The STUFF Sisters - Mental Health

Wasted Time

I try not to dwell on things that I can not change anymore. I still need lots of practice. Since I am not cured of this curse, I would like to vent my frustration with spammers.

I believe that any person that has any hand in creating the noise we call spam and wastes the time of their fellow humans should be inconvenienced in equally frustrating ways.

Here a few suggestions:

Red lights won’t change.
Their toothbrush is missing every morning.
Their food at restaurants doesn’t arrive in a timely manner.
Every time they bite into a taco it drips grease on their pants.
They can never find a parking space.
The 6′ 4″ Dude is always seated directly in front of them.
They constantly run out of milk for their cereal.
If they are a chick…their tights never stay up.
If they are a dude…their zipper won’t stay zipped.
Every time they are focused at work, someone places a completely unnecessary stack of papers on top of their work space and it can not be removed without each piece of paper being handle individually.

Feel free to add to my list. You will find more joy in facing your email inbox.

A little over a week ago, there was a post on my Facebook from friends vacationing on the other side of the world from where I was sitting. The shot was lovely – full of a glorious sunset, tanned legs & feet, and smiles you could not see.

I caught this at end end of my work day before packing up my computer and heading off for the 5:15 carpool run. It stuck with me through the arrival of talkative and sweaty cross country boys. It stayed with me through dropping off my child and picking up my husband. We had plans that night, but first I wanted to see the sunset. Just like my friends half a world away.

So we drove downtown to Quality Hill and caught the last few minutes of a Missouri/Kansas sunset. I was hell-bent to see it. Something in my day beyond the Facebook post was telling me to live now. To see the sunset now.

Something telling me that days are limited and sunsets are not just for vacation. That this is it.

p.s. The park at 8th and Jefferson is one of Kansas City’s best spots for seeing the river, the planes in and out of Municipal Airport, and great sunsets. Just go. Trust me.

The Storm Passed

In recent months, I have been drowning in the flood of my own life. A “perfect storm” of work, parenting and volunteering put me on my knees. I had a plan. I really did.

In recent months, I have been drowning in the flood of my own life. A “perfect storm” of work, parenting and volunteering put me on my knees. I had a plan. I really did. But then those unexpected and unlikely events started to hit.

Every time I turned around, another (medical, staff, tenant, dental, roof, appliance, plumbing…) issue hit. Again, again and again. I thought this time I was going to break, thankfully I had help with the materials and equipment from http://profoam.com.

Then last week my daughter climbed into my bed after a bad dream. I was still awake, lying in the dark holding back tears of fatigue and fear. She crawled onto my stomach, her limbs falling past my knees and over my sides as she drifted back to sleep.

I looked down at her in the dark, and just like that the storm passed. Only one thing actually changed…me. My heart could finally be heard above the screaming in my mind.

I let go.

Last Thursday, when an actual storm ripped my roof open, tore siding from my house, and knocked the power out, I lit candles, put buckets out to catch the water, locked the windows, and cuddled up on the couch with my child and fell asleep in the warm glow of my home.

A home isn’t a house. My house may very well fall down around me one day, but my home will always be warm, well lit, and open to the people I love and who love me in return.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

I was frustrated last night. Angry frustrated. I wanted to walk in a charity walk with my Dad, and everything in my life conspired against me all afternoon and into the evening. I didn’t have a pity party, but I did throw a private hissy fit.

I was frustrated last night. Angry frustrated. I wanted to walk in a charity walk with my Dad, and everything in my life conspired against me all afternoon and into the evening. When I called him to finally tell him I just wasn’t going to make it, I got my stepmom on the phone. My voice broke when admitting I wasn’t going to make it. I didn’t have a pity party, but I did throw a private hissy fit. It went something like this:

Why is this city getting so big and busy that I can’t get to Corporate Woods in 20 minutes at the end of rush hour?

Why would a charity hold an event on a Friday night and have it begin at 6:30? Don’t they know people own businesses that don’t close at 5pm?

Why did I have a child? Didn’t I know he would grow up and have a busy life and need rides?

Why did I marry a man who is always busy with his own small business?

Why can’t I just do what I want to do and not have so many people demanding so much of me? Don’t they know I just want to walk in the dark with my Dad and remember his incredible journey through cancer? Don’t they know I want to hold a delicately glowing balloon in the quiet of a wooded suburban setting?

Then the moon came out. The biggest, most beautiful moon of the year so far. By that time of my night, I was back at my business sneaking in a few important tasks between car rides for my young man. I stepped out into our back alley to get something out of the car and was blown away by the brightness of the night sky. Then I saw the monster moon. I turned, locked the door to the store, and walked around the block.

Quietly. Slowly. In the glowing night. By myself. And, in every way, my Dad was there with me while I quickly put the hissy fit to bed.

p.s. At the end of the evening, I realized I was where I was supposed to be last night. When my final pick-up of the golden child occurred, the first thing he said to me was, “Mom, did you see that moon?” I told him that indeed I had and that I had bathed in her amazing powers. That’s when I got the look that only a sixteen year old can grant.

p.p.s. I know you’ve been humming The Stones while you read this. That makes me smile!

