Thinking Out Loud

Saying Goodbye to Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sun, 28 Apr 2019 16:29:00 +0000

It has taken me two weeks to get the courage to try and pull words from my heart about Bear. No matter what I write, I feel I won’t do him justice, nor will I be able to express how special he was, or the relationship that I had with him, and that my husband Shea had with him. But, I will try my very best, it’s all I can do.

Bear came into my life by chance, on a whim, just by sheer luck. One day I saw him and made a decision to adopt him. It made no sense at that moment for me to adopt a puppy—my life was honestly a mess. But something in my heart and my gut wouldn’t let me walk away from him. I signed the papers, and he was mine. I found out right after signing that I had just saved his life. If he hadn’t been adopted that day, he would have been put down. He was 12 weeks old. He had an hour and a half left. I had gotten there just in time.

That day, as I got into my car and looked at that sweet, beautiful puppy staring at me in the passenger seat, I thought for a moment, what have I done? I go back to that moment in my mind a lot. I think to myself—you don’t know how lucky you are right now. You just made the best decision. Be so grateful, be so thankful.

What that little being didn’t know was that the person looking back at him was struggling. My whole life had cracked wide open months before, and the pieces were shattered around me. Everything was wrong and broken. I was just starting to deal with issues from my childhood that were deeply affecting my life. Then, I found out that the man I had been seeing (long distance), whom I had known for years, and was just about to move cross country to live with, had betrayed me. All the time we had been seeing each other, he was in fact, living with someone else.

Everything hit me at once. I was lost and adrift, and in that weakened part of rock bottom that you hopefully only hit once in your life. I was deeply depressed, and I knew that everyone around me, everyone in my life that was worried about me, was going to think that adopting this puppy wasn’t a good decision. Maybe it wasn’t. But that drumbeat of hope inside me just kept telling me it was the right thing to do.

I was nervous to call my friend Debby, who is my second mother, afraid she would be so worried that she wouldn’t see what I saw in the new puppy. But I needn’t have worried. She immediately told me to bring him over and she fell in love with him on the spot. She and her husband Joe helped me go through a list of names I was thinking about, until Joe let me know in no uncertain terms that his name was Bear.

He was so right.

He always was Bear.

Bear worked his magic from day one. If you have ever battled depression, or know someone who has, you know that the hardest thing is getting out of bed or off the couch and getting OUT. It is a battle in itself, and before Bear, it was a battle I lost all the time. My friends would try and I would make excuses. I had taken leave from work, so I had nowhere to be.

But Bear had to be walked, he had to be taken outside. He needed me constantly. I couldn’t stay in bed or under the covers. He was constantly chewing on things, getting into things—he was keeping me busy.

I took him on walks and met neighbors I had never talked to in two years of living in my neighborhood. We went to dog parks, and I met new people who expected to see me and Bear daily. My life began to change. My outlook began to change.

I didn’t know what breed Bear was when I adopted him. I knew he was a mix of something, and that he was incredibly cute. Otherwise, I had no idea. He was extremely stubborn and independent. House training him was so frustrating and at times, seemed to be impossible.

We went to puppy training classes three separate times, and each time he was just too wild to participate. The last time I tried, the trainer was talking and Bear excitedly jumped on other dogs and then on the trainer, splitting open her fanny pack full of treats, spilling them everywhere. The treats rolled all over the floor and Bear and the other puppies were gobbling them up. The trainer looked at me with a mix of expressions—frustration, but also holding back laughter. I knew that mix well, I had been wearing it for many weeks myself.

I finally figured out what breed of dog Bear was when seeing a random blog post one day about a great pyrenees. Bear was almost certainly a great pyr, though I never knew what he was mixed with. But once I looked up all of the traits of the breed, it all made sense. Great pyrs are bred to be guardians for livestock. They need to be independent to handle themselves on a farm and be alone for long periods of time, but they also need to be sweet and gentle enough not to harm the animals they care for. All of these things added up to Bear: independent, strong-willed, stubborn, but sweet, loving, and with a huge heart.

He was wild and at times, and yes, frustrating, but he was also sweet. And gorgeous. He also smiled all the time. When I walked him in my neighborhood, people would literally stop their cars to ask me what kind of dog he was, or where I got such a beautiful pup. He always seemed to know how gorgeous he was. He never hesitated to walk right up to anyone and demand to be petted. He loved belly rubs the best.

I always got a kick out of watching Bear enter the dog park. He had so much confidence. He swaggered in like a rock star, waiting for the other dogs to run up and admire him, which they did. He would then saunter over and let all the humans pet him and give him compliments. Then he would run and play. Everyone knew me as Bear’s mom, and I loved every minute of it. We went to the dog park daily, and I learned how to laugh again, standing on the sidelines, watching him run like the wind, while I was talking to strangers who became friends—all who loved and cared about me and Bear.

One thing he did always amazed me. On days when I still felt a little blue, somehow, he would sense it. I could never figure out how he knew. I would be standing with other people at the dog park, chatting away in my usual spot near the picnic table, watching him from a distance. Then, suddenly, our eyes would meet from across the park where he was playing. For a moment, he would hold my gaze, and then, he would start running. He wouldn’t take his eyes off of me the whole time. I would tear up watching him coming towards me, his little ears blown back, a big smile on his face, running to me as fast as he could. I would kneel down and he would run into my arms and shower me with kisses and then sit back and smile and let me hug him and thank him for sensing that I needed him, just at that moment.

He always knew.

Bear pulled me out of the worst part of my life and led me into the next. His unconditional love let me open my heart again, something I couldn’t imagine doing at the time, and before Bear was a year old, I had met the man I would marry. Shea has admitted that seeing Bear’s pictures on Facebook had left him as excited to meet Bear as he was to see me. (I can’t say I blamed him).

The first time Shea and Bear met, there was an instant connection. Bear was always protective of me, and didn’t let anyone come into the house easily, but he let Shea right in, and he loved him from the moment he met him. As we continued dating, Bear grew to absolutely adore Shea, and would become distressed when Shea would leave, so much so that we had to figure out ways for Shea to sneak out.

Once we were married, Shea and Bear were inseparable, and Bear became Shea’s shadow. If Shea sneezed, Bear would jolt violently and run to his side to check on him. If Shea sniffled, Bear had to quickly check on him. Bear slept in the bed with us, and every noise Shea made at night, Bear had to make sure he was ok. Bear would literally lose sleep worrying about Shea.

Some of the funniest moments were when I would sneeze, and Bear would still check on Shea. Or when Shea was in the shower and would sneeze and Bear would burst into the bathroom and have to check on Shea, shower or not.

I loved watching Shea and Bear together, and it always warmed my heart how much they loved each other. They had a special bond, all their own, from day one.

I have always made a big deal over Bear’s birthday, baking him a doggie cake and giving him cheeseburgers with his birthday number on them, taking pictures and videos. Christmas was a huge deal, with Santa coming to visit and leaving a ridiculous amount of toys and treats.

It all might seem silly, but I am so thankful for every picture and video now.

Everything changed on April 7, when I left for several days for a work conference in San Francisco, just about an hour from our house. Bear had seemed a little tired, but nothing that either Shea or I was really worried terribly about. I always overthink things, so I had it in my head to ask Shea about him while I was gone. And I did. Every day.

Shea let me know that Bear was running and playing, eating everything he could get, which was normal, and being his usual self.

When I got home on Thursday night, Bear was so happy to see me, even moreso than usual, he jumped on me, and snuggled up next to me, and gave me kisses. That night, we gave him so many treats, and were laughing as he barked for more, no matter how many he got. He seemed a little sluggish to me, and I made an appointment to take him to the vet the next day. I really thought he had stomach issues or something minor.

The next day was a whole different story. Bear was not himself, and around mid-morning, I saw him struggle to get up. My worry shifted into high gear. I rushed him to our vet, and after some blood work and xrays, they sent us to the emergency vet for an ultrasound.

Bear had hopped right into the car and otherwise seemed ok, so I was trying to soothe myself, talking out loud to myself and him in the car, everything’s going to be ok, everything’s going to be ok.

We got the emergency vet and being his usual friendly self, Bear greeted everyone in the waiting room, wagging his tail, waiting to be petted, and soaking up the compliments. I was shaking at the other end of his leash, trying to talk to the woman behind the reception desk. Still saying things to myself, willing him to be ok.

He had to be sedated for the ultrasound, and I paced around the waiting room, made all kinds of deals with the universe, and texted and called my husband and best friend…and waited.

The doctor finally called me in.

She cried as she told me that Bear had cancer, and that it had spread everywhere.

I blinked back at her in disbelief. This had never entered my realm of possibility. I wasn’t even thinking about cancer.

There was nothing I could have done, she had reassured me, but there was also nothing that could be done.

It was an awful moment. I sobbed as I asked what we needed to do for Bear. I was astonished to learn that we had so little time. He was going to start deteriorating so fast. Within hours. I could take him home for one more night, but he was not well, and any time after that would be difficult.

She let me know that he wasn’t in pain, just that he probably felt sick, like he had the flu. I asked if they could give him some medicine to make him comfortable. They gave him some anti-nausea meds.

I waited out in the waiting room for Bear to be brought to me. And when they did, there, in front of everyone, I fell to my knees and sobbed. I buried my head in his neck and told him I was so sorry and how much I loved him. I leaned back, and sweet Bear licked away my tears.

We made our way home. I had kept Shea updated, and I knew he was in shock. We were both sobbing as Bear made his way into the house for the last time. We couldn’t believe how fast he had deteriorated. We had both dreamed of giving Bear one last amazing day of everything he had ever wanted—endless cheeseburgers, a walk on the beach, all his favorite treats—but it was clear that none of that was going to happen. He laid on the couch and we told him over and over that we loved him, and we just loved on him as he rested. When we went to bed, he came into the bedroom and jumped onto the bed, and slept between us, one last time.

Taking him to the vet to let him go was absolutely hardest thing I have ever had to do. However, the one thing that gave me and Shea any peace about it was that it was clearly time. Bear had deteriorated so fast, it was unbelievable. He was able to walk into the vet, I was thankful for that. He would have hated to be carried. And he was still aware, and knew we were there. But, he was not well. We would not let him get to the point of suffering.

Those last moments are ours—in our three hearts, shared just between us. But I will tell you that Bear wagged his tail and loved us until the end, and that we held him as he took his last breath. He left this earth with words of love and gratefulness for how wonderful he made our lives.

In the days since we lost him, I have been lost. I should keep a list of the places I have fallen apart in public. I wish I knew the names of the people who have comforted me, once they knew the reason, crying with me in the aisles of Safeway, Target, and Sam’s.

Bear was not just a dog. As my therapist recently said, Bear was a being of such importance in my life—animal or human—that this is a huge loss. Because for me, Bear was never a pet. He was the heart I tied my hope to, a life preserver, a confidante that led me back to the living. As dramatic as it sounds, I can tell you without an ounce of hesitation that there is a very good chance that I would not be here without Bear. In the months leading up to the day I adopted Bear, I was losing my battle with depression. So many things kept happening, one after the other. It was more than any one person should take. More than I could take. Everyone around me saw it, too. They were worried.

The tide changed with Bear.

How do you repay that debt?

Yes, I saved his life the day I adopted him. But he went on to save mine, and then fill my life and Shea’s life with so much joy.

I still think I see him coming around the corner in the kitchen when I am cooking, or beside me when I roll over in bed. I swear I have heard his little sigh when he would lay down when the house is quiet.

I have felt that I have failed him, that I should have caught his illness sooner. It is all part of grief, I guess.

I know that Bear had a good life, and all the birthdays, and holidays, and all the days at the beach, all added up to a really spoiled dog by anyone’s standards. I am so grateful for all of that. Every silly thing I did, every over-the-top thing.

In my heart I know I did the best I could to love him, and give him everything.

Every day as I try to get through this grief, when I am struggling because I miss him so much, I close my eyes and imagine our eyes meeting from afar. I see him recognizing how much I need him—and he is running to me, as fast as he can. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me for a second, and he is smiling the whole time.

I love you, Bear.

Ten years just wasn’t long enough.

17 Years

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 25 May 2017 12:51:00 +0000

I am on a train, and as we started to move, I just burst into tears. I might be a little dramatic. But, I waited 17 years to get back here.

Paris. I am headed to Paris. Almost 17 years to the day, I am on a train, headed straight to my favorite place in the world, a place that means so much to me. There just hasn’t been an opportunity; life and work have gotten in the way, the time hasn’t been right, the finances haven’t been right, the list goes on. All the while, I have dreamed and wished and hoped. I honestly gave up on ever coming back.

Then, I had to come to London for work, and being two hours away from Paris, there was no way I was going to let the chance pass me by. So, voila! My work is done, and I am headed for a short stay in Paris.

When I went to Paris 17 years ago, it was on a lark, more of a last minute trip, not planned or obsessed over. I had to take vacation time I was going to lose, and I had a lot of hotel and airline points, and could do it for free, so I thought, why not Paris?

But, upon arrival, something so unexpected happened. I felt a connection to the city like nothing I had ever experienced before. Like I was “of” this place, like I had past lives here, or at the very least, my ancestors had walked here. I felt the very being of me had started here. I felt I had found home, something I have been endlessly searching for. I still can’t quite explain the connection I felt to Paris, but that feeling never left me, and the need to get back was like an aching chasm.

Later that same year, I went back at Christmastime, and I thought surely the spell would be broken, that maybe I was just so vacation-starved that Paris had cast a temporary spell that spring, but the feeling was even stronger. As I did the first time, as I left for the airport to go home, I wept in the cab the entire way.

There are other places that I love, other cities that are special to me, San Francisco in particular, that have a part of my heart. But there is something different and deeper about Paris. There always will be.

So, now, I am headed back, and I don’t have to ask if the spell is still there, the tears in my eyes tell me it is. Paris is waiting for me, and I am going home, even just for a few days. I cannot wait. I will wander, eat bread and cheese and pastries and not count a calorie once. I will walk through museums that make me remember why I loved every art class I ever took, and that I have tried to learn and absorb everything I can about the artists behind the huge canvases on the walls. I will stand in awe over works that are ancient that I have seen many times, but still feel like I am seeing them for the first time.

I will not plan too much, and get lost and end up finding amazing shops and restaurants, as I have both times when I visited before. I will still be a tourist and do a few touristy things. I will see the Eiffel tower. I will go back to my favorite little places I remembered in my dreams over the years.

I didn’t realize it had been seventeen years until I counted a few nights ago, and it made me sad. I had always kept Paris kept closer in my mind. I couldn’t imagine it had been so long. But now, I am going. Next week, I can say, I was just in Paris, last week. And in about two hours, I can say, I am in Paris, right now.

Right now.

What a wonderful thing.

Eight Years with Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Fri, 27 Jan 2017 23:27:00 +0000

I wasn’t prepared for how hard my life was going to be. None of us are. Unexpected hills and valleys, illnesses, loss, broken hearts, and then even more loss in different forms. There are so many things I have now that I thought I would never have: love, marriage, a sweet husband, a good, well-paying job, and relatively good health (aside from chronic migraines).

But I am healthy enough to get up and go, to work, and to take care of myself and my family.

I am guilty of making decisions in the hope that this “one thing” would make everything better. If I move here- to this place- my life will get better. If I get this job—my life will completely change and everything will work out. None of it is absolute. So many pieces have to fit together. I learn new lessons every day—some infinitely more painful than others.

Last year, as it came time for my annual post about Bear—my 7^th, celebrating his 7^th year as my sweet boy, I struggled to write it. I try to post on January 17 every year, the date I adopted him. It has always been fun to revisit the previous year of his antics and stories. The last few years have been harder for me to write, because I see time already affecting him and slowing him down. Mind you, he is now only 8, and he has an activity level now that probably represents a normal dog. When he was younger, he had the energy of 10 dogs, and I remember thinking I couldn’t wait until he slowed down.

And now he has.

As I have written before, he truly was a part of saving my life. In a low point—my lowest—I felt there wasn’t much to live for. I had battled depression for most all of my life, and I was losing the battle, the war, and my very desire to try.

Bear wasn’t one of those decisions where I thought—if I get this dog, it will make everything better. Deciding to adopt Bear was an out of the blue, completely unplanned, and not-thought-through, snap decision. Something in me knew he was mine-- and I was his--the very second I saw him. It wasn’t a choice, or a hopeful decision. I just knew he was supposed to come home with me, even though it made no sense at the time to bring a dog into my life.

I have no idea what he went through before he came to me, but I know it probably wasn’t good. He was only 12 weeks old, and for the first few days I had him, he was calm, and seemed sad. He perked up quickly, though, once he seemed to realize that he was staying and not being taken anywhere else.

He was stubborn, demanding, hilarious, and a big cuddle bug.

He is still all of those things today.

The biggest difference between now and even a few years ago is the stomach issues he has. This was a dog that could eat anything—and I mean anything—and would leave the vet scratching his head as to how he ingested a myriad of things, including: matchbooks, lightbulbs, packets of shampoo, Christmas ornaments, and large amounts of chocolate (just to name a few) without so much as a whimper, any sickness, or any damage, or need for surgery.

Now, if we give him too many treats in one day, his stomach gurgles and moans, and he feels awful. Not so awful that he doesn’t continue to beg for more, but he doesn’t have his cast-iron puppy tummy anymore.

We also no longer have to brace ourselves and guard the front door in acrobatic fashion—as he doesn’t dart out the second he sees an opening. This activity consumed our lives the first three years we had him—and I cannot count how many times I ran through several neighborhoods in hot pursuit of my 110 pound dog who had once again Houdini-ed his way out the door and down the street.

But, oh how lucky we are to share every moment.

I know everyone believes their dog is special (and as the saying goes, they would be right). But there are a few dogs—I see this in other dogs I meet at the dog park or other places—that hold some special quality that makes you believe there is something deeper lurking behind those big round eyes staring back at you.

Bear has that quality. He seems so aware of the world around him—in an almost human way. He senses when my husband or I are struggling and comes to us in ways and with gestures that take our breath away. I have a connection with Bear that is hard to explain, and yet, I love to tell people about. The bond he shares with my husband Shea is almost magical to watch. Bear loves Shea – adores him—and has from the second he met him. He hangs on Shea’s every word.

Bear is different with me, more subtle. Cuddling next to me on the couch, wiggling like crazy when I get home from a trip, and wanting me all to himself when he is sick. More than anything, Bear knows when I am off--not feeling well, or depressed or stressed--and he comes and finds me. He comforts me—silently, but not silently. With his big, brown, soulful eyes, he does communicate with me.

