There was a chest in the corner of the upstairs second bedroom, which is where the photo of the pretty woman from France was. The bedroom was a holograph of the past. Nobody slept there anymore and the same crocheted quilt with big colorful flowers on it seemed to have always decorated the bed.
Once in a while, with enough pestering from me, either my grandmother or dad would go up stairs with me where we would sit together on the bed beside the wooden chest. They would open it and let me choose an item for a story. Stories that I never tired of. Stories that connected me to them and us to our ancestors.
My grandmother had lost a daughter to cancer and the room held the memories of her in framed pictures, her jewelry and pieces of her favorite clothes hanging in open view from hooks on the old wooden walls.
One story I liked for my dad to tell me was about how I was named.
“Let me see the woman from France,” I would ask my dad. He would let me hold the picture, while he told me the story.
“She was beautiful,” he would say.
He would start with talking about being in the Army. He was a cook and sometimes I think he wanted more interesting stories than he had actually lived.
“Her name was Mechelle,” he would say, trying to make it sound French, which I loved.
“I gave you a beautiful name because you’re a beautiful girl,” he told me. I was happy he thought I was beautiful. This was back in the day before we stopped talking to girls about their looks and instead started telling them their smart, which I think is a good progression. At the same time, I don’t think I was damaged by my father’s innocent compliments.
Of course I asked him once if he loved her and if he thought she was more beautiful than my mother. He nearly cried. He cried easily. I’m a lot like him.
“Oh no,” he said with great emotion. “Your mother is the only woman I’ve ever loved and the most beautiful woman in the world.” I believed him and I still do.
“I knew her before I married your mother,” he would remind me.
“Did you ever kiss her?” I remember asking him. He would smile, as if he was a ladies man and say jokingly, “Maybe once. The women couldn’t say no to me when I was in uniform.”
I never believed he kissed her and I’m sure that’s exactly how he wanted it.
My mom recently told me that my dad made up this story about the woman in France and about naming me.
“But what about the picture?” I asked her.
“There ain’t no tellin’ where he got that from,” she said. “He could have picked that up at the dime store,” she added.
I don’t think so!
I knew, even as I believed my dad loved only my mother, that this photo was important to him.
My mother tells me that I was, “supposed to have been a boy and was already named Michael.” She had been a little too sure of herself.
She said her reason for naming me Michelle is that it was easy to change the name Michael. A very boring reason right?
I’m going to stick to my dad’s story, which also included telling me he always knew I would be a girl, which is exactly what he wanted.
And did he sing the Beatles to me? You bet he did!
In loving memory of my dad and his stories of adventure, real or imagined.
“What are you looking at?” I thought I heard someone ask.
I turned to see a middle-aged woman standing near us. She was addressing my son, which is fine because he’s a grown man.
I knew this was going to eventually happen somewhere. Staring isn’t acceptable in our society and personally, I too am generally uncomfortable with being stared at for any length of time that seems out of the ordinary.
The waiter had brought our menus and it was during this moment when I thanked him that the woman walked over to our table.
The hostess had given us a round table in the middle of the large open dining area. I thought this was a mistake. I asked my son if he would rather sit along the wall with a bit more privacy, but he said no.
People have always told me that I can’t hide my feelings because of my eyes. I’ve heard it all my life. I decided to harness this transparency trying to communicate with the woman standing by our table that my son had meant no harm.
I can’t be sure what was translated when I looked into her eyes. Perhaps it was a plea for compassion. It seemed as though we met briefly where words are unnecessary.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “It’s just that he was looking over at us,” she paused, looking briefly at my son and then questioningly back at me, “but he was smiling.”
“He likes seeing happy people,” I told her. “He gets very happy when people laugh.”
My son continued smiling while she and I chatted for a moment. It was a gleaming smile, much like a child’s at Christmas. The woman didn’t seem bothered.
She apologized again and invited us to join them.
“If you want to come sit with us you can,” she told my son. “You too!” she added.
They were having a cookware party. “We’re having lots of fun as he can obviously see,” she remarked.
