Call me Maggie

Each semester when a new class begins we are usually asked to post a short biography telling others in the class about who we are. I try not to use boilerplate words since many of the same people are in my classes. Each semester I try to mix it up. This time around, I wrote the following as my bio for Mixed Race Women’s Memoir class:

I’m Maggie. I am a wife, daughter, friend, writer, artist, but above all I’m just me. I work every day to change how I see the world, and the way I seek to make that change is through education and shared experience. I am a liberal, an atheist, a feminist, a proponent of body acceptance. I’m a non-mother and a non-conformist. All of these put me at the edge of societal acceptance. This made interesting reading of the piece marginalized people and the power of narrative since I am a marginalized person in many ways, though not through race. I have a sincere desire to see this country in a more peaceful state when it comes to race.

Anyone who is a part of my life and does not know who and what I’m about, well, you’re just not paying attention. I don’t keep secrets. I don’t pretend to be anyone other than me. Anything you want to know? Just ask, you’ll get an honest answer. I’m not interested in pretending in my life anymore. I did that for 45 years and all it got me was several bouts of depression that culminated in a nervous breakdown in 2014.

After that happened, I started thinking a lot about life and relationships and why it seems I never get what I want from the people who surround me. The answer resoundingly came back to me, “It’s not them. It’s you.”

By this I mean that I wasn’t presenting an authentic version of myself to the world. I tried to befriend a group of women with whom, other than gender and location, I had nothing in common. I listened to these friends tell me I “needed” to have children or I would never be complete. I played along with the GOBC at my job and honored their special treatment because it was what I was told to do. I listened to their lies and obstructions as they informed me of the news I was to report. I ate lunch with “friends” and swallowed so many opinions and comments that I was sick with rage by the time I got home. I kept seeing my family and keeping quiet when they asked me over and over to go to church with them, even though they knew I was an atheist.

The only person who knew or saw the real me was my husband. And by the time he got home every day I was a messy puddle in the middle of the floor. Sobbing, unhappy, depressed, angry, anxious, and, honestly, out of my mind. He knew all of these things that bothered me, he knew there was no way to help me, but most of all he kept on loving me and supporting me and carried me through this horrible time. I still have no idea why. He only says, “Because. I love you.” And to him, it’s that simple.

The work years between spring 2012 and summer 2014 were horrible ones, ones in which I was doing the job of two people for much longer than I should have been. So, in the summer of 2014, I wigged out after being told by an awful old man that, “Nobody cares what you have to say. What you say doesn’t matter.” I lost it. I had no one, not one person in my office to stand up for me and say, “she was doing the right thing.” But it didn’t even matter. It took a real, true friend to calm me down from a massive anxiety attack and tell me, “They’ve painted you as the villain. You can’t change that.” A week later I walked out on my job and broke down.

In the two years since all this happened, I’ve had the chance to think, read, talk, make new friends, share, be inspired, and be myself. I’ve been unemployed, but that’s ok. I’ve almost earned my Bachelor’s degree. I’ve left that small town behind and moved back to Nashville. And now, I am unabashedly me. No apologies.

Everyone who has met me since 2014 knows me as Maggie. Since 2010 I have blogged and tweeted as Tinfoil Magnolia. So I chose the name Maggie for myself, as a grown up way of wearing the real me because I think it’s a name that represents the true me. Everyone who has met me since 2014 knows the real me. The me my husband always knew and the me known to my closest girlfriends, my sweet tarts. I am hot tempered, and a good listener. I am foul mouthed, but kind to those in need. I am reckless, but in the safest way possible. I embrace a live and let live policy. I don’t give unsolicited opinions, but if you ask you’re getting the truth. I don’t care about fashion or my arm flab. I love the “F” word simply because of how uncomfortable it makes people.