I adopted Bear in Charlotte, NC, and then we moved to Myrtle Beach, and then traveled across the country with Bear in the car to move to the San Francisco Bay Area. As Shea and I have had our ups and downs with our careers, family stresses, financial worries, and other issues, Bear was always our constant—the rock that made us laugh in the middle of tension-- and pulled us closer when we needed each other.

I love and hate marking this anniversary—eight years with Bear. I want time to stop. I don’t want to ever think about not having Bear in our lives. It’s silly, I know, to worry like this already. Bear likely has many more years with us, and is far from being old. But I also want this awareness of the fleeting time I have with him, because it makes me and my husband appreciate every second. We absolutely do. This boy has been loved beyond measure from the time he became mine, and every single day he knows it. He is spoiled, given more kisses on his furry head than we could ever count, and gets away with getting in the garbage and eating too much fruit in the backyard because we want every moment for him to be happy.

He does generally get scolded for chasing our cat, or trying to steal treats from his little brother Boone, but other than that, he has a pretty stress-free existence.

He LOVES stuffed toys, but doesn’t tear them apart like other dogs do--along with his brother Boone. He just loves them and carries them around. And every night, when he comes to bed, he chooses one toy to bring with him to sleep. Every night, I think my heart will burst when he does this.

He is hilariously impatient. He knows what we are asking for when we tell him “be patient” as we have to open a wrapper with a bone, treat, or toy, and he barks in defiance of the mere notion that he should be patient for that. He also wants to be let outside and back in the very second he requests both activities, even if that means they are only a minute apart. Once we let him outside and he comes to the door to be let in, he will bark once—urgently and loudly. If you don’t run to open the door, his barking becomes more insistent –and you can hear the annoyance in it. It makes us laugh, especially when he can see us walking to towards the door, but feels the pace isn’t quick enough and barks in rapid-fire fashion to let us know it.

A few months ago, I had the scare of a lifetime. It was very early, around 7:00am, and I was still sleeping after a late night of work. I was woken suddenly by an incredibly loud banging sound. I was sure that a generator had exploded in our neighborhood. The house was dead silent. Even the dogs were so shocked- they didn’t bark, which is unusual--they looked around as I did, confused.

I turned over to see that Shea wasn’t in bed with me. I called out to him. Silence. I got up and walked through the house, still thinking it was a generator that had exploded, not noticing that the lights were on and ceiling fans were running—all the while calling out for Shea. Not in the den, not in the kitchen. I had left my cell phone on the kitchen table and was hoping to see a text from him “gone to the gym”—his usual note to me if I was sleeping when he leaves to run.

No text.

Then, I turned to look down the hallway. In a moment I will never forget, I saw that Shea’s bathroom door was closed. That door is never closed unless he is in there. I started running down the hall, now screaming his name. Then, the dogs started barking. I pushed against the door and it wouldn’t open. To my horror, I realized Shea had collapsed and fallen against the door. The loud bang had been his body hitting the door. I pushed against the door, terrified—Shea was unconscious--and I was panicked. I was afraid of not being able to get to him, and also afraid of hurting him further as I pressed the door against his limp body on the other side.

Then, I noticed Bear next to me, pushing against the door with his head, scratching wildly at the floor, crying. He was panicked, too. But the miraculous thing was that the very high dog gate I had the boys blocked into the bedroom with was still in the same place, completely blocking the bedroom door, with no opening for escape. It’s too high for Bear to have jumped. I will never know how he got out in the hallway. All I know is that he had to try and get to his beloved dad, and he was trying to help me.

Thankfully, as I started dialing 911, Shea came around, groaning, the sweetest sound I have ever heard. He ended up spending the night in the hospital for observation, but was totally fine, and the whole thing boiled down to him passing out from extreme pain in his knee.

The night he spent in the hospital, Bear was inconsolable. He sat staring at the front door, whining, jumping at every sound outside to see if it was Shea coming home. Bear never likes it when Shea is gone, but this was different. This was worry. I had to force him into the bedroom that night, and he stood at the gate for most of it, staring down the hallway, whining.

Since Shea came home, he can’t shut the bathroom door without Bear scratching, or managing to open it. He sometimes stands in the bathroom while Shea showers. He is keeping an eye on him, and his worrying is so human, so real. We both talk to him and assure him. But, it’s in those eyes of his. He understands what happened, and he is worried.

As much as I try and explain it, I can’t. The special being this dog is. His sixth sense of knowing so many things that he shouldn’t be able to understand. The way he cocks his head when we talk to him. The way he comes to me when I am too deep in thought about things I can’t change, and no one but me knows my heart is hurting, and I am in the bedroom alone. I hear the soft click-click of his claws as he enters the bedroom and comes to me, quietly, slowly, and puts his head against mine, and then lays down next to me.

When I first brought him home, Bear literally saved me.

He still does, every single day.

It’s funny, I have made so many (what I considered to be) well-thought-out decisions in my life, in the hopes of that one small, insignificant thing changing my whole life for the better. But the one decision I made without thinking, without weighing the pros and cons, and without putting the weight of all my happiness on the outcome, turned out to be the one decision that did all those things and more.

Thank you, sweet Bear, for eight years with us.

You are so loved.

We are so lucky.

All of my Bear posts, year by year:

Six Years with Bear
Five Years with Bear

Four Years with Bear

Three Years with Bear

Two Years with Bear

Rescued

Considerations on the Eve of the Presidential Election

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 11 Oct 2016 05:32:00 +0000

A few situations to consider:

1) Let’s say two of your children attend the same elementary school, a school you and they both love, with excellent teachers. In July, you get a letter and a phone call from the school that there will be a new principal beginning with the new school year. To get everyone acquainted, you are invited, with your children, to a meeting at the school, a sort of meet-and-greet with the new leader.

Everyone arrives and has snacks and sodas and finally the principal weaves his way to the front of the room to a podium to introduce himself formally and make a speech. During that speech, he talks about his previous experience and success, and begins bragging about his achievements. Then, oddly he launches into imitating the secretary at the superintendent’s office, who has a disability. He jokes about how he couldn’t understand the way she talks, and even physically imitates her.

What would happen? I can tell you without a doubt what would happen. The room would go silent. Jaws would drop. No parent in their right mind would allow this principal to step one foot back into that school. Parents would picket; video of the offensive speech would be played. Unless you wanted this to be the person who led your child’s education, which no one would, you would do any and everything to make sure this person was not the principal. And if he somehow got through all of the petitions and picketing, and backlash, you wouldn’t send your child there, you would do anything else.

2) Your son is a junior in high school and is on the football team. The school’s head coach has just retired after years at the school, and the new coach is introduced. During practice one afternoon, your son and others tape the coach talking to them, in unbelievably inappropriate terms about “moving” on women without consent. It gets worse. The coach uses vulgarity you can’t imagine a teacher or coach or anyone would.

Just one guess, within 24 hours, that coach would no longer have a job.

Enough examples. It’s clear what this about.

This election has troubled me more than any other in my lifetime. But the examples above hit me for the craziest of reasons today. When the tape was released of Trump with Billy Bush, talking about what amounts to sexual assault, and being so vulgar and arrogant that it was stomach turning, there was damage to Trump’s campaign, but nothing catastrophic. However, it appears Billy Bush has lost his job. How did we become a country where a talk show host is held to a higher degree of accountability than a presidential candidate? Why in the world would we never accept Trump in a job such as principal or coach, but he is a heartbeat from the White House?

For years, Trump has been seen as a joke, a caricature of an insecure businessman with bad hair. I have seen jokes in my Facebook feed over the years from both sides of the political lines, and everyone agreed and made fun of him. Yes, he might be successful in business, but with multiple bankruptcies and other scandals, this has really left him as more of a reality show oddity than carrying heft in the business world. He had a brand, and every election year he set out to improve it. We all laughed and he faded away within a month or so. But all of the sudden, he is the GOP candidate, and people are not joking, but defending every new bit of reprehensible behavior.

The reason both infuriates me and breaks my heart. One of the main reasons that we are where we are right now is racism. I was not so naïve to think that our country was without racism, I have lived in areas where I watched the effects of it (with sadness) every day. But I did not realize how many people were so truly angry that a black man was elected president. Not all of his detractors are racist, but I believe so many people explain away their concerns, when all the while, racism is at the heart of it. I have tried to tell myself otherwise, but I hear what is being said at rallies, I watch white supremacy groups publicly support Trump (with no discouragement from him), and suddenly the swastika appears at his rallies, along with confederate flags. You can only ignore the signs for so long.

Things have been bad for a long time—we have worked slowly as a country to see all people--any race, color, or creed as equal. But every day now, as I watch the news, I feel us slipping backwards. It scares me. It makes me angry. Not all of it is Trump’s fault, but I will say this: once Trump stepped on a national stage and asked for the deportation of Muslims, demanded a wall be built to keep out Mexican “rapists”, and made fun—horribly, despicably—of a disabled person, he opened a vein for people out there who had these same horrible feelings, but had kept their mouths shut and tried to behave in society. Trump opened a door that can’t be shut. After all, if the US GOP candidate can stand in front of America and spit racist remarks and demean people, why shouldn’t everyone?

It both shocks and saddens me that if you honestly had to answer the top two questions at the beginning of this post, I know what your answers would be. I know that even my casual acquaintances on Facebook care deeply about their children and want to instill values and decency in them.

But why then, would we ever give such a man, who has done these things—and worse—even more power? Not just over a school, not just over a small group, but over our country? I can’t make it make sense. I understand that I am liberal, and I have voted that way in every election, and I understand party loyalty. This is so different. This is a truly disgraceful, terrifying choice, up against an experienced, capable candidate. Maybe she’s not your favorite person, maybe you dislike her, maybe you disagree with her. But she is not shouting racist words, inciting violence at her rallies, or asking or even referring to harming her opponent. I am not voting for Hillary Clinton just because she is the lesser of two evils, I believe in her. But I can tell you without one ounce of hesitation that if Trump were on the democratic ticket, I would vote for anyone, ANYONE, but him.

No, he is not asking to be the new principal or coach at your child’s school. He is asking for so much more. He is not even asking. He is assuming that we will all overlook what he calls “just words”. I won’t. And for the next four years, if God forbid he is elected, every time the television is on, and he is speaking, your children won’t.

Words are powerful. Hate is powerful.

We are better than this. Those are the words I am living by and saying to myself every day.

I hope you will, too.

One Less Heartbeat: Losing Lilly

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 23 Aug 2016 04:52:00 +0000

I don’t know why the thought came to me, four nights ago, the night we lost Lilly. I was getting ready for bed, hardly able to think straight, and the thought ran through my mind: There is one less heartbeat in our house tonight. I felt a pain in my own heart knowing that was true. I burst into tears, as I had so many times during that day, in public, in my car, in the ophthalmologist surgeon’s office as I went in to get my right eye checked—after having a cataract removed just the day before. I had to let Lilly go, watch her fall asleep for the last time as my husband and I held her and wept and whispered our goodbyes, then somehow get myself to the appointment. I did. I sobbed the entire drive home.

After getting home from the appointment, I sat in my car in the driveway, not wanting to enter the house where she wasn’t any longer. Lilly had become a tentative, quiet presence in our house for some years; so different from her younger days. She was a wild spitfire from the moment I brought her tiny little self home.

But almost unlike any cat I have seen with as much fire and attitude, Lilly was one of the most affectionate cats I have ever encountered. She loved to sleep curled up with Lucy--her sister from the same litter--or with me or Shea. She would head butt your hand, or burrow for a head scratch, or sweetly touch her head to your forehead to ask for love. Her motor was loud and deep, and I am so thankful that my husband managed to capture it on video so I can hear it again and again.

In 2001, on the day I set out to adopt a kitten, I planned on getting two so they would have company when I traveled for work. I had gone to a local rescue on a Saturday when they had adoptable kittens at the pet store. I found Lucy first, but none of the other kittens made a connection. The rescue employee told me there was one more from the same litter- a solid white kitten just recovering from a respiratory infection. She handed me a carrier and I looked inside, and no lie, I said, “Hello my Lilly.” I hadn’t picked out the name before, she just was my Lilly.

Lilly was hilariously naughty. She would hiss at me if I said “No” or gave her a cross word. She hid outside the litter box when Lucy was inside and waited for her to come out to pounce on her and scare her. If Lilly was scolded, she took it out on Lucy, or knocked something off a shelf, and looked at me as if she had most certainly had the last word.

I constantly had no idea what page I was on in any book I was reading, as Lilly adored bookmarks, and slipped them out from between the pages and eventually destroyed them.

The absolute best stories were always hard for people to believe until they witnessed them. A veterinarian once wanted to put her on a prescription diet—as she was having urinary tract infections and had only one working kidney. For whatever reason, Lilly did not like the food. After my first few attempts of feeding it to her, she would take one sniff and knock the bowl and the food across the kitchen floor. She didn’t eat for 4 days. I called the vet and he told me should would eat if she got hungry. Another few days went by and there was no change and he asked me to bring in Lilly, the dish, and the food. He clearly didn’t believe what I was telling him.

We went to his office, food, dish, and white feline, furry stubbornness, and I set all of it on the high counter as he came in to check her out. I put the food in the dish, she took a sniff, and smacked the dish and the food so hard that it flew off the exam table and hit the floor, food going everywhere. The vet laughed, a big, huge belly laugh, and made me set it up again for some of the vet techs to see. We all laughed, while Lilly stared at us as if she had had enough. He tried a few other foods out until one seemed to meet her standards. He reminded me to prepare myself. Lilly only had one working kidney, she would be lucky to live to be ten years old.

From the time I brought Lilly home, we moved over 10 times. Two of those moves were cross country. She was my constant companion as a single person, and comforted me over job layoffs, broken hearts, and unfortunately, a battle with depression that has been with me most of my adult life. There were few things over the years that could help me through my darkest times more than sweet Lilly’s motor running next to my heart.

She was always a challenge. I had to baby-proof my kitchen cabinets to keep her from scaling to the top cabinets, and knocking whatever dishes were in her way to the floor. She hated having her nails clipped, and somehow stole the little clippers I had for the job, over and over. Once, when I moved, I found four pairs of the clippers under the couch, deep in the back, her little stash of control.

Lilly is the only cat I have ever known who truly loved a good belly rub.

She is also the only animal I know that has wiggled her way into my mother’s heart. My mom is not an animal person, or a pet person, and is absolutely baffled how I live outnumbered by them. But my mother adored Lilly, and has called me crying several times over the last few days.

When my husband and I started dating in 2009, he was entering a relationship with three cats, one dog, and me—who needed anyone I was going to be with to love all of us. We were lucky. All the animals love Shea, and I say that once he came along, he was number one to all of them. Lilly was no different. She adored him and snuggled up whenever she got the chance. At this point, her wild days were behind her, so Shea had a hard time believing my tales of her naughty adventures.

We lost Lucy in December of 2014, and while we were devastated, we worried about Lilly so much. She had spent every day of her life with her sister and most days and nights, I would find them intertwined together, sleeping, and motors running. The first week after Lucy died, at night, Lilly would roam the halls and cry, looking for her, and Shea and I took turns sleeping in the den with her to give her one-on-one attention.

Since that time, Lilly was glued to Shea almost 24/7. It has given me great comfort that during some of my craziest work hours and not being home as much at that time, Shea was with her constantly. We didn’t know how little time we had left. I am thankful that I left my terribly stressful job earlier this year, and was so fortunate to find one where I can work from home. I was able to be with her more, and spend time with her, and get her little heart against my heart, her motor running all the while.

I have left the most beautiful Lilly story for last.

Many times over the years, after countless hours of therapy, different medications, more medications, and just, well, life, I found myself feeling so hopeless. I have shared openly that I have contemplated and attempted suicide multiple times, and it is some kind of miracle that I am here writing these words tonight. I didn’t really get the right help and get well until I was 39, so there were many, many years of battle.

One of my lowest points was when I was living in Washington DC in 2003, and personally and professionally, everything seemed to take a dive at once. I had been at this low point so many times before, but this time felt so different. Many nights, I would sit in the floor, holding Lilly, sobbing, staring at bottles of pills, and finally calling for help. This one night, I just didn’t have it in me anymore.

This night, I wrote letters. I called the pet sitter and asked her to come the next day, giving no indication that this was different than any other business trip. I called and asked for the apartment janitor to come early and fix something the next day, but left him a note on the door in an envelope to call the police instead. I had left a notes for the pet sitter, and anyone else who might read them to please make sure my cats were taken care of. I had people in mind who I thought would take them. I worried and fretted over them the most.

I was sobbing, trying to think of a way out, trying to convince myself differently. I swallowed pills and more pills, until I lost count, but knew it was enough. I laid in the bed, sobbing, and Lilly jumped up next to me, pushing herself against me, loving me with all her might. I apologized to her and to Lucy, and in a few moments, I was out.

Although Lilly had always been a firecracker, she was scared of a few things: a loud phone ringing, my hairdryer, and anyone knocking at the door or ringing the doorbell. Any of those noises sent her flying under the bed.

But on this day, at this particular time, there were noises louder than that. Policemen were breaking down the door. It took me so long to realize and half-stumble to the door and open it. One of the policemen leaned on the door frame in relief, seeing me alive. I, still, in a daze, crawled back to bed. And there, where she had been for all those hours, that whole time, was Lilly. Hammers hitting the door, the doorbell ringing incessantly, nothing had made her move. She stayed by my side. Her motor next to my heart, doing all she could to help me. To love me. To be there for me, no matter what.

The policemen had called an ambulance, I asked one of them to please call my pet sitter, he said he would make sure Lilly and Lucy would be ok while I was gone. He did. I was checked into a hospital into ICU that day.

That whole experience has been on my mind so much.

On the morning of August 17, Shea and I were leaving the house for my cataract surgery, and I looked at Lilly in the kitchen and knew something wasn’t right. We made sure she would eat and drink water, and gave her treats, and then we left. I worried the whole time. Shea and I both were really concerned, and once we got home, we went back and forth, hoping she was perking up one moment, then realizing the next that she wasn’t. My sweet husband was up with her a great deal during the night, and I will always be so thankful to him for that.

By the next morning, we knew. Even though she had beaten the odds and lived 15 years, she was fading. I laid in front of her and looked at her, and for one second she gave me this look, just a knowing, lost look, and then she seemed to look through me. She tried to walk and wobbled. Shea and I were both crying, and bundled her up in a blanket and headed to the vet.

