middle aged motherhood

Rituals and Journeys

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

Rock Lake Presbyterian Church’s annual “flowering of the cross” ceremony is held each Easter. My mother started this tradition and this is this year’s cross.

Disclaimer: Is religion wrong? No. That’s not what this post is about. This post is about my journey from Presbyterian believer to atheist. This is my journey and I’m writing about it because there may be another person out there who needs to read this. They may be on a similar journey and they need to know that they aren’t alone. I’m not dissing on religion or God. I’m trying to explain why I have let go of my belief in both.

I very much like rituals. No, I’m not talking about routine or habit (that’s not to say that I don’t enjoy always putting my pants on right leg first then left leg because the other way would just ruin the whole day), I’m talking about ritual.

rit-u-al n 1: the established form esp. for a religious ceremony 2: a system of rites 3: a ceremonial act or action

I grew up in Rock Lake Presbyterian Church and each Sunday, the service followed the same pattern:

Opening Hymn, Call to Worship, Doxology, Prayer of Confession, Bible reading, Gloria Patri, Apostle’s Creed, Sermon, Invitation, Blessing, Hymn, Postlude.

I haven’t stepped foot in my childhood church in decades, but I can still sing the Doxology from memory.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow! Praise Him, all creatures here below! Praise Him above, ye heavenly host! Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! Amen.

Pretty ironic for an atheist, eh?

I’ll let you all in on a little secret that I haven’t told anyone. You may want to get a little closer to the screen because I’m going to whisper it to you.

During my eighth grade year, when we had to take state-mandated standardized tests, we had to mark our career interests. I put down, “Presbyterian Minister.”

Shocker, right?

When my father went into the hospital in 1981 for a triple-bypass surgery, my love of religious ritual was fractured when I overheard my mother telling a friend that our minister hadn’t visited my father in the hospital because we hadn’t tithed enough money that year. I realized at that moment that for some people, religion wasn’t so much about faith as it was about money and influence and I was determined to not make it about that. I wanted my church to be about God, family, and fellowship, regardless of whether my manse had a hole in the roof or if the church’s stained-glass windows had cracks.

The longer I stayed around religion, though, the more of a bad taste it left in my mouth. I saw people praising God for their raise or their tax return while children were starved or beaten two streets over. I witnessed a friend’s church state that only baptism by immersion could save souls while my church baptized by sprinkling. My Sunday school teacher proclaimed that one uttered cuss word would damn us straight to that fiery place and because of that, I lay awake many nights, terrified that I would spend eternity with the likes of serial killers and rapists because of a misplaced fuck, not to mention the fact that I’d possibly been baptized wrong and couldn’t be saved in the first place.

I slowly, but surely, realized that religion wasn’t always one thing for one person. That it could be grace or fellowship or volunteerism for some, while others used it for money, power, and selfish ego. Yes, I did experience the selfless sacrifice of a few people but overall, I experienced the opposite from many. And never once did I feel God was there directing any of it.

I recall one afternoon in high school, on the school bus, passing my church and wondering, “If I were born in India, I’d be Hindu. Or if I were Japanese, I’d be Shinto and Buddhist. Religion is geographical. It’s a birthright” Well, how could that be right? I knew there were missionaries, but why did there have to be? Why wasn’t everyone already Christian? Why did we have to “sell” it? And weren’t those same Hindus and Buddhists and Shintos convinced they were right? And then it clicked. It wasn’t so much about geography as it was indoctrination, what you’re born into and taught all your life. I was taught to worship God as a Presbyterian because that’s what my parents were taught, and their parents, and their parents, and so on. It wasn’t necessarily right or correct, but it was genealogical.

As an adult, I announced my affiliation with deism, then later agnosticism. But was I really a Deist and then an Agnostic? No. I think it was me, after decades of reading the Bible, being preached to and frightened into belief (or else) that I couldn’t let go of. It was after suffering from infertility that I finally set my belief in any higher power free. So many things were said to me and about me during that period in my life that I could fill a book. (Funny I say that because I’m working on an outline for said book as I type this.) Many of those things were helpful and caring. Some, though, weren’t. A few were callous and hurtful, but the one that absolutely broke my heart was a Bible quote.