I don’t believe in redemption, and I don’t believe people ever change their true nature. They only camouflage it as I did for 45 years. The thing I realize is that if you aren’t showing the world who you really, truly are, then you aren’t getting back anything that you want or need out of it. If you aren’t showing your authentic self to other people, they are never going to act the way you want them to act. If you can’t stand up and own your opinions, then you can’t make change. I know people will walk away from the real me. And that’s ok. I know my family doesn’t understand the real me. They don’t want to know her. And that’s ok too.

Yesterday, I spent two hours in a situation that before would have sent me home crying and puddled in my bed. Yet, no tears were shed. I only saw the truth that the way this person sees me is, in part, her own creation, and in part the former self I used as a shield all these years. I handled it honestly, with integrity, and stood for myself. It was shocking for me to see how far I’ve come.

Thanksgiving 2015

I'm so thankful for all the friends in my life, old and new, who keep things interesting!

Last night I complained about how much food I 'have' to eat today at two family get-togethers. This morning I feel humbled by a cousin's post about feeding the homeless.

I stress over family interactions and troubles and want to just lie on my couch all day gnawing on a turkey leg. Then I see a friend's post who just lost her husband this year and won't have him around for the holidays, and another friend who just lost her father. I remember how many are missing at our table and how I should be grateful to still have my mom and dad.

I complain about traveling to family for the holidays and how we've done it for the entire 22 years of our marriage. Then I realize that there are so many who are alone in this world and don't have anyone to sit and eat and argue with.

People talk about how awful Facebook and social media in general can be, but today I want to be thankful for all things webby. The thing I've learned over the years is that social media can and will be exactly what you allow it to be. If you want a soap box, there it is. If you want to be happy and positive, it's great for that. If you want to meet people, you can do that too. I'm thankful for my virtual friends who are as close to me as real life friends. In fact, I might know more about them than most people I see face to face.

Yes, I do realize how much I take for granted. Yes, I do realize my life is pretty wonderful, some might say charmed. I also realize that I could lose everything tomorrow and that there's nothing I can do about it, so I live every day. This year, I want everyone to try a little bit of that. Time goes by so quickly and this one life is really the only thing we know is real.

Adieu, Mr. Williams

Robin Williams is dead. 

The earth won't stop turning, my daily life won't be directly affected. In fact, the truth is most of us will forget within a few months. And then it will hit us again. 

It seems crazy to be so sad over someone you didn't even know in person. 

But right now, I'm ridiculously mournful about the fact that we'll never again get to enjoy his riotous, manic, sometimes strange but always engaging stand-up performances. I'm heartbroken that we'll never get to see his unbelievable dramatic performances like in Dead Poet's Society or The Fisher King. It's unfair that he'll never make a feel good comedy like Mrs. Doubtfire again.

I grew up with Robin Williams being a household name. I was maybe 10 or 11 when Mork & Mindy hit the airwaves. 

As a child growing up in a very conservative, non-artistic home, it was the craziest, weirdest, most out-there thing I had ever seen. And I loved it. My parents indulged me by letting me watch it every week. A lot of the humor was beyond me, but I knew I liked him and he made me laugh. 

He made all of us laugh. 

Maybe we did know him, after all. Through all of those performances, television shows, and movies. Through all we knew and all he told us about his struggles with drugs and alcohol, failed marriages and inner demons. 

It made him more relatable to me. Little did I know, even at the age of 22 when I watched him in Dead Poet's Society, that we would have so much in common. 

I suffer from depression, too. Sometimes it's overwhelming; sometimes it's unnoticeable. Always, it's a mystery; always, it's there. It just depends. On life, on medication, on a lot of things. 

I was in my late 30's before I was diagnosed, although I'm sure it was there much earlier. As early as 2004 I began having this feeling that something wasn't right. I just didn't feel like myself in a way that was inexplicable. 

I felt .... vacated.... empty....void. I was rarely happy, but neither was I sad. 

I would cry in the car on the way home every day and I didn't know why. I just felt not right, even when every doctor I talked to told me I was fine. 