Once the vet came in, it didn’t take long for everyone to realize. Lilly had gone blind overnight, she was in obvious discomfort. We would not let her suffer. Shea and I waited for them to bring her to us in a special room so we could hold her as we let her go from this life.

We both whispered in her ear how much we loved her and that she was safe, and how much we would miss her. She purred, loudly, until her very last breath, which gave me comfort. In her last moments, I told her I never forgot that dark night and how she stayed by my side.

I am so thankful that in her last moments, she knew I loved her enough to be there for her, too.

Playing Tag

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 04 Aug 2016 05:11:00 +0000

For decades, I have had dreams or nightmares, most that I can’t fully remember, and I wake up terrified, sometimes gasping for air, in a full-blown panic. At times, I can remember the last moments of the dream, the crucial moment when I am about to fall off the edge of a cliff, drive off the road, or be caught by the being pursuing me, which comes in many forms.

The ones I remember the most about are definitely dreams where I am driving a car, but on something like rollercoaster rails, and I keep losing control. I have turn after turn of barely holding the car on the tracks until I finally drive over the edge and begin falling and falling. That’s when I wake up.

It’s no coincidence that the more stressed or worried I am, the more frequent the dreams are. These are all clearly stress dreams, from all the books I have read about their meanings. The worst are honestly the ones I can’t remember at all, I am in a far worse state when I wake from those. I have seen any and all doctors and looked into holistic options, but these particular dreams aren’t thwarted by much.

I have written before about dealing with my worries or these dreams when I was very young, and lately I have been thinking so much about those nights when I was still living with my parents, probably in the third or fourth grade, and the world felt so overwhelming. I would sneak to the hall closet and grab a blanket, then I would quietly slip down the hallway to the den. I would finally reach the sliding glass door and open and close it slowly, then tiptoe across the porch, down the brick steps and into the grass. I would select a spot somewhere near the middle of our huge back yard, and spread the blanket out. I would lie down and look up, trying to slow my breathing, trying to ease my worrying mind.

I can remember that feeling, looking up, the cool air, and the most beautiful splatter of bright stars against the black sky. I would just look up and lie there, sometimes feeling tears hot on my cheeks. I think that lying there, I was hoping the universe would shift, or the world would tilt, or something would happen to make things better. That somehow, after my midnight stargazing, all the things I felt responsible for (my parent’s fractured marriage, my father’s adultery and alcoholism) would be resolved and our family could be happy.

If only it were that easy.

A few months ago, I was having another bad patch of these dreams, and woke up crying and sobbing several nights. On one of those nights, as quietly as possible, I got out of the bed I share with my husband and two large dogs, and tiptoed to the den, finding my pace quickening as I got near the back door. As soon as I got the latch free, I bolted out on to our deck. I surprised myself by literally running into the railing, the top plank almost hitting my chest as I caught myself with my hands. I was out of breath, crying, and completely confused by this desire to run, to get outside, as if that solved anything. To be clear, I have a husband I love, a house full of rescue animals that are my babies, and finally, a job that I love that doesn’t involve working with horrible bosses. I don’t want to run away from these things, or leave my life. It’s just this desire to run when I wake up from these dreams, or when stress overwhelms me.

I have tried to figure out why me running down the street in the middle of the night feels like a solution for anything.

Once in college, when I was first really battling deep depression, I had a horrible nightmare and just felt so overcome, that I grabbed my keys and shot out the door, at probably 2:00am. In just my slight little nightgown, I got in my car, rolled down the windows and started driving. I needed the air, I needed distance between me and (what I thought was) failure at the time. It was as if I was trying to go somewhere, leave all my emotional baggage, and return home, renewed. Instead, on this one night, red and blue lights flashed behind me.

After uttering more than a few four letter words, I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw, not only the approaching officer, but myself. Hair wild from the wind, yesterday’s mascara running down my cheeks, and IN MY NIGHTGOWN. Oh, and barefoot.

The officer approached and shined his very bright flashlight in my car. I had already been crying, and this really had pushed the sobbing to a new level. He told me I was driving a little erratically, and asked for my license and registration. Of course, I couldn’t find my registration, but I gave him my driver’s license, and he walked away.

I sat there sobbing, feeling like this was just a confirmation of all the things I believed about myself, and all the words thrown at me from my father that would not leave my mind.

He finally came back and kind of squatted next to me. He gave me back my license and asked, “What’s going on?”

I am sure it was quite the display as I tried to gasp for air and find my words, and mostly came out with, "I am just so overwhelmed. My parents are so disappointed in me, I can’t do anything right. I can’t make things better. Life is just so painful.”

I remember this part vividly, he stood up and said, with a lot of weight in his voice, “Yes, yes it is.”

He spoke to me a little about the fact that I wasn’t alone in feeling this way, and college was hard, and some other nice things. He said he had a daughter my age, and he would be worried if she went out driving as I was. He asked me to promise not to do this again, added on a few warnings about the dangers of the world, and then told me he was going to follow me home to make sure I got there safe. But before that, he wrote a name on a piece of note paper, telling me it was the name of a therapist he knew and recommended. He handed it to me and assured me he was in the phone book, and I could find his number.

He followed me home, and waved from his car and told me to be safe, as I turned the key in the lock.

I was mortified, touched, and glad I was living alone at the time. Most of my friends knew I struggled with depression, and I felt like it would be one more story to add to all of my others.

Once again, last night, I woke up, panicked, gulping for air and trying to hold tears back, and that same feeling hit me—run. Or get in the car—go. I shut my eyes and held my head in frustration, wanting this feeling to leave me.

Then, for some reason, I remembered running at recess in the park at our elementary school. I remembered tag and “home base”, the place of safety—usually a tree. I thought of fun with friends, being out of breath as we all huffed and puffed our way back to the classroom when it was time to return.

Later, I remembered truly scary moments with my father when I felt the need to get out of my house for my own safety, to really run, or get to my car, and sometimes couldn’t. Those were the worst times. Feeling trapped and scared.

Somehow, I like to think that all this got twisted together.

I know it’s easy to say that the urge to run means I just want to run away from my problems. I am sure that’s part of it. But somewhere in my mind, I am running fast, ahead of whatever or whomever is chasing me, ahead of my worries, my hair behind me in the wind.

I am looking for home base, wherever that is, so I can race up, grab on, and say “Safe”. No… I’ll yell it, scream it, feel it deep in my bones.

Then I'll relax, the dreams will subside, and I will let go of all the worries, all the things I feel chasing me, and all the things I want to leave behind.

Until then, some nights will still find me running, even if it is only in my mind. Hopefully the universe can shift and light the pathway for me to home base.

So for now universe, Tag, You’re It.

How I Wish I Could Have Met You

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Fri, 25 Dec 2015 00:33:00 +0000

I try to encourage my husband Shea to write more often, because he is a gifted writer, especially involving matters of the heart.

When we first started dating, one of the things I loved most about Shea was the compassion and love that was so apparent when he talked about his grandmother, and how he repeatedly said he wished she could have met me.

He also repeatedly talked about the pain and regret he had over not being able to speak at her funeral, for reasons he and I and few others know. But even though it hurts me knowing he didn't get to give the eulogy in person--because he wanted to so badly--here it is now. His love for her shines through. I know I would have loved her, too.

You can see the post on his blog here, or read it in its entirety below:

Dear Grandmother

I have been honored to deliver eulogies at the funerals for several close relatives, including my maternal grandfather and my paternal grandmother. My dad's father passed away several years before I was born, and for reasons I won't get into, I did not speak at my Grandmother Canupp's funeral.

I have regretted it ever since. I am sorry these words are eight years late.

Dear Grandmother,

I miss you so much every day, but I miss you most at Christmas time. Especially Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve was always our day. Our entire family gathered at your house for our annual celebration. But luckily I grew up within walking distance of your house, so I was always the first to arrive (and the last to leave.) I just loved every part of that day with you and granddaddy, and I wanted it to last as long as possible.

I loved helping granddaddy bring in wood for the fire we would build, or serving as your unofficial food taster, or as I got older, driving to the store for last minute purchases. I treasure the memories of the planning of those days as much as the actual parties.

There was one unplanned tradition that dominated my childhood. I would get so excited about Christmas and food and presents, that I would literally throw up at some point during our Christmas Eve party. This happened every year. Until I was 11 or 12 (In an effort to stop the embarrassment, I finally decided to avoid food for 24 hours before the party. I wound up passing out and falling down a flight of stairs. But, next play, as they say. Keep pounding.)

The rest of the family would always make sure I was OK and then (rightfully) enjoy a few laughs at my expense. But grandmother, you always knew the right thing to say to make me feel better: "Santa Claus is coming. I don't know why everybody isn't throwing up."

Christmas was and remains my favorite time of year, but the truth is, every day was special with you grandmother. I was lucky that I got to see you almost every day growing up. I don't know how I was able to stay so skinny as a child, because a lot of days I had two dinners- at our house and yours.

In fact, everyone who knew you grandmother, will remember just hard it was to leave your house without eating or at the very least taking a plate for the road. It was next to impossible, whether you were hungry or not. It almost became like a battle of wills. But grandmother, you were going to win. Actually, everybody won.

Everybody thinks their grandmother is the best cook in the world. But they are wrong. Because you were, grandmother. From the dressing at Thanksgiving and Christmas, to the biscuits that were made from scratch virtually every day and so much more. And it was all delicious. (I have to admit that fried squash was not my favorite, but yours was better than any other I've ever had.)

And grandmother, you were responsible for the single best meal I ever had: country fried steak after my high school graduation. I can still remember being in your kitchen that night, thinking this was as good as it gets.

But grandmother, any time spent with you was automatically more special. Our family vacations at the beach were always fun, but were off the charts when and you and granddaddy were there. My favorite little league games were when I saw you in the crowd. And I am so, so thankful that you and "Ma" Griffin were both able to be in Boone when I received my college diploma.

Everybody who knew you knew how much you loved the Lord. It was powerful, and it was genuine. And I have never known a better example of what a true Christian should be than you and granddaddy.

My favorite days in church were when I sat beside you and granddaddy. (Actually, my very favorite days were when I sat beside you while granddaddy delivered a sermon.) I remember you always had the little peppermint hard candies in your purse. We would try to unwrap them as quietly as possible, then try not to laugh when we would inadvertently make too much noise.

I worked for nearly 20 years as a sports broadcaster and, whether you realize it or not, you and granddaddy had a profound influence on my career path. Granddaddy was the biggest baseball fan I ever knew and I loved to watch games with him. I spent nearly every Monday night of the summer at your house watching "Monday Night Baseball" (back when baseball on TV was a true event). I also read the sports page at your house nearly every day, and you gave me my first subscription to "Sports Illustrated".

I'm sure you thought that, if anything, I could possibly write about sports some day. I am certain that the thought of that quiet, shy kid talking about sports for a living never entered your mind. But I loved seeing the videos of you "watching" me on the radio. I always knew that you were proud of me. I hope you know how much you inspired me.

There are so many more memories that spring to mind when I think of you, grandmother. All good. All special. Just like you.

But you gave me my most special Christmas memory of all time, at your last Christmas on this Earth in 2007. Alzheimer's had ravaged your memory, and I wasn't sure if you had recognized me for quite some time. But when I walked into the nursing home to see you that day, you lit up and said "Shea Boy", the name you called me as a child. It's a moment that still give me chills.

This Christmas Eve, as has been the case for the last few years, finds Kim and me 3,000 miles away from most of our friends and family. I really wish you could have known Kim, grandmother. I think the two of you would have been thick as thieves. She had this photo of you and granddaddy printed on a canvas and framed and gave it to me for Christmas several years ago.

I just hope you knew how much I truly loved you. And still love you. Always. Merry Christmas.

Actually, Merry Christmas Eve.

by Shea Griffin 12/24/2015

Time of Year

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 19 Nov 2015 20:51:00 +0000

Some years it sneaks up on me, at others times I can feel it coming. From about mid-September until mid-January, I struggle. In the strange irony that supposedly makes life interesting, this is also my most favorite time of the year, my favorite season, by far.

I love fall the most, when the air gets cooler, and unfortunately just when all of "this" starts to set in, and on the years I forget it's coming, or when a few more weeks have passed before whatever this is “hits”, it breaks my heart all over again that I can’t just get past whatever is hard-wired in me to drop a little lower this time of year.

It’s the only way I know to explain it. I think people that have had relatively "normal” lives, (I use the word normal with caution here- it’s hard to define what is normal, so just bear with me) with no severe depression or anxiety, with no trauma--or timing tied to that trauma-- who didn’t experience abuse or severe dysfunction-- well, there's a certain base level in life that they walk along, their pathway if you will, with some hills and valleys, but nothing that consistently sets them reeling that is tied so close to the earlier suffering.

For the rest of us, the category I find myself in, I don’t really know what to call it—but that “level” I tread on is a bit lower. It’s closer to more pain, more associations with trauma and traumatic events, and memories that won’t erase or ease, no matter how much therapy or time I throw at them. It’s where I reside, and I understand that it also makes me who I am, and there are things about that level I am grateful for—deeper compassion, understanding those who suffer similarly, and just an overall awareness of my tenuous place in the world.

So, there I am walking on this lower line, and the thing is, that’s during the rest of the year—spring and summer. That is my “normal” line or level, lower than some others—but it’s there. And it’s fragile. And I know that.

Then, as in the past, let life throw in a curve ball like getting laid off from a job, severe financial stress, the loss of a love, experiencing an abusive relationship, or just re-hashing family pain to the point of insanity, and there’s a crack that gets bigger and bigger on that level, until I fall through. How big the curve ball, how close it is to past pain, defines the width of the crack, and I can either (barely) hang on to the edges and climb out, or slip through and fall. And fall. How low, how deep I fall before I try and catch myself is key--and it varies.

There have, at times, been moments when it felt better to fall and fall, rather than to try and catch myself, grasping on to dirt and rock that gave way constantly, knowing then that I would just have to fight with every ounce of strength to climb and cry and struggle to get back to my semi-normal level. But I have done it. More than once. Not without scars. And certainly not without help.

This year, the crack came fast and opened up and swallowed me quickly. It wasn’t some obvious curveball this time. It was a combination of things where I kept nodding and saying “I am ok”, until there was no more “I am ok” left. My lower level gave way. That overpowering feeling hit me--hard. I am tired of this. I am tired of feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, and dealing with not ever feeling like I have had what I would have deemed a normal life one day-- looking ahead through ten-year-old eyes.

I am finally smart enough now to know that when that crack opens, I need to call for someone with a good, strong, ladder to send down to me in that dark place and help me climb out a little easier. I called a therapist. I found her randomly on my insurance website, and hoped that I would get lucky. Sometimes it takes a few tries to find the right person who fits and “gets” you and what will help. I told her I was trying to be proactive before things got worse. I called just to make the appointment and I told her I was terrified I was going to slip back into a massive depression as I had before. I told her I was scared to come because somehow, it would throw me further down the black hole.I told her I was talking to friends, and my husband, maybe that would be enough. I even tried to call back and cancel.

She was having none of that. She gently pushed me to keep the first appointment. And boy, did I ever get lucky. This woman is the most perfect therapist I could wish on any human.

She listened for a few sessions as I lamented that I didn’t understand why I was falling through the crack again, why I couldn’t just be a normal person and get through things without feeling this way. I have love in my life, I have my husband, I have a house-full of rescue animals that are an incredible comfort, I have these good things--I have a childhood friend who checks on me constantly when I am like this. Why isn't it enough? I cried a good bit. She helped me catch my breath.

After a few sessions, she reminded me that I lost Lucy last year at this time in a very traumatic way—and that I had to quickly press on with everything else, while not necessarily having the time to grieve for what happened and the horrible way it all took place. Anniversaries are hard, no matter how tough you are, and I am approaching that one.

She listened as I told her that I lost a friend of decades recently—only a few months ago. He was always one of my closest friends, I considered him (and others in his family) within the small circle of people I trusted-- one of my safe places. And then, with great pain, I discovered that to him, I had all along really been (along with a line of other women) nothing but an odd person to have in reserve for ego boosts to draw from when he felt inadequate in his life. Several times recently, he tried to overstep with me (with confidence behind a virtual screen)—completely disregarding my marriage and his, and making me feel used, sad, and foolish for believing he had always been a close friend. It hurt both me and my husband, and I ended all communication with him. I didn't know how to handle the situation. The realization of the truth of this friendship--or lack thereof--made me doubt my value as a friend--and a person. I feel so insecure about the few truly close friends I have, and losing one that I trusted was devastating. (another situation over the last few weeks that I kept telling myself “I was ok” about).

We talked about how recent layoffs at my job have left me covering extra duties, when I already work so many hours. I told her how overwhelmed I feel at times when I can’t be on top of everything at work the way I like to be---and how that can feel like failing—when somewhere in me, I know it’s not.

She reminded me that even though I am no longer alone for the holidays, that I was for many years and it was so painful, and that paying some type of homage to surviving those times was going to always linger with me. As I told her stories of painful moments from so long ago—from childhood and in college that very few people know—that I write off as just my family history-- she listened.

During one story, she got a look of horror on her face as I shared a particularly difficult Christmas eve episode—and she told me I wasn’t grasping how strong I was to have faced all of this, survived it all—and found the strength to reach out for help. That anyone in my situation would need help to navigate all of this loss and pressure. That I was strong, not weak—which is how I always feel when I reach out. Why do I do this--even knowing the value of therapy and how it has helped save me before? Why do any of us? Why do I think I have to have superpowers in the face of a lot of things going wrong, or just too much to handle all at once?

She is helping me re-define that. The strength in reaching out. No matter how much I preach it to others on social media, or in one-on-one conversations with others who are struggling, I see myself as weak for needing help.

So many of us do. We think we are more flawed, more unworthy, more wrong about things if we ask for help. We are not. Life is hard. There is love and joy and beauty and friendships, and surprise moments that make the ride worthwhile, but it is hard. For all of us.

Today I left my session feeling so empowered, that I could take on everything in front of me, including these ghostly memories, these haunting associations, these struggles, pain, losses, and just my exhaustion, and crawl back up to my “normal” level a little faster.

This therapist of mine...she is wonderful. She has a beautiful, long ladder, and as she lowers it down to me, under my breath, I thank her as I climb every single rung to the top.

There is breathtakingly beautiful art throughout this post. All of the black and white gorgeous pieces can be found on etsy in The BlackraptorArt's Shop- Unique black and white art by Joonas Ennala.

