Tag: depression

Where I’m at.

August 27th, 2023

I wasn’t going to write.

I didn’t want to pin this season however long it may be anywhere.

I don’t want to look in a mirror so I really don’t want to look in the mirror that are whatever words might come out of my mouth.

Truth be told; I’m scared.

When the doctor said the phrase “Bell’s palsy” last week I actually really resisted the urge to google more than the paperwork in front of me.

The thing about googling Bell’s palsy is that people that recover quickly don’t talk about it.

I’ve been out of work all week. I’ve been dizzy and exhausted and I’ve been avoiding talking and FaceTiming and anything that is having to use my voice.

My brain is desperately wanting to check out and not have to think about any of the things.

Because at the end of the day- it’s where I am right now.

I’m trying to remember who I am, what I’m about and what I’m made of.

I’m trying to remember my strength.

So, with all that being said, I’m going to go into this next week and keep moving forward.

I’m going to choose to believe again and again and again that this is a season and from this place I’ll be stronger.

And also for now, I’ll know that I don’t always have to be strong and that if I need to cry I will (even if it’s only with one eye).

I’ll be thankful for the kind words and the care packages and the love and prayers and the humans in my life.

And I’ll do my damndest to speak even though it is really really hard.

That’s it.

That’s some guttural, real, from the pits of where I’m at this Sunday.

That’s all.

With love,

Meg
The rebuild

July 19th, 2023

I’ve been listening to a lot of Taylor Swift lately.

It’s the house I’m living in and I’m ok with that.

But, today, while doing dishes I heard the line; “time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it, I’d like to be my old self again but I’m still trying to find it.”

I was feeling off today, a little grumpy, a little sad and I wasn’t quite sure why. Then that lyric played and I realized it really hit me hard.

I thought, honestly, it was just the griefs. The wandering feelings that like to pop up like little flowers- trying to remind you of the things that made you sad, of the people you’ve lost who are still wrapped around your roots. And to a point it probably was.

But the thought that brought tears to my eyes as I washed dishes was that today starts the long weekend where two years ago I saw my mom alive for the last time.

It was the last time I hugged my mom, the last time I rolled my eyes at her (in person- I still do it to this day).

I knew when I left my parents house that weekend that it would be the last time I would hug her, the last time I would untangle her oxygen from somewhere or grab her some ice.

I’m trying to be old self again but I’m still trying to find it.

I was a shell of a person then. Covid and work burnout and a few other things, I went into my long trip between visiting my parents and attending a friend’s wedding in Hawaii just completely on empty.

For the most part my griefs, the things that sprout up here and there I can meet and sit with and move on. But, sometimes, today, the emotional realization that the person I was in the moments before I got on a plane to come say bye to my mom and the person who got on the plane three days later are two completely different humans.

And right now I don’t really know what to do with that.

Those that know me, know that I am person who feels deeply. I feel what’s happening in the room, I feel the emotions of those around me, I feel a lot of damn things.

The narrative in my head that has tried to win the past few months or so is that I don’t need to feel grief anymore.

That I should be stronger.

That I should move on.

That I should get over it.

That my grief is a burden and I should just keep it in.

That I should just be my old self again.

That I should just be the person before instead of the girl who’s mom died.

Which, I know, is absolutely stupid. And impossible.

When a disaster strikes and you have to rebuild, most likely, you won’t rebuild in the same way. You’ll find a new countertop you like, or some different crown molding.

You’ll also find ways to batten down the hatches for another impending disaster.

Because once you live through it you have the knowledge that it could happen again.

And that’s a heavy thing to live with.

I know, sitting here today, that I can’t be my old self again. I know that my mom dying was my disaster and I had to rebuild.

I know in my depths.

But today, with the realization that I haven’t hugged my mom in two years, I sit wishing desperately to be my old self again.

I sit feeling a heaviness in my soul and heart. I sit with prickling tears in my eyes.

I sit.

I don’t write these words for pity or sympathy, I don’t write them out of any desire but to remind myself, to remind you that grief is not linear.