Halfway through my fertility treatments, I received an anonymous card in the mail. There was no return address and a generic Atlanta postmark. Inside the innocuous card was handwritten the following:

Psalm 127:3

Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him

I was stunned. There was no signature. I remember shaking from head to foot, unable to process how one Bible verse, so well-placed, could be so utterly hurtful. I cried loud, angry tears and screamed at the ceiling. An hour later, I wiped away the snot and cleaned myself off. I placed the card on the kitchen counter along with the rest of the mail so that Tyler could see it. I wanted him to read it without my influence and when he read it, he agreed with me that because it had been sent anonymously, it had been sent to hurt, not heal. A person who followed God was telling us that for whatever reason, we were unworthy of the gift of children. And no inner voice told me otherwise.

I finally proclaimed my atheism several years later because I hadn’t seen or felt God in my life. Ever. I realized that nowhere in my life did a divine power ever step in and assist. I never felt guided or helped or loved by anything celestial or beyond me. I have always felt alone. There has been no voice or direction, just me and my singular judgement. And the day I came out as an atheist was the day I admitted to myself that I was fine with that, that I accepted that, that it didn’t make me sad or angry. It’s just life. Good or bad, we are responsible for ourselves and our actions.

The guilt I felt for many years was lifted the day I admitted I’m atheist. We are all human, with mistakes and foibles and bad and good, all rolled into these physical forms. We screw up and we triumph every single day. This is humanity. And I refuse to apologize for being human, what religion calls a sinner. I’m not a sinner just because I’m human. That’s wrong. Accepting my humanity with no strings attached? That’s what’s right for me.

Crossroads

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

Even though I’m 45 years old, I still celebrate “firsts.” I am realizing that you’re never too old to celebrate a “first.” Each birthday is a first time experiencing that age and each time my children do something, that’s the first time I’ve experienced that thing through the eyes of a mother and not a bystander. But, there have been other “firsts,” as well.

At the ripe-old age of 33, Memorial Weekend 2005, I was heavily pregnant with my twins. Even though they weren’t due for another five months (and, in reality, came six weeks earlier than that), I felt the weight of the world on the small of my back. Tyler and I had just spent the weekend, our 10th anniversary, at my mother’s house in West Virginia. This was to be our last weekend there since I was close to the date I would have to stay home and my mother was two months away from moving, permanently, to Georgia.

Our last morning there, I woke up and waddled into the shower. And the reality of leaving this place, my childhood home, hit me. I began to cry. As I stood in that shower, I realized I would never again step foot in this house, that it would only ever exist in my memory, that I would never again be able to just casually walk through the front door and flop myself down on the couch. It wasn’t a great house, mind you. It was tiny and had its problems, but it was the house where I took my first steps, celebrated my birthdays, practiced piano, cried when my parents told me, “NO!” and laughed more often than I can count. The evening after my father’s death, I sat at the table, too tired to eat. I stared at the food in front of me and wondered if I would ever laugh again and I knew if I ate the salad sitting there, I would vomit. And, yet, it was just one day after his funeral that I sat at that same table, with a slice of chocolate cake, a Coke, and my cousin and aunt, laughing so hard over a stupid Trivial Pursuit question that I couldn’t catch my breath. That house saw me through so much and I knew that after this day, it would never again be “my” house.

Tyler and my mother rushed in to see what was wrong. They thought I was hurt or in early labor. “No,” I sobbed, “I’m just crying over a stupid house!”

Thirteen months later, I did step back into my old house. It had been sold and the new owners had redecorated. As I carried Heath, they allowed me inside and I don’t remember too much except that the smell was the same and my bedroom was now an office. Where there now sat a desk, I could still see my hot pink walls and my green shag carpet, my stuffed animals and my white bed. In a daze, I quickly walked through, thanking them profusely and hastily leaving. It was too painful.

Last week, I loaded my children up in our minivan and drove eight hours north to visit my home state. I’ve now lived in Georgia for longer than I ever lived in West Virginia, but I still consider myself more hillbilly than peach. As I drove down those well-worn streets and through the neighborhoods of my youth, not much had changed. The paint is peeling a bit more than before and the streets are bit more bumpy, but it’s nearly identical. And as I pulled up to the intersection of Kentucky Street and Rock Lake Drive, I realized another first. If my life could be summed up in a graph, this house, its address, near this intersection, would be coordinates 0, 0, 0. This was my beginning and my children were seeing it for the first time.

