Tales of a Misguided Mommy

Locked doors

9.20.2018

Yesterday, when I got home from my first job around 5:42am the house was dark.  This isn't normal. Brandons alarm goes off at 5:20am, and he's supposed to be downstairs starting to help unload the dishwasher and working on his breakfast.   I walked in to nothing.  Darkness, quietness, the whole house was still.  I didn't like it.  I trudged upstairs to open his door, but it was locked.  I cannot, for any reason explain the terror I felt in that moment.  In 13 years Brandon has never locked his door.  We don't lock doors in our house. If his door is closed, I'll always knock before coming in (unless he's asleep and I'm coming in to wake him). I said his name and he didn't reply.  My whole heart sunk and I slammed on the door shouting BRANDON.  Nothing.  I wanted to vomit, and I pounded on the door louder, shaking the handle and screaming his name.  Finally he stirred, and I think was more shocked and afraid by the pounding on his door than anything. It took him a minute to fully wake up and open the door, when he did, one of his pillows was in front of the door, and I was rapidly, mentally going down hill fast.  I was so angry (not at him) and scared, and confused that I just rushed in to see his face.  I know, in that moment he thought I was absofuckinglutly crazy.  He is not wrong.

What I couldn't figure out the rest of the day was, what was I most upset about.  Am I the most upset that it's so common for teens to commit suicide now that I seriously had to worry about my fucking 13 year old harming himself?  That makes me angry. It makes me angry knowing that our youth can get in bed, in an amazing mood, ready for dream land, and then possibly receive a text, or see some stupid online challenge, that in an instant can make them want to take their life.   When I was growing up, we didn't have the cyber bullying.  If someone wanted to call me and talk shit, they had to call my phone.  I might have had a teen line, but you bet your ass my mom heard the phone ring, and would come in to see just what the hell was going on.  Now, now there are silent texts parents can't hear, or silent videos challenging kids to do some stupid dumb bullshit challenge that ends up with a dead kid.  I'm angry about this.

 

However, I think I'm almost more angry that I assume behind every goddamn locked door I'm going to find a dead body.  Let me be clear, I did not find my dads body, but someone did.  I've lived that morning in my head a million times.  All the locked doors, the cops having to break into his bedroom window to find him dead.  I hate it.  But in 2016, I had to find a dead body, and it never goes away.  I knew, I KNEW before going in.  You know, some times people go missing, but you know they are okay.  This person had done that several times.  It was normal.  He would disappear for a bit, clear his head, drive us all insane, and then show up and repent.  This time though, in my soul I knew what I would find.  The person at his apartment wouldn't do a well check for me.  They said they had found too many bodies.  The police wouldn't help, he hadn't been gone long, and we didn't usually like to involve cops with him.  So I went.  The apartment lady and her maintenance guy unlocked the door for me, and I had to go in alone. The first thing I saw was a towel rolled up below his door.  I KNEW.  This, I think is why I totally fell apart when Brandons pillow was in front of his door (this is normal he lays on the ground playing with the cat before bed and never remembers to put all of his pillows back).  After that I had to move into the house and knock on his door. I called out his name several times, but I knew he wouldn't answer.  Then I opened the door, and there he was. At first glance he just looked like he was asleep. I knew though he wasn't.  I went in closer, saw his blue lips saw the death, and called his name again.

Something weird you should know about me, is in situations like this I have an inhuman ability to shut down and just do what needs to be done.  When my grandpa went into the hospital years ago and was dying, I was able to go there, and not cry (for a few days), and just get the facts, and do what needed to be done.  When my dad, or someone goes to the hospital I can walk in totally level headed, talk to the doctor, and proceed as if someone is having an ingrown toenail cut. I don't panic, until I need to.  Even then it still takes me a few days.  The one and only exception to this is the time they told me my grandma died.  I full blown lost my shit immediately  In a way I'm not sure I have ever done before, or since.