By the end of 2007 I was 12 hours from my life, my friends and my family in Nashville and I was in such a deep depression that I would make my 30 minute drive to school each day and think, “I could just get on that interstate and drive away and never come back.” Everything made me blow a gasket. I just wanted out of my life. I never thought or considered myself suicidal. 

For me, it manifested in a “If I could leave my life and start something all new it would be better for everyone” kind of thing. Finally, in spring 2008 I found an amazing therapist and an amazing psychiatrist who worked to pull me out of the mire through a combination of counseling and medication. 

The amount of time it took and the problems I had to endure to be diagnosed, well, that's another story in itself.  I was very highly functional, to be sure. I got up, dressed, and went to school or work every day. I smiled at people because that's what you're supposed to do. I wore clean clothes and cooked dinner because that was the routine, and I knew if I stopped I'd never get back up. 

But one day, I literally had a therapist tell me I looked too good and was too put together to be depressed. He said that all I needed was a girls shopping weekend. I just lost it and walked out in the middle of the appointment, unable to say a word because I was so mad and my southern manners wouldn't allow it, which only made things worse.

People, we need to take depression seriously in this country. I resisted getting help for so long because I was raised to think that if you're in therapy you're “crazy” or “broken” or destined for the mental hospital. It's just not so. 

There are some of us who feel so much. We feel everything from injustice to discontent to sadness from everything that is happening around us. We're empathetic. We have chemical imbalances that keep us from dealing with those feelings in a reasonable manner. Some of us medicate with alcohol and drugs, like Robin Williams. Some medicate with food like me. Some with sex or danger or adrenaline. There are a million ways to get enough of a high to feel better, even for a moment.

One day I was driving home from Nashville and this sky was the view out the front windshield of my car. When I saw it I had to stop and take a picture of it because it kind of felt like how I see life. 

This friends is how it feels to have depression. If you don't know why, you are fortunate. Every single day can feel like you know something else is out there. See that little patch of blue near the bottom? Through that tiny hole is where other people live their lives. You know the blue skies and sunshine are there. You're aware that other people can see it. But all you see are dark clouds ahead of you. 

Sometimes you get just a glimpse but the opening isn't enough to jump through to get to the other side. Sometimes your friends reach and pull you through. Sometimes you wriggle through or talk until the opening is bigger. Other times, when the medication is going well, it's mostly sunny and few clouds. 

This morning, I watched a video of Robin Williams doing stand-up about the invention of golf and laughed until I cried. Then, I just cried.

Robin Williams is dead. And yes, I'm sad. Cheers, Robin, and thank you. I hope you find a patch full of sunshine.

A link to the Bloggess where she writes much more frequently than I about how DepressionLies. If you know of someone who needs help, please don't ignore it or think that it will "get better."

About my dad.....

Today is Father's Day. I've written here in the past about my husband's father, who passed away in 2006. But I've never written about my own dad.

I love my dad very much. However, I have never felt especially close to him. I've always thought it was because of his old-fashioned views about women and my extremely liberal, modern view that we are as good as men. It caused a lot of issues between us and while I've often wondered, as someone who grew up in a family with a very WWII inspired family dynamic, how did I get to be who I am?

The biggest thing I remember about dad from my early childhood is that he just wasn't around a lot. True or not, that's how it seemed. He had a job that kept him on the road a lot. I remember my brother and I would snuggle in and sleep with mom in their huge king-sized bed while he was gone. We would be so disgruntled when he came home and we were kicked out back to our own beds!

But as an adult, I know that he was working to provide for the family and being a responsible dad. So this morning I was thinking, I wonder what else has caused distance between us because I, as a selfish child (lets face it all children are selfish), saw it as a negative. Many of these things, looking back as an adult, are really a positive and have made me who I am today.

My dad has always been a good provider. He was in sales, and he was damned good at his job. The man could sell ice in Alaska. He worked hard to provide for us and while we weren't wealthy by any means, I grew up for the most part in a middle class home. Well, back when there was such a thing. There were times when things were tough, but I know he always hustled to keep us fed, sheltered and clothed.