The beautiful angel kitty photo is by Krista May and more of her work can be found in her etsy shop

And finally, the ladder image, named (appropriately) Above All Odds, is by the artist Daniella Fishburne. More of her beautiful work can be found in her etsy shop.

Back to Me

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 12 Nov 2015 05:40:00 +0000

Take the pain from my heart this night-
Let it be swept into the undercurrent that frightens me.
Bring it to the surface clean, another beginning--back to me...
Allowing me to forget the hours and time before.

Take this ache from my being-
In unnamed places, grief in flashes, that won’t solve mysteries;
The somber cloud that promised never to come--back to me...
Yet slithered through the inky black cracks of night to find me.

Return the things I gave away-
Too easily, too cheaply, at such a high cost.
Then, their honest value could never be returned--back to me…
Not in any way that resembled my true worth.

Lead me back to an unknown winter-
Snow so deep, the air so silent--small flakes dancing;
Promising the beauty in my beating heart--would always be mine…
No need to come back to me; just safe and warm in my unbroken soul.

ksg

Two Years with Boone

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 06 Oct 2015 05:49:00 +0000

At two years old, Boone is the baby of the family. At 110 pounds, and several inches taller than Bear, he is also our biggest baby. We could have never guessed the joy and laughter he would bring into our lives when I first saw his picture on a local rescue site.

While he is the baby, he has matured a lot in the past year especially. He now bounds up to people at the dog park happily, and accepts their attention and praise so easily—something that has been a struggle at times. He is still reluctant with other dogs, he gets skittish when excited pups run up to him to play. But every time we go, he is a little braver, a little more curious. I never tire watching the magic of rescue and love that work together to make a dog’s life so much better, every day.

Someone recently commented on a picture of Boone that I posted on Facebook: He is such a lucky boy. My immediate thought and response was, WE are the lucky ones. Boone is so loving, so sweet, just a perfect dog. I have never seen an animal so happy all the time. Boone is rarely without a smile, and he bounds through the house, absolutely grateful for every treat, every bit of attention, every time we come home from a trip to the grocery store, every snuggle with his brother Bear—just every single moment.

He also loves to watch television. Bear at times has watched a particular commercial, or might see something that caught his attention for a few seconds at most. In comparison, Boone is a couch potato. He especially loves anything animated—and if there are dogs on TV, whether in a commercial or on a show, he freezes and his attention is completely diverted to the screen. At times, he will cry out and run to the screen with such sweetness—wanting to play with the dog on the screen- that I have to get up and hug him right on the spot.

Boone’s only challenge is spacial awareness—as we like to call it. When Boone runs up to one of us, that usually means running into us. He tears through the house, taking a flying leap to land on our king sized bed, without any consideration that there are bodies under the blankets. He will flop down right on my chest and lick my face happily, while I laugh and groan with the weight of him at the same time. It is impossible to be upset with him, his smile is so constant.

Since he was a puppy, Boone has swatted at us with his paws, usually trying to grab on to us in one way or another. It is a way of showing affection for him, although his huge paws are a little more painful than his puppy paws were. Shea and Boone share the sweetest little ritual. Boone will sit in front of Shea, and Shea will say, I love you and hold out his arms. Boone will respond by sitting on his back legs and putting his paws in Shea’s arms. I like to think Boone is trying to hug us.

I often call Boone our “sunshine boy” because he is a burst of happiness every morning. He sleeps on the bed with us sometimes, but most of the time he sleeps on his doggie bed next to Shea’s side of the bed on the floor. Once a little bit of light comes through the window, I know that Boone’s head will pop up as he stands on his hind legs and starts swatting at Shea, covering him in kisses before he is fully awake. I am not a morning person in the least, but Boone’s happy morning greeting makes me smile every single day, and definitely starts my day on a good note.

He is also the most sensitive of all of our animals. When he dissects stuffed animals at lightning speed, and we hear him chewing on a squeaker he just removed, we rush to get it to keep him from choking or ingesting plastic pieces. Even though we talk sweetly to him while we take it, after returning from the trash can, Boone will inevitably be pouting, his ears back, and his head down. It only takes a few seconds to get him smiling again, but his feelings are easily hurt. I love that sweetness about him, though. There is a certain baby-ness about him in that respect that I hope he never loses.

Boone has learned so much from his big brother Bear, and it has been so good for both of them to have a sibling and a co-conspirator in backyard chases, and barking at squirrels on the roof. Whether he learned it from Bear, or just had a stubborn streak of his own, Boone can hold his ground at times to an exhausting level. His favorite stubborn moments are demanding to go outside (when he just came in five minutes ago). Although we may protest and get him to lay down for a few seconds, he is up, barking and stomping his front paws—and smiling—until we give in. He knows we will cave.

His other hilarious show of stubbornness involves coming in from outside (a little less hilarious at 2:00am). Both dogs will go outside and Bear comes back fairly quickly, barking to be let in immediately. The up and down of opening the back door to our fenced in back yard can be a little tiresome, so we try to get Boone in at the same time. He will stand or sit in the yard and stare at us as we call his name. But, if we say the word “treat”, he dashes in. He has us trained very well.

Bear and Boone have always been so sweet with each other. They have their moments of struggling to share toys and they worry if they are getting an equal number of treats (they are), but Boone has been good for Bear, and Bear has been so, so good for Boone.

I say all the time that Boone is the biggest love on four legs. He is. He is also funny, sweet, emotional, and just pure joy. He makes us laugh on days when it seems impossible to smile. He and Bear both share nursing duties when I am fighting one of my frequent migraines. He is an absolute ham, and knows how to work his cute face to get just about anything he wants. He is another love of our lives, a furry, smart, endearing, adorable creature that has a huge part of our hearts.

As he snores next to us tonight after two days of celebrating two years with us, I am so thankful for chance, fate, coincidence—whatever it is that brought Boone into our lives. I am so thankful that we were a part of rescuing him, that we are the ones who get to love and spoil him.

Happy 2^nd birthday sweet Boone--we are the lucky ones.

Tangled Web

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Wed, 15 Apr 2015 04:35:00 +0000

I couldn’t put my finger on why I was upset. It was just another phone call to soothe my mother’s nerves. But, my father had answered. His tone was upbeat, and he shared that he was excited about buying a new bicycle. He is 74, and is in better shape and spirit than most people twenty years younger. He tells me he has signed up for a 10-mile bike trek and sightseeing adventure along the Gulf Coast. It’s just his voice—there is something pleading in it. He is trying.

Over a lifetime of calls with him, the effort has been lacking. The calls ranged from the normal quick calls back and forth when I lived at home, apprising him or my mother of my whereabouts, to violent, angry calls, filling me in on all of my flaws, lashing out at the latest disappointment he had been dealt in life, courtesy of me, his youngest daughter. There really was no in between, except perhaps, for the years that he wouldn’t come to the phone if I called, even if I pleaded. Sometimes he would answer, and knowing it was me, he would pick up the phone without a word and slam it on the nearest table our counter. He would call to my mother, saying “It’s her,” in a tone that let me know he couldn’t muster the energy to say my name.

This latest version of our calls is harder to understand. While we don’t talk about anything that happened over the years, there is something there in his voice, asking me to connect. Is this his version of an apology? My emotional response is one I recognize—guilt. I feel guilty for not giving more, for not just coming out and telling him I hear this in his voice, that it’s all ok. I am angry and confused that I somehow still feel guilty, that the repetition of the calls over the years has left me this way. No matter what our calls were about over the years, I ended up hanging up the phone and feeling awful. More often than not, I ended up sobbing. I don’t know how to react or feel any other way. After I talk to my father, my knee- jerk reaction is to examine what I am doing wrong, what is wrong with me.

That has never been a challenge.

The voice I hear in my head is his. Second-guessing every single decision I make in life, constantly putting myself down, thinking the worst. I have to battle to hear the faint whisper of my own voice, trying in vain to protect me. Years of therapy finally helped me adjust the volume so that on my best days, I hear my own voice clearly. But try as I might, I can’t mute his completely. It will always be an echo, or a drumbeat, and at times it still thunders so loud that it takes all of my energy to drown it out.

To keep myself from becoming lost yet again in guilt and worry, I make myself remember everything over the years that has gotten me to this point. I cannot connect any deeper with him because of all of those things--very real things--that my mother and father both choose to place in their world of denial. Drudging all of that up is necessary, but it takes its own toll. Being raised in a family that chooses to not only deny the truth, but bury and forget it altogether, can make you feel the need to return again and again to your memories, to ensure that you, too, don’t get lost and buried.

There’s a nagging tug in hearing his voice age and my mother’s become more frail. I watch as friends lose their parents and I debate in my head if I am doing what I should. I stare down a rabbit hole that I have fallen into many times, too deeply—worrying more about my mother’s or father’s happiness than my own. I stare long and hard, and make myself back away. It is not a simple decision, it is a battle. I think it will always be.

Even though it is hard, I have kept communication with them. Most of this I have done for my mother, who needs the connection with me. I love her, and I know that nothing that has happened was intentional on either of their parts. My mother did not set out to marry an alcoholic, unfaithful man. My father did not set out to be a bad husband or father. But they both made choices that impacted my life and theirs. Those choices paved the way for a very painful life for me, and incredibly poor self-esteem. Each time I go through these feelings of guilt, I have to connect to a particular memory to remind me why I have to keep my distance and take care of myself.

The one this week that helped was fairly recent, back in 2009, when I was living in Charlotte and working for a women’s magazine. I had just gotten back on my feet after a really horrible time with deep depression, that had me still shaky at times. My mother and father were driving through town, back to their home in Florida. Charlotte was merely going to be a pit stop, to see me. My father’s birthday was coming up, so I had put together a gift for him, trying hard to do something nice. It took me hours just to pick the wrapping paper. We were to meet for breakfast, near my office, so I could go into work right after.

I got there early, not wanting to disappoint anyone. Soon after I arrived, my father called my cell phone, obviously angry, demanding directions. His anger, as always, panicked me, and I scrambled to think of street names and exits off the interstate. He wasn’t clearly explaining where he was, and was cursing –every other word was “fuck” or “shit”. I was sitting at a table in an Einstein’s Bagel’s restaurant, breathing heavily, trying to calm my father down, and figure out where he was and how to get him to my location. After ten minutes of back and forth, he angrily growled that I “didn’t know fucking anything, and had ruined every fucking thing…just like always”. The line went dead. I hadn’t looked up from my table during the call, and realized that people were staring. I was still breathing hard, and somehow didn’t realize I was crying. A woman next to me reached over from her table and put her hand on my arm. As is my usual response, I apologized. She looked me square in the eyes and said, “Please stop. Stop apologizing.” I just shook my head, for a minute back to being five years old and in my father’s shadow. “I could hear every word he was saying,” she continued, “stop. You aren’t the one in the wrong.”

I managed to thank her and then got into my car and fell to pieces. Somehow, I was able to walk into my office 30 minutes later and no one was the wiser. I have had a lifetime of experience in covering my emotions.

This, in comparison to many other incidents with my father, was minor. This was nothing but words. I remember telling myself that on that morning, over and over. Nothing but words, nothing but words. But words have meaning. I believed he meant it when he said I ruined every fucking thing—always. Hearing things like that your whole life makes an impact. I still have to remind myself—daily—that I am not someone who ruins things. I am someone of worth.

It took me 38 years to begin to speak out loud and really begin to tackle my depression and the reality behind it. I slipped during the process and barely regained my footing. More than anything during all of the therapy, the tears, the hard conversations, and reliving things too painful to endure once--much less countless times in my therapists office--the thing I gained that is most valuable is the realization that I had to save myself. Actions I was taking, that I thought were the choices that made me a good person--a good daughter, were actually weighing me down more and more, and eventually pulling me under. The people around me, who were supposed to love me unconditionally, who I should have been able to rely on no matter what, were actually helping me drown.

I almost did drown. It was a very close call.

There are moments today when I feel the weight, I feel the water rushing over me. After a lifetime of fighting this, of battling constantly to feel better about myself, to hear and trust MY voice, I sometimes feel exhausted. I want to just settle in and let it all go. Just let the water take me.

Then I remember how far I have come, and that once I saved myself not too many years ago, I came out of the water, gasping and barely alive, but I made it. I survived. It was a long, hard fight, but I did it. So many beautiful things came after—that wouldn’t have unless I had freed myself to allow them.

Unfortunately, guilt still lingers and my heart still questions things. I have to go through this process—even after a simple 5 minute phone call-- to remind myself what it takes to be free, and how much I can invest before it’s too much. It’s still a hard long process, but it is worth it.

I am worth it.

Six Years with Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Fri, 27 Mar 2015 21:30:00 +0000

I am terribly behind in writing this post. Months behind. I made excuses, and some were valid. We lost our cat Lucy near Christmastime, and the weeks after that were difficult. There were added stressors, and other things that seemed to get in the way.

But, every year, I have looked so forward to writing this post and sharing my memories of sweet Bear. I realized finally that my hesitation is rooted a little bit in fear. Time is passing so fast. Bear is six. How can that be? For some reason, this year is hard. Passing the five year mark, he is less of a baby, and at times, I can see it. His once cast iron stomach, which was affected by absolutely nothing he ate—from lipstick to light bulbs—now gets queasy and upset from overdoing it with treats. His boundless energy, which I used to beg for a break from—is now a thing of the past. He has spurts of it—definitely—but prefers napping and sleeping in on lazy Sunday mornings. He’s had a few aches and pains, too, back strains that left him unable to jump on the bed for a few days (which had me sleeping with him on the floor) and a few hurt paws and leg strains that made him limp for a few days.

He is actually healthy and in great shape, the vet assures me, as I worriedly take him in for every little concern. He is just getting older. He is not even “old” at this point. It is just hard to watch the transition.

Bear is more than a dog, more than a companion. He is one of the loves of my life, and I say this without doubt or hesitation. A part of my heart will always be his. He found me (and I believe that in some cosmic way he did find me) at the very lowest point of my life. Even then, I didn’t realize that’s where I was. But he came to me then, and was the only heartbeat strong enough to pull me completely out of that pit I was in. There is a magical connection between us, I can’t fully explain it, and I don’t expect others to accept or comprehend it. I am so grateful to him, for loving me, and teaching me to love and laugh again.

This bond with us was unfortunately formed at a time when I was deeply depressed, and now Bear has a sixth sense with me of when I am drifting towards that abyss. There is a knowing look in his eyes that both comforts and scares me a bit. How can he know? How can he know when no one else does? He pulls a little closer to me in those moments and stares and at me long and lovingly. I am here—he seems to say. I feel it.

The best example of this is a recent moment in my life that I will never, as long as I live, ever forget. My husband was there to see it, and I am so thankful that someone else saw how special it was.

It was Saturday, December 13, 2014. My husband and I had just come home from letting our cat Lucy go, having her put to sleep, after a traumatic ordeal. Just minutes before we walked in the house, I had cradled my cat of 14 years in my arms for the last time and felt all the guilt of the world rush over me. The moment was bigger than that; I felt I had failed in one of the few things I could rely on knowing how to do—taking care of these fur babies. I came into the house and although Bear and Boone were doing their usual wiggly, happy, welcome dance, I couldn’t engage.

I tried to make it to my bedroom in the back of the house, and couldn’t. I made it as far as the guest bedroom and collapsed on the bed, lying on my side facing the wall, sobbing in a way that I haven’t in years. Boone came in the room, utterly confused, jumped on the bed and back off. At first, Shea didn’t realize where I went and was looking for me. In the meantime, Bear came slowly into the room. He carefully got on the bed just as Shea entered the room and sat behind me on the bed. Bear crept slowly to me, and began licking the tears from my face. He then carefully laid down next to me and slid his two front paws under my head and neck, something he has never done before. Then, he put his head between my head and shoulders and pulled me close. Shea actually gasped. He said Bear had the most human expression, that he shut his eyes tight as he pulled me close. I sobbed into Bear’s chest for a good bit and held him, amazed at this act of comfort. I won’t ever forget that. I can’t do it justice with my words. But in moments of sadness, loss, and despair, Bear has found me, always.

Bear has a really good life. He is spoiled by anyone’s measure. He wants for nothing. We tell him every day, over and over again, how much we love him. He has a big back yard to romp with his little brother. Boone idolizes him, and the two of them love to play and bark at all the threats that dare come too close to our house, real or imagined. The two of them are regular visitors to the local dog park and one of my great joys is looking across the park and seeing Bear’s huge smile as he takes it all in. He still does laps around the huge park in bouts of what we call “crazy dog”, which actually comforts me, letting me know that he still has some puppy energy in there somewhere.

Bear and Shea have an incredibly close, special bond that was instantaneous when they met, and part of the reason I was able to open my heart to Shea, when I had thought true love was something for the rest of the world, not me.

Bear is an unapologetic bed hog, taking up most of the space in our king-size bed every night. He will playfully growl if I try to move him, and often kicks both of us in annoyance when we interrupt his comfortable sleeping positions. There are times when it would be easier to make him move to the floor, but Shea and I will share a glance, and although we don’t say anything, I know we are both thinking that he won’t always be here and he gets to sleep however he wants.

At his last vet visit, Bear, as usual, charmed everyone and the vet laughed as he himself was tricked into giving Bear another treat in exchange for cooperation during his exam. The vet let me know that Bear really could lose a few pounds, and that we needed to cut back on the treats. We try, but this face is hard to resist.

He makes us laugh, with his stubborn, funny attitude—his sneaky way of tricking his brother out of his bones and toys, and his human-sounding burps and farts, that still, after 6 years, make us belly laugh every time. He is unapologetic about those, too.

As I write this, Bear is lying next to me, snoring a little, snuggled up as close as he can get, with a paw on my knee. I have been having a rough couple of days, and today for some reason, has been tougher. He knows that. Somehow, he knows.

Thank you for a beautiful, love-filled, happy, hilarious, special, flying-by-too-fast six years my sweet boy. We love you. I love you. You are my sunshine.

All of my Bear posts, year by year:

Five Years with Bear

Four Years with Bear

Three Years with Bear

Two Years with Bear

Rescued

Unfinished

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sat, 14 Mar 2015 14:01:00 +0000

Behind.

If I had to describe one word for how I feel right now, that would be it.

Overall, in general—career, personal, just life.

In reality, I am not. Well, in some ways, I guess it is true.

I hate this feeling.