Back to the story.  Here I am calmly dialing 911, talking to the dispatch.   Telling them NO I won't perform CPR because he's very very dead. They ask me to get closer to the body, and I do, an image I'll never forget, they have me call his name so they can hear.  He's still dead.  They ask me again to touch him.  NO. I won't. They don't tell me to be calm, because I am so very calm already.  I finally hear sirens, and dispatch tells me they will let me go because help has arrived.  Another thing I will never forget is the paramedic walking into the room, looking at him, smiling, and walking out saying "yup he's dead." That felt, insensitive.  After that I filled out some paper work. An officer showed up. I was very calm with him.  We discussed everything, I made the calls I needed without crying, or showing any emotion at all.  I stayed there until the very last second when they wheeled his body out.  When they moved him and the final smell came out, I will never forget that, for my whole life, that smell sometimes burns my nostrils.  My dad and I locked up and left.  I drove to the gym, I worked out, I picked my son up from school.

It took me close to 5 weeks to cry.  When I picked up the death certificate I didn't cry.  When I closed his accounts I didn't cry. When I planned food for the funeral I didn't cry.  When the tox report came back, and the medical examiners office called me personally to confirm the cause of death as suicide, I was driving on the freeway, passing Moana Lane.  Right then and there I cried.  Whole body sobs, shaking so violently I couldn't drive straight, I pulled off on Plumb Lane, and sat there on the side of the road sobbing.  I cried for about ten minutes straight, pulled myself together, pulled back onto the road and finished my errand.

 

I haven't talked a lot about that because that story isn't mine. My dad's story, that's mine to tell, that is my father and I can talk about it.  The other story, it's not mine to tell.  I was there, the person was my family, but it's not my choice to publicly discuss how he died, so I don't. Maybe I need to though, to get it out a little bit.

So, I think, perhaps that day is the reason I fully lost the ability to think when I found my sons door locked.  Because I know what lies behind closed doors.  I did tell my husband that I panicked.  I told him the truth, I lost my total shit and kind of flipped out.  He later told Brandon nicely to not lock his door anymore. We don't have to tell him why though.  Brandon is the kind of kid who senses, when I tell him certain things, there is a reason and he should listen.  He's always known about my fear of hugs.  For years we didn't talk about why. I just told him I didn't like surprise hugs.  He sensed there was a deeper reason, and still to this day (he knows all the reasons why now) he will slowly approach me for a hug, he always makes a joke about how small I am, to make me laugh during the hug, and he never makes the hug a trapped feeling.  One time he wanted to see if he could lift me up off the ground. He asked, he gave me a moment to process, he explained each step he was taking, and then he successfully picked me up off the ground and was so proud of himself for how tall he is now. So, he has no idea why I'm afraid of locked doors, but he knows, I was upset that morning (not mad upset, scared upset), and he will probably never lock his door again until he moves out.

I'm angry for both of these reasons, and in that moment, the two reasons combined and my whole body felt like it was breaking down.  I can understand losing a grand parent when they are old.  I can understand that some people die.  Losing my son, to suicide though, would be the end of me.  When my hand turned that knob and it wouldn't open, the world went black.

Love, Misguided Mommy

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13

9.5.2018

My oldest turned 13 recently.  There have been clues leading up to this, clues that a teenager was about to arrive.  He's been taller than me for a while, but he recently sprouted up even more.  His foot is the size of his dads.  His voice is suddenly deepening, which is so weird, I miss his baby voice. His attitude has been 13 for at least 3 years now. He wears one ear bud on the bus now, reminiscent of my 13-year-old self with a disc man in my pocket (actually it might have still been tapes then). This weekend though, things changed. He was upstairs playing with the kitten, lying on the ground. He reached up over his head to grab the cat, and he had...he had armpit hair.   I cannot explain why this bothered me so much, but it did.  It's as if it flipped a little hair covered switch, and suddenly my little boy is a grown man.  I realize boys have armpit hair, I guess I always assumed that came closer to high school.  Which, I guess that means I have to admit he's only a year away from high school. I think that means I'm about a year away from the dreaded mustache, and you guys, I don't think I'll be able to handle the teenaged, patchy, half mustache.  However. My cousin is spending her time shopping for prom dresses, which I've decided is eleven billion times worse.  Because when she gets to the dance it will be full of hot high school boys, which makes her situation suckier than mine.  So that gives me some relief.