As a good provider, he set an example of how to be a hard worker. I don't remember a day ever in my childhood that my dad did not get up, put on a suit and tie and leave the house in the morning. This includes an extended period of unemployment in the late 1970's when things were less than ideal economically in our country. I don't know or need to know where he went every day, but I know he was out hustling to find a job. He was never one to sit around and wait for anything.

My dad was always a dreamer. He always had plans and ideas and wishes to make his (and by extension, ours) life better. He liked having nice things, nice cars, clothes, and homes. Though I know it was frustrating for my mom, ever the down to earth realist who had to reel him in, he was always looking for that pot of gold.

My dad is adventurous. He has always had a serious wanderlust and moved around like a gypsy most of his life, following his job or just his instinct. One of my earliest memories is of my mom, brother and me in my pajamas on the runway at the airport picking dad up from a business trip. He used to travel a lot and was gone a lot when I was little, but I know it was just part of earning a living for the family. And it taught me how to change and adapt and make new friends easily.

After he had to take early retirement around 60, I thought he'd wither away without somewhere to go every day. He found something to do part-time and within a few years started a business that has grown to epic proportions. It has provided him and mom with a retirement income that most people don't have, and more than that it has given him a purpose for getting up and going every day. He's now almost 85 and still running that business almost 20 years after it started.

My dad is good with people. He always has a smile, a joke, a story. It's part of what makes him good at sales. He truly enjoys being around people, visiting, joking and talking to them.

My dad knows how to bargain. This is a skill that I believe is getting lost in our culture, and one that I believe every parent owes it to their child to teach. I know how to bargain if I am in a situation to do so, and I don't hesitate to do it. We, as Americans, don't like to do it– we cringe at the thought and as a result are taken advantage of way too often.

I once bought a used Mercedes, offering the dealer $13,000 on a $16,500 pricetag. I called my dad proudly to tell him about my victory. “I got it for 13,200!” To which he replied, “Tsk. He would have gone to 13! If he could do 13,200 he could do 13.” That's the kind of no holds barred bargaining he enjoys, and he's much more bold about it than I am.

My dad was our fearless protector. He did anything and everything to help us out when we were kids. He was one of those dads who took up for us and stood up for us no matter what. And now that we're adults I know we could still count on him.

My dad is a very old-fashioned man. Although sometimes that is a bone of contention for me as a very modern woman and someone who has always believed in women's equality (I honestly don't know WHERE I got it from) I believe it is a virtue, in a way. Because it makes him who he is. He is the type of man who got up, got dressed and went to work every day to provide for his family. He took care of my mom and is her best friend. He took care of us, and still does in many ways.

The thing is, I have always believed that my dad and I were total opposites and that's why we didn't get along great. I always envied the "daddy's girls" that I knew. But only today do I realize that we are so much alike it's scary.

So, happy father's day to my dad, Jack Peyton. I love you very much and appreciate all you've done for me in my life. I know I can always, always count on you.

Here's to you!

Lately I've had a ridiculous and overwhelming urge to get out my sewing machine, blow off the dust and start sewing things.

Now, while I'm not a novice behind the sewing machine, I'm no expert either. I've made curtains, hemmed skirts, tailored in t-shirts-easy things that aren't a big deal. But pleats, zig zags, anything with curves or any kind of detail, forget it.

I can sew a straight line. On a good day. But for some reason right now I feel like I can totally slipcover my sofa cushions, make that tank dress into something cuter by adding material from a skirt that doesn't fit anymore. Or take a skirt that is too big and attach a shirt that is too short to make a cuter one piece dress from it.(Damn you Whitney!)

I know. Anyone who knows me knows. I am delusional. It's like when I watch Olympic ice skating and actually believe in my mind that I could pull off a triple axel or a salchow. What? Like it's hard?