I write them to gather what I’ve learned and what I’ve felt and what I’m picking up as field notes to even remind one person that they aren’t alone. That I might not know your situation but I’m living in the same book.

There is a point in time where we all have to keep moving after a disaster. We usually have to move back in to the disheveled house before every room is ready, we have to cook in air fryers and wash dishes in the bathtub.

There’s a point where you have to keep living.

And every once and awhile get reminded of the disaster.

We just have to take those moments as they come.

I don’t know what part of the process you’re in, I don’t know if you’re washing dishes in a bath tub or if you’ve even gone back to the house yet.

I don’t know if you need a push or if you need to slowdown the rebuild.

I just know that it’s ok to realize you also need to grieve the person that was lost in the losing.

The person that was lost in the disaster.

You.

With love,

Meg.
37: a year of sand trudging

May 29th, 2023

Dear 37,

I realized today I needed to sit and think about you for a second.

There are two things I do before I turn another year older; I scroll the photos since my last birthday and I read the letter I wrote last year.

It’s a fun way to remember all I’ve done, all the shenanigans that my friends and I got into, the trips we’ve taken, all the cheers we’ve done and everything in between.

In my letter to myself I wrote at the end that it felt like 36 had been living in winter; that I was ready to come out in the sun.

That was a little hard to read.

I know that this last year was full of hilarity and joy, full of theater and karaoke and helping with events at church and learning more and more about myself and who I am.

But, 37 has inevitably felt as if I’m trudging through the sand trying to get to the water again.

I’ll never forget this one off day on the world race in 2013. We were in Mozambique and our contacts wanted to take us to an island but what ended up happening was us trudging forever through sand and then we ended up a row boat that came with water buckets to bail the water out and took us to not the island we were meant to go to so we turned around in the rain and had to trudge back through the sand and the rising water line to go back to our van and go moments down the road to the correct place.

But, honestly on the walk back through the sand I just wanted to go back to the village, get in my tent and watch a movie.

This year felt as if I just wanted to go back and stop having to trudge the sand just to get to the next thing.

Though, just like that really random day in Mozambique- for the most part this year, I kept going.

I think it’s always the goal to get to the end of year and feel like you did something beautiful.

And as I started writing this I honestly felt discouraged.

I felt always a step behind. And that I was falling behind all these humans in my life that were experiencing good and beautiful things.

But, I’ve realized as cheesy as it sounds, my ability to keep going has been a good and beautiful thing.

I have found new parts of who I am, I’ve stood my ground, I stepped out of my comfort zone, I met some beautiful new humans, I got to go back to camp, I didn’t die on the sketchy stairs or fall through the trap door while doing a doing a kick line in a corset during Rocky, I developed a cat allergy and so many things in between.

I’ve just kept going.

And like that time in Mozambique keeping going led to some stories that I will remember for the rest of my life, I think 37 will too.

So with so much more that could be said:

Dear 37,

Thank you.

For the tears, the laughter, the corsets and the times I ended up just sitting on the floor.

Thank you for the humans who have consistently pushed me along and to the ones who caused me to push myself.

Thank you for the sand.

With love,

Meg
You have to read to the end

April 24th, 2023

I have been dreading actually sitting down with myself and trying to put words onto a page.

I don’t think I’ve had any real revelation or moments that I want to untangle. I don’t think I have anything of worth to say. I don’t have anything good for myself to share.

I have no insight.

So, I’ve been trying to think of what I need to do. Currently sitting here, staring at the drink I just ordered and wondering if I have anything worthwhile to say.

I had a lot of hope there for awhile.

Hope that things were changing. Hope that I would be able to hold on.

Hope that something was around the corner.

But, just like the crash after a performance or a vacation or an event that you’ve been waiting for; there is a crash after a burst of hope.

I think I hoped that actually believing in the hope would change something.

But now, as I look down, my hands are empty and I have to find a way to cultivate the thing that I want.

It’s scary to write these words. It’s scary to put them in a place where people can read them.

It’s scary because I feel like I’m failing at being who I’m supposed to be.

And they feeling inevitably makes me want to run.

I’ve felt it for a few weeks.