Love, Misguided Mommy

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New generation

8.27.2018

You know those people that will pretend they aren't jealous, that’s not me. I'm going to be up front today and tell you I'm jealous of this new generation of girls growing up right now.

Girls now are being raised during this whole fit life era.  They are being told to work out, to lift weights, and to be active. They are being taught how to eat, how to track macros, how to live entire healthy life styles.  I think it's amazing. I'm so happy for our children’s futures, to know that we may create a generation healthier than mine.  I'm also jealous.  I grew up during  time when women were confined to walking and Jazzersize.  I grew up during the fat free era.  I grew up at the end of the diet pill phase, where women took handfuls of diet pills, didn't eat, and then threw up if they did eat too much.  I see all of these young, fit girls at the gym now and I'm envious.  I went to the gym when I was 16, I even had a trainer. Here’s what she had me do.  Run for a few minutes on the treadmill, do crunches, and then do the thigh machine.  That was it. I feel cheated. 

Of course now I have control of it, and I've seen the wise ways of the weight rack, but that doesn't mean I don't look down at my stretch marks, disfigured body, and wish that America hadn't figured this out just a bit sooner. I hope the girls of today are taking notes.  I hope they pass this down for generations to come. I hope that 50 years from now we don't have another generation of girls hooked on diet pills thinking they have to be on Atkins or live on fat free sour cream.  I hope girls continue to learn to cook, and meal prep, and eat right.  I hope vegetables keep being trendy, and healthy lifestyles become the norm.  

I hope schools keep teaching kids to cook.  Last year my sons school let him cook every Wednesday.  They learned a few kinds of eggs, tacos, french toast, pancakes from scratch, BLT wraps, etc.  I remember getting to cook maybe two times total in home ec (one gross omelette and one taco salad).  My son looked forward to that class every week, and then came home and made everything he learned in school. He still makes pancakes for his friends and brother on the weekends.  Rob and I have taught him to make other things too.  I let him help with dinner a lot.  His specialty is breakfast though.  Brandon makes a variety of different eggs.  What’s important is, I know when he moves out he won't feel like he has to live on ramen noodles.

While I'm jealous of this new generation of fit kids, I'm also so stoked to know my kids will grow up knowing about veggies, whole wheat grains, and balanced meals, while also knowing where to find the best dessert in all of San Francisco. 

Love, Misguided Mommy

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The one where Shannon writes again, about death and tattoos

8.23.2018

This post is going to take a minute to get to the point, but it's been a while since I've written, so I imagine it will take a while for me to find my groove again.

I've been struggling with death lately. Death, loss, and trust. If I'm honest my depression has been kicking my ass for some time now.  This is normal though, I know how to handle it, but it's kicking my ass hard core.  Because of things going on around me I've been struggling with trust, with losing people, the desire to simultaneously cling on to everything and try and save people, while distancing myself from anyone I could possibly lose.

My cat got taken by a coyote roughly 50 days ago and I'm bummed.  I'm sad on a level I didn't know I could be about a cat. My husband brought that cat into my life about 30 days before my whole world turned upside down, and I'll be honest, loving that little cat during that time is all that got me through.  Less than two weeks ago my life turned upside down again, this time I have no cat.  I've never felt more alone without that little guy purring at my feet.

