Hope Relay 2012: My Hope

When I first got wind of Melanie Crutchfield's Hope Blog Relay, I was instantly in. Ready to contribute. Excited, even. 

That was at least a week ago. I guess when it comes to exploring what hope is to me and the role she plays in my life, there are so many directions I could go, it's difficult to choose one. I suffer from Too Many Choices-Induced Paralysis, you see. It seems also that the older I get, the more easily I get - SQUIRREL! 

What was I saying? Anyway, I've spent the morning reading other people's hope blogs with a hot chai tea latte in my hand, crying here and commenting there, seeing myself in so many of their words. I am inspired by their stories of struggle and growth, pain and relief. And isn't this the purpose of putting ourselves out there? To connect, inspire, comfort, and relate?

I've found myself thinking about my hopes, but confusing them with my wants. I want to be a size 8 again. I want to be successful in writing. I want to live happily ever after with my husband. I want to see the world. But wanting and hoping are two entirely different animals. To want and not get is uncomfortable, maybe painful, but life goes on. We're okay without it, even if we say we're not. We heal. But to hope and fail leaves a deeper mark, one that sinks past our skin and into the fabric of who we are. Yes, hope is why we keep pushing, the beacon of light when we're lost in the dark. Hope is the flicker of possibility in the distance that reminds us of what could be, if we just keep trying. To lose hope is to lose, period.  

And what is my hope? My hope is to one day be completely happy with myself, at peace with myself, and to prove that there is something I can contribute. My hope is to one day be a mother. My hope is live a life full of love and without regret. 

This is my hope blog. 

My name is Lindsey. I was not physically abused as a child. A close friend of the family never sexually molested me. (I never even walked in on my parents.) My father was an electrical engineer, my mother a preschool teacher. Neither one of them was an alcoholic. High-school sweethearts, and still happily together after 45 years. My older brother never went to prison, my dad never hit my mom, my mom never cheated on my dad, and my older sister didn’t have 2 kids by the time she was fifteen. She was twenty-four. I never ran away from home for more than a few hours, and never farther than a couple blocks, and I never stole candy from the 7-Eleven. When I was six I thought we were rich. By the time I was thirteen, I thought we were desperately poor because my family didn’t get to go to Italy every summer. At nineteen I realized we were very middle-of-the-road - an average, all-American family living in central Florida an hour and a half from Disney World. We had everything we needed and most of what we wanted. I am middle-class, privileged girl from a nice home in suburbia incarnate.  

So it wasn't until I was in the seventh grade that I first gave serious thought to removing myself from the sorry situation I saw my life to be. Of course at this age, I had no real idea of what I was contemplating, or what it would really mean to me and my family if I pushed that knife a little deeper into my skin. Being sad all the time made no sense to me, so I came up with reasons the best I could. I hated myself anyway, so it wasn't so hard to believe there was plenty I should be sad about. I deserved to be sad because I was worthless.

It's called depression, and it doesn't make sense. As a very wise woman once said, "Depression is a liar." There is no reasoning with it, no arguing, only frustration. It would take me twenty-something years to finally grasp this and know, even when in the grips of a bad day, that it will pass and I will climb back out again. She, Depression, will always tell me I can't, that I'm not worth it, but now I know her tricks and that I will, and that I am. In the beginning, she told me I was stupid and ugly. No, low self-esteem told me these things, and whereas I wasn't entirely sure, she was and agreed – loudly and confidently.

For the person who has never struggled with Depression, imagine her like this...I call it 'her' because she has been a life-long presence for me, practically another person. And sometimes it's easier to understand something when we give it its own life. I've named her Dee. 

Dee is the worst kind of friend. What at first is offensive becomes slowly acceptable, tolerated, then not only expected, but anticipated. She's convinced you this is what you deserve.

Dee is a liar.

Dee is a master manipulator.

Dee is a bitch.

She is quiet, but she is large, watching, and encompassing.

Sometimes I think she really is another person who slides very smoothly beneath my skin, until it is her face I see in the mirror. Criticizing me. Hating me. It's an easy place to go; I know it well.