I’m very much a realist. I quite like to slip into my imagination from time to time, but I understand, quite clearly, that my graph will someday have an end set of coordinates. Where those will be, I have no idea. But, I do know that 5312 Kentucky Street, South Charleston, West Virginia, will always be my home, no matter who holds the deed. It’s as much a part of me as my current home. And those memories will live on and can never be taken away. Someday, my children will pull up to this house in Woodstock to show their own children where they grew up. They will cry a few tears of remembrance just as I did last week. Their children will wonder why this house means so much, but they will understand when they take their own children to see where their coordinates began. My children’s firsts fill me with joy and heartache and I hope when they come back to this home of ours on Wellesley Crest Drive, that their memories of it will be as happy as mine are of Kentucky and Rock Lake.

Stopped in My Tracks

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

img_9370Tyler bought me a monitor for my notebook, so that when I’m sitting at my desk I don’t have to squint.

Some husbands buy flowers, chocolate, and lingerie. Mine buys electronic things. This is one of the many reasons why I picked him. But, I digress.

I set about getting my desk organized with the behemoth which meant I needed to pilfer through the basement detritus for a mouse and keyboard.

(By the way, that’s the other great thing about Tyler. Our basement is like a Circuit City/Best Buy/CompUSA/Apple store all rolled into one room with bunches of cardboard boxes full of cable and cords and keyboards and computer cards and on and on. I’m pretty sure we could cable the neighborhood and take care of their electronic needs for the next year.)

As I walked by a bookcase of old CDs, I found an interesting stack of paper I hadn’t previously seen. I took a closer look and was so overcome I had to set down my electronic treasures. It was a stack of papers that had been saved by my Uncle Curtis, that had probably been in a box, most likely found by Tyler, and set aside for me to peruse.

The stack, a small portion of which is in the picture above, was full of bits of things Uncle Curtis had saved: letters and cards from me, newspaper clippings about me, my research paper, pictures of my father, my honor roll certificates, his Camera Club ribbons, and on and on. It wasn’t like I was excited to read these old letters and newspaper clippings. What touched me and stopped me was that he saved all of this as if he were my parent, which he pretty much was. He was my third parent. He was my way-cool uncle who listened to me, took a huge interest in my life, spoiled me, and held me tight. He was the absolute best uncle a girl could have ever hoped for. My parents were and are awesome, but my Uncle Curtis was something special. When I went through that stack yesterday, I didn’t smile over the memories of writing those cards or receiving those accolades. I smiled and remembered my times with him, those special moments we shared.

One of the items in the stack was a sheet of paper containing my Uncle Romie’s thoughts about his brother Curtis, read at Curtis’s funeral. Some of Uncle Romie’s thoughts about Uncle Curtis included:

When Curtis started grade school, Mom had him ride the garbage truck home (about 2 miles).

Curtis was a very generous person who would give you the shirt off his back.

We lived in Maryland on the Eastern Shore where there are no mountains. One night he looked out the window and became a little disoriented. He said he wondered why the sky was so “low.” Being from West Virginia, he said he was used to looking up to see the sky.

As I look back on Curtis’ life, I see a very generous man who will be missed very much. Our children loved him and will miss one of their favorite uncles.

Uncle Curtis (and Uncle Romie and my father) are missed every day, still, after all of these years. I am thankful for finding that small stack of papers so that he was next to me again, even if only for a little while.

Balancing

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

solid-yellow-line-mean-road_fda679fe0b15e0df

NOT Cooper Gap, but still pretty. Image credit: artageclub.com

As I came upon mile four in my 10k race this weekend, I noticed I was completely on my own. I couldn’t see the runner behind me and the runner ahead had rounded a corner. There seemed to be no one and Cooper Gap Road appeared to stretch upward, forever. This place is a beautiful, quiet stretch of North Georgia country where you always hear water running nearby and you might see a bear, watching the annual race. But for me, it was just an endless stretch of pavement with the wind in the trees, and that double yellow line taunting me.

Since I had the road all to myself, I decided to race right down the middle of it. I shifted from the right to the yellow line and decided that to keep myself occupied, I would use that line like a tightrope, no going left or right. I had to stay right there. I had to balance on the straight and narrow and not fall into the black on either side.

