To Write Love On Her Arms

To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.

I have no idea when it started, but I have had depression since at least my mid teens. If I were to go back and really delve into it, there may have been signs long before that. I wrote some about it here.

Today is TWLOHA (to write love on her arms) Day.

Here's what that means to me...

I have written the word LOVE on my arm today for myself, and grieve (just a little) about what could have/should have been while I was in the midst of the hell called depression. And I will thank God for healing.
I have written the word LOVE on my arm today for my mother. Although never publicly admitting to depression, I can look back and clearly see how she suffered.
I wrote the word LOVE on my daughter's arm this morning. And said to her, "Just know you are loved and you do matter." And I encouraged her to make a difference in some one's life today by doing the same.
I have written the word LOVE on my arm today for my sister, my friend Ronne, my blog pal Elaine, my brother, my sweet Granny, my McYaya girls, Angel, Tiffney, my mother-in-law, my Grandaddy, Mike, Linda, my uncles, Sherri, Heather, and sweet Jana. And for every man, woman, adult or child who secretly suffers from depression.

It's everywhere, people. It cannot be denied. And writing the word LOVE on my arm may seem pointless to you, but for those who have been in the grips of depression, anxiety, addiction, self-injury or tinkered with the thought of suicide, they will understand the powerful statement that LOVE makes. It's about validation. Validation is KEY to healthy human existence and thriving.

I will step out of my comfort zone today and express LOVE to someone. I challenge you to do the same. And let's not limit ourselves to one day. Step out and step it up.

My Alma Mater and Buffalo and Chicken

Tonight is the football game between my alma mater (currently my daughter's school) and our rival. Go Rebs! Beat the Buffs! I'm headed to the pep rally to watch Mascot in a skit.

Also, we (the family) has entered (10 times) into a drawing (another fundraiser~geesh) to win a chance to attempt a field goal from the 10 yard line. The prize? Chick-fil-A for a year. Yee Haw!

Now, we should hit the gym and work out after The Captain gets off of work, however, we aren't going. Here's why: We need to be at the football game by 7pm for the Chick-fil-A drawing and possibility that one (or more) of us may 1) Make a total fool of ourselves in front of hundreds of people, and/or 2) Win Chick-fil-A for a year. I can't risk being sweaty for such an occasion.

We should go practice punting. Just in case.

It could happen, ya' know.

God talks. Am I listening?

Already, today has been a sucky day.

And right in the big middle of my pity party, God spoke to me. Well, not in a voice that I heard, but by showing me something.

Let's back up to 8:45 a.m.
I have a file folder full of animosity that I am not proud of. And when I say file folder, I mean that literally. Occasionally, I have to dig into this file folder and when I do, anger rears its ugly head. A phone call later, and I'm seething. I'm ashamed, but it's the truth.

Then a very strange thing happened. I found, in this file folder of animosity, a book. Why in the world is a book in this file? I couldn't imagine.

Until I turned it over and God spoke to me.

Max Lucado's Traveling Light: Releasing the Burdens You Were Never Intended to Bear, The Promise of Psalm 23.

Oh. My. Gosh. This is no accident, people. No coincidence.

I'm going to do some reading. And some listening.

Radical

I don't eat meat. Radical, I know. Or so you'd think, judging by some of the reactions I get. Jaws drop and the questions begin. I also get plenty of lectures about why I NEED to eat meat. And how I can't possibly get enough protein. I'm amazed sometimes.

I don't classify myself as a vegetarian because I consume fish, dairy and sometimes eggs. I don't need a label, but according to Wikipedia I'd be a semi-vegetarian, a lacto-ovo vegetarian, or a pescetarian. Whatever. I just don't believe my body needs meat. So there you go.

I haven't eaten meat for close to a year now, in case you were wondering. Now, sometimes, I understand the beans I eat out at a restaurant may have been seasoned with pork. I don't care. I eat the beans, not the pork. And sometimes chicken broth may be used in a dish that I eat. I don't care. So I suppose, in a way, I consume meat. But I don't put morsels of meat in my mouth, chew them up and swallow them. Why all the details? Because you'd be surprised at the questions I get when I say, "I don't eat meat." "But what about...blah blah blah?"

