, love, lust, joy, elation—to see the fullness of human emotion in your face. To feel your curly hair brush your cheek and the softness of your pink lips upon another’s. To feel the dizzying rush of turning in circles and the still quiet of darkness. To feel the courage in your bones and the strength in your muscles. To feel truth in your gut and peace in your breath. And it is all kinds of ridiculous, crazy something beautiful.

Happy Birthday, Babybel.

Love you no matter what,

A Running Epiphany

Dearest Daughters,

When I began running over a year ago, I didn’t realize what a therapeutic and transformative effect it would have on my life.

I started running for my mental health, listening to affirmations because I couldn’t bear my own thoughts or the pulsing rhythms of music, releasing pent up anxiety, getting out of the house when my agoraphobia was at its worst. So, I should have had an inkling how much it would help me on my emotional journey.

But, over the past year, I’ve seen running as just that and little more: running. For my mental health, with benefits for my physical health. And, sure, a reason to get better shoes and cute running clothes.

Because my main reason for running has been to combat my anxiety, I’ve been able to approach running from an entirely different direction than most other aspects of my life. I am a perfectionist. I’m also both literally and figuratively bipolar.

It’s been a familiar pattern in my life to suddenly have some new life-changing idea or activity into which I lunge head-first. I’m going to do spinning or yoga or start my own business or make friendship bracelets or only eat foods that begin with the letter “c.” I binge on a particular activity and then, especially if my perfectionism kicks in, I give up. I give up, as a precaution, before I fail. I am paralyzed by failure. I’ve given up on photography classes on new jobs on dozens of unfinished sewing or knitting projects; things I have enthusiastically begun, but lost the drive to finish.

I’m afraid of failing and therefore, afraid of taking risks. The years of making excuses in conversations or therapy sessions echo in my ears. No, I don’t have time for that. No, that costs money. No, I shouldn’t. No, I couldn’t. All that negativity because of the illusion, the fallacy, the unattainable expectations of my own perfectionism.

But, running has not been that way for me. I do it. Or I don’t do it. It’s not a manic impulse or a binge activity. I am gentle with myself. I am not a perfectionist about running. I listen to my body. I don’t push myself too hard or too little. If I didn’t run last week, it’s okay. I can get up and run again this week. I don’t compare myself to others. I don’t measure my worth by my miles. Running has somehow become a practice, a framework for how I ought to live out the rest of my life.

This past Sunday when I ran my fist 5K, I felt full of emotion. I felt feelings so intense and overwhelming I knew I would cry if I gave them any thought. I pushed my tears back and I ran. As I rounded (several) corners, coming into the last stretch, strangers cheered, children held hand drawn signs of encouragement and I felt my eyes begin to water.

What a feeling! Not of achievement, of success, of straight-A’s or perfection. Not of someone else's or society's or my own skewed expectations. I had an epiphany. I realized, as I crossed the finish line: I can. And not only CAN I do this, but look at all the people who believe in, love and support me.

Afterwards in the car, I choked back tears, as I told my husband: “I don’t know why I ever EVER ever doubted myself... [insert sniffles and sobs here]... when there are so many people who support and love me.”

It was a true, in my gut, in my heart, in my soul feeling. And I let myself feel it. I let the love and support wash over me. In its boundless and unconditional forms. Not just for that day and that race. Not just for running. But for all my choices. For all the things I’ve done and not done. For my life.

What a feeling! To truly let love in. Not only accepting the love of others, but also accepting my own self-love, a love that I have deprived myself of all these years. Allowing myself to feel pride in my achievements, to know—beyond a doubt—I’m doing the right thing for myself, and the right thing as a role model to my Dearest Daughters, caring for myself emotionally, intellectually, physically.

I’ve lived the past twenty-nine years feeling undeserving of attention, of praise, of love. I’ve shrugged off achievements and compliments, always second-guessing, judging and measuring myself by an imaginary, but cruel yardstick. I have blanketed myself in negativity, demeaning and negating everything from the smallest compliment on my cooking to my educational achievements, even, to my most beloved creations, my Dearest Daughters.

This 5K certainly did not cure my perfectionism or mania. I still have a yardstick that I must continually remember to blast to smithereens. It’s still my inclination to be negative, to confine myself.

But, I have experienced Yes. I have experienced Possibility. I have experienced Freedom.

Little did I know what a pivotal moment running a 5K or running at all would be.

As I prepare to turn thirty in the new year, I’ve been thinking a lot about this year; about this being a “Me Year” or a “Say Yes to Lauren Year”—what that involves I’m still working out; classes, travel, doing things I’ve always wanted to do or should have done for myself, taking risks.