In reality, I'm sure my sewing machine will stay safely tucked away in the closet where it allegedly is, but I have no idea because I've never unpacked it since we moved here 4 years ago. I am not even sure it made the trip here from Pennsylvania.

But the reason I'm so delusionally inspired?

I'm surrounded right now by a lot of artistic people. People with talents who actually earn a living, no matter how modest, through their arts. This, I love. This, inspires me. This, is necessary for me.

Friends who paint, dance, take pictures, write, design and create clothing, paint pottery, make soaps and candles, run galleries, and just “imaginate” their way through life.

As someone who spent the first 15 years of my adult life in a profession that was very, very wrong for me, it's hard to explain what this means to me. I now make my living in an artistic profession and have done so for almost 3 years now.

I returned to my writing almost three years ago, first through my blog and then through freelancing for the newspaper where I now work. I have written a novel that needs some serious attention and editing, and have begun a memoir that needs a lot more of everything before it is complete.

My point is this. If I weren't surrounded by so much creativity I wouldn't be nearly as inspired to be creative, artistic and offbeat. I feed off their energy. And I hope they do mine as well, in some small way.

I know now something that I never realized before. It is...stifling for me not to have other people around me who understand what it is like to have this....thing. And equally as energizing to have them around.

But artists, we're a different breed, all of us our own kind of crazy. Some reign it in and try to maintain a normal façade while others revel in their eccentricities. But we all have it, whether we like to admit it or not.

We're neurotic, hyper, depressed, schizophrenic, bi-polar, split personality sons of bitches who'd run off all our friends if only they weren't as batshit crazy as we are. And the people who love us, well they'd better really love us. 1,000%, especially if they are a non-artistic ilk. We can only hope they love us not only in spite of our crazy but because of it (at least a little bit of the time).

It's been just over 3 years since I kicked off Tinfoil Magnolia in April, 2010. Although I've neglected her somwhat over the past year or so, she is not forgotten. I feel every other day that I will reign my life in just enough to at least commit 3 days per week to posting here. Sometimes (well most of the time) it just doesn't happen. But this blog means a lot to me.

Yesterday a friend of mine told me that he'd received a pretty serious diagnosis. Not one, I don't think, that he was entirely surprised to hear, not one he hadn't suspected. But hearing it in black and white, sometimes that's another thing, isn't it?

Although we've never met in person, I consider him a friend. He was the first non-relative or friend to comment or follow Tinfoil Magnolia when I began the blog. I had no idea who he was or how he found me, but I am so glad he did.

So I'm thinking of my friend and his wife and family today. His new diagnosis? Well, it's always been part of who he is. Part of the artist crazy. It doesn't change how I think or feel about him. I don't have to deal with it daily as his family does, but to change that part of him, I would think, would change who he is on a basic level. As it would for any of us.

The fact of the matter is, and this goes for all of us, it makes us who and what we are. Our narcicissms, our addictions, our faults, our neuroses-they are all part of us. Our insecurities, our grandiose thoughts, our voices and all of our personalitites. It makes life wonderful and difficult and passionate and thoughtful. And I embrace that about all of my friends.

No matter how crazy they might make me. :)

Home is where.....

So periodically I participate from here and there across the interwebs. I'm the worst sort of lurker lately. I used to have time to participate 100% in everything and now it's just hit or miss.

But, I love the Stream of Consciousness Sunday over at Jana's blog and I really try to participate when I can because she always has goodness over there. Here's her post idea for this week, so here goes. Set a timer and riff on it for 5 minutes.

Today’s post needs no real introduction. There are places we all feel are “home” even if they’re not physically our homes. They invoke emotion in us that can’t usually be put into words, but today we’re going to try. Today’s (totally optional) prompt: Going Home

 When I was younger, we moved around a lot. So home always meant something different. Mostly it meant family though. Because we were always in a different city, had a different house. I never had the house with the pencil marks on the doorway, marking my brother and my growth.