Only when I’ve climbed out of this pit do I realize I am not her, she just lingers within me, waiting for me to slip.

Is she the part of me that needs the most love?  Isn’t self-love the key? Perhaps she is less confident in her destruction, and more scared. Like a bully. The bully I am to myself at times. Is it understanding she needs, to fight her demons and give her peace? Let her rest, and settle back down within my bones, the crevices of my mind?

Should I hug the bitch better?

I think no. There's no nurturing this kind of presence; it must be exorcised and shown the door. And this isn't something that can be accomplished alone. 

This has been my struggle, or at least the thing that has always lingered beneath the surface making normal, manageable struggles more intense, more hurtful, and slower to heal. But something changed for me when I was 24 years old that hit Dee where it hurts, and the ripples of that strike have reached outward from deep within me and touched everything. I see the world through a different lens now, and for this I am grateful. I have a wonderful and amazing life, and I'm so happy that I'm able to more fully appreciate that now.

My hope is to continue this journey toward radical self-acceptance, to continue this climb until I can rest and look back and smile without worry. My hope is to allow my experiences to speak to others who might be on a similar path and to assure them that the darkness doesn't last. At some point, the clouds break, even if only for a moment, and that there is hope in the momentary sun that breaks through. My hope is that if I'm speaking to you, you will grab onto that moment and trust that you deserve happiness in this life. You are not the dark that surrounds you, but the light on the other side.

      Thanks for reading.

      Be sure to keep a look out for the other amazing bloggers participating in the Hope Blog Relay of 2012. I challenge you to add some words of your own as this relay spreads across the globe. Here is where it began... 

http://melaniecrutchfield.com/2012/07/27/hope-2012-a-blog-relay/#comment-1055


There is a lot of hope out there in countless forms - I hope you'll find your own.

Dear Lawsbians..

Of all the days in the past month, today is definitely not the best day (is probably the worst day) to sit down and write, so of COURSE today is the day I most want to. I've got a To-Do list a mile and a half long but all that can wait just a few minutes so I can get this out. And if that suitcase that needs to be packed gives me any lip, I'll just give it a hardy smack.

I've mentioned in posts past a woman whom I admire quite a lot, Jenny Lawson (http://thebloggess.com/). She's a writer, she's hilarious, and she's openly flawed in a way that a lot of people connect with. Recently, Jenny hosted an on-line book club to discuss her memoir, Let's Pretend This Never Happened. Even while crashing several internet locations due to crazy high volume of traffic, she managed to connect a whole throng of people who love her writing. This is how the term Lawsbian was born.

Suddenly there are people from all over the States, as well as a handful of us in Canada, Australia, and around Europe, connecting on GoodReads and Facebook. Suddenly strangers from across the globe are finding support among one another as they we face some of the same struggles Jenny writes about, those things that first drew us to her to begin with. We are writers, artists, mothers, fathers, PEOPLE dealing with issues that are often isolating in nature, but now we're talking to each other about them and finding support in an unlikely place. I've shared some of my own problem-solving ideas with another anxious writer who's having trouble trusting her own gift, gotten involved with a trans-continental project, and been inspired by other people's lives tenfold since I became a Lawsbian, and it's pretty freaking great.

This is the power of one voice that opens the door for many to join, and this is one of the many reasons I respect Jenny Lawson, and why I plan to follow suit in my own blogging. As I wander through a whole new list of blogs and websites, I'm discovering more people I feel a connection with, even if I never meet them face-to-face. I know with the advancement of technology people are, in many ways, growing lazy in their socialization, more isolated, more apt to text or email than pick up the phone or simply stop by, but there's another side to this coin. We can talk to someone experiencing what we are a half a world away and find solace where before there might've been just angst; we can share our views, our beliefs, our random thoughts with someone who wants to know.

We are all sources of abundant wisdom, regardless of our education, experience, geographical location, or anything else, and I am grateful to be able to connect with more people than I'll ever be able to meet because I get to know their stories.

Oh, Internet, how did we ever function without you?