I think his smile rubbed off on her. Her invitation felt sincere. My son seemed genuinely interested in cookware. I told my mom about it later and she said, “Well, he would have bought some, that’s for sure!”
We know him. We know how enthusiastic he gets about things. We know he laughs hard. We know he laughs sometimes when it’s considered inappropriate. We also know this is a way his brain is processing information. Other people don’t know this, of course.
I thanked the woman, but declined the offer.
She walked away and for a moment my son looked sad. I asked him what was wrong. He said he was just trying to figure things out.
I felt bad for him. Trying to figure things out and all. I haven’t figured out too much myself. He doesn’t understand certain rules that when I think about them, neither do I. Things about our world and society that honestly don’t make sense or aren’t rational, but are nevertheless realities.
We enjoyed the rest of our meal. Art literally covers the walls inside the restaurant. In the corner of the room where we sat is a tall puppet-like man with a theatrical face whose head reaches the top of the high ceiling. Most of their display includes Folk art created by the local artists. It’s a very cozy place and the food is good.
My son and I were able to engage in a conversation, which is unusual when it’s just the two of us and we’re surrounded by strangers. He usually seems quite distracted by his physical environment. Times when his grandmother and aunts visit are the best. He sits in the middle of us and has a wonderful time. He must feel safe surrounded by strong loving women.
The occasional group laughs from our cookware neighbors made him smile, but the art captured most of his attention giving us something to talk about and honestly, something for him to stare at other than the group of laughing women. The tuna also held his attention. He likes good food as much as anything, but each time the women laughed, so did he.
On the way home I asked if he wanted to stop at the thrift shop with me. Shopping is another activity he has a hard time with. Most of the time he can’t stay in a retail store longer than about five minutes.
This time was different. He enjoyed walking around and bought several items.
We had a good day. I think the kind of day we had is a pretty normal day for most people. It is for most people I know.
That night by the fire I realized I’d had several good days in a row lately. The positive feelings from this experience are unfamiliar and I felt anxiety.
I’m used to stress. I’m used to quarterly “mental health crises.” I’m also used to being fatigued much of the time and feeling like life is passing me by as a result. My point is that I don’t know what it’s like to have lengthy periods of time without serious stressful matters to deal with.
It’s like when the doctor asked me to take some pain medication and call him, “after twenty-four consecutive hours without pain.” I laughed. I thought he was joking! He wasn’t.
I was altogether stunned the day I called him to report that I’d experienced a full day and night without pain.
Sometimes you get so used to something that you don’t realize what a large impact it’s having on you or your life, like the fear I felt when I imagined having more good days, or rather, not having them.
I felt scared to imagine life being easier. Experience tells me that the next crisis is always lurking around the corner. How can I dream or ponder on dreams when who knows what might come my way the next day?
If I start thinking about the things I could do if I didn’t have so many crises to deal with, then I get scared of being hit in the face with… I don’t know what. Reality?
Reality it is!
Less than two days after my peaceful interlude, much has happened to bring me back. Back to a reality that is pretty hard to deal with.
Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I expected things to keep moving forward peacefully, without too many bumps in the road.
Thank you for visiting Dogkisses’s blog,
Michelle.
“Remember that there is nothing stable in human affairs; therefore avoid undue elation in prosperity, or undue depression in adversity.”
“You can predict the future by looking at the past,” my first real love used to say.
He used this as a mantra in financially difficult times. He would declare with confidence and enthusiasm, “I’ve had money before and I’ll have money again!”
His logic, if there was any, was never clear to me, but when I get too sad for too long I remember what he said. I figure if I’ve been happy before then I’ll be happy again!
I know myself in pain, fatigue and sickness. I know myself in sadness, grief, confusion and shock. I know myself in crises, one after another. I know myself in defense of my dignity and integrity.
Fortunately, I also know myself in joy, peace and happiness, but if the truth was told, I haven’t been really happy since my son became ill when he was nineteen years old.
Depression had literally disabled me before my son’s illness, but I was managing and getting along. I had gone back to college hoping to finally finish about the same time my son began having medical problems. I withdrew for the second time, both times were medical withdrawals due to depression.
