It’s no longer different to be on mental health meds.

What does that say?

When I was much younger, maybe 11, I used to wonder why I got so mad and so angry when something wasn’t fair.

I was the squeaky wheel. Writing letters, making posters, leaving messages,making calls. When something wasn’t right, by god, I was going to say something to someone!

But why?

As an adult I now know that what I am feeling is the rage of injustice. I finally have an idea as to why. It’s in our blood. It’s generations of history repeating itself in the form of oppression. It’s in me, because it needed to be.

It’s crushing me. The toddler being held by ICE, the dead mom, the dead nurse. All of this on top of the layer of hate and murder and bigotry that was already there.

Unfortunately my squeak has been squashed. They’re winning. The rage still bubbles, but I’m no longer an energetic kid with little responsibility and lots of time. Without me knowing, that has always been part of the grand plan.

Now the rage just simmers underneath the day to day responsibilities of being an adult, and a parent. Sometimes spilling out on bad drivers and inconsiderate pedestrians.

Misplaced.

Unwanted.

Well justified.

Rage.

John had a health scare, but the more correct thing to say is: everyone who cares about John had a health scare.

Anyway,

the health scare triggered a diet change that we all took (and take) seriously. We learned about sodium, and how much we all over eat it regularly. But especially Jayme…

(Different story: A1 steak sauce)

Anyway again:

One particular Wednesday night dinner, in a month we could sit outside in the Iowa sun, we had oreos for dessert. Each of us were being polite infront of each other, taking two, maybe three, cookies from the package.

As the evening wrapped up, just Heather, John, and I remained at the table. We were shooting the shit while the kids played. Then, John walked away to go do something inside the house.

-then the vibe changed-

Heather and I locked eyes, and instantly transformed from two women born in the late 1900s to two young girls with cookies and absolutely no authority around. In sync, our hands dove into the cookie package and we ravenously packed our mouths with sweet, sweet double stuffed oreos until our lips couldn’t close and we needed our fingers to help contain the cookies in our mouths while we chewed. All this while snorting and laughing between uncoordinated swallows of Oreo.

Then John came back outside. He was coming.

We chewed faster, but that made us laugh harder, and the situation became louder than we anticipated.

By the time John came back to the table we were both a little short of breath, both probably had black teeth, and both starting to come down from our transformation. Both a little confused, but still entertained, at our actions.

Still not sure why we turned into two obnoxious eight year olds, but I don’t want to forget it. I love her. I also really like Oreos.

The real number one killer of human life is:

Stupidity.

Find yourself, again.

In this new year.

Whoever you may be,

search for your authenticity everyday.

Grow knowledge in your passions,

soak in your values,

and let the Universe dance around you.

You cannot control the tides,

but your example can help others swim.

Dear Digestive System,

   I am writing to inquire about your knowledge of what actions I am doing, when I am doing them. I am most curious, due to the timing in which you choose to engage your evacuation processes. You see, the timing almost always ends in a considerable amount of disappointment. For instance, today I had just finished making the porcelain commode shine brilliantly, and when I stood up to admire my hard work, you began your churning.

Could we perhaps have a meeting to iron out a more efficient schedule for us both?

Sincerely,

The Brain and Entire Central Nervous System

Stop romanticizing plots coming full circle.

There’s not always a profound reason for terrible situations.

And when there’s not, people will waste their lives waiting and watching.

Instead of moving on and living.

There won’t always be a happy ending.

There won’t always be a neat fit to the jagged hole left behind.

And if you’re clinging on to the theory of a grand plan,  I am afraid you have failed to account for the ambiguity of the author.

Moments are pearls. The beauty is, you can decide which ones to string together.

He took her body from her that night.

He didn’t give it back, either.

It took her years to find it.

And when she did, it was in dire need of repair.

She didn’t know how to mend it, so she wore it broken.

Fixing pieces as she learned how.

She still is finding things to repair.

But her body is hers, again.

Chest tightly bound with a corset made of anxiety, it’s hard to take in air, and even harder to let it out. Stomach clenched and soured at the same time. Legs exit the situation and go numb. Crotch is aflame. Head feels fuzzy. Brain can’t decide whether to focus on the trauma, or take a vacation at disassociation island.

It’s a deep-trauma trigger. You have to breathe through this and keep moving.

It’s 9:29am and morning me has been subdued by a jalapeño pocket with Sriracha, and an iced half caf peppermint mocha.

She’s still not wrong. I’m just too overwhelmed, busy, and depressed to let her drive.

Cheers to being human in this dehumanizing society.

*clink*