2014: A Sea-Change

Warning: This essay will assuredly be somewhat vague, rambly, and/or jumbled. I’ve tried and tried to make it clearer and more artistic-like.  I even thought at one point, for a more lighthearted route, of writing it as a poem made entirely of clichés (because there are plenty of them in here anyways). But it just didn’t work out. These are my thoughts as best I can muster them.  This is how my mind goes.  Call it a diary entry, if you must.

December 18, 2014.  Yesterday, I received my year-end performance review at work.  It was better than expected, and came right on the heels of what were a couple of pretty darn good days due to powerful conversations with multiple people; one of those life-affirming kind of weeks.  The combination got me thinking about how 2014 was shaping up to end on a very positive note, which then prompted me to look back through my Google calendar and see how it all went down.

Wow.

2014 was quite a year indeed.

It’s hard to believe and wonderful to remember all the fun and exciting things we did….parties, shows, festivals, trips, random get-togethers, weddings, movies, concerts (one of which I even performed in!), general hanging with friends, races, classes, reunions, and more. I am thankful and lucky to be able to say that we squeezed all of that in and I would never have enough time to list every single one of the awesome things we did or name all of the excellent people we experienced them with.  Besides, that’s not the stuff that this writing is about.

One of the shows we saw was the American Repertory Theater’s production of William Shakespeare’s The Tempest --  the play in which the term “sea-change” was born.  That’s what this writing is about: my personal sea-change of 2014.

Because in addition to all the fun and exciting parts of 2014, other segments were very serious and even scary.  There were lots of ups and downs, lessons learned, changes, heavy decisions, introspection, reflection, and growth.  It wasn’t easy.  In fact, it was grueling; definitely the hardest year of my life that I can remember.  But it was necessary and in the end, very, very good for me -- which also makes it my greatest year ever (so far).

Why?

Because I learned. so. much.

Specifically over the past three-to-four hundred days, starting from mostly not at all, to more and more, to dare I say kind of frequently: I practiced better communication skills.  I became more present in my mind and more comfortable in my own body than I ever was before.  I dared to be vulnerable.  I demanded authenticity and respect from myself and those around me.   I looked inward.  I found ways to identify what I wanted and needed and spoke up for that.  I developed perspective.  I grew. I let myself be loved. I learned how to be a better friend and family member.  How to reach out, be proactive; not sit back and wait.  I got brave.  I changed.  Then today, I bought a Christmas gift for my mother.

I feel like I just….get it, now.  Life.  Finally.

Am I done transforming?  Hell no.  I’m not sure anyone ever should be.  There’s always more to do. Plus it’s still uncomfortable sometimes, being this new me -- and I don’t always succeed at it.  But not so much so that I’m going to quit.  I am far better off than I ever was before.  I am happy.  And I feel much more calm, grounded, centered, focused.

The immediate goal now is to keep it up.  Build confidence.  And give more trust.

I can never sufficiently thank all of the people who helped and supported me, taught me, picked me up when I was down, showed me different and better ways, set me straight when I needed it, offered advice, pushed me out of my comfort zone, and gave me ideas to think deeply about even if it was just by posting a link on Facebook.  A lot of them probably don’t even know that they played a part, and that I can only say these words because of them.  Whether they know for sure that I have them in mind right now, or maybe aren’t quite certain, and whether their role was monstrously large or even just a fleeting moment….I am and will forever be grateful and proud and humbled to know them.

My world is infinitely better at the end of 2014 than it was at the beginning.  I look forward to carrying the high I am ending it on into 2015 and beyond.  I encourage you to look back at your year, too, and reflect on all you did, all you learned, and all you hope to bring with you into the future.

I want to dedicate this post, above all others, to Jason, without whom I couldn't have made it through. He taught me the most, picked me up the most, and…let's just say it, dealt with me the most. This year was hard. Those words, however, rhyme with something else I've been unable to get out of my head the entire time I was drafting, writing, and rewriting this essay. For all 2014 was worth, the good, the bad, and the ugly, Matt Nathanson said not that this year was hard, but rather that "this year was ours…I felt alive, for the first time in my life…Farewell December."

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.

Moment of Impact, Part II

My case worker at MGH wanted to send me to Spaulding Rehab to continue my physical & occupational therapy. However, my mother fought on my behalf for me to go to one outside of Boston, closer to home and easier for me to have frequent visitors.  