But as an adult, living with my husband in Nashville, I always sort of thought "home" was where our stuff was. Like when you're on vacation and say I want to go home. Well, you mean your house, to sleep in your bed and smell the familiar smells and cuddle up on you own sofa to watch tv.

Until we moved to Pennsylvania, I believed this. However, once we were there, I never stopped saying "I want to go home" and he'd say, "oh, you're ready to go?" meaning leave whereever we are and go back to our house. but I meant Nashville. Home.

It's where I was at 18. It's where I was in my 20's. It's where I grew up, had bad and good things happen, learned to drive in traffic,  had my first apartment. When we would come to visit I felt like I was seeing a lover I'd missed for years and not realized it. I love that city. It's home. And I'm not back there yet, but home isn't so far away now....

The Giving of Thanks

So today, in my country, it is the designated day for giving thanks. A day to be spent with family and turkey and dressing and pies. The third Thursday of November.

Many of my friends have been engaging in "Thirty Days of Thanksgiving" on Facebook, each day posting something for which they are thankful. It has been incredibly interesting to read each day the items posted by everyone. I think it is important for everyone to realize that there are so many things to be grateful for in all of our lives, even when things aren't going 100% to our liking.

I haven't been participating in it because I already list for myself things I am grateful for each and every day in my gratitude journal. Four years ago I picked up the book, Simple Abundance. I came to this book more than 10 years after its publication date. I can honestly say that when the book first came out, although it was wildly popular, I wasn't in a place in my life to read it.

But when I found it second hand and picked it up, I had been through so much in the in between years, I thought I was finally ready to read it. I wasn't. It took me two more years to make the commitment to read it and really think about it and take action. One of the things you are asked to do in the book is to keep a gratitude jounal, and make an entry of 5 things you are grateful for each and every day. That's right, I said every day.

At first it was hard, and I couldn't come up with new stuff. In the beginning it was big, broad stuff like "family" "husband" "the trees" "the good weather" I mean seriously, 5 things every day? After a while, several months, I learned to go through my day looking for things to be thankful for that evening when I wrote in my journal. I began looking for and recognizing small moments, small things that really changed my day or the way I viewed myself. Eventually I began to expect these moments. And I wasn't disappointed.

During the time she was writing the book, Sarah Ban Breathnach speaks of hard times going on in our country, how the markets aren't doing well and how to deal with being OK with what you have. The first time I was reading through the book (I began it in Jan. 2010, 15 years after it was published) I couldn't remember things being bad in the country, or the country going through such a crisis in the early 1990's. I also thought how interesting it was that such things were still relevant to us today in this economy.

So the point of all this chatter is this. It finally dawned on me, 3/4 through my 2nd reading of this book. For the past 2 years, husband and I have been going through the worst financial time in our 18 years together. Or maybe it just seems that way. He's been laid off, I can't find a job, we moved, our home lost value and we lost our equity, we are in more debt than we've ever been. I spend so much time being sorry for myself over the way life used to be, and how we could afford anything we wanted and how those days are over.

But the realization I had in the shower this morning? Is that this is the FIRST time in 18 years together that we've been through something like this. Yes, it sucks, and yes, it feels like it will never end. But there have been some pretty big financial crises and hard times in our country over the past 20 years. And this is the FIRST time we've really felt it.

So that is what I am thankful for today. That and pecan pie. And pumpkin pie.

Happy Thanksgiving, Ya'll!

The Times They Are a'Changin'!

This weekend was the ending of daylight saving time (DST). I am not a fan of it. Not at all. I understand the origins, and that it was used to extend daylight hours for farmers and make full use of the sun during the growing season. I just don't think it makes any sense. 

To me, the result of DST the way it is is that we have these enormously long summer days in which it's daylight until like 9pm or so. Then when they take it away, it's dark by 4:30 all winter. Wouldn't we want more sunshine in the winter? It already gets dark earlier in the winter as it is, but that extra hour just pushes it up to a ridiculously short day! I really don't get it. If I could ever vote to get rid of daylight savings time I totally would. 