So call this a shout-out to my fellow Lawsbians, a growing group of people who all share a love for one woman in Texas who has become synonymous with a taxidermed mouse in Shakespearean dress. Thanks, Ms. Lawson.



Dear Lawsbians,

Rock the hell on, and thanks for sharing.

My ABCs

Toward the end of the school year, our class had the opportunity to try their hands at being young authors. They each wrote and illustrated an ABC book, and with a couple blank books left over, I got in on it, too.

This was the most fun I've had in a while creatively. It was difficult enough to come up with appropriate drawings for each letter, but I also wanted to write a sentence for each comprised only of words beginning with that letter. Given the time restraints and my impatience, not every page succeeded in this way, but what I ended up with is still kind of fun, and the kids enjoyed having it on the classroom bookshelf for the last few weeks of school. To be honest, I probably enjoyed sharing it more than they did looking through its pages.

Wanna see?

Thanks, Evan, for the idea for D.

It was cute when Sydney recognized the pattern I'd snuck into the ice cream flavors, something we worked on early in the year.

The kangaroo was Cara's favorite :)

I totally forgot the verb in this one!!! It should be, Majestic mountains ARE masked by mist. Blast!

So I get that some of the vocabulary is a bit above the first grade level, but I was working within some pretty tight self-imposed restrictions. And besides, as was pointed out by a colleague, what does it hurt to challenge young readers?

Some of these were a stretch...I'm pretty sure pigeons don't nest in pine trees (especially ones susceptible to strong gusts of wind) but hey, it was this or a grossly malformed pineapple.

The Q, on the other hand, I'm particularly proud of. Call it my version of "The pen is mightier than the sword."

The stinky socks were a favorite in the classroom. I can't imagine why.

Probably the most challenging/rewarding page I faced. I spent considerable time trying to figure out how to draw underwear in the shape of a U before coming up with Uncle Ute. 


Of course upon looking through the book, Chris mentioned I could have used undulates instead of hangs upside-down, but it's too hard to erase colored pencil.

                 The end :)










As I'm focusing on a YA (young adult) novel and getting involved with the local chapter of SCBWI (Society of Children's Books Writers and Illustrators - took me a YEAR to get the acronym right!), my love of drawing is daring me to bring it back into the mix. Me? Children's books? Maybe.

I hope you enjoyed my version of the ABCs.

WHY?!

Why is it that as soon as I have the time and opportunity to commence The Great Shift of 2012, I lack any and all motivation to do so? Why?

Also, why is it that Murphy is desperate to play, stealing anything to get me to chase him while I'm working, but the instant I come downstairs for a little break, he's out cold on the couch?

Again, I ask you, Why?

The Great Shift of 2012 refers to the shifting of three rooms in my house to make way for a new office set up from which to begin this new chapter where I work as a full-time writer. Tomorrow is a new day and with no risk of sleeping in, the shift will continue.



PS: This isn't a real post.

Bubbles

Hi.

As the time draws near when I will be released from soon-to-be-no-longer commitments, and therefore able to dive headfirst into the new ones, I'm getting really antsy. Having leave to burn, I'm totally playing hooky from work today and this flagrant disregard for my final days at school has allowed me the time to actually just sit. Quietly. Alone. With less noise I'm rediscovering the flow of thoughts that bubble up from the back corners of my mind, and wow have I missed this.

I started to think about the things that I hold most important as foci (it's a real word - I looked it up) not just in my writing, but also in my life. Want to know what they are? Fine... gratitude, love, connections, lending strength, learning from pain so it was worth it, growing, home, open heart, open mind, and balance. Maybe I'll paint these words across a canvas and hang it in my new office, like those inspiration posters in corporate offices.

I've decided to play around a little with how I go about blogging, to be a bit more structured as I build a new writing routine. It seems the most popular blogs have a focus, a theme, something that they're actually about, instead of just the randomness that is mine. In the beginning I didn't want to restrict what this blog would be mostly because I didn't know what exactly I wanted it to be beyond an outlet, but I'm starting to see the benefits of order here. I want to continue to blog about our trips with the goal of letting my thoughts wander among the travel photos, but I also want to share things worth thinking about, worth sharing with people who may not know or be related to me.