They decided to send me to HealthSouth (currently New England Rehab) on the Woburn/Winchester line.  Having previously worked at the 99 Restaurant nearby, I knew exactly where I was headed.  The EMTs that were in charge of transferring me to the rehab facility were a great pair of people.  They made me as comfortable as possible, which was difficult considering all I could move without serious issue was my right arm and my head.  

We got to talking on the ride and I had mentioned, in passing, that I had worked at the 99 Restaurant down the road from the rehab facility for a few years and had just recently been transferred to another location due to a promotion.  

I didn’t think anything of it when the ambulance started to slow down.  One of the EMTs had gotten out and a few minutes passed by.  I had never been in this situation before, so I assumed that she was just prepping to get me into the rehab facility.  

When she opened the doors in the back of the ambulance, I could barely lift my head. Remembering what I saw is making my eyes water as I type this.  We were in the parking lot of the Four Corners 99 Restaurant, my old work.  There was a line of people waiting to see me. Line cooks, servers, bartenders, prep cooks, dishwashers, managers & even some regular guests that I knew, had one by one been allowed into the ambulance with me. Some laughed with me, some cried with me, some did both at the same time.  They all expressed their well wishes for a speedy recovery, gratefulness that I had made it thru & support on anything that I would need going forward.  I used to joke with my fellow restaurant workers that I’ve been involved in some long ticket times in a restaurant, but that one took the cake.

I wish I remembered the names of those EMTs, I would love to be able to thank them to this day for that.  

Don't miss out on Moment of Impact, Part I

Paul Dube

Host of The Sports Den & Chef at Smokey Bones.

Defiant by will.  A true life miracle by every other standard.  

Moment of Impact, Part 1

Did you ever think that running into someone from your past would start out like “Wow, I heard you died”?  

Thankfully, I haven’t heard that in years, but before MySpace, Facebook & Twitter, word of mouth was really the only thing people had to go on.  From the time I started writing this, it’s been 13 years, 9 months, 1 week & 1 day since that almost became a reality. Approximately 7.2 million seconds ago, something happened to me that has literally effected every day since, and will continue to until my last breath.  Some of you may know the story, others may know parts of it.  I’ve always wanted to get this “on paper” so to speak.  Not really sure why, but now that I have the opportunity to do so, here goes nothing.

It was Friday, February 9th, 2001, I was working as an hourly supervisor in the kitchen at the 99 Restaurant in Danvers, MA.  We lived in Woburn at the time & my parents were up at a friend’s house in Maine for the weekend, so Cyndi & I were going to enjoy an empty house like any normal 22 yr old couple would…  I left work around 10 or so, heading 128 southbound.  The last thing I remember to this day was driving, nothing special, listening to music as I always do.  

The accident was the result of a drunk driver.  The man was driving south on 128, hit one of the ramp signs & spun out, facing north.  He was so loaded (2.5x the legal limit in MA) that he started to drive the wrong way on 128.  I was driving a 2001 Plymouth Neon and he hit the front quarter panel on my side, sending me across all four lanes. Apparently there was a nurse a few cars behind us & she pulled over to keep me with it until help arrived.  I was med-flighted to MGH and had to have 128 shut down to allow this to occur.  Some people I know were actually stuck in that traffic that night, as weird as that sounds.

Next thing I remember after that was waking up to a nurse (or doctor) standing over me.  The lights pierced my eyes, like when you wake up and the sun shines on you for the first time.  The next few hours/days is, between going thru withdrawals from some heavy pain meds & numerous panic attacks, a blur.  I remember hearing that I was in a really bad car accident.  Bad enough that I was lucky to be alive.  Bad enough that I was in a medically induced coma for around 3 weeks.  Bad enough that I have zero recollection of any of it… still.  I only know what was told to me by the staff at MGH, my family & my lawyer

I broke my left elbow, needed a plate to keep that together, which I had removed the following year. The lower part of right leg was shattered & the upper part of my left leg had a break in it as well.  Both needed metal rods to heal.  I lost my spleen & needed a graph on my descending aorta.  I was told the severity of my injuries & how the chances of a full recovery were slim.  Docs told me that I may need assistance walking for a long time, cold and damp weather would cause pain & that my cooking career had more than likely come to an end due to the stress on a chef’s legs.  