It seems to cause confusion for people, and it has always served as an excuse for people to show up late, whether the time is going forward or back. But for me, it hit new levels this weekend. I was in another time zone when the time "fell back". At no point during the day on Sunday did I ever know what time it really was. I spent the day in a fog. "Is this our time or their time? Did this change automatically or do I need to change it? What time should we be there? Oh, just call me when it's time, good grief." What. a. nightmare.

When I got home, I thought it would all be over, but no. Some of the clocks had been changed and some not. Maybe by Tuesday I will have it cemented in my brain, but for now my body is totally confused. I went to bed at 8:30 last night, tried to read my way through a few more pages of a Tom Wolfe novel (has anyone ever used so many words? So many unnecessary details like ever?) fell asleep within 20 minutes and woke up at 3:30 am wide awake. Now, 8:30 would be 9:30, which is my normal heading for the bed time, but why I was up at 3:30 am is beyond me except for the fact that I would have gotten 7 hours of much needed sleep in my own bed, and my body isn't used to much more than that. 

It sort of reminds me of when I was growing up. My dad is a fanatic about being on time. He would go around on Saturday night and change the time on all the clocks right after dinner. So. confusing. Don't do this to your kids! All of our tv shows were off, the news came on at the wrong time, we got sent to bed and had no idea why since it wasn't really our bedtime. 

The result is that my younger brother would milk it for weeks. If it was 9pm and mom told him to go to bed he would say "but it's REALLY only 8 o'clock, REAL time, so I don't have to!" This would go on forever and then in the spring would change to "But it's REALLY only 6 am so I don't have to get up now!" Finally, his 9 year old older sister would get sick of it and say "See that clock? Whatever time that says IS the real time. The old time doesn't exist anymore, drop it, doofus!"

Aaaah. Siblings. Maybe I will call today and ask my brother what time it is, just for old time's sake.

Split Apart

Today's post is my entry into this week's 100 Word Challenge, hosted by Velvet Verbosity. The 100 Word Challenge is an exercise in which we write exactly 100 words in response to the weekly prompt word. Click the link to read the other entries–good stuff over there!

This week's prompt was “split”.

Doesn't she know her words cause me pain? Real, true, stabbing icy pain in the pit of my stomach. If she did, would she cast them so carelessly? Purposely? I feel my heart deflate as my eyes fill with hot, stinging tears. Suddenly, the realization hits me and I feel like I've been split apart by talons in my soft underbelly. 

What I want to say I cannot. Instead, I simply say quietly, “I feel so sorry for you. I really do." 

She is missing out on the real person I am by always regretting the perfect person I'm not.

Significant Events and the Time Space Continuum

I'm offering up a just a quick little thoughtful post today, as July 4th is a day of some importance to hubby and me. Last year on July 4th I posted "What Doesn't Kill You...." covering the events that happened to us on July 4, 2000. If you don't know our story, feel free to read it.


The following is an excerpt from a speech I wrote when I was member of a local Toastmasters group a couple years ago. It was an introductory "getting to know me" type speech in which I used my thoughts on the concept of time and how we measure it to introduce myself to the group. This portion shows a bit about my thoughts on how the accident affected us and our life.

We all have 24 hours in the day, 1,440 minutes. 4-6 minutes of time seems like not much in the grand scheme of things. Me, personally, it seems that I have an ongoing battle with time.

Here I am at 6:45 in the morning, rushing to leave the house to get here on time. 6:45 is my drop dead time, in the car, coat on, cell phone and purse backing out....but 6 am or pm, it is always the same scenario...damp hair, rushing around, shoes and keys needing to be located. It seems I am always rushing to be on time!!

I leave everything to the last minute, I am always hurrying to get here or there, I worry about being late, hate being early, because it is a waste of time. When you think of it, why is there such importance on something so really intangible? You can't see time, so how do we know it is there?