When my birth dad committed suicide I was young. Twelve years old isn't old enough to comprehend suicide.  In fact I've told you all before that at first I didn't believe it. I knew my dad had drug problems, so I created a whole story in my head that he probably owed someone money and had decided to hide out for one year.  After one year he would come back, he would be wearing an all white suit with his hair extra long, blonde and wavey, see me and say, "I'm back princess, eveyrthing is okay now, I'm so glad you knew I would never leave." Some of this fantasy was created by the stories I had heard from family who didn't know I was listening.  About the stories my dad would tell while he was using meth. Stories about the Hells Angels coming after him.  Smashed car windows. People following him.  Stories I all believed to be true.  I laugh now, now that I've spent a decade dealing with a chronically addicted meth head, and I'm old enough to know that the meth spun stories of a junkie are all fiction. At twelve years old they sounded very real, and very serious.

I saw him everywhere that year.  A substitute bus driver, walking down the road, or a guy in the grocery store. When the year was up and he didn't return I was sad. I processed it as I could at 13. A few years later around 14-16 I got a better undertsanding of it. Of loss, of suicide, and it felt as if I was processing it all again.  He left me.  If you want to trace back my abandonment issues you can trace them back to the entire four years of high school.  I was at the same time worried every boyfriend would leave me, while making every possible effort I could to MAKE them leave, so when they did there was a tangible reason.

When I turned 18 and my grandma died, my axis shifted. I felt her death in a way I can never explain.  I was old enough now to understand loss. My heart shattered.  I couldn't sleep, I would stay up all night at my new house sitting outside in the dark on the curb of my house lost.  My insomnia had been bad before, but now it was completely unmanageable.  I was awake until 3 or 4 am when I would finally pass out until it was time for school or work. Processing her death made me reprocess my dads. Now I was mad. He killed her. She died of a broken heart. He didn't only leave me, he left her too. My last years with her were changed, different, less fun because being with her was never the same after he died. She was always sad. It hurt her to look at me, Rickies little girl, because I looked like him.  She was carrying the burden of the secret of knowing where my brother and sister were, but not letting me know at their mothers request. I blamed my dad for ruining my last years with my grandma.

Then I got married, and had kids.  At that stage, as a new mom where you can never imagine leaving your baby, I processed Ricks death again.  HOW DARE HE! How could he have left us, I could never leave my babies.  My anger turned to rage.  Bitter rage.

Close to 10 years later, when I was in what I considered the best part of my life, I had a wake up call.  I had lost all the weight, I was running, I was fit and healthy, and in the best matnal spot of my life.  Then I had a surgery that put me down for 6 weeks, and during that time I went into a full clinical depression.  Later we would learn it was a result of stopping my 6 day a week exercise routine cold turkey.  I distinctly remember sitting on my chair downstairs in the new house, looking up toward my boys room and thinking, "they don't need me."  I rationalized it all.  They needed a mom who was always nice. Who had her shit together. My husband needed a better wife. They would get a ton of life insurance money, Rob would eventually remarry, and the boys would get a normal mom, with a brain that didn't function like my damaged brain.  Immedietly I recognized these thoughts were wrong, I got up off the chair and went back to the gym that day.  However, in those 7 minutes of thinking, I processed Ricks death again.  I was now at an age where I could understand him.  I could see that he never expected me to not come out on top. He knew he was leaving me with an amazing step father. He knew I had family to take care of me, he knew I would get his social security for a few years, he knew I would be fine.  So at age 33 I processed forgiveness.

One year after this I had another major loss.  Someone I cared for greatly took their life, making it worse is that I found the body.  For the rest of my life I won't be able to get that visual or smell out of my head.  Here I went processing death again.  Another suicide, anger, forgiveness, and unbearable sadness all at once.  It's been hard. That creeps up on me daily, and takes my breath away. I miss him. I look around the things he did at my house and miss him. I tell stories about him and miss him. In fact there is a guy at my gym who resembles him so much in stature, hair color, facial expressions and voice, that I sometimes forget for just a second that he is in fact gone.  I had to process not only his death, but Ricks again.  This is two people who have left me, what is wrong with me, why do they leave? I imagine at various other ages and life stages, I will again have to process the deaths in my life again.  Each new year of life, brings with it a different level of understanidng and comprehension.