I had a great support system, my family & Cyndi rarely left my side, and my 2 best friends visited often, bringing things to make my stay better. I was in such a mental funk, depression maybe, who knows. When I was alone, I wanted company. When I had company, I didn’t want to have visitors.  I’d never been so helpless in my life & it’s a horrible feeling.  I remember feeling pity for myself for a few days, asking why this had happened to me, what had I done to deserve all that had gone on.  I can’t pinpoint when that pity faded, but I started to feel lucky to be alive.  I knew the road was going to be a long one, but I couldn’t let some doctor tell a stubborn kid from Somerville that I wasn’t going to be able to do something.  Anyone that really knows me understands that I’ve never done well with people telling me that I can’t do something.  Call it being defiant if you will, it’s gotten better with age & maturity, but to this day, I still credit that defiance for being a catalyst for me to start the road to recovery

I was to be sent to a rehab hospital to stay there until I was well enough to go home, however, how efficient that “well” was going to be was up in the air.  Little did I know, that ride from MGH to the rehab was going to show me the biggest act of kindness by a group of people that I had ever seen…

(To be continued)

Paul Dube

Host of The Sports Den & Chef at Smokey Bones.

Defiant by will.  A true life miracle by every other standard.  

Bipolar, My Sons and Me

My youngest son is a naturally trustworthy person. He is calm and kind and sweet. I'm not saying my first born is not kind and sweet but he's opposite of calm. People just flock to my younger child in a way I've never seen or experienced. Because of this, other kids will often share their family's secrets with him. Of course, he comes home and tells me but needs to remind me not to tell anyone. He certainly can not share this with his brother, who he calls "blabbermouth." But I'm telling you and for a good reason.

He recently came home with the story of how one of the kids in his class told him that his mother was in the hospital because she suffers from bipolar. My very first reaction was, "Did you tell him I have it?" because that's what it's like, having a mental illness, that is. It's not like most other diseases. Most diseases do not come with an inherit need to hide, with the exception of STD's, I suppose.

Instantly after, I asked my worry wort, "Does that make you worry about me going back?"  It was four years ago and he was five, his brother was seven. My older son remembers more but my younger son vaguely remembers being allowed to come see me. Normally they don't let kids visit but they made an exception because one of the new doctors had promised me that they could the day before but when my family arrived, they said no, I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until they let me go into a separate room, outside the ward, to visit for five minutes with an orderly right outside the door. (He gave me an extra five minutes and I will always be grateful.) My sons knew it was different from other hospital visits because he had seen me hospitalized for physical aliments, but their little minds couldn't quite grasp it then. But it was those ten precious minutes that changed all of our lives forever. I decided that I needed to get better, be better so I can have as many more minutes with my sons and husband as possible.

Six months ago, I decided to tell them about the bipolar. A specific song just made me do it. We were driving, it came on and my older son told me a bully from school loved the song so I told them what it was about. I made sure they knew that I took the medicine I needed to take everyday and I saw a doctor and therapist a lot and that I would be fine. The conversation was strange and they looked at me differently, like maybe I was going to turn into anything other than the mother I am. My husband was at first very angry and especially worried about blabbermouth but I have more faith in eldest son. I hate to say it, but I think shame will keep him quiet.

Did it hurt that they acted more reserved and anxious around me? Yes. Am I glad I told them? Yes. Because they can see that despite having a mental illness, anyone can still have a happy life. They can have a good job, a loving family and a great life, even with a healthy dose of chaos. With the proper treatment, internally and externally, you can even feel more mentally healthy than most. And frankly, at this point, now that I'm doing what I need to do, I am healthier than lots of people. Slowly but surely, they stopped acting differently around me altogether and we are thick as thieves once again.

And back to my younger son's friend and his confessions. Because I instructed him to never tell anyone,about me, he didn't share it with his friend. This sounds absolutely horrible but kids are mean enough. They don't need something major to make fun of him for and trust me, they would. Even if it would help another kid, I made sure he was not allowed to tell. It sucks but it just goes to show the immense shame that comes along with mental illness, especially bipolar. My own kids looked at me funny, never mind friends I've lost once I've told them. The few other mothers I told, suddenly stopped calling for play dates. Thank goodness my husband was more than understanding. My therapist calls it over-sharing guilt and that sounds about right.