I know myself well in depression. Some days I think it’s no more than the way the sun shines that gets to me. Some days anyone in my shoes would be depressed. Then, there are times when I remember something that brings me down.
Recently, the memory of that awful relationship I was in not that long ago crept into my mind. I didn’t want to feel the memory. I didn’t want to feel the confusion that comes when I recall what I thought was love, only to remember that he said it was all a game.
The gloom that set in was soon interrupted after a brief phone conversation with a very good friend. I had called to ask him for a favor. He was able to help me, which relieved me of an hour-long trip.
It wasn’t his kindness alone that changed my mood, although I was certainly grateful for his help.
After telling me the favor I asked of him was no problem and something he could do quickly, he jokingly started pretending to be a ladies man. “Hey baby,” he tried to say, but we both laughed at how funny it sounded coming from him. He’s not the kind of man to call a woman Baby or Darling, or like one of my very southern friends, “Sugar,” who reserves a special name for the sweetest women, a group he says I fall into and calls me, “Sugar Bugger.”
My good friend who can’t even say, “Hey Baby,” without laughing and is not from the south thinks this is a very funny way to address women. On occasion, he enjoys playing this type of character. He knows it makes me laugh, which is why he does it.
He tried again, “Oh, baby. You’ll owe me. You’ll pay up –he had to pause trying not to laugh — you’ll pay in kisses! Chocolate kisses! I will exploit you to no end making you pay in chocolate kisses.”
We both laughed. I realized when we hung up the phone how much better I felt. The dark cloud was gone.
Having my friend joke about such a thing or me merely hearing the word, “exploited,” might have made me very sad or even physically sick six months or a year ago.
The joking around didn’t cause the dark cloud to rain misery down on me and instead brought only laughter. My friend’s silly imitation of this type of character made me see how lucky I am today not to be in a relationship where what he was joking about would be my reality. A peaceful feeling set in with me for the rest of the evening.
I feel lucky to have made it back to myself. What a long trip away it was.
This past summer brought healing to my heart in a new friendship with two sisters, both young and full of enthusiasm for the simple things in life. I laughed more that summer than I have in ten summers put together. My son laughed too and for the first time in years I started to see his smile when I snapped pictures of him.
One night we laughed so much and lost track of time. After midnight I realized the girls should have already gone home. They were grounded for a week. Secretly, I felt like a child. Not that I wanted them in trouble, but we all knew our time was innocent and laughter had gotten the better of us. Not so much a crime in the summertime.
The girls’ family is of a particular religion that has many rules, a few of which I unknowingly broke, like when I gave them both a birthday celebration. One of the parents was pretty upset and things changed after that. Nevertheless, our times together, especially when we all laughed so hard for hours that we would completely wear ourselves out, remains in my mind as a time of healing.
The first day I met the girls I was walking the dogs. I wasn’t long out of the bad relationship and I had two serious cuts on my fingers from an accident in the kitchen. They asked me how I was doing and I broke down in tears right there on the side of our road. I had to bend down and rest on my knee. I was completely taken by sadness. I cried while I told them all about my life, how hard it was and that’s when they asked if they could hold the dogs for me.
Most days after that they were here. Most days they walked my dogs for me. I cried a lot for the first month or so, but the laughter began healing my heart. Then when I took pictures and saw the familiar smile on my son’s face that I hadn’t seen in years, I felt that if there is such a thing as angels, those girls surely must be ones.
Not having the best luck in the world, my summer ended with a new neighbor who turned out to be a nightmare. The situation eventually thoroughly depressed me and the neighbor was soon after evicted for harassment. The girls weren’t visiting as often anymore.
I felt like I had taken ten steps back. I had to go through some of the same emotions I had felt that past winter.
The girls went back to school. My son went back into the hospital. I realized I was burned out.
Then, just to top things off, a stressful family event happened that caused me more turmoil. I felt like too much had gone wrong. I became seriously clinically depressed.
I feel like I’m walking out of depression, but it sure is hard.
In many ways over the past two years, life has called me to question who I am, what I want in my life and just as importantly, what I don’t want anymore, hence my love of the NO icon.