Regardless, this year will be a special one.

Thank you to all who will make it so, to all those who have always supported and loved me, who have believed in me despite my refusal to see and accept such things. Thank you to my family and my husband and to those strangers at the three mile marker.

And thank you, especially, to my Dearest Daughters who have been my light in my darkest moments, my reason to keep living and who inspire me to be both a better person and, simply, the person that I am, the person they love no matter what.

I love you back no matter what,

When Down Days Persist So Must I

Dearest Daughters,

The more aware I become of my moods, my mild dips into and out of both depression and mania, the more I realize how absurd my life was before my diagnosis.

The ups and downs that I struggled through or—more accurately—that I ignored, tried to push down, attempted to normalize, neutralize, hide, pass off as nothing, no big deal.

Wow. Just wow.

I’m only now realizing, with assurance from a supportive, affirming therapist, how resilient I am. That I am, as cheesy as it sounds, a Survivor. I went through so many years and into the worst year of my life, un-medicated, unaware. There were so many horrible things I could have done to hurt myself, vices or addictions I could have picked up, relationships I could have utterly destroyed. But, for the most part, I didn’t.

I plugged away until I couldn’t ignore and hide the moods, the pain, the highs, the crazy, the demons, the brain chemicals; I couldn’t ignore myself anymore.

If you’re an acquaintance or even my family or close friends, it may look like nothing to you. Maybe you see me at church or a party and think to yourself how fine Lauren seems? Maybe you look back on the years we’ve spent together or look at my life now and think to yourself how okay Lauren seems? Maybe the diagnosis isn’t accurate? Maybe Lauren’s hyperbolizing? (Maybe Lauren’s projecting now?)

Before my diagnosis, it was my full time job to put on a good display of A-OK-ness. And I still do it. Auntie Ninang Katherine visited recently and I’d say we had a good visit—I mean, she brought me goat milk caramels. What more could I ask for? Besides an actual goat. But, for a few days before her visit I had an inkling that I was in a “funk.” I tried to put it on pause for Easter and her visit, but when she left I let the mood take over again.

Over the past couple weeks, through and after a visit to my Grandmother, I’ve been in and out of this funk, flatness, depression.

As I’ve shared before, my brand of depression doesn’t delve into deep despair, with the exception of my psychological break a year ago. I feel flat, numb, distant, disconnected, unmotivated and tired, exhausted, even after ten hours of sleep.

It’s taken all of my whispy strands of motivation to wake up at a decent hour; to take care of my Dearest Daughters instead of letting them watch PBS all morning while I languish in bed. I’ve made myself go on runs and do a chore here and there. I’ve tried to fight the cold and distance I put up, like a wall, towards your father, you and general humanity. But, all I truly feel like doing is getting back into bed.

Now that I would generally describe myself as “Better”—the persistent, daily, hourly anxiety and panic have subsided, I can travel here and there, I can take care of my family, I am functional—I can work myself into a bit of denial about my moods. I’m back into the habit of putting on my Okay Face. Because the meds have worked, I’m in therapy, I have coping mechanisms to rely on—God damn it—I’m supposed to Better. I’m supposed to be equipped, able to handle ALL THIS. THIS shouldn’t happen anymore. Yet, the moods still come and go. The Crazy takes over, The Doing. Then, the Darkenss, the Blues and Grays take their turns.

But, some days, some weeks, I’m not Okay. It’s what I tell people, because it’s what they want to hear. When someone asks how you are, they don’t really want to hear the sad truth of it. In fact, I don’t want to hear the sad truth of it.

I want to talk about our new baby chicks or the weather or my new favorite reality show (Preacher’s Daughters on Lifetime). I want to feel normal. I want to feel Fine.

But, you guys, I don’t. I don’t always feel Fine.

And I’m learning that it’s okay. That feeling Less-Than-Happy is okay in and of itself. It’s part of who I am, my story, my lot in life. Something I will always have to deal with, work around, walk through.

(This, of course, doesn’t mean that I should ignore my mood fluctuations or stop taking my medicine. This doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t ask for help when I need it or when I need more of it.)

On Facebook I re-posted a list of 21 ways to not self sabotage yourself when you have depression. And a Dearest Reader summarized the articles sentiment well in a Facebook comment recently: “you can live a meaningful and worthwhile life with depression. That is such a more realistic goal to have then the theory that depressed people just need to get over it or snap out of it.”

I’ll see my psychiatrist in a few days for my regular appointment and we’ll see what she can do for my current brain chemistry.