Those last two miles were pretty much a metaphor of my life. There’s this constant balance between motherhood and Heatherhood, responsibility and freedom, work and relaxation. On the days that I get work done and am on top of everything, I feel so powerful, so in-control. On the days when I get nothing done, when I park my butt on the couch and watch TV while the kids are at school, I feel like such an utter failure. For example, I sit here writing this post because I know I need to write more, I enjoy it and need the practice, but I feel guilty that I’m not upstairs folding the bathroom towels that have been sitting in a laundry basket all weekend.

I get it. I’m too hard on myself. I always have been. It’s hard to teach a 44-year-old woman new mental gymnastics. In the last year, thanks to Zoloft, my anxiety and mood-swings are mostly gone and calmed, but I still have a hard time finding that balance and acknowledging that I’m allowed to have balance, that it’s OK to have the busy days and the lazy days, the mom days and the Heather days, the laundry days and the writing days.

While I ran down that double yellow line, I took two miles, about 22 minutes, to think about my life and how there were so many things I wanted to do with so little time to do it all. Life, after all, waits for no one’s Oh, I’ll give it a go tomorrow. Life plods forward, with or without us. I know I need to hit that double yellow line more often than not, but I also know that it’s OK if I veer off to the shoulder to take a pause and a few deep breaths, look up the hill, and plot my next steps.

Because even though life and time both move inexorably forward, I need a shoulder moment every now and then and that double yellow line can wait.

The Blink of an Eye

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

img_9200I remember lying in my hospital bed, a mother for just seven short hours. My twin babies were in the NICU and I was full of anxiety. I couldn’t sleep, I wanted to see them but wasn’t allowed because of the danger of seizures, I was worried I wouldn’t know how to breastfeed them, and my blood pressure was so high that I was mainlining magnesium sulfate through an IV pump I had affectionately named “George.” The doctor had ordered a “nightcap” for my IV (read: something to finally knock out the psycho mother in room 15) and I was just drifting off to sleep as my breastfeeding consultant walked in the room.

See, I was absolutely freaked that the twins wouldn’t get enough breastmilk. If I gave them a bottle, then I would know how much they drank. The ounces would be clearly marked on the side and with a little simple subtraction, I could know how much they were eating. Breasts, unfortunately, don’t come with those ounce marks. Plus, writing down the amount of poop and pee they created each day just seemed a bit too much like flying by the seat of my pants which, as we all know, I DO NOT DO.

So, there she was, this tired “Breast Milk is Best” advocate who was there to calm me down and give me advice.

In the middle of her instructions, her phone rang. It was her newly-minted 13-year-old daughter who was asking if she could have more minutes on her phone. You see, September 16th was her birthday, too. And she had just received a shiny, new cell phone for that 13th birthday. But, she had used all the monthly minutes to set it up and call all her friends to say, “HEY! CHECK IT OUT! I HAVE A NEW PHONE!”

4961_85634273231_4642627_nEven through my drug-addled, anxiety-ridden, sleepy brain, I could hear the mom’s/breastfeeding nurse’s voice become more terse and frustrated as the conversation went on.

“No. You cannot have more minutes.”

“You’ll get more minutes on October 1st. Those are the rules.”

“It’s not my fault you used up all of September’s minutes in just a matter of hours.”

“You should have paid attention to what you’re doing.”

“I know it’s your birthday, but deal with it.”

When she finally hung up, she apologized, explained what had happened, and as she spoke, gestured to me and the pictures of my new babies, and said, “This? Hon? This is easy. All you have to do is feed them, change their diapers, and love them. When they get to be 13? That’s the hard part. Trust me.”

Of course, I didn’t believe her. I was convinced that trying to guesstimate breastfeeding quantities was going to be the hardest thing I had EVER done in my ENTIRE life. (Postpartum anxiety is a total bitch, yo.)

Eleven years later, and here we are on the cusp of that cell phone moment. There are many days when I can see the beginnings of the teen years with mood swings and attitude. It’s no fun being the mom who takes away the iPad and tells them “NO!” while their tears fall as if it’s the end of the world. I can tell you that even though I know I’m doing the right thing, I still feel like the most awful mom in the world.

Somewhere out there is a 24-year-old woman, celebrating her birthday. She most likely pays for her own phone, and she may have her own children. I doubt she recalls that conversation with her mother, but I remember it as if it were only yesterday. I can remember rolling my eyes and thinking, “The teen years are SO FAR AWAY!”

And yet, they aren’t. They’re staring me in the face. I sometimes wish I could go back to the easy days of baby giggles, diapers, and fuzzy breastmilk consumption math, because she was right, those days were SO much more simple.