What I don’t want is pretty simple. I don’t want to be treated poorly and I don’t want to endorse cruelty by standing in the line of fire.
What I want is pretty simple too. I want to know myself outside of depression.
My mother recently gave me a few letters my uncle found that I wrote to my paternal grandmother in 1990. I couldn’t believe how happy I sounded in the letters. I was a little depressed back then but nothing, nothing like I’ve experienced since.
One of the letters reads very much like those happy Christmas letters people write. Other people. Not me.
I tried to remember how I felt writing the letters. I couldn’t remember exactly how I felt, but I know I wrote them.
My son’s letter is the best.
His childhood notes, creative school work and art definitely speaks to a happy kid. I like that. I take some credit for the good times he had growing up, which is a piece of happiness.
Returned also to me was a card I had sent my grandmother when I went to Texas to visit a friend. I think this was the time my friend and I rode across the horse pastures, she on her Arabian and I on a Quarter horse under the light of a full moon and in Texas, that’s a really big moon!
“Just having fun,” takes you a long way walking out of depression.
Thank you for visiting my blog,
dogkisses.
PS If you haven’t laughed in a while, here’s a video that sure made me laugh.
“Hi,” the woman said shyly. “I’m calling about a butterfly garden. I saw your ad in the paper.”
More than a decade has gone by since I received that phone call. I still remember how I felt.
“I live on a fixed income due to a disability,” the woman added. “I was wondering if I could get a small butterfly garden and how much that would cost.”
I remember how I felt then, but the way I feel now is much more powerful. I feel terrible about the way I handled that call.
The woman told me where she lived. I had heard of the place, but didn’t know much about it. I knew only that the people who lived there had some type of mental problems.
I talked with my gardening mentor who encouraged me to go see the woman. I wish I had taken his advice. I can’t remember who else I consulted with, but I was most certainly influenced in the other direction.
The woman called several times telling me how much she loved butterflies. I told her the price for a small garden. She explained that she received her check each month and asked if she could make monthly payments.
People said things like, “those people who live there are crazy,” and I vaguely recall one person telling me that I would be making a mistake to get involved with someone like that. I concluded that the woman wouldn’t be able to pay like she said she would. I assumed several things that today I am not proud of. I chose not to meet with her.
As I write, I really can’t believe that was me.
I wasn’t going to write about this memory when I began this post, which is one of my many challenges in writing. I’ll start a story or some type of tale and the next thing I know, I’ll be back in time, ten or twenty years into my past.
I wanted to tell you about my dream of creating a healing garden for people fighting and living with mental illness. A place for healing and community to happen.
I wanted to tell you about an outdoor bed of hay framed with sunflowers and chocolate cosmos laced around the pillow shams.
Sometimes the past meets the present and I get lost somewhere in the middle.
The apartments where the woman lived is a thriving community today, as it was when she called me all those years ago, back when life was much easier for me. Back when I thought the problems those people had would never be ones I would face. Oh no! Not me or my family.
I was terribly wrong and completely ignorant.
Mental illness doesn’t discriminate. It can strike any person, any family and in any place.
Ten years after I turned down the woman’s beautiful and brave request, I found myself at the same apartment building where she had wanted her little butterfly garden.
I was there applying for my adult son to get an apartment in that community.
I had forgotten about that phone call until one day when I went to visit my son there. Several of his neighbors came outside. We walked around the building together finding many places where we could plant, of all things, a butterfly garden. The memory slapped me in the face.
I realized that my son was one of those people.
My bright intelligent son who had superior verbal skills by age three, was a good student other than talking too much from being bored, was in a grand way always enthusiastic about life, winning school awards in science and later in kayaking, was struck with a mental illness.
Today, I am a woman who must sometimes say, “I live on a fixed income due to a disability.”
Today, I realize, I am one of those people too.
Turns out we are all the same and always were. The differences I imagined came from cultured misconceptions of immunity derived from ignorance and stigma.
She’s coming and it won’t take her long to get here. I have about an hour left. I didn’t have the courage to say no.