Seven months later and one day before the anniversary of Ricks death, just after getting the cat, everything in my life turns upside down.  I spent nearly a year lost, confused, angry, and back to the belief that everyone hurts you, everything ends, and no one can be trusted. I couldn't shake that feeling no matter what.  I still can't. I'll never talk about it here beceause the fact is, it's not my story to tell.

With time things smoothed out. I opened up some. For about 10 months things had been good.  I had my cat, I had been making friends, and I was building trust again. I was living again.  However, such is my life a series of unfortunate events occured to ruin that.

1. The junkie I had worked so hard to help get clean, stopped being clean.

2. A person I considered a friend, turned out to never be a friend at all.

3. My cat goes missing.

4. My second job really really lets me down, breaks promises, and leaves me standing alone wondering how in the heck this happened.

5. The mess from late 2016 returns.

So here I am pulled in all directions. I've shut down deeply. I know loss is coming, and I want no part of it, so the solution is to put distance between myself and everyone else so I'm not hurt when they leave/die/lie. I spent a solid 2 months struggling with one final attempt at saving the drug addict in my life, and walking away. Walking away means that I spend every day worried that if he dies, it's because I gave up too soon.  I have a habit of letting people use me until I'm nothing but bones, because I'm terrified of ever being the "reaosn" someone dies.  In the back of my had no matter how irrational, I will always believe I could have done more to save Rick, and the other suicide from 2016. Once you've experienced that, you develop a bad habit of trying to save people, no matter how much it hurts you in the end.  I have no cat to cuddle up with when I'm sad, and my usual safe place isn't safe anymore.  Between occurances 2 and 5 above I've lost trust, and faith in almost everything. I'm sad. I'm lost. I'm having a hard time every day.  I harbor resentment at that friend and my second job. I spend time calculating how long until the next person dies, how long until the next person lies to me, and I feel isolated, shut down, and numb.

There is one thing that always makes me feel better, which is in fact the point of this whole post.  My tattoos. I'm covered in them, and if I had to guess I would say I have over twenty, but I've lost count. I get a tattoo every time I lose someone. I get a tattoo when I'm sad. I get tattoos when I need reminders that I'm alive and can feel. I'm getting two tattoos this weekend in fact.  I have had the same tattoo artist since I was 15, Jared.  The tattoo shop is my church and Jared is my preacher.  I tell him a thought, a lyric, a feeling, and I walk in days later to see my feeling right there on paper. I've never altered one of his drawings, I've loved every one of them.  Those hours with him in the shop are the most peaceful I ever experience. I relax to a level unknown for me.  Recently when he was doing my inner arms I actually found myself nodding off.  This is huge, because, A. I don't nap ever, and B. I never ever sleep in public. I don't nap, or close my eyes in public because I can never let myself be that unprotected. I know someone can hurt me if i close my eyes. (I take high powered sleep medicine at night to get over this anxiety). The fact that I close my eyes, and just relax while I'm there with Jared speaks volumes about the amount of trust I have in him.

When I was sixteen, in that new stage of processing Ricks death, I did a stupid thing. I had the freedom to drive, and I drove myself to the department of records and asked for a copy of my dads autopsy and suicide note.  I can never ever stress how stupid this was. If you're reading this for the love of God NEVER DO THIS. I read things I never needed to read. Combined with the hyper visual graphic I already had in my head of my dads suicide, adding the report tormented my brain for years. It still does. My therapist now says childhood traumas developed the right side of the brain more, which is why I'm hyper visual. I can visualize my dads death so clearly, as if I was there.  I can see him preparing to do it, I can see him struggling during, I can see him after, I can see them breaking in his bedroom window to find his body, I can with clarity see this entire scene, even though I saw none of it.   I can see this visual as clear as I can see the memory of holding my first born the first time.  Which is why I never forgot the part of the autopsy where the coroner details all of my dads tattoos.  I've always taken a small relief from seeing my name printed on the autopsy, "Located above the subjects heart is a tattoo of the words Shannon Marie."