But because I have bipolar and because I told my son, he is able to be a good friend to this little boy without over-sharing himself. Indirectly, I sure hope it does help this kid. And my son did not have any concerns at all about me going back into the hospital. I asked if he had concerns but I didn't ask why he didn't. I knew that because he has witnessed my mental stability, he knows that I am fine. But hearing about this poor boy and his poor mother and his poor family suffering during a time of year when mental illness likes to rear its ugly head for lots of people (it's not just the winter) it brings back many memories. Some awful and some pretty funny. It's the only way to get help sometimes and it's what helped me.

And while I did not give him permission to share my illness, I made sure to tell him to remind his friend that it's a good thing his mom is in the hospital. She is in the hospital because she wants to get better and I'm sure that his mom wants to get better for her children, just like I did mine.

Anonymous

Blurry Bliss

Ever since I had corrective Eye Surgery, I have been afraid to be seen naked.

Confused? I understand. What does me having clear vision have to do with my fear of being seen naked?

Before I explain, let me clarify something. I don’t require a lot of naked time. Truthfully, I have never sauntered out to get the mail in the buff. All household chores, vacuuming, window washing are clothed sports.  No naked yoga.  My only semi-public naked experiences have been topless sun bathing.  No biggie right?

My topless debuts were when I was in my 20’s and 30's. I would search out a seemingly private area and pop off my bathing suit top. It felt so liberating. Like I was living on the edge of my otherwise law abiding, reliable, ordinary life.

For the record, my exposure was not linked to vanity. I never had a rocking hot body. My nakedness was motivated by the delight of feeling the sun on a forbidden area. That and an utter disconnect from of my own body’s imperfections. Unfortunately, this happy ignorance was not to last forever.

What I was about to discover was that the key to my naked confidence was my pitiful eyesight.

Since the first grade I have worn glasses. Not cutes ones, they were the clunky cheap plastic type with thick lenses. Which also explains why I have no wallet size photos from first grade. For the next couple of decades, I wore my glasses everywhere. Everywhere, that is, except for 2 places, the beach and showering.

What I didn’t realize was that I had spent my entire life not actually seeing myself naked.

Furthermore, when I was at the beach, I would snap my glasses in their case and slide on a pair of drugstore sunglasses. Through my myopic eyes, the parade of semi-clad beach bodies all looked like moving impressionist paintings. Wonderfully blurring fleshy forms.

Here’s the horrid confession. I thought people saw me, as I saw them, blurry and beautiful.

So, how bad could my eyes have been to be that deluded?

To get an idea of the extent of my blurriness, you will need to refer to that classic eye test. You know the one where there is a pyramid of letters with a huge E at the top.  The letters get smaller with each descending line. If you have perfect eyesight you can pick off letters from the infinitesimal row at the bottom.

The morning that I had my eye test, the ophthalmologist shut off the lights and popped up the slide containing the pyramid of letters. He asked me to read the smallest line I could make out clearly. I blankly swivel my head about the room and said, “ OK, just let me know when you put the test up.”  The giant E was looming straight in front of me. It’s not a good sign when you hear your doctor say “Yikes.”

Lasik eye surgery was fairly new at the time I was seriously considering it.  Canada had mastered laser correct vision before the States. I cashed in some frequent flyer miles and headed to Toronto for the surgery.

The day after my surgery, I stepped out of the shower, and caught the very first crystal clear glimpse of my naked self and gasped  “Holy Mother.”  As I stared into the mirror I scanned my naked reflection and took note of all its imperfections in searing crisp detail.

My naked illusion was gone.

That’s how corrective eye surgery robbed my confidence to be naked.

Now, if someone would ask me today if I would recommend Lasik Eye Surgery? I would say absolutely, go for it.  It is amazing to be able to read the alarm clock as you first crack your eyes open. You can swim in a lake, and actually see the dock your heading for. It’s truly a remarkable thing, to have your eyes tuned-up and ready to perform 24/7.

However, I would also pose a small warning. In particular, I would caution those who, like me, are near-sighted folk. These are my people. To those sorry misguided souls who have only been able to see up-close, whose vision blurs as you view things that are more than a couple feet away…this is my advice for you: Be gentle with yourself after the surgery. Clear vision may rob you of your naiveté. Wrinkles appear, cellulite is far more lumpy than you ever knew, and damn those varicose veins, they are like a Google map to despair.