She’s my mother and I love her. She surprised me when she called to say she was packing. My gut screamed out at me to say no, but I couldn’t. I tried. I called her back three times.
“Are you sure you want to come?” I asked her.
“Yes. Are you sure you want me to come?” she responded.
“Well, I’m sick,” I told her. “I’m not in the best mood either you know.”
She says she understands and as much as a part of me wants to say no, obviously another part is saying yes.
I have a hard time saying no, which is why I love the icon my friend, Leslie, at IconDoIt, the blog, created for me. The image was the top rated media image I used in my blog in 2010.
I love the “No” icon and saying no in 2009 saved my life.
I need to print this icon on a very large sheet of paper and hang it above my desk, which sits in the center of my small home.
“If truth be known,” a phrase my mother uses often, I need to be in a hospital or at least I need a good nurse.
I need a break from the many obligations in my life. I need sleep. I need an appetite. I need more time for me.
I keep breathing out, then in and slowly out again, but I’m still anxious. My home is cluttered. I haven’t washed my dishes or vacuumed. I don’t think my mother has ever seen my place in this condition. I don’t think she’s ever seen me as wore out as I am now. She may be shocked at my dishes in the sink and I’m not sure if she will see how very tired I really am.
I wish she could understand how I feel but at the same time I don’t want her to know how sick I am.
Breathe out…
2010 was a hard year and even though my spirit has felt lighter this year my body has not. I’ve been sick.
About six weeks ago I got a terrible case of bronchitis. It felt like the flu. I thought it went away, but the fatigue has come back and hit hard.
I keep getting confused and sometimes the room spins. I keep crying too, but I’m not sure what that’s about. Out of the blue come upheavals of emotions and tears.
My pain is worse. I’m sick on my stomach and food is the last thing I want. I’m angry. I’m angry that I feel so bad and have for so long.
I finally called my doctor. I doubt if he can help me and as I write that thought, the tears want to come. Maybe it’s because I’m so sick and I don’t know if anyone can help me.
I dread going to the doctor. He’ll check my lungs to see if there are signs of pneumonia, which is what I’ve suspected. I looked up the symptoms and have every one of them.
I don’t know why I’ve waited this long to ask for help. I guess because when you have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, it’s hard to know when you get a new illness or have a bug. Depression can also keep you from seeking medical help when you need it.
I feel guilty for being sick. I feel like a disappointment to my mother. At least, I feel like it hurts her to see me sick and especially if I’m sad. I don’t want to hurt her.
I also feel very much misunderstood, or rather that my illness(es) are misunderstood.
“If you want to sleep while I’m there,” my mother said the third time I called her back, “then just go lie down.”
I wish I could sleep. I would.
Most people I know don’t understand that fibromyalgia is a sleep disorder. They think if you are fatigued that you can lie down, go to sleep and all is good. They are wrong.
Most people I know also don’t understand the reality of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome any better than they do fibromyalgia. If only they would read blogs by people who are living with and writing about these insidious illnesses.
If we could sleep and sleep well for more than a few hours then we might feel better. Maybe.
I’m so tired. I hope my mother is calm in her mind and spirit. That’s about the best gift she could give me. I know she’ll start doing chores when she gets here but this is the thing, it will require my help.
I can barely sit here and write, but I thought I better because I don’t know how long she’ll be here and she gets a little jealous of my computer. Sometimes our visits are emotionally draining on me.
I said yes because I love my mother. I know she loves me. I know too that I won’t always have her here.
I said yes. I sure hope I did the right thing.
I also hope to meet my weekly challenge for PostAWeek, which for me is on Saturday.
OMG! How did she make it that fast? OMG! She is here!
One of the topics in The Daily Post “PostAWeek” challenge is, “Who deserves more credit than they get?”
I couldn’t decide between bloggers, dishwashers or dogs, because they all deserve more credit than they get.
Dogs deserve more credit than they get for giving people companionship and unconditional love. Dogs are particularly important to people living with chronic illness or a disability that has caused isolation and often alienation from family, friends, community and society.