So the point of all this? The one thing I have in my life that can never be taken away is my ink. It will go to the grave with me.  It's mine for eternity.  When I get a new piece, some people see it as frivolous, but I don't. I see it as one more thing I can keep forever. One more thing that is all mine, that no one can tarnish. Which leaves me wondering, when my time is up some day, will a coroner detail each of my tattoos? Will he note both of my boys names? Will he note the tattoo that says "Hard Times" for the person I lost in 2016? Will he note my grandmas name? Will he note the lyrics to songs that got me through the dark? Will he wonder about the Waylon tattoos?  Will he assume I've been to Burning Man because I have a Burning Man tattooed on my leg? Will there some day be a record of all the things I held near to my heart?  It almost makes me happy to know that person will get to spend a few minutes following the story of my life, and wondering about the girl on their table.

I get stopped about my ink often.  Lots of people like it.  My tattoos are all very well done, colorful, and clear. I get many compliments. I also get asked "why" a lot.  I tell them now, I can take it with me when I die. Your boat, your art collection, the trinkets you collect on a shelf, your fancy car, none of it goes with you when you die.  My tattoos, though, they will come with me.  They will follow me wherever I go, until the very end of time, when I no longer exist, they will be there. Your art, trinkets, cars and boats will be left behind. Someone will have to deal with them. Sell them, feud over them, maintain them, look at them, etc.  My investment though, my ink, my art, won't be left behind. That, that right there makes me happy.  I know, that at the end of the day one thing is true, the stories on my body will still be there tomorrow.  I can trust in that, and having one thing to trust in gives me hope.

*Please excuse the errors, the spell check button on my blog platform doesn't work. Nothing actually works, so hopefully this posts at all.

Love, Misguided Mommy

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Mental illness is not a secret

6.11.2018

If you've read this blog for any amount of time you know I've spent years suffering with mental disease.  A lot of people love to say that my dads suicde made me act out as a kid.  The truth of the matter is, I didn't fully understand his suicide or his loss for a lot of years, that didn't control my brain.  The fact is, I've had monsters in my head for as long as I can remember. Monsters that made me go to my room and think bad thoughts.  Parents write off a child like that as someone trying to get out of trouble or someone seeking attention.  I have to disagree.  I have two very different children.  One who goes to his room with  monsters in his head, and one who doesn't.  They both get in plenty of trouble, but only one of them is the me of years past.  I will never tell him to get over the monsters in his head, because he cannot.

I bring this up, because in light of the recent public suicides, while engaging with someone on facebook about my birth dad, and grand fathers suicide, the person replied, "this should be a private conversation, this is not for the public."

Let me say this now.  I have control of the monsters in my head today.  I go to the gym a lot to control them.  People comment all the fucking time about how often I go to the gym, but they don't know, it's saving my life.  If you're one of those people and you're reading this, you can stop those comments now.  I don't need to explain my relationship with the gym one more goddamn time, leave me alone.   However, if in the event the monsters ever win, please whatever you do, don't make my death a secret.  Shout it out to the fucking world.  Let it have meaning.  When you're in that dark place, you feel worthless.  You make up reasons why you should be gone.  It all makes sense.  When I can perfectly understand what my birth dad was thinking when he died, and pick out all of the good things that have happened to me since his death, and say with clarity that MAYBE HIS DEATH WAS A GOOD THING, then it's clear, I've lost any feeling of value in my life.  The worst thing ever, would be, being right.  If my death saves a life, then share it.  If talking about your pain saves a life, then talk away. I know personally talking about losing my dad on this blog has saved lives.  Had I never written those posts, perhaps those people would have never found the words they needed while they were sitting in their car ready to end their life, doing one final google search on the effects of suicide on children.

