FEAR Realized » relating

FEAR No. 058 – Peace In Anonymity

NaysWay — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 15:43:47 +0000

This weekend has been draining. I’m dealing with some things and, without getting into too much detail, I will say this: It’s hard. I’m OK now. And God bless my husband. I’m not even joking about that last part. I wish I could say more, but just typing anything related to it makes me cry, so…

There’s that. Until further notice, anyway.

Onto (semi) lighter things:
Things in my mind hit me in waves. I wish I was one of those people who had singular thoughts, and could process them one-by-one, like an assembly line or checklist. And I can sometimes. But the times between assembly line and tsunami are very few.

Case in point – I’m working on a new concept for this blog. Big. Shocker. I am a scatterbrain, yes. But one day recently, I sat and looked at my blog. Then I started reading old posts. Then, because it is the universe’s way, I realized half my posts are missing pictures because of edits I’ve made on Flickr (DON’T LOOK!). Then I go to check my stats: who’s reading; from where; what posts are popular; where did I dip in readership; what topics are reeling people in; what key words are being used to search me…

And, while we’re on that subject, I just want to give a special editor’s note to those using the words booty, big booty girls, and big booties… I’m sorry. I swear that, in most instances, I was talking about Kim Kardashian. Or treasure.

Honest.

Also, when I mentioned this little fact to BFam, his response was, “Have you ever posted pictures of yourself? You only do shots from the waist up, right?”

Nice, honey. Like the taste of couch much?

…So then I started getting analytical as this is my nature (read: psy-choooo). And I start wondering, well, hey! How come I don’t have a lot of readers? What am I doing wrong? There are obviously lots of unhappy, depressed, suicidal people out there. Why aren’t I reaching them? Is it because I called them unhappy? Or depressed? Or suicidal? Why, Santy Claus? Why?

When I start visiting my special place of crazy neuroses, I tend to distract myself. Since I was already sitting at a computer, I took this as an opportune time to catch up on my blog feeds. This is the time I stumbled on this post.

Now, before you ask, no. I am not a single mama. I don’t even remember how I found the site. But I liked the style of writing, liked the content, and liked that she was sort of a local (from the town of my alma mater, anyway). See how I make sense?

And it got me to thinking because, with all my crazy, you have no idea how close to the ledge I was before that post. The ledge of changing my style. Changing my voice. Using my real name and those of my children (BFam threatens to divorce me if I ever use his, and I like him too much to let that happen; use of his likeness is as much of a rope as he’ll lend me). Because, when you start out into the world of blogging, you’re originally doing it as an act of catharsis. Then you get a flow. Then you get readers. Then, ultimately, you think you’re Dooce. Because what person out there doesn’t want to quit their day job, stay at home, and receive national and monetary recognition all while spewing details of their daily life?

Don’t lie to me.

But, like most blogs that catch a fire, that situation is special. For whatever reason, the cosmos aligned and brought us the Dooces (Dice?) and Pioneer Women of the world. They didn’t ask for it. And, I don’t care what book or how-to site you read, it’s not for everyone. Not only are the set of circumstances surrounding the popularity of these sites special (read: happenstance), it takes an equally special type of person to deal with the popularity because, let’s face it. Not everyone is going to love you. And if you deal with the love, you’ve got to deal with the haters. Like Lady GaGa says: Once you kill a cow, you gotta make a burger.

Yeah, I have no idea what that means either. But it sounded cool. I think.

In my short time (and even shorter list of readers), I’ve had a few negative comments. Only one had me so incensed, I was not only ready to shut the site down, I was ready to trace the URL of the commenter, hunt them down, and do some serious damage. And that was one person. ONE. I have screws loose, and I’m not medicated. That can’t be a good combination. At least Dooce made fun of her situation with a Monetize The Hate site (she has since taken it down so as not to give too much power to the haters), and I don’t think an ill word has even been said of P-Dub at Pioneer Woman because, let’s be honest. The woman lives on a ranch with her cute kids and her cute dogs and her cute husband in his cute chaps. Leave her be!

Of course, it begs the question: Why the hate? In the time it took you to read what I wrote, only to form an opinion you felt (anonymously) worthy of leaving in the comments (anonymously), spewing your (anonymous) venom about how you (anonymously) hate someone you’ve not only never met, but who probably wouldn’t remember you or your (anonymous) cyber bullying should you (anonymously) choose to come out from behind your curtain.

Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not well known or well read because I’m… well, an idiot. And the only crazy I do well with is me.

Oh, and one more thing… ANONYMOUS.