This past November, I started a new job that I am so well suited for. I have felt needed, respected, and know that I am in a place where I can make a difference and do good work. I am old enough now to know that this doesn’t come along every day. I have worked in some places over the past decade that made me so miserable, where I felt so horrible—where almost everyone felt horrible. Toxicity was almost applauded. Those workplaces are more common than you think. It’s scary how accepted that kind of atmosphere is in a lot of offices. Nowhere is perfect, but I finally landed somewhere that feels…right.

So, there’s one check mark for the areas of my life that I worry about. Career/Job—check.

My marriage just passed the four year mark, and we still love and support each other. I honestly worried for so long that I would never have that kind of love in my life. So, there’s another big area I can add to the list—personal/love life—check.

There’s this stupid thing I do all the time—it’s a habit I started so long ago that I can’t remember when it began. I know it was borne out of me making promises to my depressed, worried younger self. I was really struggling with my self-esteem when I was younger, with everything that was going on with my parents, my father in particular, and just the overall cloud of worry that hung over me a good bit of the time. So, I have this bit of an imaginary check-in with my younger self. I ask myself, what would 10-year-old Kim think of where I am now? Have I lived up to the dreams she wanted? Have I lived up to the things I promised myself?

When I was battling really serious depression as an adult, this little game was horrific. I knew I was letting my younger self down. I was barely surviving every day, and knowing I had blown every promise I had made to myself—in such spectacular fashion—was feeding the depression’s flame.

Then, I got the right help, the right therapist, and took on everything, and after a few years, my life turned around. Things started falling into place, and when I did my check-in, I realized the 10-year-old me would be proud—not only for where I landed—but for how much I had endured to get there.

I haven’t had any weak moments again in this check-in scenario, until now. In comparison to where I have been before, it doesn’t make sense. Things have been worse. Things have been catastrophically worse. Am I just peering over some ridiculous fence dreaming of perfect green pastures that don’t exist for anyone? Or do I know that if I don’t push myself, I won’t have a chance at making my dreams come true?

Or, am I losing my freaking mind?

All I know is, when I had a frustrating moment at work this past week—nothing too crazy—just something that made me sit and take a few beats alone at my desk. I asked myself the check-in question—and I had to head to the restroom in the office for a few minutes. I paced and stared at myself in the mirror and paced a little more.

An important note here, that I am all too aware of: I think too much.

But, anyway, I got outside and walked around the block.

This city, on a clear day, is nothing short of breathtaking. I have to pinch myself—even after riding the cramped, sometimes unpleasant BART train to work each morning—I get off the train and see the tops of the buildings cutting into the clouds and fog and wonder how in the hell I got so lucky to be here, walking to work in this amazing place.

When I walked outside on this particular day, it was later in the afternoon, the fog long gone, the clouds cleared, the sky was crystal blue. I just walked and wondered what in my head was making me feel this way.

I tried to force myself to think clearly. I remembered one of the tactics I loved that my therapist used to get me to cut to the core of how I was really feeling. She would ask me to be raw and real. I would say something about how I felt, and she would tell me to tell her the truth—what I was really feeling—be raw, be real. To not think about what was appropriate or what sounded good. It wasn’t always pretty. But it kept me from fooling myself. It also helped me heal faster. For instance, in one of my sessions, I was talking about someone in my life that was honestly being toxic. I started off my saying, “she makes me uneasy sometimes”, but when I got to the raw and real moment, I finally said, “She isn’t kind to me--I really don’t want her in my life anymore”. It was hard for me to get to that point, but I needed to learn to put myself first—something I don’t always do.

So, when I was walking around the block, I reminded myself to be raw and real. The first thing that popped into my head was –“I am so tired”. I know this. Anyone looking at me probably knows this. The fact that I have had a migraine for over two weeks means my body probably knows this. As I am writing this now, I am tearing up. I need a break. It’s no one’s fault, but I have had a lot of financial responsibility for myself and then for our family for awhile now, and the weight sometimes seems so huge. Even though we are in a good place now, I haven’t had a real break in between jobs, without stress, to just relax, disconnect, and breathe for literally years. In truth, I don’t know how long that break would need to be though, for me to recharge.

The fatigue goes back further than that, though. I have been working since I was 16, and in college, I worked up to 3 jobs at a time to barely survive. Once out, I have only rarely and in spurts felt financially strong. It wasn’t for lack of working hard or long hours—or having great jobs. It was just timing, being single, life, living in the Bay Area during the last dot com bust, layoffs, etc, etc. It feels like a long, long marathon that is never going to end. I know that my journey is no different than anyone else’s, and in many ways, I am incredibly fortunate. I am making a good salary, and now have a love with a growing company in a strong market. I just ache for a time, a decent span of time, when I feel like things are more solid financially, that I don't feel so pressured, and that I can breathe. I feel like I have been holding my breath now for about 20 some odd years waiting for that to happen, and I need to be able to let go, to get some relief. When I think about worse struggles others have, I feel ridiculous in even thinking these things. But, I can’t help feeling tired. I just can’t.

The other part of this, is, of course, my dream of writing and making that the focus of who I am and what I do. Every day, the writers I follow on Twitter share similar struggles, even though many of them have known success—at least success in my eyes—having published a book or books, and working on the next one. Many of these writers work another day job, as I do. Somehow, they find a way to do both. I haven’t been able to do that. Especially lately, I have felt this huge setback. It has felt more like a loss, a death. I haven’t been able to feel the true inspiration and hope in months now. For a long time, I had this glimmer that might fade now and again, but it was always there. Then, it went dark. It just feels like I am never going to get this dream accomplished, and more than anything, I don’t know if I have the energy anymore to keep trying.

I hate the part of me that is so envious of people, in particular people I don’t know, that have the luxury of a life where they can concentrate on nothing but their writing. I follow these writers on Twitter and catch myself scowling when they complain about anything. How dare you! I think.You are living a dream.

So, back to my walk. I asked myself what I really want. What would make it better? Real and raw.

Winning lottery ticket.

Very funny.

I can't control the financial part any more than I am now. I am doing my best, working sometimes insane hours, always working hard. So, that's all I can do.

The other part, the writing...I have to somehow find a balance in my life, where my writing is the focus, where I am on a set course to making this happen. Otherwise I am not going to feel fulfilled or even at peace. It may be crazy, but that is my truth--real and raw.

It may just mean that I start making myself go to the library one day every weekend and devote that time to writing. I don’t know yet.

I could also be having a stupid mid-life crisis and this could all mean nothing. But, for whatever reason, this keeps gnawing at me. I honestly don’t think you necessarily choose to be a writer. It is tortuous—and not hugely profitable, especially now in the digital age, when a lot of writers are expected to simply be thankful to be published in a popular online forum—even without payment—or for nearly nothing. Only a few writers really make it big, really make a huge splash and can live comfortably. So, to want to write, there has to be this drive, this other thing in you that won’t let go. I certainly don’t have to write a book. It won’t help our bank account. There is just a story in me that needs to told. There is just a yearning to do that, to feel I am a writer in that sense.

I wish more than anything I had gone after this dream earlier, set out to be an editor and work in the publishing world long ago. Right now, my life feels so much like a zig-zag maze that is being built as I go, and has no clear path and no clear destination. It is well-built, the structure is fine, there just wasn’t any pre-planning or design. Some would say, “that is life”. Right now, it just feels like lost time, confusion, and poor planning.

Who knows? If I had started down that path, maybe I would be unhappy now. I know that 10 years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to write the way I am now, I didn’t have the experiences behind me, I hadn’t gone through the right therapy to resolve things I needed to. It’s pointless to ask all of these questions—it’s probably just as pointless to play the little game I play—asking if my 10-year old self would be happy with where I am now.

I can’t stop though. It’s become part of my life’s pattern. I think it is also what has helped drive me, and even when it’s made things painful, helped me to survive. Even when I believed I was disappointing my former self so deeply, and a part of me felt it might be better to give up—there were times when there was just enough fire to say—I owe it to her, to that little girl in me, to make this right.

When I finally got into therapy and really started digging into things and being honest, one of the very first things my therapist had me do was write a letter to my younger self. I remember bursting into tears as she described the process. At the time, I had truly hit rock bottom, and I was slowly realizing that I had found the right therapist to help pull me out. When she talked about the specific things she wanted me to address in the letter, I realized I had been writing these letters for years, in my head, over and over.

I am waiting to write that one last one. The one where I say, finally, it’s done. I finished. I did this thing I have wanted to do for so long, that I felt I was meant to do. You can be proud of me.

I can be proud of me.

Fulfilled life's dream--check.

The beautiful artwork featured in the post is entitled "October Wind at the Beach" by the artist Fanny Nushka Moreaux. To see more of her work, visit this site.

Loss in the Month of December

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 01 Jan 2015 03:07:00 +0000

It is so hard sometimes to find out who people really are. Especially people you admire. Especially people who are mentoring or helping you. Especially if you find out bad things.

The last month of the year 2014 has been particularly painful. Several months of me being unemployed and searching for the right career home had finally ended, and after barely surviving financially—and I do mean barely, we had just let ourselves breathe. Note to self: exhale with caution in the future.

We were behind on everything—bills, Christmas, anniversary pictures that we usually have done in November—all of it. But it all seemed like it was going to be ok, finally.

Then, I was kind. We were kind.

We were kind to someone whom I had already started to doubt, and that gnawing doubt felt awful. I wanted to deny it, but it wouldn't go away.

For the last year, I had finally made some progress in my writing, particularly for my book, in workshops and through guidance and support-- and the very person who had been a key part of that, who I had thought so much of, turned out to have a different side, and I had seen it. I was pulling back, but one last time, I got pulled in again. And that one last time cost us dearly. Emotionally, financially, and for me, something went dark afterwards.

The first loss is too painful to write about here. It was the worst and most emotional.

The second loss--all the confidence I had felt in my writing-- swirled away in that one day; a mad rush of all the positive words and moments throughout the last year that were tied to those classes and interactions—all of it got sucked into a black hole and poof! it was gone. Almost instantly. I couldn’t associate any of it as good or true if it came from that person who I now knew as not a good person—even a really bad person. And what did it say about me if I had been fooled or charmed by someone who told me things that may or may not have been true? How hungry was I for compliments and positive feedback? Then, what if it was real? What if she meant those things? What did it matter if it came from her? All that I had learned, all that I found valuable—the things I had written, the progress I had made—the notes, the time, the lessons—I wanted nothing to do with it.

It wasn't just drama or emotion. The writing that I have been doing is so personal, and the most important thing to me has always been that I am doing the right thing in the right way. Now, so much of it feels wrong, especially if the inspiration and guidance has come from someone I now feel is just really, at the core, not a good person.

So what of all this good vs. bad? Who am I really? I can tell you that I have done a lot of soul searching in the last month, and that’s saying a lot, because I feel that in my 45 years I have done my damn share of that already. But really. I asked myself over and over if I am truly kind and what motivates me and if I am a good person. What motivates me to be that? Do I want praise for it? Do I want some kind of reward?

I can remember my mom promising me over and over when I was a little girl, that if I was a good person, good things would happen for me. She would lay the whole thing out—in detail. That if I would do well in school, behave, not get into any bad things-- that I would meet a prince charming-type guy, get married, have lots of money, no worries, and lots of babies, and be happy forever. She would get so excited telling me this. I asked her one day if she had always been good, and without a beat, she said “yes”. I remember my little seven-year-old self, standing there on our green linoleum kitchen floor and I looked around and said, “But you don’t have all of those things”. She didn’t know what to say. She was clearly annoyed and told me to go play or do something else. I was worried even then. I already saw how the world worked-- or didn’t work--and I didn’t like my odds. But I wasn’t playing for the odds. I wasn’t trying to win a game. I couldn’t live with myself if I wasn’t nice or kind, or didn’t do the right thing. I didn’t understand how people just did whatever they wanted with little regard for the consequences. I actually envied those people—and at times— I still do. How did they not worry or fret about things all the time the way I did?

So, the sequence of events that started on December 12 seemed to keep going. We ended up financially wiped out, suffering a huge loss to our family, and then having to further deal with someone who each day just seemed to show me how foolish I had been to trust or believe or be kind to them in the first place. It was both painful and humbling.

Then other little things kept happening, and I honestly felt like I was going to lose it. I was driving home from a work meeting, in a rain storm, and I was stopped at a red light. I was actually sitting in my car thinking perhaps we had gotten through the worst of it. Then – BAM! A car rear-ended me. Seriously. In the second after it happened, I actually laughed and said out loud- “You have to be fucking kidding me.”

It felt like a hard hit. I motioned in my rear-view mirror for the person to pull out of traffic with me into a parking lot. I feared the person would just drive off, but she didn’t. As I waited for her to pull in behind me, I thought- I have had it. I am going to let this woman have it. I am not going to be nice, screw being nice.

I actually got out of my car and slammed my door and almost ran into a woman a little shorter than me, already pleading her case, already in tears. I heard at least one kid crying in her car. She had been Christmas shopping, she was distracted. It was her fault, she was so sorry. Was I alright?—she should have asked that first. She was sorry.

She stood in front of me, defeated…in a Santa hat.

My car was fine. The woman was apologizing, pointing to a small dot on my bumper that I couldn’t see, as we were both getting drenched in the rain. She didn’t do anything on purpose. It was an accident. It was life. And no matter what had happened to me in the last few days, I couldn’t be horrible. I couldn’t be unkind.

I told her to let me drive home and make sure everything was ok, but not to worry, I didn’t think there was a problem. She stood there relieved and we exchanged information. We started to walk away and she asked if she could hug me. She didn’t wait for an answer. As she hugged me, she said, “You are a good person, thank you. Merry Christmas!”

I got back in my car, let her drive away, and started to cry. I don’t know if I am a good person. I don’t. I know that it hurts me if someone mistreats an animal, or a child, or another human being. I know that I lose sleep over these things. I know that I am not perfect. I know that I am not always kind, and that bothers me, especially when I slip and say the wrong thing in the wrong moment—or when I think I have hurt someone.

I know that in December of 2014, I lost a little part of myself and it will take a long time to get it back. That may not be a bad thing, but I think it is a sad thing. I won’t go out of my way to trust or help as easily for a long time, if ever. It was just too costly. But I will hold those dear to me a little closer.

I haven’t revisited my book, and I honestly don't know if I will. I can’t imagine it at the moment. It breaks my heart. I was just so far down that path and in that mindset; it is hard to go another way. I will see what the new year brings.

That’s all I can do for now as the year comes to a close, and as I say goodbye to December…and all that I lost. Wait and see what the new year brings.

Artwork: Head and Heart by Charlotte Salomon

One Year with Boone

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Mon, 06 Oct 2014 03:38:00 +0000

A year ago today, we brought a twelve-week-old puppy into our home. We named him Boone. I have written about that day before. We already had a bit of a full house of rescue animals—one dog and three cats, but I very much wanted a sibling for our dog Bear, a built in playmate to keep him active. I saw a picture on a rescue website, and sent an email asking about him. One thing led to another, I sent an application, and then, we were off to an adoption event to meet him. I will never forget one of the volunteers picking him up and bringing him to us. He looked so small and scared. Boone had been in a high-kill shelter before the rescue pulled him and saved him. He would have been put down. The thought of him in a shelter alone and scared still bothers me. His foster mom was at the event that day, and she told us he was special. She clearly loved him. Everyone was surprised at how fast he took to Bear, jumping and playing. We all immediately loved him. He fell asleep on Shea’s lap during the long ride home, and never moved.

We came home and Boone found a place on the couch and didn’t move for hours. We petted him and gave him kisses, and Bear snuggled up to him. I finally picked him up to give him a bath, and it was if that was the moment he knew he was home. He came to life and never looked back. He bounded through the house, happy and boisterous. He played with toys, ate a lot of food, played with Bear, ventured outside in the back yard, and made himself at home. Leaving the house was another matter. This is still one of the things that breaks my heart when I think back on his first months here. Since Boone had been transported a lot in his early life, I am sure he never knew where he was being taken. When we had to leave our house for the vet or the dog park, he would stop, and run back to the front door and press against it, wanting to go back in. He would scratch the door, begging to stay. I was in tears the first few times this happened, because there was no way for me to reassure him that we were coming back, that we weren’t taking him away – that he would get to come back home. Shea and I would sit on the sidewalk and tell him this, but he couldn’t understand. He would shake in the car and actually get sick and throw up. It killed me every time. The only thing that made it better was to watch his reaction and relief when we would pull back in the driveway, and he would run in the house and know he was back home. Today, he loves to go to the car, he knows it means something fun, usually a trip to the dog park—his favorite place. His anxieties are behind him now.

It is amazing how different Boone’s personality is, compared to Bear’s. Bear has always been so confident, even as a puppy. He was always fearless, even though his background was similar to Boone’s. Boone is more timid, in some ways, but he is definitely hilarious. He makes us laugh all the time. He is also one of the most perpetually happy creatures I have ever known. He is truly the most grateful rescue dog I have ever seen. When we give him a treat, especially a particularly big one, he will almost always come and give us a thank you kiss. He has this huge Boone smile on his face almost 24/7. His tail is wagging all the time, so much so that somewhere in the house you hear its “thump, thump” throughout the day. However, like Bear, patience is not his strong suit. One of the things that amuses us most is Boone’s ability to stomp when he feels he is being ignored. He has done this since he was a puppy. He loves to go outside, and barks to go out pretty constantly. When we say no, especially when he asks to go out immediately after being let in, he will huff and puff and stomp his front paws. We nicknamed him “wrecking ball” almost from day one for his lack of understanding of personal space boundaries. His idea of asking for a piece of your sandwich is sticking his face in your sandwich. Likewise, his way of waking us up in the morning is jumping on your chest (all 90+ pounds of him—at full force) and swatting your face with his paws. It’s all done with love, he just doesn’t understand how huge he is—AT ALL. During his first vet visits, the vet told me there was no way he would be as big as Bear. How wrong he was. He has surpassed Bear. He his taller, and will weigh more once he fills in.

Boone has a funny, deep, gruff, growly bark that often turns into a howl. He will banter and argue with us at the drop of a hat, which I must admit we enjoy a little too much.

Boone watches television more than any other animal I have ever witnessed. He is, however, most interested in animals on tv, in particular, dogs. He will freeze if a dog is on tv, whether it’s on a commercial, or in a movie or program, and remain transfixed by every movement. He sometimes cries out and then looks at us, amazed by the dog –right there in the room with us! He will cock his head and lift his ears and change his facial expressions all while watching his fellow canine friends on television.