Resolutions

New Year’s resolutions have never held an allure for me. I don’t make them. Never have. I can’t imagine that, after several months of revelry and celebration …

New Year’s resolutions have never held an allure for me. I don’t make them. Never have. I can’t imagine that, after several months of revelry and celebration, you will change all your behaviors in the turn of a calendar page; that just seems far fetched. Un-doable. Heck, it’s ripe for failure, and who needs that?

For the past 10 years, the month of August has found me battling desires to change due to travel. My family has our vacation in early August, and somewhere during those two weeks of slower pace and solace I find myself thinking about how I will change my ways when I get home. The ideas range from speed-of-life to intake-of-food to time-spent-relaxing during the rest of the year.

This year I actually pondered the fact that I do not own casual clothes. I have the clothes I work in and the clothes I exercise in, but I do not own sweatpants or whatever it is that people lounge in at home after a long day…clothes you could actually answer the door in (and they wouldn’t be your PJs). I also reached deep into the bottom of my psyche and discovered that basically I am either moving or at a full stop. As in: I work and play in one set of clothes, and, when it is time to read and sleep, I am in pajamas – fully showered and ready to sleep. There is no in between for me. I spent days thinking about this in the quiet of my chair on the beach and on the patio. It was easy to do in a swimsuit or a sarong. Nothing to bind me too tightly.

Usually soon after returning from Florida, I travel to New York every August with my sister for business. I love New York. Deeply. It does not scare me with its noise, scale or vibrancy. It does not make me feel un-cool for not living there. It does not make me feel lessened. However, it does make me want to go home and live a fuller life. It makes me want to walk to work and shop for groceries in smaller batches. It makes me yearn for public transportation and bakeries.

And then the month is over. So far, I have not hunted down new clothes for relaxing. Vacation is well over, and the bra is back on. I have not walked to work one time. We are shopping for groceries in smaller batches, but probably because grocery shopping has somehow become one of my least favorite things. I have not ridden the bus to work, because it doesn’t seem to want to take the route to drop my son at school, swing by Office Depot, and possibly run by the coffee shop to replace the iced tea I left sitting on the counter at home in my rush and bustle. The beautiful part of all of this is that my rich, full life is still just that. And, not having attempted actual and broadly stated resolutions, I have not failed at them.

That leaves bakeries.

p.s. Plant photos were captured in August in New York, Kentucky, Tennessee and Florida. I imagine that their resolutions were to bloom and grow. Right where they are.

shufords 2 — One of my favorite photos from vacation. The vine is clearly looking to block the drive thru…making us all slow down.

Voices in My Head

I attended a charity luncheon last week, and the main speaker – a graduate of the program we were there to raise money for – spoke of her life, her troubles and her achievements.

I attended a charity luncheon last week, and the main speaker – a graduate of the program we were there to raise money for – spoke of her life, her troubles and her achievements. A clear voice she remembers from her past, a grandmother, told her when she was young that she would never amount to anything. Ever.

I was breathless. I carry voices in my head from the women in my life. One grandmother, when life was too good or edging towards bad, would tell me, “It’s a rich full life.” Another grandmother, “Let’s get this done.” I can’t imagine my life without my family standing behind me. Perched there waiting to step in with help or preparing to step back in pride.

Less than a day after the luncheon, I was sitting at a breakfast to celebrate the leaps and bounds a local university has taken in accepting and embracing people in the LGBTQIA community. At this celebration, three young people told their stories of coming out to their families and their greater world.

Much like the woman from the day before, they stood there proud of their accomplishments but wracked with the pain of the voices they carry in their heads – of family and friends who have not been accepting of their life. An institution – and members of its staff – was clearly stepping in to fill a painful void. A void that four small years of learning or a five week empowerment program can’t completely fill.

These young people stood there alone at their microphones – placed arms’ lengths away from each other – and shared openly. It took every fiber in my body to stay in my seat half an auditorium away as they each reached a crescendo in the stories that left them speechless and upset. I wanted to be near them – right behind them and much closer than an arm’s length – to remind them silently that it is a rich, full life. That the norm is not for those you trust most to leave you or let you down.

I stayed in my seat, was joyously a part of the raucous standing ovation, and left the room wondering. Wondering if I was correct in my assessment of what the norm is for family behavior.

I will never know the answer to that. You are given one life full of challenges, loss, gifts, celebrations, pain and love. I doubt normal ever dips its foot into these waters.

p.s. My week ended at an amazing fundraising party for the KC CARE Clinic. The women in these photos are many of the voices that live in my head – from just that one night. I treasure every single one of them.

No Set Schedule

I couldn’t find my happiness this past Sunday. I tried.

I wasn’t slated to work that day, but I had gone in early for a problem and then, later, learned that a customer had reduced a staff member to tears with bullying. The day ended with phone line trouble, a saddened and frustrated staff member walking me through it over her cell phone, and another trip from home to work.