That desire to hide. To not truly put words on a page.

To hype myself up instead of admitting that I felt defeat.

It’s been almost a year and 8 months since I left my preschool teaching job.

It’s been just over a year and a half since my mom died.

And lately I’ve been having to push down the narrative that I haven’t done enough.

That I should have achieved more.

That I should be stronger.

That, once again, I’m actually failing at life.

I want to say a lot of things right now.

I want to hype myself out of this hole.

I want to tell you I know what tangible thing is next.

I can’t.

I can tell you though this simple thing:

I still haven’t run.

I’m still to the best of my ability showing up for the ones who have shown up for me.

I’m choosing the things and people that give me life and hope and joy and declining the things and people that feel like an obligation.

At the end of the day, I get to choose who I let into my home.

And whether I’m good at it or not- continuing to choose grace over myself.

None of it is simple.

But it is worth it.

I don’t know what else to say. I do know that none of these hard things are easy.

Choosing what’s good for myself and my soul over what other people think is good for myself and my soul.

I started a journey about two years ago of creating strong boundaries.

Creating those boundaries changed the narrative of who I was to people.

But you can’t let people decide who you are based on what they need to get from you.

And I must repeat: only you can decide who gets to come in your home.

And there it is: some hope I’ve cultivated.

It’s in my hands. (And so is the tequila based martini).

This is why we need to do as the magical creative human in my life Betsy Garmon says “we must practice our practice”.

We have to sit with the things that help us stir up life.

We have to do the things that bring us back to ourselves.

For me; it’s sitting at a bar and writing.

That’s how I get to the point.

That’s how I talk to God.

That’s I create hope.

So thank you.

Thank you for helping me find my point.

Thank you for reading to the end.

And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to those (whom they absolutely know who they are) who have created hope for themselves that I’ve been able to take part of.

To whom it may concern,

Here’s some hope.

With love,

Meg
Stop dragging giants

February 19th, 2023

I had a really rough week.

It seemed as if all of these different past moments of my life were trying to rush up at me and give me a jump scare. There was a day when I thought I was going to have a panic attack. Had I not known the clues my body has for one I probably would have. There was another day I burst into tears because I couldn’t articulate the things that were actually bothering me.

And Friday I’m just pretty positive all of those things just physically weighed me down and I spent all of the day in pain.

In all honesty I’m not super surprised. I’ve been systematically shedding heaviness from my soul and spirit and being these days and I can feel every moment when something tries to cling back on. Be it a word, or an old pattern or an insecurity. It’s like someone comes into my house and hangs up a picture of a clown and then I have to take it off the wall each time because I don’t want it on the wall because clowns are the worst.

Today, while I was sitting in church, during worship, I kept seeing this image of someone climbing out of a mudslide. Their body was caked in mud. Inches and inches thick. They started their journey to the next town and as they walked the sun beat down and crusted the layers. And even though they didn’t want to keep walking with all that weight they didn’t know how else they could prove that they had lived through a mudslide.

Isn’t that a little crazy? To keep walking with layers of harden mud to prove that you had survived?

Isn’t the walking proof you survived?

It got me thinking about how frequently we carry our old burdens and trials and struggles just to prove we defeated them.

How it can be scary to let them go because who are we if we can’t prove it.

And of course, I thought about David. When he knocked down Goliath with his stones.

Clearly for the rest of his life he hauled Goliath around to prove the point. He had a team of people who moved a dead giant to prove that he had knocked him down.

No, no he didn’t.

David walked in the proof that he had knocked Goliath down.

We don’t have to carry the dead giant around to prove we conquered it.

We are the proof.

I don’t have to carry the dead giant around to prove I conquered it.

I am the proof.

I’m not saying not to mark the moment.

There is power in marking a moment.

When people walk on trails and they choose a new direction- they mark it. That way if somehow they get lost they can go back to that moment and move from there again.

When we go through a moment in life that is life changing in someway and we’re able to move from it- we need to mark it. We need to remember what we’ve come from and where we’ve been.

We don’t need to carry the thing for the proof that we did it.