The inspiration for my writing earlier in my life was always pain. The childhood of my Depression coincided with my actual childhood; we grew up together. My earliest stories weren't nearly as dark as they would inevitably become, but they lingered on the edge of a vengeful breed of redemption, telling tales of the girl who finally found her power, her strength. Because I didn't believe I had any, and she was always me. Stories of being rescued from certain doom morphed into melodramatic poetry during my teenage years, typical but nonetheless honest expressions of the feelings I didn't know what to do with. My anger manifested itself through violence on the page; my pain always taking the form of a girl who gained the upper hand. In adulthood when my battle with Depression took a turn and for the first time the truth outside of my head finally broke through the clouds, I panicked that I would never be able to write again because I was...happy. Where would I get that anxious itch to write if I wasn't growling inside? Somehow, I figured out that I was capable of writing outside of my Depression and thank all that is good for that. I found something that worked for me and my entire world shifted.

Fast forward to this past year, and I'd pretty much forgotten what it felt like to be me, the me before I woke up from the inward tug of sadness I'd lived with until I was twenty-four. For reasons I'll surely get into later, I instigated a shift in the management of her, my Depression, and began slipping back to a darker place. I recognized it instantly; I used to live there, after all. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't fun. But in recognizing this obvious shift, I was able to see just how far I'd come. I was reminded of who I used to be, how I used to function, and how grateful I am to know what it feels like to climb out of that place. You know how sometimes you can't see something for what it is until you get some distance from it? Or how you never notice how dark that spot on the wall really is until someone holds something white up next to it? I wrote about it while in the throes of emotional surges and the things I realized had a profound impact. That's when I decided that I needed to write about my journey, my relationship with Depression. I toyed with the idea of starting another blog, writing anonymously to allow for total freedom when it came to the details that might make those I love uncomfortable (or the parents of the children I worked with, for that matter), but I think it's best to remain honest and open about things like this, things that we are still afraid of discussing openly because of the stigma attached.

There is an amazing woman by the name of Jenny Lawson (otherwise known as The Bloggess - http://thebloggess.com), and during this resurrection of my old self, she shared something on her blog about her own relationship with Depression. I connected immediately with her story, her struggle, her words, and I was moved to share my own story. Because it made me feel so much better, so much more normal to read her words on the subject, couldn't mine do the same for someone else? Breaking the silence begins with one, but carries on with many, and I think I'm ready to step into this. So one series, if you will, I'd like to begin here will focus on this bitch of an animal called Depression, and I will attempt to navigate my way through past experiences, things I learned about myself, and how I live with it now in the hopes that my words will touch someone else going through something similar. And maybe they'll feel a little less alone, and maybe they'll make a different choice for themselves. I've played with titles a lot (when I was planning to make a separate blog for it) but that's still in the works. How will I treat Depression? My evil twin? The broken part of myself in need of love, or the angry little monster in need of conquering? Not sure yet, but stay tuned for that series.


Another series I'm considering developing here is one that focuses on the biggest heartbreak of my life -  and I'd rather not say 'so far'. One like this was enough. I don't think there is enough attention given to relationships outside the romantic realm that have just enough power to maim and scar us, if not more. The idea for this came about when I heard the song "Somebody That I Used to Know" by Gotye on the radio for the first time a few months ago. The lyrics reached straight into my chest and clenched around my heart painfully, and it was then that I realized I wasn't done dealing with my heartbreak of losing my best friend. I've started stories in years past about this particular experience, of her, but always walked away from them, unsure of their direction. I began making notes about what I lost at the end of that relationship and what I wanted to keep. I let my pen wander with my thoughts across the paper and explored feelings of resentment and sadness still lingering after several years, and decided it was time to exorcise this ghost and let it go. How to go about this? One idea is to recount stories of meaningful times, the moments I hold dear in my past, and consciously steer myself away from discussing the hurt that ended our friendship. Perhaps focusing on the good and not allowing the sour end to ruin what is worth holding onto will result in some sort of closure, for I surely got none from her. Perhaps this exploration of a relationship I no longer have will allow me to let it go. Separating the person from the experience, something I think many people can relate to regardless of the nature of the relationship. It may have taken years, but if I was finally able to let go of my first heartbreak and realize that who he was to me has nothing to do with who he really is, then maybe I can do the same with her.