Sundays aren’t a day that’s dictated. I don’t have a set schedule on that day of my week. It’s always a little bit loosey goosey. Usually.

But there must have been a subconscious plan in my head for that day that just wouldn’t come true, and by the end of the day I was blue. Sad. Pissed.

But today – another snow day – I found my delight in not wearing my watch, making breakfast for a teen, playing and losing four games of Scrabble, watching two movies, and taking one nap.

I had no set schedule in mind when I went to sleep last night and none when I woke up. It seemed to help.

Pure happiness.

My carefree niece in the snow last week. — My niece reminded me last week of all that is important about snow days. Carefree smiles.

Just Being Me

At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this.

At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this. I do, however, remember thinking that I hope I was in tune and, if not, then enjoyable. I sing when I’m happy – but I do not whistle. Humming is in my repertoire but not used often.

sunshine quote — Found on Pinterest today.

There is one way in which my husband and I are diametrically different. He could go through life not really making a ripple on the surface. The thought of a server in a restaurant singing to him on his birthday would not only mortify him, it would be grounds for our divorce after almost 30 years of bliss!

He does amazing things – behind the scenes. He gives generously of his time and resources – quietly. And he backs me up in every single thing I do and stick my nose into. We are raising a child together, and so far the experiment is going swimmingly.

I don’t believe I make scenes. I don’t think I talk louder than the situtation demands or the microphone can take. I am a good listener and reside in quiet very well. I do occasionally, however, sing in public and like surrounding myself with my own joy. I laugh easily and talk to strangers constantly – inside and outside my work life.

My wish is that, at Costco the other day and every day, my joy envelops my husband and brings happiness and not embarassment. If not, he might want to get another cart and walk a few steps behind.

Home Alone

God save me from my memories.

Tonight was a gift that has come along so seldom in the last 15 years that I was giddy with the possibilities. The husband at work for a client. The kid off at a dance and after parties.

God save me from my memories.

Tonight was a gift that has come along so seldom in the last 15 years that I was giddy with the possibilities. The husband at work for a client. The kid off at a dance and after parties. I didn’t know when the man would be home, but the boy’s pickup wasn’t until 1am. A day of work and volunteering behind me, and an evening to myself. Alone. In my home alone. Nirvana.

Maybe catching up on my reading. Maybe writing a bit from the notes I gathered at my writing group on Friday. Maybe learning to use the remote and watching an old movie. Maybe remembering the huge dust monster found in my closet/dressing room/office earlier this morning while digging the boots out.

Guess which one won?

Here I am at 10pm on a Saturday night. Battling the vacuum attachments was work enough, but the flood of memories from the handbags, totes and clutches almost took me down.

What in the hell is wrong with me? I can clean out a child’s room quickly. I can make happy work of an over-packed junk drawer. I can sort through the “dump pile” of weekly mail swiftly. I can make tough decisions about what goes and what stays in every room in the house except the one that is solely mine. My dressing room and office.

This pile of incredibly dusty and seldom used bags turned into a hike through Mizzou (early ’80s), a trip to a national political convention (mid ’80s), a trip with my toddler to the zoo in St. Louis (late ’90s), a first-time handbag purchase from a street vendor in New York (early ’90s), and a talk with my grandmother (seemingly yesterday). I stood there vacuuming them all – with the brush attachment and working up a marginal sweat – telling myself that this was it. This was finally the day to rid myself of cotton duck cloth and/or leather that hadn’t held a school book, diaper, notebook, badge or swimsuit in over 10 years.

Then I folded them neatly into a dust-resistant plastic bin and put them away on the highest shelf of my closet.

For another day.

p.s. Of course it turned into a larger project that encompassed the entire closet. Silly girl. What was I thinking?

Spasmodic Claustrophobia

Years ago I saw a photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge on either its birthday or maybe the day of a marathon. Don’t know. Can’t remember.

What I do remember is that I was overcome with a touch of claustrophobia. Just sitting there holding the magazine. The photo was majestic and magnificent, but I felt like I was the tiny person in the center of the bridge. Needing help possibly. Panicking maybe.

Today I was waiting for my primary care doctor to enter the not-too-big-not-too-small room for my physical. I waited a while longer than I wanted, but I was holding in there because he is a wonderful doctor and we seem to be on the same wavelength in regards to my health. Besides, I’m not a quitter.

Then, all of a sudden – possibly at minute 27 of the waiting – I needed to get out of the little room. Or at least open the door a wee bit and listen to the hall noise more clearly. The sound of my own increasing heart rate was deafening and not really all that interesting.

So I did just that. I popped the hatch.

I may not be able to control my self-diagnosed “spasmodic claustrophobia” but that crack in the door did more than let in new air. It released my mind.

And the sweet man even knocked before he entered. Dang. I can pick ’em.

p.s. This is not the photo from my memory. But it is darn close.

p.p.s I’ve never been to California. The Golden Gate Bridge must be a sight to behold.