Many people I know who live with chronic illness have a dog. They are our four-legged friends who are there for us no matter what. A dog can make us smile when we are in pain. They’ll get up with us in the wee hours of the mornings when everyone else is sleeping. They give us a reason to take walks or get outside for fresh air. Their fur is soft and petting them calms us. Their spirits are overflowing with sweetness. Dogs give. That’s what they do. They give and they keep on giving.
Sometimes, and this is one of the greatest gifts that I get from the love of a dog, they offer a reason to keep on living.
“They can’t be nurses, doctors or teachers!” a desk attendant working at a hospital said to me one time. We had struck up a conversation while I was waiting on a relative. She became upset when I told her about my dog who was receiving medical care for bone cancer.
“There are children starving! I can’t believe people spend money on a dog’s health care, while there are children who do not have the things they need,” she said.
I wondered how many of the nurses or doctors had dogs. I knew the woman wouldn’t understand about spending money on a sick dog no matter what I said so I changed the subject.
Personally, I think dogs can help people be better nurses, doctors or teachers. Plus, mine are all that and more. Dogs can also make these jobs easier by giving love and companionship to patients and students.
I’ve been pretty sick for the past six months. Recently, there have been times when I thought I would have to call for emergency help. My dogs have been vigilant caretakers. The older dog hasn’t left my side in over two months. If I get up at 3am, so does he. He knows I’m not well. He is simply amazing. I’ll be thinking the worst thoughts and he gets as close to my body as he can. He doesn’t usually give kisses but lately, out of the blue, he’ll give me a quick little kiss as if to remind me they are here.
My dogs love me and they need me. In this way, they literally save my life, over and over.
We hear about enormous amounts of money some people spend on their pets. It’s true that veterinarian bills are expensive, but that isn’t the same thing as extravagant amounts of money spent for things like diamond covered collars, fur coats and all sorts of weird things a dog certainly doesn’t need and likely doesn’t care about.
I’d rather pay for a dog to get medical care than pay for my hair to be colored, manicures, an expensive car or the expensive things plenty of people spend money on. This is a personal choice and comparably, I must admit, I think a dog is a heck of a lot more fun than what non-dog owners spend money on.
I don’t think it makes sense to criticize pet owners for spending money on pets, while people are in debt because they wanted a big screen television in every room of their house.
I’ve been judged and criticized for spending money on a dog and I find this pretty absurd.
A landlord I called once about an apartment got so angry when I told her that I live on a fixed income and have a dog, that I thought she was going to have a heart attack. No joke. She was ready to rent me the sweetest little cottage in the mountains. She was praising me for raising a son alone and going to college. I was all this and that, until I told her about my dog. She started screaming at me over the telephone about how she was paying for my dog’s food via her taxes.
“I can’t believe you have a dog!” the woman shouted. “It ought to be against the law for people who get help to have a dog. I can’t believe it!”
I told the woman how little the dog’s food cost, but that didn’t matter. I hung up on her because she wouldn’t stop screaming at me.
Magically, the next day I met the greatest landlord a dog owner could hope for. She kept asking if I was sure the place was good enough for my dog. We ended up being nice friends.
Fortunately and just as magically, the landlords I rent from now are wonderful and love my dogs. I was afraid they wouldn’t allow me to have the bigger dog but when they saw him one of them said, “You are lucky to have him. He’ll protect you out here.”
My family used to make remarks about how I could have a better place to live if I didn’t have dogs or that I would be free to come visit them since they won’t allow dogs in their homes. After years gone by, I believe they recognize more the value of my dogs, but they still don’t let my dogs come inside and as a result, I hardly ever get to visit them.
Dogs help people in so many ways. Being there for a sick person when everyone else is waiting on her to feel better is a great deed.
Their companionship and love make people feel happy. I read once where being lonely is the number one reason for suicide. I believe the love of a dog can help prevent this.
As I write, my son is visiting for the holiday. He hasn’t felt so great lately either. He has some serious health challenges in life. After dinner this evening he suddenly got the biggest smile on his face. His dog was lying on his back with his short legs up in the air. He rests like that (he’s part Basset Hound) and he looks very funny when he does it.