The point of these two yet unnamed series will be to help myself deal and learn and grow, and to share my experiences so that maybe someone else who sees their own self in my words will find something of use there. Entertainment or perhaps a different perspective.

Another new feature I hope to weave into this blog is publicity when publication happens for me. (You must think and speak positively to encourage it to happen!) Not that there are thousands of people reading, but hey, you're important to me and if it happens, I want you to know!

Now that some worthwhile thoughts and ideas have bubbled into an outright spring, I feel better. Recharged. Ready to go.

One more week.

There is no new beginning...

...without an end.

I've made an important decision recently regarding my professional path, and it wasn't easy. There are four weeks left in this school year where I am, and although last week I lamented this for its length, this morning I did so for its shortness. I will miss these kids.

Last year one conversation with Chris resulted in the realization that although writing has always been an endeared and fundamental part of who I am, I'd never actually looked at it the right way. The right way for someone who claims they want to make a career out of it, anyway. Instead of giving it the respect of a valid career path, I treated it like a hobby, my passion kept to the side as regular life carried on around (and over and in front of) it. Here I've been for over eight years dwelling within the ideal circumstances from which to pursue such a goal, to write, to publish, to succeed, and it's taken me this long to readjust the lens through which I view my world. My critical side sighs heavily at me, exasperated and embarrassed, but another side of me says if this is how long it took, this is how long it took. So be it, let's get started.

I've been working in the school system since 2005, and it's a place I enjoy more days than not because I love my students. Truly. But it's time to bring this chapter to a close in order to begin the next, the one where I create a new workspace in my home, become more involved with the writing associations nearby, and work a normal workday - every workday - at achieving realistic writing goals. I will work with purpose and deadlines, support from the artists around me and eagerness to finally make this love a career. And like I've said before, I may find out I'm not good enough. But I also might find out I am.

A part of me (and not a very quiet part) wishes I could make it work while staying at school, but I know I've got to be in this decision 100%, both feet, submerged. There is a little boy who has stolen a piece of my heart, and I will miss seeing him every day. One of my hopes for him (and for every child) is that he'll have the chance and courage to pursue his own dream one day, so I guess I should get going on mine.

Among others, it will be my goal to blog weekly while I work on pushing myself into some form of publication elsewhere. I'll keep you posted as things go.

This summer will be Spring in my house.

Soon

Hi.

It's been a while. Again.

I know.

Will I ever get the hang of this time and energy management thing? I figure as long as I'm here, I may as well keep trying.

One month (out of the last two and a half of silence), I was in the States visiting family and friends, and for the past few weeks I've been trying to figure some things out while getting ready for another public reading downtown. With real people. And a microphone, because my voice gets very tiny when I'm terrified. Being sort of a co-leader this year of Writers in Stuttgart, there was a program to be designed and details to organize. Oh, and something to read, I should probably work on that.

In two days, I will gather with artists and other writers in the basement of a small art gallery, Wir Sind Babel in downtown Stuttgart to (hopefully) entertain a roomful of people, hoping the bar has done its duty to properly soften the edges off of everyone's consciousness. There will be art on the walls and authors reading and people looking and me being frightened that I may do something mortifying when it's my turn in front of the mic. But I'm looking forward to it, as always, as I try to be a little braver when it comes to sharing what means so much to me.

In three days, I will sleep in and heave a sigh of relief that I survived, and start looking, really looking at what it is I plan to do with myself as summer looms closer (6 weeks left of school, but who's counting?). And the blogs will pick back up, most likely starting with the amazing time I had between Florida and New York so recently. The beach, a wedding, friends, and family...it was a nice trip.

Until then, I've got some practicing to do, and an office to reorganize.