Recently I was awoken in the middle of the night by the cries of my younger son. As my husband got there before me, I heard my son cry out, “I want Mooooooommmmy!” I spent the next few minutes attempting to comfort both my son and my husband. Because I know that as much as my husband feels exhausted by the constant demands of our kids, as do I, he also wants to feel needed. It’s hard to drag yourself out of bed at night to comfort someone who just demands someone else.
Well, as is often the case when I’m awake late at night (or early in the morning, rather), I quickly became mired in depressing thoughts. Continue reading
“It’s not a bad thing to be sensitive.”
She says as she steals a glance at the clock
I wonder if she’s ever stayed up all night clutching her gut,
birthing a fruit of terrible thought.
“It’s not a bad thing to be sensitive. It makes you more empathic.”
She’s talking faster now, trying to fit her conclusion in the two minutes we have left.
“You notice things other people don’t notice.”
Like that she’s trying to wrap up this appointment and move on.
“You can feel how other people are feeling and that’s a good thing.”
She emphasizes the words “good” and “thing” like that will make me believe it.
“But it also means you feel things more than most people and it can be hard not to get caught up in it.”
She shifts in her seat. I start to gather my purse. Together we rise.
I try to field questions about dates for our next appointment while I mentally sort out a way to ask her how I’ll make it until next week.
I want to tell her it’s not worth it. Reading people has no benefit for me.
I want more details about how it’s good. Will she help me start a superhero syndicate of empaths?
I want to know how to ignore the looks, the pursed lips, the sharp tones in a multitude of disapproving voices.
I want an end to nights of knees pulled to my racing chest, rocking back and forth to sooth the explosion brewing in my belly, breathing out the anxiety that just comes back.
I want her to tell me how to make it stop.
But she’s already turned towards the door. She’s giving me a farewell smile. She’s telling me it’s time to leave now, but she hasn’t said a word.
I know there’s more she’s saying.
It will come to me tonight when I lie down to worry.
Sometimes looking back on my free-writing cracks me up. Looking through an old document I thought I’d never open again, I noticed the following. Apparently, I decided to come up with a mantra to get me started on those days when anxiety has me frozen and distracted. Y’know, like every day. Now, after it’s been buried for who knows how long, I like it. Continue reading
When I awoke last Thursday, I rolled over and grabbed my phone as I do every morning. I did the obligatory Facebook check and noticed that a friend had shared an article about Alan Rickman.
Oh hey, someone else who thinks he’s as awesome as I do, I thought.
What a minute. There’s only one reason people start sharing random articles about people who haven’t just released a blockbuster film, checked into rehab, been arrested, or made a sex tape. All of which I was nearly certain hadn’t happened.
I’m excited to announce that my first published piece came out recently in Brain, Child Magazine. I’m ecstatic! I have loved Brain, Child since I first discovered it and have dreamed of writing for them for almost as long. My inner critic told me it would be a difficult publication to break into because the writing is so beautiful and thought-provoking. But then it happened! Here it is!
“My mom admitted to me that she hates the color of my old bedroom, a peach like those circus peanut candies, with the air of confessing that she never liked a meal I’d proudly made her for years. I had just had my second baby and she had flown into town to help out. We were walking to the park for some much-needed outside time for my four-year-old. I looked over at her and studied her face, trying to reconcile this information with what I knew to be true. She and my dad had made me paint over my bedroom walls where I’d drawn a mural I loved, and it never felt like home after that.” Read more…