My son went over and lied down beside him to rub his belly. I guess most dogs like to have their belly rubbed. Our younger dog was in on the scene shortly after. It was such a wonderful moment. My son looked happy and this made me feel good. Both dogs were smothering him with love.
I asked him how he felt around his dog. I like to use words to express my feelings and experience. I think it’s good to have a way to talk about things.
He could barely talk without laughing when he tried to respond. “Loyal, he’s so loyal.”
My son continued on, “He’s my protector. Awww. He loves me. Look at him,” and he laughed again while he rubbed his best friend’s soft belly. “He wants me to hug him. Awww. He’s so sweet!” My son let out a deep breath of air. He looked content and lied back on the sofa to rest. I’ve always said, and definitely believe, that dogs are good medicine.
Earlier today the dog jumped from the back seat to the front and was out of the car as soon as the door opened when I arrived at my son’s apartment. The dog is getting old, but so far this hasn’t slowed him down when he sees his true master.
This dog is a very special dog. He has saved my son’s life several times. He definitely deserves more credit than he gets.
Some people used to remark that this dog is a burden to me. He is stronger than I am, which makes walking him a creative and carefully planned task. He has seizures that break my heart, but not so many that they lessen his quality of life. He is no burden. He is a gift, a blessing and like all dogs, a teacher.
I like a challenge and I’ve decided to take part in PostAWeek in 2011.
The most challenging part for me will most likely be what to post. I have plenty to say, but I often scrutinize my ideas to the point of wearing them out or giving up on them. The reluctance or reservations I have about posting are usually because I don’t think what I want to write about is positive or will offer something good (because it isn’t positive enough) –but this isn’t how I really feel. It’s what I think.
I want to feel free in my blog. I want to feel free to speak my truth, whatever it is. Of course I want what I write to have some resemblance of a, “silver lining in the cloud,” but in my heart I feel like it’s okay if it doesn’t.
There were plenty of days in 2010 when I wanted to write but didn’t because what I’ve gone through and how I’ve felt has been difficult. I don’t want to let down the people who visit my blog wishing I felt better only to discover that I am sad or grieving.
I subscribed to The DailyPost and will do my best to participate in the community of other bloggers with similar goals to help me along the way, including asking for help when I need it and encouraging others when I can.
“If you already read my blog, I hope you’ll encourage me with comments and likes, and good will along the way.” (A Sample Post)
Hope is a wonderful feeling. It’s also hard to hold. I guess some people have it most of the time, which must be a very nice experience.
I wonder if the people who have hope most or even all of the time are consciously aware of it? Maybe it’s an ongoing feeling that is so normal they don’t think about it.
I get bursts of hope –sometimes in large doses and other times small ones, but it comes and it goes.
It’s like being on a merry-go-round. Sometimes I jump off where there isn’t any hope and instead a great void of darkness. It is from this desperately sorrowful place that I search for hope, because that’s the only thing strong enough to pull me out. The trick is me being able to see it, grab it and hold on to it long enough to stand on the ground again.
Round and round I go. Lose it, find it, lose it and find it again.
My losing hope feels like a normal human response to chronic repeated difficult situations filled with fear and grief. It comes from not knowing what to do or being too tired to do what I think might help me find some peace.
Hope instills peace and joy. If I could hold hope long enough, I’d have a better chance at feeling joy. I might even feel happy again, like I did a long time ago.
Hope must be something you have to nurture. It must be akin to yeast if you want bread to rise. It might be the same to the spirit and mind as water is to the physical body. Maybe we can’t survive without it.
Hope is hard to hold. I keep losing it, but then again, I keep finding it.
Michelle writes about her life, her journey with chronic pain and illness, healing and hope, and a personal account of how the love of dogs helps along the way. She has traveled the mental healthcare system with her adult son, who has inspired integrating holistic healthcare. Michelle finds healing in nature, is in love with the wild things, her family and a dog, of course.
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She’s coming and it won’t take her long to get here. I have about an hour left. I didn’t have the courage to say no.
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