WHY WHY WHY all the fuss about me not eating meat? I have no idea. In my family, I know of no vegetarians. I suppose they could be there, but in the closet for fear. Now that I'd understand.

Now, this post isn't actually about me not eating meat. I have a different lesson for you today, but I needed to give a little background first. This post is about not picking the meat out of the lasagna. What? Isn't that about you not eating meat, Amy? Nope. Stay with me.

Last week, arrangements were being made for a small family get-together. The main dish to be served was meat lasagna. The suggestion was made to me (but not by the hostess, because she had no idea that I didn't eat meat) that I 'just pick the meat out of the lasagna'. Really? Now here's the deal...I have NEVER made a fuss over not eating meat. If I'm at a gathering where meat is being served, I always find something to eat. Trust me, I never go hungry. And I never expect the host/hostess to make special accommodations for me. I go along. And I'm OK with that. (again, you may THINK I'm back to this being about me not eating meat, but I'm not) What I don't need is for someone to be embarassed FOR me that I don't eat meat. Or someone to feel the need to explain FOR me why I don't eat meat.

Here's what happened in my brain when I was told to 'just pick the meat out of the lasagna'. Deny yourself.

As if I should be ashamed and just play along so as not to hurt any one's feelings. Seriously. I have spent most of my life 'picking the meat out of the lasagna', so to speak. Now, I admit there are times that it is appropriate to just go along with something, as long as no harm is done. But generally speaking, there's no reason to deny myself, who I am, or what I believe in. I have come a long way, but there was a time when I was so lost and confused about who I was. I had no identity except what had been given to me by others. That is some kind of screwed up right there! But with the help of God and the amazing support of my loving husband, I have decided I have an identity. Of my own. I am NOT what other people label me or need for me to be. Occasionally I slip, as I did about the lasagna, when I actually considered graciously taking a serving of lasagna and scooting it around on my plate so that it looked like I at least ate some of it. Why in the world should I have to do that??? To please other people. But I regained my footing and decided NOT to deny myself. I arrived at the party with a cheese pizza (for myself, but also because my son doesn't eat lasagna). And when offered the delicious lasagna (I have no doubt it was delicious. In fact, I'm getting the recipe and I'll be making it sans meat.) I politely said, "No thank you. I don't eat meat." And helped myself to yummy salad, delicious garlic bread and cheese pizza.

Yay me.

This is a reminder for myself and maybe a small morsel of encouragement for you. Don't deny yourself. Don't be ashamed of who you are, what you want or need. There's no reason to be ugly about it, just stand up for yourself.

And bring your own cheese pizza to the party.

Socks

I gave the dog a bath today. Yes, I'm blogging about bathing the dog. (This is my life, people. I heart it.)

I love my dogs. What I do not love is dirty, stinky, flea bags. Which is why my dogs had been banished to spend the days OUTSIDE.

Socks is getting old. So I figured the warm water would feel good on his joints. He does seem to be in great health and doesn't complain about his joints but whatever. I attribute that to his dang expensive dog food. I don't want to send him to the groomer because he his old and sometimes a little cranky. And quite frankly, I'm cheap. (Having our other dog, the standard poodle, Nera, groomed nearly sends me over the edge. Cha Ching. But we have tried taking that task on ourselves to no avail. Just tell me how much it costs. And DON'T put bows in her hair.)

Back to Socks. Bath. He enjoys it, but not for as long as it takes as I am obsessive about washing and rinsing, washing and rinsing, washing and rinsing. Poor little trooper. But he is squeaky clean now! And I surely did threaten him when he went outside. "Don't be rolling around in the dirt, or else you are back outside, mister. And don't be bragging either because I am not in the mood to bathe Ding Dong." (That's Nera's nickname. We refuse to feel guilty over it.)




The dog loves cheese. So he gets his favorite treat after his bath.














Begging for more.












The dog is still scratching...and sneezing. Ugh.

Of squishy guts and having guts...

Yesterday was an emotional roller coaster.