We’re the proof that we’ve moved through the thing.

I’ve worked really hard in my life to stand strong. To defeat giants and to walk in strength.

I’ve tried to meet moments for what they are. To not negate things I’m incapable of controlling and to listen to what my body is telling me.

But, I’ve definitely dragged some dead giants along with me.

And that ends today.

I don’t what you’re dragging along, if your jacket that’s easily removable is covered in mud, if people keep trying to decorate your house or if you’re in the middle of something.

I want to tell all of us from here on out to mark moments, stack stones, make directional arrows.

I’m not naïve to think I’m never going to meet another giant or mudslide.

But I do know I’m going to do my damndest to take off the muddy coat and leave the giant where they dropped.

We don’t need to drag giants anymore.

We’re the proof.

With love,

Meg
Today was a good day.

January 29th, 2023

I had a beautiful day today, got to hang out with favorite people, hug the necks of those I don’t see a lot. It was just good.

So, I decided I wanted to sit and write.

I was trying to grasp at something to say-somewhere to go.

I had an experience this past week, something good and soul filling that I’m still digesting for myself and for the first time in more years than I think or I can comprehend-I feel just simply like myself.

Nothing dark or heavy or weight bearing is surrounding me.

I feel like I’m allowed to believe that hope is tangible.

It’s no longer “I believe something good can happen, but…”

I feel like there’s a part of myself that was always so ready for the other shoe to drop, that was just in wait for the next thing that was lined up to build my resilience, that that part inside me has realized it can actually just rest.

That I can lay my defenses down.

Back when I lived in Orange County and was actively in therapy, at the end of that preschool year, my director gave us all a verse. The verse she gave me was from Nehemiah 4 wherein the builders were building but also held a hammer in their hand. A couple weeks later after upping my meds and having a really hard time with suicidal thoughts, my therapist made a comment.

“You know it’s just reminds me of the builders in Nehemiah. You’re going. You’re moving forward. But you have a sword too.”

Since then I’ve kept in that manner. I’ve held a sword while I’ve kept moving forward.

But, I don’t need that sword anymore.

I’ve read a lot of books and read so many stories of warriors and soldiers who were always battle ready, who never shook the cloud of war and fight from them.

Who always had a sword under their pillow.

And I’ve learned in the last 12+ years of my life that it’s really damn hard to sleep with a sword under your pillow.

And, I’m done with that.

It’s gone.

I don’t need it under my pillow because at the end of the day- I have what I need without it.

And to me; that’s hope.

I don’t know what’s under your pillow. I don’t what my train of thought led you too.

I just know that I made the decision to find a way back home to myself this year and that my home doesn’t have swords under the pillows.

That’s it.

That’s all for now.

With absolutely love and hope,

Meg
Clean out the corners

January 11th, 2023

In September of 2021 I started a new job and about 3 weeks into I finally felt capable of attacking something that I had put off far too long: my closet.

So I pulled everything out and just had it on the floor as I began to go through it and see what I was and wasn’t wearing anymore.

Then, a trip that was supposed to be going to hang out with my Orange County family turned out to be one that flipped my whole world around when my mom passed away.

I came back for a few days before going to spend a week with my dad- took one look at the clothes and shoved them back into my closet.

And it’s been like that ever since.

2022 was inevitably just surviving.

And I still feel weak for saying that but that’s what it was.

My closet bursting at the seams has been this symbol of everything I didn’t think I was capable of handling.

But this year I’m coming back home to myself.

Which means doing things that feel really hard and overwhelming.

So, last night I decided to start the work of cleaning out the corners of my room.

I shoved my bed as far as I could into the middle of the room and began a trash bag of things I didn’t need anymore.

I created space.

Then tonight after a long day I unboxed some things I’ve gotten for the kitchen and then got to work on moving all the furniture in my room and vacuuming and taking a lot of deep breathes.

It all feels like a long time coming.

My friend Michele has been someone who I’ve talk to a lot about not feeling shame for being incapable of doing something. She’s been a cheerleader when I’ve been able to do something that feels bigger than me.