I've talked about depression and mental illness a thousand times as a gray place, a place you wrap yourself up in and get comfortable.  Today I want to talk about it a little bit differently.  I see so many people saying, "she had it all, what did she have to be sad about," or "Tony traveled, had the good life, what did he have to be sad about."  Stop it.  Stop that shit right now.  Having money, all of the money, millions and millions of dollars cannot cure depression any more than it can cure cancer or Alzheimer's. You guys, we don't fucking have control of this shit.  I cannot look at the endometrioma tumor in my stomach and say, "just stop growing.  I don't want you to grow, so don't," the same way I cannot tell the fucking monsters in my head to shut up.  They don't give a fuck.  So here is a better way to relate to depression.  It's like a puppy, or five puppies in your head at all times.  Puppies lose control and run all over the place.  Sometimes their paw presses on the part of your brain that kicks your OCD into overdrive, which makes your ADHD run rampant, and that makes your anxiety sky rocket through the roof, and this makes you tired, ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Then the puppy sees a bird and runs full force over to the other side of your head and you find yourself locked in your closet crying because everything is so hard, and loud, and it's just too much, and can you not fucking stop for one second.  Even if the thing that won't stop is out of your control, like the wind, or the weather, or the demons in your head.  Then the puppy zig zags and you're angry, at everyone, at yourself, at the news, at life, and you don't even know why.  The puppy isn't done though, he's found a ball and it rolled over to the part of your brain that makes everything WONDERFUL AND AMAZING AND LOOK AT THE COLORS AND GIVE ME A HUG AND I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUU.  Then the puppy gets tired and lays down for a nap, and nothing.  You feel nothing.  You're not happy, or sad, or mad, or angry, you feel nothing.  You just feel nothing. Sometimes I think the nothing is the hardest of them all.  If any of you have had a puppy, or a fucking toddler, you know they don't care that you are losing your mind.  Short of locking them in a crate and listening to them whine non stop, there is nothing you can do besides hope they grow out of it, like a good dog.  Sometimes they do grow out of it. Sometimes you get a cocker spaniel instead of a lab, and you end up with a puppy for life, a puppy that never ever ever gives you a break.  Sometimes as terrible as it sounds you start wishing the puppy would just run away, or not exist, for just a day, or a few minutes, and that right there is where mental illness can become permanant, when you start wishing for a break.  

So, if I lose the battle with the monsters in my head tomorrow, what I beg of you, is don't play stupid.  Don't say you didn't know.  Don't post comments publicly saying, "shes the last person I would have expeceted this from."  Don't pretend.  Becuase if you've read this blog ever in the past, you knew.  If you've found me locked in the closet crying, you knew.  If you watched me drink myself stupid and not care, you knew. If you've gone weeks without hearing from me, you knew. If you read the poetry I turned in, in high school, you knew.  If you've followed my public journey, you knew. If you've spent any amount of time with me, you knew. No one lets their lives get as out of control as I did, without having some monsters in their head.  I plead with you, whether it's me, or a stranger, or best friend, or public person who loses the battle tomorrow, talk about it.  Talk about the loss.  Talk about the signs you saw, so someone else can recognize those signs in someone they may know who is suffering.  Post about it.  Share it.  Don't make the next loss a shameful one. Give it a purpose.  Give it meaning.  Whatever you do though, make sure you DO NOT write them off as someone who had everything, whose death means nothing.  You guys, I cannot tell the puppy to push the happy spot any more than I can tell my hip to not be torn.  I cannot tell my depression to stop, any more than Steve Jobs could tell his cancer to just drink some green juice and get better.

I can mitegate the damage with workouts, and therapy, the same way a cancer patient can do chemo, and take medicine, but they can't out right cure it with just a wish.  Mental disease can't be wished away.  It can't be shushed away.  I can't be locked within the walls of your house to avoid your families embarrasment.  It has to be public.  Hold us accountable, check on us, learn from us, help us.  Find us when we are lost, but most importantly, stop trying to wish our disease away.

This post isn't a cry for help, because right now I have control of it all for the most part.  However, if that monster puppy in my head ever gets immune to the long long walks at the gym, there will be at least 40 people who notice my absence, and I hope, they would be brave enough to call me out, and check on me.  

Love, Misguided Mommy

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