On the broad scale of time, I seem to get off easy. One of the most common ways people seem to measure time is by their children's ages. Because I do not have children, just 2 cats, I don't have that "mark" that requires me to admit my real age. Some friends and family members my age actually have not only grown children but grandchildren. I suppose I could, too, had I gotten married at 18, stayed home and had babies like everyone else in the small KY town where I grew up. I chose to leave home, go to the "big city" Nashville, TN, attend college, study business management, and go to work to support myself.

Another way we measure time is by use of that time, how much we get done. At age 18 I was living on a college campus, working trying to pay my tuition without any assistance from my family. Every moment of my day was scheduled. I had retail jobs, nanny jobs, catering jobs, classes, bible study and church. And there never was enough time to study and do research, homework, everything that was required. 

By age 22 I had my first real job, full time. I kept books for a company that owned a restaurant and nightclub. I worked my day job and 3 part-time jobs to pay bills. Until the age of 24 I literally left my apartment at 7am and most days didn't get home until 10pm. Looking back I don't know when I had time to sleep. But I made connections and developed a work ethic that would cause me to succeed later in life. 

By the age of 29 I had moved up the ladder into a the corporate position I had longed for. My job required long hours and a lot of travel. My days were full of project schedules, deadlines, airport schedules and a dayplanner was by now a regular part of my life, a necessary evil. I had no choice but to be on time.

We also measure by significant events. 27 years since I started driving, 26 years since graduating high school, 17 happy years of marriage.  My biggest significant event was that in July 2000 my husband was flying in a small-engine aircraft that crashed upon takeoff. He was trapped inside the burning plane for almost 10 minutes before being rescued. Time as I knew it would come to an end that day. 

When the accident happened I took a leave of absence from my job and sank into the ultimate time vacuum. The hospital waiting room. A place where every second counts, but time does not matter. There are no schedules, no appointments, no rules when you are in a hospital. Time, clocks, the calendar, days of the week are all indistinguishable when you are waiting for someone to wake up. I remember leaving the hospital for lunch one day with a friend and I remember looking around, and being amazed that life was still going on. Time still was moving on as quickly as ever.

Since this occurrence, I found it impossible to go back to the corporate culture I had been in before. Several years ago I decided to begin an entirely new career which would give me something I would actually enjoy doing, working with people, along with flexibility with my work hours, and not tie me to a desk 40 hours a week. From that career I gained the confidence I needed to return to school and complete a degree in graphic design, allowing me to pursue a career path I had been long wishing to follow.

Something like that can really change the way you look at time. My husband fought hard to get more time on this earth. I realized how precious time really is....time with your loved one, time with family, time spent on doing the important things, and things that make you happy.

Every moment is a precious commodity, completely non-renewable. And yet, with the dawn of each new day, every one of us once again has the same amount of time for that day, 24 hours. 1,440 minutes.

Today and every day, I hope you appreciate each and every moment of time you have in this world. Don't ever squander your time on things that don't matter, people who don't care, or projects that aren't important. Love those in your life but above all, love yourself.

Birth Order

Today's post is my entry into this week's 100 Word Challenge, hosted by Velvet Verbosity. The 100 Word Challenge is an exercise in which we write exactly 100 words in response to the weekly prompt word. Click the link to read the other entries–good stuff over there! 

This week's prompt was "family". 

I was always good, completely easy, straight A's in school, home by curfew. Never dated, partied or went to dances. Attended every church youth event. Worst I ever did was mouth off.

Meanwhile, my younger brother smoked, drank, and had an out of control temper. Especially toward my mother.He consistently skipped school and dropped out at 17.

He got a car when he was 13.  

Me? I was licensed, 16, no car of my own.

Yes, he was the golden boy, still is.

Now? He's “reformed” and in church. 

Me? I'm an athiest. 

Family. Who can figure it out?