He is also a bit of a tattle tale. If anyone in the house hurts his feelings, for instance me, when I catch him in the trash…he will run to Shea to let him know that I was unfairly targeting him for no reason. I can be in the back bedroom and Boone will run to me with his feelings clearly hurt and I know that he has been reprimanded for some reason, just by his demeanor. He will fortunately quickly recover with a treat, especially if cheese is involved.

I have said before that Boone is the biggest love on four legs that I have ever met. I tear up at the dog park, still, when I watch him go up to everyone and get endless attention, because when we first brought him home, other people terrified him. It took him awhile to warm up to people and trust them. Dogs were fine, but people were another matter. He loves us so much. I can’t count the number of Boone kisses I have gotten in the last year. He snuggles up to me at every opportunity, and he adores Shea so much, that he cries out when Shea leaves the room.

And does he ever love Bear. Bear has been the best big brother we could have ever hoped for. He was patient with Boone from day one, and in turn, Boone has helped Bear stay active and has given him a playmate to sniff the back yard and guard the house with. Boone absolutely adores Bear. Bear still struggles with sharing toys, but luckily for everyone, Boone doesn’t care too much, as long as he can hang out with Bear.

In other words, Boone has been the perfect addition to our home in so many ways. This year has flown by. It was all luck and chance that brought him to us. I just happened to see that photo one night, everything just happened to click into place. Today, I am especially thankful for all the little pieces of luck that brought this sweet boy into our lives. It’s hard to remember a time without him.

Thank you for a great first year, buddy, we love you.

The Loss of Robin Williams and Why We Must Keep Talking About Depression

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 12 Aug 2014 22:18:00 +0000

Yesterday, along with the rest of the world, I got the horrible news that Robin Williams had died. Even worse, he had taken his own life.

I found out via a breaking news email, tiny text in a few sentences on my cell phone. I gasped, and had to read it twice before I could answer my husband’s cries of “What’s wrong?”

I felt sick. Of course I didn’t know Robin Williams personally. I was just a fan. But anytime I read of anyone losing a battle with depression, committing suicide, I feel this way. It can be a stranger I read about in a newspaper article, a random obituary. It makes my heart hurt, because I know that pain.

After I read the email, my husband and I immediately turned to the 24 hour news channel on the television, and watched as the story unfolded. Already, stars and mourners were sharing their shock and memories of Robin Williams. I watched as social media turned into a place for people to grieve openly, and I was pleasantly surprised to see compassion dominate the postings. People were so shocked that someone who had given them such happy and touching moments in their lives was, in reality, suffering so much. They wished they had known--wished they could have helped somehow. It was hard for people to fathom how someone who had brought so much joy to the world could have possibly not felt that same joy returned to him.

Suddenly, total strangers offered their contact information out to the world—if anyone needed someone to talk to, just call, just write. YOU are important. YOU matter. People began to realize that if this could happen to someone like Robin Williams, it could happen to any one of us. They wanted to help. I found myself tearing up at the outpouring of love in honor of this man’s passing.

All I could think about was his last moments. I cannot claim to know his personal suffering, but like anyone who has battled severe depression, like anyone who has attempted suicide and been in that low, horrible place, I felt I knew something few people know. There is just a darkness that is like nothing else, that you can’t escape, that you can’t see a way out of, that envelopes you and hurts like nothing else. You feel worthless in a way that is bottomless. You feel like such a burden to everyone and everything and that you will be relieving the world of you and your problems if you are gone. There is nothing more painful, more confusing, and more horrible than those moments. You want to die and you don’t. You want to the pain to end, you want so badly to be anything other than this dark, horrible thing that you are.

I hated so badly that someone so gifted, so genuine, who had given so much, felt that way, and was alone like that in his last moments. But everyone who dies like that is alone in those moments, and it always hits me the same way when I hear about it. I hate it.

If we learned anything from Robin Williams’ death, we learned that depression can affect anyone. It doesn’t matter how rich, how talented, how popular, or well thought of you are…depression doesn’t discriminate. It can crawl in on shadowy feet into the minds and souls of any one of us. It isn’t a choice or a mood. It is a disease, and it can be fatal.

I was so, so fortunate to have survived my battle with depression, that lasted most of my adult life. I am one of those people who will always have to be careful, always aware that depression will be just below the surface for me, easier to inhabit my psyche. For me, it feels like a rope around my waist, loosely hanging now, as I am healthy and fine, but with the threat of it always being able to pull tight and drag me down. I have to know and understand my triggers, take care of myself, not let myself get too stressed by work (or life), get enough sleep, take medication, and seek help if I feel myself slipping.

What I think was also apparent as I watched social media erupt with love and grief last night, was so many people shared their own battles with depression. It’s almost absurd that we have the stigma that we do, when almost everyone either has suffered from depression or is close to someone who has. It’s as if we are all keeping this big, stupid secret about something that is painfully obvious and happening all the time to all of us right before our eyes. Because it is. Life is so hard. We all struggle. We all need help sometimes. Keeping quiet is what leads people into lonely rooms to take their lives. We have to keep talking.

If Robin Williams had been just another comedian, he wouldn’t have touched people the way he did. Sure, everyone loves to laugh, and someone who makes you laugh is always welcome. But the reason Robin Williams was so beloved is because he surprised us. He was one of the most gifted funny men out there. He could truly make you belly laugh like no one else. But then, almost out of nowhere, he appeared on screen in serious roles and showed all this heart and made us weep. There was such a true genuineness in his dramatic roles, they were as touching as his comedic roles were funny. There are so few people in the world with that much range, that much depth—to be able to pull off both comedic and dramatic roles the way that he did. I believe he felt things so deeply, he gave so much and we, his audience, felt that too.

To me, he always seemed a little tortured, fighting something—in a beautiful way. You could tell he felt everything, deeply. That’s why his performances rang so true. I have just felt so sad by this loss, all the performances we won’t see, what we will miss out on now that he is gone. But most of all, I can’t quit thinking of his last moments, and I am haunted.

My hope in all of this, in all of the compassion, the sadness, and the realization is that out of this huge loss, a conversation will start and continue. This is the best example of the fact that depression can affect ANYONE. Robin Williams has left an amazing legacy of his work onscreen, but my hope is also that another legacy will be that so many lives will be saved because we all kept talking, and more people came out of the shadows, and stayed out of their lonely rooms and more people reached out for help.

I think he would have loved that. Don’t you?

Please, if you are contemplating suicide, know that you are not alone. YOU ARE IMPORTANT. YOU MATTER. No matter how bad things are right now, they can get better. Reach out for help.
Call this hotline—I have called this number before—they save lives and they can save yours:

1-800-784-2433 (1-800-SUICIDE)

Into the Night

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 05 Jun 2014 05:05:00 +0000

When I was in college, when I found life too challenging, and I felt too overwhelmed to face and handle everything coming at me, I often did something that the adult me now knows wasn’t exactly safe. I would often, usually in tears and exasperated, in the wee hours of the night, grab my keys and head to my car. I didn’t have a planned destination, a map, a route, or anything other than my pain as my guide. Very often the gas tank wasn’t full, but I took my chances, driving into the night, the windows down, my radio blaring, and tears flowing.

It all sounds melodramatic. It wasn’t done for dramatic effect. This was before the days of cell phones and selfies. No one knew my whereabouts. I definitely felt I was running away, or rather, trying to out run everything. Pain, depression, loss, my family, my own failures, the very life I was leading. Sometimes I dreamed of just driving and driving until I ended up in a new, unknown town-- leaving everything behind and starting over.

In my heart, I knew it wouldn’t all work out as easily as all that. I couldn’t ignore all that was behind me—college courses, work, bills—it would all still be there even if I took up residence in some other zip code.

Ultimately, and usually depending on the amount of gas in my tank, I would decide it was time to turn back around. I would drive slower on the way home, letting the cool air dry my tears, trying to breathe in slowly and take in the night’s movement, the weird, lonely pace around me. I would finally make it back home, exhausted, spent, and fall into bed.

I can often remember dropping my keys on my nightstand and laying down and just hoping beyond hope that I would make it to a time in my life where I never felt this way again. Where I felt settled, safe, and happy. Where I didn’t need to run or out run anything.

The funny thing is, for so long, I thought I had. Then, over the last five years, even in the best of times, there are moments where I would think about those midnight drives in college and feel that tug. Sometimes it was because of work stress or life stress. Sometimes it just felt like I was lost and needed to go looking for something…myself maybe?

Recently, especially, there have been nights where I try and go to sleep and my mind won’t stop racing, won’t stop fretting, thinking, turning over every little thing. Sometimes it’s after a bad day, sometimes I am worried about our bank account or my career, but some nights I just get myself into a spiral of thinking that is beyond anything I could possibly catch up with by pacing or normal worry. I start to wonder if I will ever really finish my book—the dream I have wanted forever—to be published. Then I wonder what I am doing with my life. I feel so far away from the core of who I am and who I want to be. I start feeling like I am paying the bills and losing pieces of my soul more every day. I try and remind myself that we all have to work, that everyone feels this way, but I feel a clock start ticking so loudly that I mentally start searching for my keys. I want to jump out of bed, into my car, and drive quickly into the inky dark night. I want to roll down the windows and feel the night air. I want to drive until I can smell the Pacific and hear the waves and see the moon reflecting in my windshield. I want to drive and drive and drive until the sun rises in a new place altogether.

It won’t solve anything. I will end up right back here. This isn’t a bad place to be. Everything and everyone I love is here. I just wish I was sure about the choices I make every day.

I have said so many times that I don’t have regrets—that however I ended up where I am, I have made peace with. As long as I ended up here, I am fine. That is not all completely true. I am thrilled with where I ended up—and I believe this was fate—and exactly where I am meant to be. But I do have regrets. And a part of me believes that I would have ended up here (since this is my fate), even if I had made different choices, and maybe after not having gone through such a painful journey.

At one particularly low point over 10 years ago, after our company had just gone through a series of layoffs, I found myself unemployed and unsure of my next steps. I had just enough money in the bank to survive another few months or so where I was, or, I thought, take a leap. I seriously considered buying a plane ticket to Paris, landing, and figuring out the rest from there. I was going to leave everything—my apartment, my belongings, my life—everything behind. I couldn’t decide if the plan was brave or stupid. Now, looking back, I know that it probably would have been disastrous. I was depressed at the time (never a good time to make decisions) and I didn’t have nearly enough money to take a chance like that. I had nothing that even resembled a plan B, and the list goes on. I know all of that. But there is a huge part of me that wishes, very deeply, that I had bought that ticket.

I think my late night obsessive thinking and worrying sessions are a bit of a mini-mid-life crisis. I am just realizing that there is so much I want to do, and I am not making progress on a lot of the things that matter to me. I look at my life five years down the line, and I am so afraid I will still be in this same place. I worry about the person I am, the wife I am, the human being I am. I want so much to do more, to give more, to be more. I worry.

Back in college, on those midnight drives, I was truly trying to run away, out run things, drive towards another place. Part of me wonders now, if when I am dreaming of grabbing my keys and driving, if I am not trying to go back, take the wheel from that younger me. I want to take control, change the course, lead her in a different direction.

I want to tell her: We will end up here, in the same spot, I promise. The way we get there will just be far less rough, dangerous, and painful.

I can’t go back, I know. I can only worry about the road I have left-- it stretches out before me. I can chart the course from here. I have to remember that, when I am laying here worrying. My hands are on the wheel. I can only plan so much. I can only worry so much. For now, I will sleep, and try and reassure myself. At the end of the day, I will end up back here, right where I am supposed to be, with everyone and everything I love.

Oh, and to that younger me, so sad, driving in the night, I also want to say, No matter the path we took to get here…we made it. Somehow, we made it.

The beautiful photograph at the end of my blog post is entitled "Time Reverse" and is by Amy M of TruBlissPhotography. Check out more of her amazing work here.

The Book: A Teacher's Gift of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sat, 22 Feb 2014 00:39:00 +0000

In the summer of 1980, I had just finished the fourth grade and also my last year of elementary school. I would be crossing over into the unknowns of middle school the next year, and I didn’t know yet how different things would be. My third and fourth grade years in school were two of my best. I was so fortunate in those two years to have been in the same classroom, with the same teachers each year, in an environment where I felt safe, supported, and even loved.

Somehow, within those years, within the walls of that classroom, or “suite” as it was called then, I found confidence in myself. This was no small feat. In those two years, the three teachers in my suite made me feel as though I had something special to offer the world. I had never felt that way until they ignited that spark in me. In particular, they all recognized and fostered my writing talent. I remember my poems being featured on bulletin boards, and my short stories being entered into contests. But most of all, I remember being told that I had talent—and somehow—believing it. One teacher in particular, Ms. Garwood, always seemed to find opportunities for me to shine, to highlight my writing. Instead of us performing a play from a book, she would let me write one for my classmates to perform. She did this for other students, fostering their talents, finding ways to make the classroom a place where we all found our own paths while learning everything we needed to, and understanding the importance of appreciating one another’s gifts.

Somehow, I knew things would never be quite the same in my future classrooms. I struggled the following years in middle school, as everything seemed to be changing so fast, and being popular became more important than finding talent in one another. I honestly felt like I had slipped into a black hole once I stepped onto my middle school campus. The one thing that kept me going was remembering the love and support of Ms. Garwood, and her belief in me. Even though I felt that I didn’t fit in, and that some of my best friends were moving into different circles and leaving me behind, I remembered that I had someone out there who believed in me and had no doubts about my success for the future. I can’t express how powerful that was.

I don’t think any of my teachers or friends for that matter knew how hard things were for me at home. I couldn’t even articulate it myself. Children that take dance lessons, that have enough food, that do well in school—these don’t add up to things not being right at home. These aren’t the signs of an alcoholic father and a broken marriage at home, and little pieces of my confidence and self-worth were taken away as things got more and more tense. I would tell myself I was fine, when I wasn’t. I would keep secrets and smile when most of the time I felt as if I was so fragile I could crack apart and disintegrate at any moment. There wasn’t anywhere that felt as safe to me anymore. I was still a good student, but the rules of school seemed so different once I left the safe nest of elementary school. A few teachers still called out my writing talent, and many were supportive, but it wasn’t the same cocoon I had felt so safe in. It was the last time I would feel that for a very long time.

But that summer before middle school, I didn’t know any of that. I just knew I was sad that I wouldn’t see Ms. Garwood anymore. I wondered if she knew how special she was to me and how much I was going to miss her. And then, she asked to come by my house. She said she had something for me.

I can remember this moment as if it was yesterday. I was sitting on the kitchen counter in our house, alone, and I looked out the window to see Ms. Garwood arrive. She was wearing a purple dress, and she smiled as she walked up the driveway. I don’t remember exactly what words she said, I just remember how heartfelt her words were as she handed me the gift, a blank book to fill with more of my poems and stories. I remember we laughed as she showed me how the pattern on the spine of the book somehow perfectly matched the material of her dress. She read her inscription out loud to me. That moment, that book, her faith in me…it meant the whole wide world to me. That book was so much more than a book. It was belief in me. It was belief in a talent I had only quietly dared to hope I had. It was love.

She left, and for awhile we kept in touch, but without the magic of social media and email, cell phones and affordable long distance calls, over the years, we lost touch. But I never ever lost the feeling of her love and support. In times when I felt alone and struggled, even well into my adulthood, I would draw strength from that moment and her belief in me.

At first, right after I received her gift, the book almost seemed too precious to write in. I didn’t want to put anything in it except my absolute best work, the most beautiful poems, my most exceptional stories. The result was blank pages for a long time. But I kept the book with me, always. I finally broke down and starting writing poems in it, once I had finished my usual pattern of scribbling on notebook paper, changing lines and words, and finally reaching a finished product in the margins and on the back sides of five or so pages of paper. Once I had the completed poem in its final stage, it would go into the book. And then I added another and another. Then I added a short story. And another. I was still picky about what made the cut. It couldn’t go into that book unless I felt it was worthy of the love behind the gift.

The book traveled with me through middle school, high school, and college; carried in back packs, purses, and packed in an untold number of moving boxes. I had such a fear of losing it, that when I moved, I would always mark the box it was in with a big star so I could make sure that box made it off of the moving truck. If possible, I hand-carried it to my next destination.

I had finally filled its pages seven years after the book was given to me. The filled pages were my heart poured out in ink on sometimes tear-stained pages, lamenting loss, longing for love, and enduring the pain of my first heartbreak. Many of the pages also help me remember what the world looked like to me through my eyes then, the reality of the storm at home, that at times is still foggy in the midst of my mother’s denial. These pages are a truth, a touchstone, so I know that my memories are real. Painful, but real.

For years after that, I bought my own blank books and filled their pages. I always dreamed of being a writer, but in some dark times of my life, when I lost sight of so many things, I would give up, let go of writing for awhile, and the words stopped flowing. Without fail, I would be cleaning or packing and come across the purple book—its edges faded and worn from years past—and start reading my own words, then Ms. Garwood’s words, and I would find my way back to pen and paper.

Blank books later morphed into blogging, which really became the place I felt I was finally honing my skills and getting somewhere. It took a long time, but I got published-- an essay in a magazine I loved and admired-- and I felt things shift. Since then, in the middle of life and work, and everything else, I am working harder than ever to make this dream of finishing my book happen. I got the courage last year to finally attend a writing workshop and get that final push of feedback from a successful author that I was indeed ready to do this—ready to write, ready to finish my book.

It has taken a long time, but the words I am writing now had to grow from all the things I have lived, seen, and known. I am a better writer for the time it has taken to get here. I finally can see a glimmer of hope of achieving a dream I have had since I first picked up a pencil in my tiny hand as a child. I am getting closer.