You know how drug companies have to list all possible side affects that a medication may cause? Well, I think that the fine people at the Lasik Eye Clinics should have to give you a little heads up too.

Here is the warning that I would have liked for them to post:

Lasik eye surgery will enable you to see clearly. 

While that may sound like the goal you signed up for, 

please be aware that it also may bring some startling truth to light. 

You may be far less attractive than you previously realized.

The known side affects are, a strong desire to avert your eyes when disrobing. 

In fact, this may lead you to dress entirely behind the shower curtain, 

in an attempt to avoid the bathroom mirror.

A solution worth considering is wearing someone elses glasses when you get out of the shower,  you will find yourself back in an instant blurry bliss.

Amy Archer

This past winter I squatted in our family cottage In Rockport Massachusetts. It was a particularly harsh season to be alone in a cabin with no insulation. There were countless days that I opened the front door to grab the mail from the worn wicker mailbox outside. I had this romantic notion of obtaining a spiritual epiphany during this self-inflicted isolation. In truth I spend most of those arctic days tightly wrapped in a big bathrobe feeling squirrelly, insecure & occasionally writing about memorable moments.

Visit Amy's blog, Bathrobe Writings

So I Wait . . .

The winds in my sails now seem to be gone...

So here I float in uncharted waters, and WAIT.

The sunrise that use to greet me won't break the horizon...

So I sit here in the shadows longing for its warmth, and WAIT.

The drops of rain that would wash everything anew can't seem to reach the ground...

So I stand here with my arms wide open, reaching for its baptism, and WAIT. 

The dreams I used to chase have been interrupted by nightmares...

So with eyes wide open I do my best to keep the monsters at bay, and WAIT. 

The path that I used to follow now leads me in circles...

So with blisters on my heels I shall stand firm, and WAIT. 

The inferno in my belly has all but been extinguished...

So I hold firm to my last match hoping for the winds to die down, and WAIT. 

The beats of my heart now show signs of a murmur...

So I accept the fact there is no cure, but refuse to accept defeat, and WAIT. 

I wait because of hope...I wait because of love....I wait because I know what is waiting for me…

I wait because it is what he would want. 

So I wait...

Heidi Donovan

An old soul who speaks the truth, personifies loyalty and can induce the kind of laughter that heals you.

In addition to all that (and unbeknownst to many), Heidi is also an incredibly talented wordsmith and photographer.  
Allowing only the luckiest and most trusted into her world of woven words and captured moments.

For years she's been steadfast in her "thank you but no thank you" response to requests to share her work.  
Until….The day she said "Yes" to being a storyteller here.

I don't have words to express how happy, excited and overwhelmed with pride I am 
to introduce you to one of my favorite writers (and one of my best friends) of all time.

(Bio written by the President of her fan club, Tara Mazzeo Jackson)

Coping Superstar

This is the story of a coping superstar that most of us know and love.

I guess I should begin with the definition of what a coping superstar is. A coping superstar is a person who has come to terms with the fact that time does not heal all wounds. It does not ease grief and does not ease pain. The suffering never truly goes away but learning how to live, despite the weight you carry, is what makes you shine. 

Our superstar has experienced loss on a level that no one should ever have to feel. Yet, I need to sneak this post in and publish it right away because there's a good chance she will hop on. She is the one who keeps up with our submissions, entering them, editing them, everything, So, I'm worried she may find this first thing tomorrow at a time in life when the rest of us would be in bed, unable to move, unable to deal. 

When she's not entering other people's pieces, she's either editing my piece of shit submissions or she's pouring her heart out. We all read her posts. We take in the strings of words she ties together that make you want to cry or make your heart drop or both. It's because she writes to cope, not to pass time.

The concept of a coping superstar came about when I posted something about my cousin who passed away and about how time had not helped but you learn to live with the loss. When she commented, she called us both coping superstars. That one comment, from the person who embodied what it meant to be a coping superstar, gave me a whole new and higher understanding of how life works. 

So, while I haven't been able to come up with a solid piece for this blog in months (due to my very often trips into fiction land) a story that needed to be told was sitting there, right under my nose. The story of a girl from what was once a pretty gross city who now resides in a beautiful paradise with the love of her husband, friends and pets surrounding her. 