In the meantime, I try to think positively, to maintain mindfulness, to congratulate myself for my small victories (like making pancakes this morning and at least considering changing out of my pajamas), to not let the self-deprecating thoughts of my worthlessness or obsolescence take over, to instead recognize happiness when it peeks out its little head in a giggle or a hug or Danjo’s funny “underpants” jokes, to grasp love and light and sit in its warmth for as long as possible.

Love you no matter what,

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With my commitment to taking care of myself and my mental health--in addition to (or in conjunction with!) taking care of my family--I'm not able to post here as regularly as I would like or as much as I did in the past.

Lucky you! I'm pretty active on the Dearest Daughters Facebook page. So, make sure you like DD by heading on over to our page or clicking the Facebook button on our sidebar (over to the right). And you'll keep getting all the Dearest Daughters' latest and greatest!

Know Thyself

Dearest Daughters,

I love my new therapist. She makes me work. She stops me. She challenges me. She cuts through my bullshit, my intellect, my technicalities, logic and loopholes. She hears what I say and what I don’t say. She’s in my corner.

The thing is: I’m not in my own corner.

And while my bipolar diagnosis, in part, explains my do-this-then-that-go-here-then-there-and-check-this-off-my-list behavior, there is a part of me that is simply running from something—from feeling, from fear of the unknown, from myself.

Bam. #epiphany

She tasked me with planning a day wholly, entirely, fully for myself.

This may be the single most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do—childbirth included.

Looking back on my life I can’t sort out what Lauren loved to do from what Lauren was expected to do from what Lauren thought she was expected to do.

Do I have a garden because I genuinely like gardening or do I have a garden because it’s good for the earth, our tummies, and my Dearest Daughters’ understanding of the world?

Do I truly like cooking or am I trying to live up to the my California foodie reputation?

Did I learn to crochet because learning something new and challenging is fulfilling, or was it because I wanted to make a hipster infinity scarf?

And these are the easy questions; they don't include questions about my college choice, my career choices or lackthereof, marriage, motherhood, mediation, what I ate for lunch.

I know not all things are strictly black or white, here or there, this or that. But, I’ve been so so so led by figments of my imagination and diversions of my wonky brain, that I can’t tell what is true. I’ve been so led by ideas, assumptions and, sometimes, delusions of who I should be and what I should do.

Today is my twenty-ninth birthday and I can’t tell you who Lauren is. I can tell you what she’s done, where she’s been, how she got here, but I can’t tell you who she is.

(Perhaps, you can, but for the purposes of my therapy homework, I’m not allowed to ask you.)

This is a sad and honest fact that brings me to tears, makes me feel lost and hopeless.

It might sound melodramatic to you, but that is how out of touch I am and have been with myself the past couple of decades. I have sailed the seas of life, rode the rollercoaster, climbed mountains, but I have done so blindly, driven by who-knows-what, always climbing, out of habit, grasping at the next thing and the next, never in the present, always guessing, second-guessing, checking off a box on an endless To-Do list.

I've always been moving, never pausing, running and running.

I can’t sit still.

I figuratively and literally can’t stand being alone with myself. I can’t blame even a percentage of that feeling on my iPhone, but having one has certainly made my self-tolerance over the past few years worse, as I use social media and the Weather Channel app to fill the gaps, the silence, the stillness.

Life finally stopped—about eleven months ago. My body and my soul shouted: STOP! YOU CANNOT GO ON LIVING LIKE THIS!

I certainly stood at attention, took note and the past year has been about taking care of myself, about coping with depression, anxiety, panic.

I have come so far and yet here I am still.

And so, I sit here, forcing myself to focus, to sort out my truth. My truths.

Dearest Daughters, I try my best to give you opportunities to be who you are, to be authentic and true. I think that’s pretty easy when you’re two or four. I know, it’s also all too easy to mold, shape, and shut down a growing child. I pray that is not my roll in your life.

I don’t want to put you in boxes either, but I do take note of things that delight you, things that you gravitate towards, things that make you unique.

I wish that I could go back and watch myself playing when I was two, four, seven. What would I see? Who would I see? Who would I have become if I had listened to, not the voices—real or imagined—but to my heart of hearts, my mind of minds, my dream of dreams?

Who? 

Dearest Daughters, who? Who are you? What makes your heart beat? What makes your mind leap? What are your dreams?

We all struggle with these questions, some more than others, some for a moment, some for a lifetime. Some for twenty-nine years.

But, only you know the answers. Only you know your truth. Don’t let anyone write it for you. Don’t let the world, or a map, or a list dictate your life. Don’t let me or your daddy or your Facebook friends have a goddamn say. Trust yourself, tune in to every fiber of your being, and don’t let yourself think for one second that the person you are isn’t worth being known.

Love,