I can say without hesitation that I was first given the confidence to do this by an amazing teacher, Ms. Garwood. She walked up my driveway in her purple dress thirty-four years ago, and handed me her belief in me, and her love for me, that I have carried with me every day since.

~~~

A note: Ms. Garwood (now Mrs. Sidden) and I recently reconnected on Facebook. Her first post on my wall mentioned this book, this gift. I let her know I still had it, and I had planned on sharing photos with her. I saw that her birthday was approaching, and I decided to write this blog post-- as I couldn't think of a better gift than for her than to see how much she has meant to me all these years.

Five Years with Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sat, 18 Jan 2014 06:54:00 +0000

During some really hard times for me and my husband over the last few years, I have questioned a lot of my choices. The more I looked back over recent decisions, I started going back further and realizing there might have been a lot of things I could have done differently that would have impacted my future in a positive way. I always try not to have regrets and believe I am where I am for a reason, but in truth, I know there are times I could have made better choices—stayed at one job a little longer, or chosen to move one place instead of another, and boy, could I have made better romantic choices in the past when I was younger.

Many of the choices I questioned were those that were quickly made, under pressure, or without planning--usually during times of great emotion. I know a lot of my romantic choices were made during times like that, and even career choices, unfortunately, sometimes involved a combination of pressure and emotion that probably could have used some time and reflection.

But one decision that I made at one of the lowest moments in my life, and in an instant, without planning, and totally based on emotion, was adopting this sweet boy.

And never, not for one second, have I ever thought it was anything than one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life.

The year I adopted him, after a few months of healing, I wrote about how I had rescued him, but in turn how he had also rescued me. That was just the beginning. I knew then that he was opening my heart. In truth, he taught me to love again. That may sound far-reaching or dramatic, but anyone close to me knows that I was in a very dark place in my life and I had a long way to go before I could find my way back to the land of the living, and learning to love was a far off place I didn’t dream of ever really visiting again.

What I didn’t know then, was that Bear would continue to teach me things, all the time, day after day.

One of the things I am always in awe of is how he constantly communicates with me, without speaking, now for five years. He has taught me that there are non-verbal ways to let people know you care that are so meaningful, powerful, and real. Bear’s eyes are very expressive. So many people have said he has very “human” eyes. When I am sick or upset, he never fails to check on me, or stay near me when I need him. But it is the way he looks at me, in a different way than his usual playful way, with concern in his deep brown-doggy-sweet eyes that darn near brings me to tears.

I have always known the power of laughter, and it was one of the things that made me fall in love with my husband. He can make me laugh, a truly desperate, grab-onto-something laugh like no one else. I love that. Bear has taught me about the joy in laughing every day. There have been times over the last three years when, honestly, my husband and I were struggling with so many things that for months, there seemed like there was nothing to talk about but bills and stress. Out of the blue, seeming to sense tension, Bear would do something silly or pose in a funny way and cock his head and have us laughing. It would shake us out of where we were for a moment and remind us that even in the middle of what seemed like everything caving in, we could still laugh. We held onto that for awhile. I remember that once we turned a curve financially, we were able to say, “You know what? We still laughed every single day.” And we knew we owed a lot of that to Bear.

I knew once we were on our feet that I wanted to try and add another dog to our family, a sibling for Bear. But, I only wanted to do it if it was right, and if Bear was still happy and felt loved. I also wanted to do it so that Bear would stay active and have a playmate. This year we added a puppy, Boone, to our household. Once again, Bear taught me a lesson. I watched in awe as he shared his food and toys and loved his new little brother in a way that made me love Bear so much that I thought my heart would burst. This sweet dog had so much love to give that it seemed endless.

The most important lesson brings me to tears. Bear is teaching me the deep importance of small moments. Taking pictures of all the things that matter. Kissing his head 500 times a week, because I know I will always want to know I kissed it as many times as I possibly could. Rubbing his ears to get him to fall asleep next to me, because it magically makes his eyelids heavy as it has since he was 12 weeks old and first lying next to me in his new home. Going to bed each night knowing that we are giving a rescue dog that we love immeasurably the most beautiful life that a family could give a dog, because if all was right in the world, all rescue dogs would be this happy and celebrating their fifth adoption birthdays like this:

The lesson he teaches me is that life is so precious, and the years go by so fast. We are so lucky to have Bear. So lucky. If our luck continues, we will have him for many, many more years. He is healthy and strong, and handsome and happy. All we can do is appreciate the small moments and treasure our time with him.

He is teaching us well.

Happy five years Bear.

You can read my previous posts about Bear here:

Four Years with Bear

Three Years with Bear

Two Years with Bear

Rescued

Permission, Courage, and Telling My Story

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Mon, 30 Dec 2013 02:27:00 +0000

There have been so many changes in my life in the last year, really in the last six months, especially on the career front. This year alone, I have worked for three different employers, with an end of the year scramble that made me dizzy with a mixture of fear, excitement, and hope. But it was mid-October when things really got interesting.

I was at my desk at job #2 for the year, when I was just beginning to figure out that this particular job wasn’t going to be the long haul, career home job I had hoped it would be. I was already job searching, miserable with a boss that knew nothing about marketing, management, or people skills, and watching people quit by the dozens around me every day. I had started only three months earlier, and I had never seen a workplace go downhill so fast.

My cell phone rang, and an out of town number popped up, and I answered a little excitedly, hoping it was a response to one of the dozens of jobs I had applied for. Instead, a voice I vaguely recognized responded to my hello, almost in mid-sentence before I could put two and two together. It was a vendor calling me, but she thought I was still behind the desk at my last job, a failing startup in San Francisco that I had been relieved to escape. I had spent months there watching several wealthy men fight and break promises (and do little else) for months. I finally got in a few words edgewise and was able to explain to her that I was no longer with the startup and couldn’t help her with the event she was calling about. She paused, and expressed disappointment.

“I so enjoyed working with you Kim,” she said, “you did a great job.”

I thanked her and prepared to hang up, but she continued.

“I really hope you are doing something you love and have always dreamed of doing.”

I was almost stunned by her words. First, they were so genuine, she really meant what she was saying, and secondly, it hit me like a punch to the stomach. Even if things at my current company weren’t unstable, even if I was in the perfect marketing job—was this what I dreamed of doing when I was little? Was this what I dreamed of doing every night when my thoughts were racing and I couldn’t sleep? No. All I ever wanted to be was a writer. When I can’t sleep, I am thinking about my book that still isn’t written, and about my blog that is gathering dust.

I thanked this vendor who will likely never know the events she helped inspire, and then hung up the phone. I was in tears at my desk. I felt hopeless. I felt like every job I was taking was a mistake, every decision I was making was taking me further away from what I wanted more than anything. Most of all, I had made the decision to move us across the country, far away from everything, to this place of opportunity—California, and what had it gotten us?

I made my way to the office restroom and spent a good half hour crying. I reminded myself that very few people I know are doing what they always dreamed of doing. We all have to earn a living. I told myself that, as a recruiter recently reminded me, there are more f-cked up workplaces out there than there are normal ones, and you just don’t know how it truly is until you are there, until you are inside and working there. I took a lot of deep breaths and tried to give myself a break about everything.

I got back to my desk, and as I working on some social media posts for work, I clicked over to Facebook to find a link I needed. I was on my personal page and scrolled down, and stopped on a posting on an author’s page that I followed.

One spot left for my One-Day Writing Workshop.

I was frozen. For a minute, work was forgotten, everything was forgotten. The words stared back at me. This wasn’t just any writer, it was Joyce Maynard, a writer I had long admired. I had always toyed with the idea of going to a workshop like this, but didn’t have the confidence, or usually, the money.

I clicked the link to check out the details, whispering to myself, please don’t be too expensive, please don’t be too expensive. The page came up. It was expensive for us, for this time in our lives. But, it was local. It was 18 miles away. When would I ever have a chance like this again? I needed this right now. I needed to go and find out if this dream I had was crazy or if I should keep plugging away. The only way I would ever know was to go somewhere and get honest feedback from a writer I trusted and believed in.

I called my husband, and through tears explained that I needed to do this, I knew we couldn’t really afford it. He was alarmed that I was so emotional, and agreed immediately that if I needed to do this, to do it, we would figure out the money somehow.

The date of the workshop was November 3^rd, and we had to submit our essays beforehand. To say I was a nervous wreck didn’t even begin to cover it. There were six other women attending the workshop. I was so afraid to put my words out there, to have Joyce and these other women read them and think I was a horrible writer. I was afraid I would read their words and compare mine and know immediately that I was not cut out to do this.

To be honest, over the past year, I had been asking myself why I was putting myself through this torture. No one said I HAD to write. It was just me doing this to myself. It would be a lot easier to let this dream go. I had to work- that was a have to. If I was supposed to be a writer, I would have been discovered or I would have figured out a way to make a living doing that by now, right? I had started thinking that maybe it was time to just let go.

What I wanted from this workshop was some kind of answer for myself. I felt stuck. And if I got a positive answer, I hoped to find a group of women that I could connect and continue with after that one day. I prepared myself for the worst. I wasn’t prepared at all for what I got instead.

I turned in my essay at the last possible moment. A few days later, all the essays were posted online so we could all read each other’s work before the actual workshop. I did feel humbled by the other women’s work, and I didn’t know what to think about how my work would be perceived. The workshop was memoir-focused, but Joyce had also encouraged writers of fiction to attend. Many of the other women had submitted works of fiction.

One of my biggest struggles with my writing is also what to write. I have avoided my story (as in writing a memoir) because I just didn’t know who would want to read it. I am not famous, I don’t feel I have accomplished that much, although at times, I do feel I have a story to tell. I have started a novel, but I have struggled. That’s the other part of me feeling stuck with my writing, and the other answer I wanted out of this workshop.

November 3^rd came and as nervous as I was, I made it to Joyce’s house in one piece. She was incredibly warm and inviting, and as the other women arrived, my nerves eased a little bit. Regardless of the answers I got about my writing, I at least began to feel I was among friends.

We began by going around the room and introducing ourselves and talking about why we were attending the workshop. Joyce let us all do this, and just listened carefully and said very little and took notes. When we had all finished, she went carefully around to each one of us and responded.

When I introduced myself, I talked about feeling stuck, about not knowing if this is what I was supposed to do. I told everyone about the day at my desk, and being the person who took the last spot at the workshop, and how I had dreamed of being a writer. I explained that there was a book my mother had kept for me that chronicled every year of school, with my school photo pasted in it, and a few memories jotted down below it. And every year, underneath that photo where the book asked, What does Kim want to be when she grows up? The answer was always: writer. Every year, from kindergarten on up. I explained about my hesitation to write a memoir, and my biggest hesitation of all—my mother. I didn’t want to put her through any more pain, she had been through enough. I remember Joyce hesitating for a moment when I said those words. But I had continued and soon it was time for the next person to talk.

When Joyce got around to responding to me, she got out of her chair. She hadn’t done this with anyone else, so I was a little taken a back. But she got in front of me, on her knees, and she told me she was doing this because she wanted to make sure that I heard her and remembered what she was about to say.

She told me there were so many things that held us back in life—money, work, everything else—but this was MY STORY and that I had every right in the world to tell it and not to let anyone or anything stop me. She told me I didn’t have to protect anyone, especially someone who did not protect me. She said that if my mother was in the room, she was sure she would be touched and moved by her story, but that would be her story. This was mine.

I can’t repeat her exact words, and I can’t ever express the passion with which she said them, because I was crying. This release of permission she gave me, I can’t explain it. I felt I had part of my answer. A huge part of it.

As I got to know the other women that day through their work and their own personal journeys, it amazes me how we all travel through such hard places to get where we are. I felt so fortunate that I had landed in this particular group of such compassionate, giving women. Everyone was so supportive and thoughtful.

Joyce worked through each woman’s piece, one by one. With each piece of work, I was learning more and more, and I was nervously awaiting my turn. My essay was the last one Joyce reviewed. Her critiques and the input from the other women at the workshop gave me my other answer. I need to keep writing. The positive feedback I got from Joyce and these women was a huge turning point for me. I was so emotional, and it was almost hard to leave Joyce’s house that night. I didn’t want that connected, creative feeling to end.

The good news is, it hasn’t. The women from that workshop have been amazing, and we all stay in touch and have met once and have another meeting in January. I feel so fortunate to have this group of supportive, positive, amazing, talented women to share and grow with. We are all each other’s biggest fans, and can openly share anything and everything about our writing with each other.

I am forever grateful to Joyce for opening a door for me that I very nearly let shut. It is still a battle to carve out time for writing, but I am making myself do it, especially with my writing group’s encouragement. But I wouldn’t feel the confidence and I wouldn’t have the direction I do without Joyce kneeling in front of me that day, passionately making sure I heard her words.

And really, how many times in our lives does someone do that for us? Really make sure we hear the words that make all the difference—that can change our lives?

If it happens, be grateful. Listen. Don’t take that moment for granted. Take the words to heart. Do what you are meant to do.

I plan to do just that.

It might take a long time, it might not work out like I’ve planned, and I am sure it will be ten times harder than I can even imagine.

But, this is my life.

I am a writer. It is what I was meant to do.

I will tell my story.

Bringing Boone Home

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Mon, 21 Oct 2013 04:42:00 +0000

It started with this picture.

He had been rescued from a high kill shelter, only 12 weeks old and just hours away from being euthanized. The whole process of whatever had happened before he got to the shelter, plus his time at the shelter had just traumatized him. He was incredibly timid and shy and needed a home with patient caregivers, and in the best of situations, a confident big brother to help him get his bearings and come out of his shell.

I stared at the picture for a few seconds and looked into his eyes. I have seen hundreds of rescue pictures. I follow a lot of rescue organizations on Facebook, and every now and then, one dog will catch my eye, or a story will tug at my heart. This was one of them. But this one in particular felt different. I emailed the rescue contact and asked if there had been a lot of interest in the dog, whose name at the time was Cameron. She responded, “No one yet”. I told her we really weren’t looking, I just wanted a sibling for Bear before he got much older, and something about Cameron got to me. We emailed a little, back and forth. She checked out my Facebook profile and the pictures and stories about Bear. She felt like Bear would be THE perfect big brother for Cameron. She sent me an application, and asked me to “just fill it out and let’s see”. Cameron, she said, was a special case. The foster mom was very attached and wanted to make sure he was placed carefully. He was incredibly sweet, but was having a hard time.

I hadn’t yet talked to my husband about this crazy idea.

We currently had four furry residents in our house. Three cats and our beloved dog Bear. I can honestly say that Bear is the center of our world, and we both love him so much, that there is no doubt he is spoiled and cared for beyond measure. I have, for awhile, wanted to get another dog as Bear has started sleeping a lot and getting less active, and at five years old, he doesn’t need to do that. He is only doing that because we are doing that, and honestly because our schedules have let us do that. Bear loves to play, and we don’t always make it to the dog park as much as we used to because his energy level isn’t as intense as it used to be. I didn’t want to wait much longer to get another dog, because I want him to be young enough to enjoy a playmate.

When I first broached the subject of another dog, my husband Shea looked at me as if I had completely lost my mind. He loves our animals just as much as I do, and he and Bear are incredibly bonded. But, we aren’t financially in the best place, we do already have FOUR animals, we are renting and will probably be renting for a long time to come (which isn’t always easy to do when you have a small zoo in tow), a puppy is a lot of work, and to top it all off, I was about to leave for a business trip for six days. He wasn’t even considering the possibility. All of his arguments were valid, and honestly, right.

Usually, when I have gone through this before, even sometimes a rescue would call or contact me about a particular case, something would happen, someone else would adopt or foster the dog, and the whole situation would be resolved without my involvement. But in this case, that just didn’t happen. And usually, every other time, something in me told me it wasn’t right. This time was different.

Shea knew the person I was when he married me. Within the first year after we were married, he definitely knew what he had gotten into. We were still living in South Carolina then, and he was riding with me to a sales appointment. It was a rainy gray day and we were getting off the interstate. As we drove on the exit ramp, I saw two dogs wandering precariously in and out of speeding traffic. They were muddy, the rain was coming down and drivers were swerving in the bad weather to miss them. I started to pull over immediately and Shea stopped me. He said something to the effect of “Are you insane?” I drove a little further and stopped. I looked at him and said, “You knew who I was when you married me. I am the person who will stop on a rainy, muddy day and pick up strange dogs. I can’t live with myself otherwise.” I knew I was with the right person when I saw his face soften as he looked at me and then got out of the car with me and called for the dogs, who at first seemed to have disappeared, but then gratefully ran to our car. They jumped in, mud and all. A funny side note to that day, after they got into the car, they immediately both jumped over the back seat and all over Shea, licking him in gratitude, but also covering him in mud. We had to throw away his shirt. But he was such a good sport. We were able to find a local vet nearby who took them in and called a local rescue after checking for microchips.

We had agreed to meet the rescue contact at a local pet fair on the upcoming Saturday, and even though Shea was not on board completely, he said he knew how I felt and would come with me and see what happened.

Both of us were most concerned about Bear. If Bear was unhappy or overly jealous, or if this would impact him negatively at all, it wouldn’t happen. Period.

They brought out this shy little puppy, warning us that he probably wouldn’t even walk around with so many people around. But when he saw Bear, a light went on. It was love at first sight. He immediately jumped and romped and wagged his tail. Bear became a big brother right away.

We had already decided on a name if things worked out…Boone (for my husband’s college town). Boone’s foster mom was there and the rescue contact and they were both so happy and touched watching him open up so much more quickly than they thought he could.

I kept coming back to Shea. I knew he was unsure. I knew he was right about all his worries. He always says he loves my heart. And despite his concerns, and everything else, he looked at me then at Bear, and said, “Bear, let’s take your little brother home.”

I was home for for five days before taking off for a six day business trip to Chicago. In those five days, I suddenly remembered how hard it is taking care of puppies. Boone was still very shy for about five hours. Then, it was as if he suddenly knew he was safe and he bounded through the house, and romped outside, and ate and ate and ate. (something we couldn’t get him to do at first). But it was tiring, and non-stop. The thought of leaving Shea alone with all of this for six days was daunting. I laid awake at night worrying if I had made the right decision, and if Shea would be ok, and if everything would work out alright. But, I remembered that I felt the same way when I first brought Bear home and sometimes felt overwhelmed, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that bringing Bear home was the best decision ever. I just had to trust my gut and my heart.

As I prepared to come back from my business trip, I worried. Six days was a long time for Shea to handle everything alone, especially in the early days of helping a puppy adjust. But I came home to find that he had fallen in love with Boone, and vice versa. How could he not? Look at that face! But I was so relieved. I knew seeing Shea and watching him and Boone that everything was ok and I had made the right decision.

My love for Bear has only grown, sometimes I think my heart will burst as I watch him be such a patient big brother. Shea and I both thought he would be more possessive and jealous about his food, but he has been surprisingly forgiving. He is learning to share his toys, which is taking a little more time. But overall, the two boys are romping and playing, Bear is getting so much more exercise, and they are both having a blast.