Running Over

NaysWay — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 19:27:02 +0000

At some point, we hit a lull with the amount of children populating our family. I use family in the singular sense because mine doesn’t count. It’s my family – all four of us – then that’s it. I’m an only child (which is starting to be a recurring mention in my posts – I’m sensing some hostility within myself). I don’t have nieces or nephews. What cousins I do have are second and third generation, and I rarely see them unless someone dies.

I don’t know what I was thinking marrying BFam. Not only is he the oldest of his clan (which, as I’ve read in various online articles, is not the greatest match with an only child), but he has a buttload of siblings, nieces, nephews, and cousins. I feel like I need a tally sheet talking to them. Because whose kid are you? And how are you related again? And I’m your what?

BFam’s siblings range in age. The youngest sibling is sixteen (and I’m probably getting that wrong but see my previous statement: I can’t keep up). There are a good mix of girls and boys. Save for the sixteen-year-old, almost all of his siblings have procreated.

And this wouldn’t be such a big deal, but I’ve officially gone from having hardly any family to HOLY CATS WHERE DID ALL THESE PEOPLE COME FROM?

And the birthdays?! Don’t even get me started on the birthdays. Sweet Georgia Brown, all these little people! As if I wasn’t having enough trouble already!

I’m going to need everyone to go on procreation lock down. What’s trickier than asking everyone to keep their legs closed than getting that word out to 1.5 million relatives.

FEAR No. 056 – Shadows & Forewarnings

NaysWay — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 20:44:37 +0000

When word broke that Andrew Koenig – known to most of the world as “Boner” from the television show Growing Pains – took his own life after weeks of being reported missing by family and friends, it took me a long while of sitting and thinking before I could talk about it. Like everyone else, it’s troubling me. I’m sure, if you’ve read enough of my drivel here, you can imagine why.

Most want to know how this happened. How could he have been depressed for so long and no one know, or have done anything about it. How was he so far gone and totally unreachable that no one could save him. Was there an event that triggered it.

And then, Marie Osmond’s 18-year-old son.

The words escape me again because… 18.

Looking at the two cases – one aged 41; the other much, much too young – you begin to wonder what’s in the Hollywood Kool-Aid. But you can’t. Because it’s not the Kool-Aid. In both instances, this man and man-child dealt with one key factor and it wasn’t Hollywood. Depression is real. There’s ad campaigns, and therapy, and rich pharmaceutical companies harboring on this as truth.

I’ve touched on depression and suicide before by rehashing my own experiences with both. I was lucky. I lived to tell the tale after two attempts. I wasn’t looking for attention. I wasn’t looking for solutions. I was looking for an end. No matter how I achieved it, ending the pain and weird thoughts and insomnia and panic attacks was the ultimate goal.

For the families of both victims, my heart goes out to those left wondering what more they could have done. How, maybe, their loved one would still be around had they reached out a little harder. I don’t want to say those suffering with depression can’t be helped, and I can’t relieve the guilt by telling those left behind that depression and suicidal thoughts are worse than shoving cotton wads in someone’s ears and eyes; that, despite your best efforts, sometimes nothing you do is enough. Because you want to hope beyond everything that you saw this coming. That there were forewarnings. That you weren’t oblivious. And, to all those things, I say… Sometimes you can’t. Sometimes there aren’t. And you weren’t.

Out of my experience, whenever I can get BFam to talk about it with me (which isn’t often), he says it’s the one thing he blames on himself – not seeing it. He could have stopped it. He should have stopped it. He would have stopped it. And, even if he could have, I was so far gone, I would have found another opportunity. That’s how it works. You get pulled from the ledge. Loved ones offer comforting words. Therapists offer billable hours and scripts. And there you are. Nodding your head. Agreeing with it all.

Numb.

I wish this was a FEAR of encouragement. But, like I said, I’ve been sitting with this for days trying to find an upside. Trying to articulate a positive. How to understand the turning point that brought me out of darkness long enough to survive. And I know what that point was for me, but everyone’s turning point is different. I don’t want families of those suffering with depression to think I’m telling you to give up. Never give up. But, if you can help it, know that if it fails… you didn’t.

A Moment Of Compassion

NaysWay — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 17:16:32 +0000

I can’t, in good conscience, pretend I don’t see what I’m sure the entire world is witnessing right now. I can’t, in good conscience, pretend the video footage, the live satellite feeds, the interviews, the pleas for help, the suffering, the bleeding, THE BABIES lying dead in the street… aren’t affecting me.

Babies. Just… the babies.

Catastrophic things happen all the time. It is the nature of the world and the casualties of life. But when catastrophic things happen to already devastated places, and you realize you’re much more fortunate and blessed than you may have first assumed… perspective is the word I’m looking for. And, along with compassion, I think we’ve all received a dose of perspective in large amounts these past few days.