Today she said that this year feels like we’re getting out from underneath all the shit that’s been squishing us. And we know we aren’t going to get squished again because we’re strong and we’ve practiced and now we can thrive.

I got emotional as I cleared out my corners.

As I vacuumed and threw out things and contemplated what I needed and didn’t need.

I’ve realized how heavy I’ve felt and been and how my room has been a picture of what was going on in my brain.

And how I’ve felt like- in a way- that I deserved the things because I didn’t know how to feel better and because I thought I just should.

Grief is lonely.

And my room was ultimately a picture of that.

But, now, I’m cleaning out the corners. I’m not done yet and I get a new mattress on Saturday and I’m going to be able to sleep again and enjoy my space and keep moving forward in whatever this is.

I don’t know what you might be holding right now or what your room or your brain looks like but this is my encouragement to you to mentally, spiritually, physically and tangibly clean out your corners.

You deserve it for you.

With love,

Meg
Coming back home

January 3rd, 2023

I was going to go sit and write somewhere, but nowhere was sitting with me and it’s cold out and I have things I should do instead. But, I decided to make a snack and grab a sprite and sit on the floor with music in my ears and try to do something I don’t do a lot: write at home.

I don’t know if I currently have the capacity to write about what I’m feeling heading into this year but I’m hearing some things loud and clear so I thought I’d write even a muddled mess of a first try.

Last year my word was “create” and as I pondered through that and what I thought I did or didn’t do; I realize I did create-it just didn’t feel like how I thought it might.

The thing I keep hearing for this year, loud and clear, is just a simple phrase “come back home to myself”.

I know that feels like it should be easy right?

Absolutely not.

I’ve been surviving the last year of my life. I’ve been doing what feels like the bare minimum to keep my head above the water line. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. I’ve been doing exactly what I need to do and I’ve been pushing through.

I think I’ll be honest that at the end of it all, I just truly want to come back home to myself this year.

And I’m not 100% sure what that all entails.

I just know that I need to find those parts of me that I’ve lost along the way.

That I need to not be scared of it.

That I find hope again.

And I know this all sounds dismal- it’s not.

The reason I want to come home to myself is because I have people and spaces and times and abilities that show me who I am.

I know those things.

But, it’s time I start remembering that I have to walk in the door to come home.

Finding ways to care for myself that aren’t always easy and that take some vulnerability and courage. Finding more ways to be exactly who I am.

Finding ways to come back home to myself.

It’s truly an up in the clouds type of word for the year but I’m sure I’ll keep delving and keep figuring out what it means each day.

Happy new year my friends.

With love,

Meg
Gargoyles changed my perspective

December 11th, 2022

I honestly just want to go to sleep.

I’m tired, I had drinks with a friend and some fries, I have a full week ahead- but this morning I had a thought about story. And I feel like I need to flesh it out a bit, so here I am, in my comfy with a Yule log playing on the tv, my Christmas lights on and we’re gonna talk about it.

I just finished a book in a supernatural series I’m reading and with each book I’m shocked to see that this author has more story to tell and more places to go and more character development.

I’m a sucker for a supernatural story. I think it’s the BA in English in me that loves stories that aren’t cut and dry where I have to search out the themes and character archetypes and strings that weave through a story. I love the moment where I realize that something I read ten pages ago was actually the foreshadowing I thought it was.

And I love when an author uses all of those elements; archetypes, themes, context clues and story crafting to take a hard left when you think they were going to go right.

[For example: Gargoyles. (The girls that get it; get it)]

When they craft a story that feels like it always was only to open the world in the story to things you never thought possible.

And as you read on you realize it all makes sense. All the things that have lead to that moment make sense. You just couldn’t read it in the way the author meant because to you that’s what they had always done.

I’m really bad at believing that life is just going to be the same again.

That the situation is the same, the scenarios are the same, the feelings are the same.

That nothing lifted to make the story different.

But today, sitting in church during worship I got a fierce reminder that if the story was the same I’d just be rereading a chapter.

And I’m not.

Going into a new year can feel like a lot of things. And no, the world doesn’t change when the clock strikes midnight. But it becomes fresh.