She is an artist who creates kickass coasters, bungalow wilde jewelry and countless other creative projects. She is an incredible yogini who will be the best instructor ever some day. She breathed creative life back into me that has now given me the confidence to write a new book after my first was turned down. I had thrown that dream out of the proverbial window and she threw it back in. She has changed my life and I know I'm not the only one who can say that.

She is unlike anyone I have ever met. She is living to tell her own tales of both loss and love, grief and survival, wounds and healing. The story of a girl who, through her art of all mediums and never-ending kindness is teaching us all what real strength is.

We are all so lucky to have a modern day princess. The type of princess that when she sings animals flock to her side. (I'm not kidding, I pretty sure that does actually happen.) One that possess all things good and believes in unicorns. She is stunning, gracious and loved by all. Despite her hardships, she perseveres. She is the kind of princess who will have her happily ever after because she is a coping superstar. 

Melissa wears many hats. Some are super colorful and some are dark just like her stories. She is a mother, a friend, a writer, a survivor, a warrior, a yogi, a listener, a talker and a lover of all things art. 

Chronicles from the Edge . . .

Being acutely aware of how depressed you are is an interesting life experience.

Before, through other Loss Chaos, I was depressed.  I just didn't realize I was depressed.  There's a special kind of freedom in that.  The unknowing allows you to fade, resistance free, into the gray underworld of being numb.  

Now, let's flip that coin.  Here, in the Land of Awareness, things are different.  I am fully awake to the fact that many of my interests have quieted to a whisper.  Let's take food, for example. Why bother going through the hassle of preparing some fantastic meal when I can't TASTE anything?  You can ask me if I'm hungry but my mind goes blank.  Quietly searching.  I have no idea if I'm hungry.  So I just sit, with my head tilted to the side, wondering if I am hungry.  I keep waiting for my brain to light up with some spark of inspired thought, but nothing happens.  So, in the end my response seems to keep coming in the form of a shoulder shrug, followed by me saying I'm certain I should eat and finally stating "whatever" sounds good.

At this point in time, you can apply the same thing to activities, movies, anything really.

Now with that said, what has managed to pique my interest is the difference between these two states (The Unaware versus The Aware).  And how am I sure I fit in one category versus the other this time?

Well, that's where Tea & Tiramisu enter, stage right.  

So far, these are the only two things I have any interest in consuming.  Chai tea and a dessert that Whole Foods makes, which I am 100% certain is sprinkled with pixie dust and topped with Heaven flakes.  That's it. Nothing else sounds good.  

Now, trust me, I am well aware that my body MUST be hungry.  It's just my nerves aren't firing the way they usually do.  I usually light up when you say "pizza".  Not right now.  Salsa & chips would usually have me singing.  Nope, not today.  Things are misfiring, or not firing at all.  

Please allow me to clarify one thing...so I don't have my family on the horn worried that I'm not eating….that's not the case at all.  I eat but only because I know I should eat not because anything sounds good, tastes good or turns me on.  And certainly not because my body is telling me I'm hungry.  My body and my spirit are doing one thing and one thing only.....they are grieving.

What I find most alarming about all of this is that I am wide awake to it...and it's kind of nutty knowing your tastebuds (for example) are on hiatus while Grief has depressed your system.

Now, let's move on to another mind-bender, music.  I am a self confessed music lover with a very wide spectrum of genres that get me moving.  Normally I can count on velvety singers and soul stirring lyrics to make me swoon.  However, there are only a few songs that currently have the power to dive deeper than Depression's thick layer of mud and actually touch my soul.  I know all of this because I've been listening to A LOT of music waiting for my normal go-to's to move me....and they don't.  They just fall flat.   Each time I press "play" nothing sets a spark, and I wonder....What the fuck is going on?

The truth is, KNOWING that you can't FEEL what normally sets your soul on fire is, well, it's a bummer on top of the bummer you are already depressed about.

However, I've decided to lean toward the intrigue rather than away from, well, everything.  I've chosen to consider all this awareness the positive side effect to my current state while I continue to experiment with anything that will set a spark.

So with my chai tea and Whole Foods happy cake in hand, I'll keep leaning toward the light and away from the gray nothingness that sits on the other side while I play this song on a constant loop because it's one (of only a few) that pick me up and take me along with each and every beautiful note.