I could never have known the love and comfort my animals would provide in my life. I have been so lucky to find my way to these animals at just the right moments. I have written before about this, but as much as I have saved them, they have saved me. There is something so magical about being a part of a rescue animal's journey, about seeing that light come on when they know they are safe, and that everything is going to be ok. It fills my heart, and honestly at times, gives me purpose. Thankfully, my husband understands. We are at full capacity now, though. There's no more room in our house, or our bed for that matter, for any more fur babies for a long time.

But I am so, so thankful that we had room for just one more.

Here Before

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 00:05:00 +0000

Usually when I am at some sort of crossroads, when I am struggling or hurting, the words are everywhere. I can write and write, no matter how tired or busy or how little time I have. But, that hasn’t been the case for the last four months. It has been almost physically painful to write, and I haven't been able to find my way out of whatever writer's block or obstacle I am up against. I have worried that I am too far gone this time. But really, I can’t be any more far gone than I have been before, can I? There are too many good things in my life now that I never thought I would have. Too many right things. Too many things that should make everything easier.

This time of year always sneaks up on me. Even though fall is my favorite season, this time of year – heading into the holidays, has always been hard. Even though I have a husband who loves Christmas with such passion that he reverts back to a six year old’s excitement over every ornament, decoration and Christmas movie on television, it can’t erase over 30 years of this being a really horrible time of year for me. I honestly love this time now, as we have our own traditions, and I don’t have to make excuses to avoid going home (and feel guilty for it) or feel like the most single person in the world (as the holidays can really make you feel). But I think there is something to the fact that my body, soul, and spirit learned to start preparing for hard times around September, and somehow I haven’t “unlearned” that yet. I get more emotional over everything, and think too much about everything, and in general, feel a little more of the weight of the world on me.

It started in September, when everything I read and heard on the news and from my friends just started weighing on me. Just the unfairness of life. Just hard stories and hard times and sadness that seemed to be outnumbering the goodness and kindness in the world. I kept telling myself I was just seeing things that way, and I was honestly getting scared for myself. We have been under so much financial stress for such a long time it seems. That will wear on a person. That, and family stress and every day stress, and just life has seemed, well, so heavy. I worried that, like addiction and other life-long battles people have to fight even once they are recovered, my depression was always going to be something that I had to keenly be aware of, sitting in the corner beckoning for me when I feel this way. At times, it felt as if I was fighting not to be taken in. I think we all have low moments, and I know I have had enough on me to justify feeling overwhelmed.

A few key moments stopped me in my tracks. The first was on the drive into work a month or so ago. I was already emotional that morning, and traffic was backed up on my regular route, and I had to take some back roads as I neared my office. I got a little turned around, as I always do with my lack of direction, and as I pulled up to a stop sign, trying to figure out which way to turn, a homeless man sat on a tiny patch of pavement between me and the oncoming lane of traffic. He held a small cardboard sign, with messy letters in black magic marker that read: Dreaming of Tacos and a Clean Pair of Socks. He was looking off in the distance and the pain on his face and that sign…well, I lost it. I was sobbing in my car, soon serenaded by multiple car horns pleading with me to move on. It just broke my heart that someone wanted such simple things and didn’t have them. The next morning, I tucked a pair of my husband’s socks into my purse, and went the same route to the office, but the man was no longer there. I cried again. I see so many homeless people here. Every day. And my heart is torn every time, and especially when I see elderly people or when I know someone is mentally ill and lost in a world that has discarded them. But this man’s simple sign has stayed with me. I have tried to remember that and be so thankful for all that I have. I have punished myself for feeling down when I am NOT by the side of the road begging, and I will sleep in a warm bed and have food tonight.

The other key moment came just a week ago. I was at work, and got a call on my cell phone from a sales person, trying to sell a conference sponsorship. She was trying to reach me, but in connection with the company I last worked for. When I explained that I no longer worked there, she responded, “Oh, Kim, I hope you are doing something you love to do, something you’ve always dreamed of doing.” I sat silent. She and I had worked together briefly at my last company, and she let me know she had enjoyed working with me so much, and was glad to see I had moved on (my last working environment was not a very positive place to work). And while my new job is much better, much more geared to my work strengths, and while I make a good salary, what she said made my stomach drop. It was such hard timing when I have been struggling to write a single sentence for months and at times have given up on my dream of ever publishing a book. I want so badly to finish my novel and just try to get it published, and to just really feel that first and foremost, I am a writer. I know that can’t happen all at once, but I have always felt I was working my way there. Lately, I have felt like it just isn’t going to happen, like I am losing something, a part of me, a key core of who I am. I know I am so lucky to have a job in a time when people don’t. I know we are lucky to be paying our bills when others can’t. It is just so frustrating to be working so hard and turning over what feels like every cent to just cover our asses—barely—and it’s not even doing what I love- what I really want to do. But, that’s life. I know it. This is no surprise. It is just harder right now for some reason.

I feel time ticking by right now, it feels like the clock is speeding up. I had to check my age on a form recently, and I have a birthday coming up in a few short weeks. I will be 44. FORTY FOUR. How in the hell did that happen? And how did I LET that happen, without going after some of these dreams sooner? How did I let depression rob me of so many years? I know I didn’t “let” that happen, and that second question kind of answers the first, but it hurts my heart all the same. I know I still have time. I am constantly telling people that it is never too late. And it isn’t. It just feels that way right now. I just want to make up for lost time, and go grab everything I want to do, and do anything and everything that makes me feel better, and worthy, and hopeful about the world, and most of all, myself.

One thing that helps, so much, is this.

This is the end of my day every day. My dog Bear. This face in the window. There are no questions or worries here from this sweet boy, just love. It amazes both me and my husband just how much love you can feel for a dog and how loved you feel in return. On my way home from work, when I honestly have cried a few tears for reasons I can’t explain, when I need to feel needed and worth more, and need to know that I am making my mark and a difference in the world somehow, I pull into my driveway, and Bear somehow knew five minutes before that I was turning on our street, even though I never arrive home at the same exact time. He looks out the window and waits. He sees me walking up to the door and explodes into a happy dance and pulls to get to me so much that my husband cannot hold him back until I have put my bags and purse on the kitchen table to turn to him. There is such joy in me just being there, just arriving, after only hours away. It seems small, and maybe even silly to those of you who aren’t dog lovers, but I can tell you that there are days when that moment is everything.

It's a small sign that in a world of weight and sadness and lost and forgotten dreams, that there is boundless love waiting for me, just behind my front door, and somehow, I am doing something right.

The beautiful painting featured in this post is called "The Fisherman's Wife" by Scott McLachlan. More of his work can be viewed here.

Be Ready as Best you Can

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Fri, 10 May 2013 01:56:00 +0000

As I watch my Facebook feed fill with pictures of my friends’ kids, almost grown up in their caps and gowns preparing for high school or college graduation, I am always taken back to those times in my life. There you are, right on the cusp of the beginnings of your life, or what you think your life will be.

This year was different for me, because while hearkening back to those times, I am also finding myself in this frustrating point of life where I just get angry because life seems so unfair. It is unfair to watch good people suffer with disease or horrible pain or loss—sometimes one after the other, while truly awful people, people I know to be manipulative and malicious, just skate through life, seemingly without a care. It’s not like I just learned this, there have been instances my whole life. But lately, so many people I know and care about are struggling, and I want to make sense of it all.

The thing is I can’t. You can’t. We just can’t. It is life. Life is fragile, hard, and yes also beautiful and precious, but the truth is, it isn’t always fair. It won’t ever be.

I have written a time or two before about commencement speeches that have touched me or meant something to me. A few years ago, I wrote a poem that makes me believe I was having similar feelings when I wrote then, also.

Today I decided to write my own commencement speech, even though I have not currently received an invitation from a university to give one, and I doubt any are forthcoming. It’s the best way I knew to combine my own nostalgia for this time, along with the wisdom I hope I am gaining with another year behind me.

So here it is, Entitled:

Be Ready as Best you Can

Life is not fair.

I don’t say this to discourage you. I say this to you as a challenge for this next stage of your life, as you sit in these seats in caps and gowns, excited about the next chapter.

Be excited. Do whatever it is that calls to you in the small hours of your life, in between the things you think you have to do. Make the thing that calls to you the “have to” of your life. If you don’t, you will always wonder, you will always wish, and when you find yourself older and wiser, you will know it is what you should have done. Many years ago. The good news? It’s never too late. But don’t wait.

Because, I will say it again, life is not fair. None of us is guaranteed another day, another hour. Whether you are religious or not, whether you fear death or not, whatever you believe, all of us are on borrowed time.

As I stand before you, I am farther along this path of life than you. Your path may be remarkably different than mine. You might get lucky. Everything might go just as you planned. But then again, it might not. Be ready for this, as best you can. Know that you might not get your dream job, but the one you get may be where you were destined to be. You might not get married as soon as you would like, but you may find that the wait was worth it after all. These sad, perplexing moments will be the threads of your life that weave together a pattern you couldn’t have foreseen. And at some point, you will be grateful for that. You will surprise yourself and be grateful that it wasn’t all so easy.

Know this: absolutely no one I know-- friend, acquaintance, co-worker, or family member has ever said to me: things in my life went just as I planned. Anyone that does say that is probably not being honest with you or themselves. Everything will not go as you plan.

Be ready as best you can.

Let yourself mourn the losses of your life however you need to. It will make the victories that much sweeter.

Know that life and people will break your heart more than once in your lifetime. In fact, many times. Each time, you will feel that you can’t survive the pain. But you will. It will change you a little each time and teach you things you wish you didn’t have to learn in such a painful way. You won’t be able to see things clearly until much later when you look back and know that coming out on the other side of heartbreak made you stronger.

Take every chance you can. Don’t hold back. Because what will holding back get you? There won’t be photographs of you holding back, or friends sitting together laughing, remembering when you held back. There will be memories and mementos and stories handed down of all the chances you did take, the things you tried that scared you, that excited you, that made a dream come true, that ultimately will make you who you are.

There will be an a-ha moment when you finally become who you were meant to be. I can promise you, it is not right now. You may be far away from that moment, or you may be closer than some, but you will know it when it happens. When you have hurt enough, laughed enough, cried enough, experienced enough, and learned enough, you will have a moment where you sigh, take a deep breath, and know that this is it. Who you were meant to be. It won’t be an ending, it will be a beginning. You will relax a little more, quit trying so hard, and appreciate things more. It will hit you how precious it all is, and how hard you fought to get where you are, wherever that may be.

Be ready as best you can.

Everything is harder than it looks. Work, marriage, parenthood, and balancing more than one of these things at any stage in life- it’s all so much harder than you can imagine right now. But, it’s been said before, the best things in life are hard. And these things, the paycheck, the spouse, the children, they will also make up the most amazing, fulfilling, life-affirming moments. These moments will be more beautiful than you can imagine-- they will take your breath away.

I know now more than ever, that life is not fair. I watch friends struggle with disease, threatening to rob them from their young children, and I can’t make sense of anything. Years ago, I watched my best friend suffer as her three year old was diagnosed with leukemia. You cannot find any kind of fairness standing in a pediatric cancer ward. All you know is life is fragile, precious, and at times, so unfair. My friend’s son is healthy today. He is whole and healed. These moments will happen too—when you weep through laughter over amazing things, miracles, it seems. Hold onto those moments. They are rare, few, and far between.

So tonight, when you watch the last of the day fade away- your graduation day- take this with you: life is not fair. So, there’s absolutely no reason that you shouldn’t do everything you want, be everything you want to be. You have no excuses. If life were fair, it would all be spelled out for you, which steps to take, what not to do. If life were fair, you would know all the hours and days you have left, and there would be plenty, so why rush—why take a chance? If life were fair, it would be easy, lovely, and effortless.

But it’s not, thank goodness. It’s an unpredictable roller coaster ride, and you can’t ever see what’s coming next. You have no warnings, no guarantees, no map to follow from one stage to the next. Open your eyes, hold on, and be ready for all the surprises, catastrophes, and overflowing happiness. It’s all coming.

It will be wonderful, sad, and achingly beautiful.

Be ready as best you can.

Half of My Sky

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 05:25:00 +0000

For so many years, its weight was all my own,
endless blue days and dreamy dark nights

all at my fingertips, and on my shoulders… alone.

Expanding out before me, above me,

bowed by the weight too heavy for me to bear.

Gray misty mornings I somehow pushed to rise,
through dewy tears of loneliness

and repeating, ever-changing seasons,

but still...

it was all me, all mine, alone.

And then, half the weight lifted.

Your arms took half the gray days, half the cloud cover,

half the rumbling days of thunder, and thick storms.

Your heart brought more blue skies and

helped show me the best

of the brighter seasons.

You are half of my sky-- holding it for me-

bearing more weight when I am weak,

sharing the beauty when I am strong.

It is ours together, broad and wide,

sheltering us, glimmering above us... ours together.

We have braved our own storms, and at times,

our sky felt low and heavy, but it never fell.

We held it high enough …together.

We endured, saw the next sunny morning,

felt the ocean’s spray, saw the other coast greet us.

We knew we were strong enough for anything.

We are.

You are half of my sky, holding half of my world above me,

bright and blue, large and wonderful.

And in turn, I will always be half of your sky.

Through all of our days and nights,

the blue skies, dark clouds, gray storms, and the sea of stars,

I will be here, holding my part,

my half...

with all of my heart.

Searching for Sea Glass

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sun, 31 Mar 2013 05:29:00 +0000

Last year on this date, my husband Shea and I were a week away from setting off on our big adventure-- moving to the San Francisco Bay Area. I wrote about all the hope and possibility that lay ahead of us, and how excited we both were about the future. We were both nervous—Shea even more than I—as he had never been where we were going. I had lived here before, in the very town we were moving to. Our townhouse actually sits less than a mile from my former apartment, the little one bedroom I lived in –fifteen years ago- which seems unbelievably long ago now. Time has flown. This past year has flown.

What we didn’t know was that once we left South Carolina, once we headed out for our adventure, everything would go wrong. I can’t even begin to explain or remember all of the little things that went awry, but the big things are burned into my memory: our corrupt moving company holding our belongings for ransom, finally giving them up only after an emotional battle and thousands more dollars of money that we had to borrow, finding out that the same moving company had kept many of our belongings including our mattresses, which left us struggling in our first weeks here on an air mattress until my first paycheck.

Then, while I was gone on my first business trip, Bear encountered a foxtail – something we knew nothing about- but once he inhaled it- cost us almost $1000 in an emergency veterinarian bill. (goodbye to the rest of the first paycheck!) Those first few weeks were horrendous, and Shea had to deal with a great deal of it alone, in a new city where he knew no one, while I was a few states away, working. Then, to top it all off, while I was on that trip, I took a tumble down a small flight of stairs, luckily breaking nothing, but the fall left me in such pain for the rest of my business trip, that I spent part of every day in the restroom in tears, and cried myself to sleep every night. This was contract work, and I refused to go to the ER because I knew no doctor would let me continue to work, and our financial situation was so perilous at that moment that I couldn’t risk being sent home. I waited to visit the ER after my trip once I got home, and came out hobbling on crutches, but relieved I had made it through and gotten paid.

I kept waiting for the moment when we would turn the curve and our fortunes would change. I kept waiting to see the light in Shea’s eyes and know that he loved it out here as much as I always have. I kept waiting for him to find his next career direction and see the light at the end of the tunnel he has been waiting for. I kept waiting for my job situation to settle down and for me to feel I was really where I was supposed to be. The contract work dried up, and I finally found a full time position. But for the most part, for most of these things, I am still waiting.

I have had more than a few challenging times in my life, so I know this is not the lowest point. There have been days in this last year, though, when things have felt bigger than me, bigger than us, and I have lost faith in myself. I have doubted the decision to bring us out here. Even though it was both of us deciding, it was me who started this chain of events, it was me who suggested bringing us here—all the way to the other side of the country. We both loved living in Myrtle Beach, SC, a place that held a lot of childhood nostalgia for us, and where the people that are truly family to us live. I cannot express how much we miss Aunt Marlene. We would be in her kitchen celebrating Easter with her and other family members tomorrow, and not doing that will be a hole in our hearts. I had assumed that by this time, we would be able to afford to fly back for holidays, and we are just not at that point yet.

The truth is, we were struggling back in SC, and we are better off financially here, even if we are still struggling. It’s hard to face that, especially for Shea, who doesn’t know anyone else here, and I know he feels so disconnected from the world at times. Changing careers is so hard, and navigating through that has been more challenging than he or I could have ever imagined.

I have wanted to write for months, to spill my soul out and share what has been going on in my mind and heart, but I haven’t been able to find the words. Working has left me drained and while I am so thankful for my job, especially now, I come home exhausted and unable to summon the creative energy to do the thing I love and honestly need to do most when I am trying to work through a hard time. I know creative people all struggle with this. We have to pay the bills, so your art-- whether it’s writing, painting, music—it becomes the thing you do on the side unless you have been lucky enough to find away to make it your livelihood.

On the train ride home, standing in the middle of dozens of people every day, I find myself getting emotional thinking of all the time ticking away. I am not writing my novel, I haven’t even written a blog post in months. It has been overwhelming lately. I tell myself I will make the time, I will stay up late, I will carve out time on the weekends. But I can’t summon the words at exact moments. They come to me or they don’t. Lately, they haven’t.

I wish I could say I see all these hopeful changes just around the corner for us, and that within a few weeks, we will be out of this rut, full of purpose, and without any doubts of our choices and our place in the scheme of things. I know that won’t be true- unless a winning lottery ticket finds its way to us.

I have to keep myself focused on what we do have. I tell myself all the time that it’s like being at the beach, looking for sea glass among the broken shells. You have to look really hard to find these beautiful, cloudy blue-green pieces of glass, little gems among the wreckage of the ocean, but they are there. Right now, my pieces of sea glass are that we both have health insurance, we are both ok health-wise, Bear is healthy and happy and loves it here- as do all of the animals, we live in a great place near beautiful walking trails, I am working full time, and we can pay the bills- barely- but we can. Tomorrow and the next day and the next, we will have plenty to eat, and we have a roof over our heads. We have each other. And although things have been rough and we have struggled at times, we know and love each other more every day. Some days are harder than others. Some days are good. We laugh, a lot.

It has become this weird little mantra for me when I am having a bad day…look for the sea glass…a way to remind myself to look for the positive things. I don’t even know if the analogy makes sense to anyone but me.

Sometimes the pieces of sea glass are really hard to see. Tomorrow, I am promising myself I will take a few extra moments to look harder to see them, to wait for the sun to catch the colors and show them to me. I know they are there, hidden among the broken shells of my life right now.

Here's hoping in a few months, it's not as much of a struggle to find them.