This blog/website/what-have-you does not generate a lot of readers. At least not to my knowledge. If the few of you who drop by would like to extend a moment of compassion to those suffering in Haiti, let me direct you to a few places I’ve seen willing to help in the blog community:

Me. In the sidebar, you’ll see a widget linking to Yele Haiti, an organization founded by singer/rapper/activist/Haitian-American Wyclef Jean of Fugee music fame. He has been one of the leading champions of Haiti since he received any type of notoriety, long before any earthquake. The widget will take you directly to the donation page, but don’t stop there. There are tons of places on the site explaining who they are and what they do. Take a look around. More importantly – DONATE!.

The Pioneer Woman – Creator Ree Drummond is donating $.10 for every response she receives to this post, and “two (2) $500 donations to the Haitian-related charity of the winners’ choice”. If you’ve ever visited her site, you know she receives record responses to her give-a-ways (she’s already up to 24,235 with this one), and to her site in general.

This Is Reverb – Creator Pastor Ryan Detzel often volunteers his services (ministering AND actual manual labor) to places like Honduras and, in the next coming days or weeks, Kenya. He has links to Compassion International’s disaster relief program, as well as a heartfelt word (and I mean “word” with a capital W, so we’re talking God, people; don’t be scurred).

That’s Church – Creator Virginia Montanez has been giving up-to-the-minute updates from Haiti, reported to her by a friend who not only is suffering, but has children from the area she is working to bring to the U.S. She, too, has links to various organizations including Center Of Life.

Blogography – Creator David Simmer has links to Doctors Without Borders in Haiti.

There are also the usual suspects: American Red Cross, and hosts of others. A quick Google search will get you someplace in no time. A quick warning: While there isn’t a shortage of people willing to help, there are unimaginable swarms of pig snot creating fake organizations to steal your money. DO YOUR RESEARCH before you give.

The outreach pouring from these places is astonishing, and it makes me love the fact that I became involved in blogging just a little bit more. Even if I’m only a speck in the millions, I hope this speck helps the helpless right about now.

Tartar Sauce

NaysWay — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 19:22:56 +0000

So… yeah.

Having kids has afforded me the luxury of watching children’s television shows without having to explain myself. I love SpongeBob SquarePants. Because I have kids, I try not to curse. SpongeBob has the greatest words to use instead of cursing, so I always try to grab a few out of his dictionary. Words like “Fish paste!” and “Barnacles!” and “Tartar sauce!”

I had me a Tartar sauce moment, y’all.

When I was younger, my grandfather used to drive me to and from school, grades 6-12. Maybe younger (I’m a little foggy). My grandfather was the type of man who didn’t bite his tongue – he said what he meant, meant what he said. He was also a man who hadn’t learned how to drive until his 60′s. If you asked him, he’d tell you he didn’t need to because the 32-window job could take him everywhere he needed to go.

(The 32-window job, for those who don’t know, is a bus. Yeah, I didn’t know that one either.)

Every ounce of frustration he should have released the years he’d neglected getting a licence had over 40-plus years to simmer and burn. Oh, boy, did it burn. When it was my turn to learn to drive, my grouchy, fiesty grandfather let me have it. Who cared that I was a girl growing to be a woman. No soft passes lobbed here. Only hard balls. Sink or swim. Countless times I’d ask him to give me a break. “You get your break on Broadway,” was his reply.

And he meant it, too.

My grandfather was a man of many sayings. Not really proverbs, but quotes that hit your ribs like meatloaf. Some thirty years later and I’m still quoting them.

During his hay day of driving (what was that, 70?), he made it known that women drivers ranked right up there with getting a root canal in his book. They couldn’t drive. They couldn’t see. They couldn’t make a left. They couldn’t merge lanes. They drove too slow on the highways. They couldn’t do anything right. “This is a man’s world,” he’d quote James Brown. When I’d finish his quote with the rest of the song, “…but it wouldn’t be nuthin’ without a woman or a girl,” well, I’d may as well have dropped acid down his pants. “If women can drive,” he’d say, “I can make a watch with a hammer.” Needless to say, my grandfather spent the better part of my formative pre-driving years shellacking this into my brain, all the time making sure I wouldn’t turn into one of those women drivers he was always ranting about. He wanted his then 16-year-old granddaughter to drive like a man.

And I do.

Well… I DID.

This was my fault. A bus, a trolly, and two minivan cabs parked in front of the parking lot entrance of my job, and it looked like I had enough room to squeeze my SUV right through the slit of space I was provided.

I’m not even joking when I tell you I heard my grandfather scream from heaven and throw his hands up in the air when I did this.