Phosphorescent's "Song for Zula"

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Truth Is . . .

Most of my Facebook friends don't know the truth about me.  They know what I post or what they remember.  

Truth is, I'm a drug addict. I'm a womanizer. I'm an alcoholic. I'm a thief. I'm a convict. I'm an asshole. I'm not a good person. I've dealt with death, child abuse, fires, homelessness, & much more. 

Don't you dare feel bad for me. I'm a man that has lived life! 

Truth is, I'm a dad. I'm giving. I'm loving. I'm honest. I'm loyal. I'm trustworthy. I show up on time. 

See we are judged by the things we have done yet those actions don't always define us. Just because you knew me then doesn't mean you know me now. 

Once an addict always an addict.  True. But that doesn't mean I'm not a good person. I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, yet more that I am. 

I thought there was no way out. Now I can't imagine going back. 

Every door seems closed, until you open it. I can't believe how things can be. I never thought there was another way. 

Just because you struggle today doesn't mean tomorrow is just another day!

Written & Shared by the courageous Bobby White.

Simple

Irony is the amount of work involved in simplifying.

This can apply to the physical (like removing clutter from a house), mental (like reducing media intake), emotional (like letting go of anxiety and guilt and everything that stems from it), and more.

There are many ways in which I am currently working towards simplification in my own life. All of the above included. There are so many things that I want to change, to simplify, so that I can better and more often enjoy the things and people and activities that I feel suffer because life. is. just. too. complicated. and busy.

The problem is that this is, and will be, a long process. There is a lot to sort through.  Some of it has to be done in a certain order – step three can’t happen until steps one and two are complete.  And some of it will require bravery or leaps of faith.

Is this writing vague? Yes.

Am I going to tell you the details of all the things I am working to accomplish, and the sequence of events that are required to do so? No.

All I know and all I can say is that I am, and this is, a work in progress.

Will it ever be finished? Will there ever come a time when I can say that everything is perfect and it’s as good as it’s going to get? I sure hope so. In fact -- actually -- I do think so.

Right now? I am glad that I can say I recognize what needs to change, what I want to change, and that I see a mostly clear path to it all.

I am on the path; that path is called simplicity; and I’m going to take a couple more steps now…

Robin Donoghue

The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg – 

not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box, 

but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction  (in the good way) – 

having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing, 

and willing to try pretty much anything at least once. 

Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with 

pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too.  She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets.  When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining 

intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.

Ladybugs: Part V "The Fight"

When you find yourself so broken that death seems like a viable option; it changes you. 

I wish I could pinpoint how it changes you but I can't. I can only tell you it simply does. 

I was broken and damaged, the only thing keeping me among the living was a thread. Even though there had to have been a part of me that wanted to live, I continued to test my thread's strength:

...by swallowing too many sleeping pills which ended with me intubated.
...by overdosing and being hit with narcan more times than I can count.
...by shooting heroin and cocaine for almost two weeks until ending up in Somerville Hospital.  To this day I am still unsure of how I got there.

As selfish as this may sound I was like a cockroach: I just couldn't die. 

The last and final time I “actively” tried to take my own life was in the back of my busted up car that I was living in. I drank half a bottle of windshield washer fluid. 

You might be asking yourself “what's up with the windshield fluid?”.  And I can honestly say that I have no idea. I'm sure I could've attempted to harm myself in another way, however, it was just there at that moment, an option at that time. 

Of course, there were multiple detoxes, halfway homes and psych wards. All with no success. My final count of detox units is between 15-20. I completed approximately half of those; ending up in a long-term setting (like a halfway house).  However, no matter the setting or the facility I just could NOT keep myself clean. 

Out of everything that I have been through it is this part of my story that I find the scariest. But not for the reason you might be thinking. This part frightens me the most because once you look at death in a positive light (ie: to end your pain and to stop from hurting) you seem to never let that go. It just gets buried deep down where no one can ever see it. Almost like a dormant gene or something. 

So, even years later, when you think you have life figured out and your shit is all together: BAM! The demons in your head begin to taunt you and you must remind yourself over and over again… 

“I must fight. I must keep fighting."

Anonymous

Please read the complete Ladybug series by clicking on the following:

Ladybugs - Part I  

Ladybugs Part II

Ladybugs - Part III

Ladybugs - Part IV