My day started with a crunch. I stepped on a bug. Not just any bug, but one of those big ol' water bugs. Thank you, Jesus, that I had on my slippers. I could still feel the nasty thing crunch under my foot though. And there were guts. That I had to clean up. Ack! Now, usually when there's a big bug issue, I use a shoe (never mine) and SMACK!...leaving the shoe and smashed, but possibly still alive nuclear sized bug exactly right there for the hubby to take care of when he gets home. But I couldn't leave this oozy mess so I handled it, like a big girl. Ack again. Definitely not good.





Next came garage sales. Score!
Definitely good.














Later in the day, as I'm numbing my brain on Facebook, I come across some posted comments which are not 'TO' me, but they are definitely meant for me. You know the kind...Passive-Aggressive at it's cowardly best. Seriously, the things people have the guts to say, but never in person. I spiraled. Quickly. I was pissed, there's no lying about it. Now, before you get on your high horse about not letting someone else's comments get to me, blah blah blah, I already beat you to it. Because as quickly as I was pissed about the comments, I was even more pissed at myself that I allowed this person to get to me. So then I'm bombarded with all kinds of emotions, some spanning the last 20 years with this very same person, and some as fresh as yesterday when I began doubting my abilities as a mother. It was like the flood gates opened and when the wave hit, it hit hard. Then I cried. I cry when I'm angry and that makes me mad.

In what seemed like an instant, my mind rushed with all of the reasons I'm a failure as a mother. Not a single positive thought could fight it's way through the muck. For three hours I tortured myself mentally. Playing over and over in my mind all of my shortcomings, questioning my motives. It is absolutely astonishing what my mind is capable of. Three hours. The air was sucked right out of me.
Definitely not good.

Finally...my husband came home from work. I waited until our son was in bed. "Now I know you will probably think this is so stupid, but it got me all worked up." I showed him what I had found. I griped. Cried. Griped. Cried some more. Arms flailed.
God bless my husband. He was so understanding. And for EVERY reason I had that I suck as a mom, he had reasons and proof that I did not. Over and over: (me) "But...", (him) "No,..." He also reminded me of this person's motives and history. I recalled 20 years worth of reasons I should never give any weight to what this person says. Hubby and I reflected on 17 years worth of reasons why I don't suck as a mom. And our kids are proof that we are capable, loving parents that must be doing something right. See, we pride ourselves on parenting 'differently'. Being different isn't always easy, but that's another blog for another day.



So what I learned from this experience: Trust myself. Trust myself. Trust myself. I am a good mom. Consider the source before I get all worked up over something. Don't let this experience go to waste...Use it for something good. And...One of my husband's super powers is his ability to single-handedly pull me out of a deep, dark pit.


Definitely good.

Peace. Priceless.

I don't have a college degree from a fancy school. I don't receive a large paycheck each week. My 'corner' office is in a corner alright. I don't have letters, signifying what I studied in school, following my name. I don't have employees or a boss, so to speak. I have done countless hours of research, none of which will ever be published in a well-known paper for others to oogle over. I don't have some swinging social life. I don't have a big fancy house. I don't have an expensive car. I don't have a personal chef. I don't have a maid. I don't have a large retirement account. And I don't have society's idea of a perfect body.


But let me tell you what I DO have:
Wisdom and knowledge that only being a mother and wife can bring. Hugs and kisses each night before bedtime from the most amazing kids EVER and the most perfect husband. My office is a cherished old wooden vanity once owned by my grandparents, overlooking MY backyard. The letters M-O-M and W-I-F-E are all I need to make me feel special. (The 'no employees or boss'...my kids and hubby may disagree with me on that one.) But I do have well-balanced children that I am extremely proud of and a handsome husband that I adore. I have a healthy family, thanks to my research on ways to keep our bodies healthy. I have a comfortable and stable family who spends quality time together...at the supper table, vacationing, going to church, etc. I have a home filled with love and memories and treasures that have no monetary value, but are priceless to me. I drive a big ol' Suburban that will hold 2 adults, 2 kids, 2 dogs and all the crap you need to go on vacation. I AM the personal chef. It is my pleasure to prepare nutritious food (and sometimes the not-so-nutritious-but-just-because-we-love-it-food)to my grateful family. I have a well lived-in home (this is code for "it isn't always clutter-free"). I have the promise that the things I treasure most, my husband and children, will forever be mine. You can bank on that. And my body...well, it's perfect for my husband (wink).

I don't need anything else.