You can create hope and life and walk into something choosing to believe that the story is going to turn left rather than right.

You can believe you aren’t rereading-it’s a new chapter.

(Like maybe there might suddenly be gargoyles).

I can admit freely that especially in the last year of my life I’ve lived in fear of the other shoe dropping. That I’m gonna get on a plane and the world will crash down again, that a phone call will crumble me.

I’ve treated each season like I was rereading a chapter rather than writing a new story.

I haven’t stepped out of the box enough to see that the themes and context clues and foreshadowing mean something wholly different than before.

And that is honestly terrifying to admit.

There are a few weeks left of 2022. I know there isn’t a magic spell, or some potion or anything that will change it all.

But, I do know that I have to stop living as if I’m rereading a chapter.

And honestly I don’t know what that means.

But, I do know that this isn’t just a me thing.

You also aren’t rereading a chapter.

You don’t have to live in the monotony of what always was.

And you, human reading this, have so much to contribute to the narrative.

So, with that, I’m going to shower.

With absolute love,

Meg
It all feels ugly.

November 20th, 2022

I’m currently a little scared to look at all the things I’ve swept under the rug.

Sweeping things under the rug, shoving them in a closet, chucking them in a bag to deal with later isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes to survive you just have to do that.

Today in church as I sat during worship this line stuck out and played in a loop for me the rest of the morning.

“Everything you’ve lost; love’s returning”.

Now; I’ve felt really ugly for the last year.

I’ve tried so hard.

I’ve tried to not be the daughter who lost her mom. I’ve struggled almost every day with that. That weight of grief. The absolute utter loneliness I’ve lived in. The feeling of not having done enough or been enough.

I will repeat: I’ve felt so ugly.

I have to pause and say that I’ve had the most amazing humans in my life who have held me and fed me and looked me in the face and told me that my mom would be proud of me. Friends who I hadn’t talked to in years who still check on me frequently.

I have not been alone.

But the deep loneliness has been hard to shake.

And I have just had to survive.

My word this year, the one that spun in my brain at the beginning was create.

I tried to run from it, I tried to find any other word, but that was the one.

And today all I could think is that all I’ve created this year has been a mess.

I’ve fallen behind on projects, I didn’t meet goals I wanted, my room is still a disaster, I’ve barely written.

I haven’t created anything.

I know this year held hope, it held newness, it held camp and rocky and working with people I love.

It held good things.

But all I can think of is how ugly I have felt.

How grief was so messy and tormenting and how I wanted to yell and cry and throw things.

All I can think of is the parts of myself I’ve lost and don’t know if I’ll ever get back.

All I can feel are the rough edges that feel like they are permanent.

All I can identify myself as is a daughter who lost her mom.

All I can see is what I’ve lost.

I don’t know what higher power you believe in if you do. I don’t know if you find God tangible. Right now, I’m sitting in the back corner of this brewery, tucked in a corner, (trying not to cry and not make eye contact with the bartender who has clearly watched me cry) and I just know beyond a shadow of a doubt that God is here too (yes, God sits in breweries). And the God I know is just sitting there and being in this space with me. Which is a lot for me who’s been dealing with not knowing how to sit in a space with God. But thankfully this God meets me even in places I don’t think I’m allowed to be in.

I don’t know right now what’s on the other side of all this.

I don’t know if things I’ve lost can be returned.

If the pieces of myself that I dropped to make space for pain can come back.

I don’t know how to tie any of this up in a neat bow.

I think what I’ve realized in the last 40 minutes or so of writing is that I can hold both life and whatever this is.

I can hold feeling ugly and moving forward.

And I can choose to keep speaking up instead of believing the voice in my head that I should be stronger than all this.

Sometimes I wish I could be more poetic or eloquent in my writing. But, then I realize that’s not who I am.

I’m just me, sitting here, peering under the rug and deciding what I actually need to keep.

If you’ve made it this far-if any of this hits you, if you’ve felt ugly, I want you to know I’m here with you.

That’s all.

Let’s keep fucking going.

With all the love,

Meg