But, even though these days are no longer easy, they are certainly more interesting. I’m never bored. I see children who are forming ideas about the world, learning constantly, loving those around them, laughing freely, crying, arguing, questioning, and becoming really cool people. They make me feel more alive and more tired, all at the same time. I know the next eleven years will pass as quickly as these have and before I know it, I’ll have adults in place of the babies I once knew.

And I’ll long for these difficult days of the pre-teen years.

Happy 11th birthday, Amelia and Heath! I love you so very much!

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First World Problems

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson


(Aka A blog post in which I whine about inconsequential things that I probably shouldn’t whine about. But where’s the fun in that?)

  • Target – What the Hell, guys? I go in there for a damned pack of deli ham and I come out with solar walkway lights, an outdoor chair (with cushion), kids’ pajamas, three packs of coffee, and friggin’ lemon poppyseed scones? I mean, I nearly ended up with fairy lights to hang in the Japanese maple. I just can’t even with you anymore.
  • iPhone – The Home button is sticking. Apocalypse.
  • Pollen – My black minivan is now yellow. Pine trees are raping my car.
  • Instagram – There is no longer an option to log out. Between this and the Home button, I’m just going to burn my phone. Or run it over with my “yellow” car.
  • The Martian – Andy Weir needs to get on the stick and write another book. Because I keep staring at the cover of The Martian and pining. Not that I don’t already have a stack of books I could be reading. It’s just easier to sulk about books that haven’t yet been written.
  • Sirius XM 80s on 8 – THE 80s HAD MORE GROUPS THAN CULTURE CLUB AND MORE MUSIC THAN KARMA CHAMELEON!!!! JUST STOP! PLEASE!!! AND TAKE THAT JOURNEY NONSENSE AND SHOVE IT!
  • Harry Potter and the Cursed Child – July, ya’ll. WE HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL JULY FOR THIS!!
  • Converse – They need to be in every single color known to man. And in my closet. Because one pair of black and one pair of denim blue will never be enough.

One Million Seconds

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

I need a martini.

I probably need a martini.

It’s been two weeks since I unceremoniously left you guys.

Social media has been a boon for me and it’s also been a curse. On the one hand, I get to share my craziness with you all. The stupid stuff that rambles through my head makes me giggle, so why not share it? But, on the other hand, I also feel the need to constantly share my drama. Which, let’s be honest, no one really needs to see any of that. We all have drama, right? And why pile my drama on top of yours?

I had lately noticed that my life revolved around Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. I need to check on so-and-so’s account. What are they up to? Did anyone read my Tweet? How many people liked my picture? OH! That thing that just happened to me was funny! I need to tell everyone! How dare that person support that candidate! I won’t say anything, but I’ll steam about it for a couple of hours. And on and on.

To say that all of you preoccupied my day is an understatement. And when Friday dawned, two weeks ago, and Tyler and I had had a disagreement, I was done. Finished. In addition to walking a thin line each day in which I want to just rail against everything (and don’t) and realizing that my days were filled with the lives of other people rather than my own, I had to step away. Honestly, for that first day, my finger hovered over the Deactivate your account button and I seriously thought about just disappearing completely. But, I reconsidered. Since welcoming all of you into my life, I couldn’t just unceremoniously boot you all out the front door. So, I went silent instead. I walked out of the party and found a quiet spot in the back garden, where I could recharge and have my beer alone.

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Them Nazis never saw us coming, Grant.

The first week was pretty tough. I would, literally, jump on each morning to check notifications, and then close the Facebook app as if it had burned me. And then I would sit and stare at my phone and wonder What now? I purposefully logged into Twitter and Instagram as Paranormal Georgia so that there would be less temptation. I caught up on my reading, dabbled a bit in writing, talked with an old friend (Love you, Jude!), fought the Nazis with Grant, cherished a beautiful card from my favorite Pittsburgher, was interviewed for the most out-there article ever, and investigated the paranormal. And most of all, I focused on my children. During quiet moments, I just sat rather than jumping on Instagram to obsessively check pictures or Facebook to greedily count notifications.

And it’s been a revelation. I love all of you, but I have become consumed by your thoughts, opinions, activities, and such. I have 389 Facebook friends. That’s 389 people crowded onto my screen each and every day. 389 people talking and conversing and shouting and whispering and sharing and taking up my thoughts. Let’s be honest, I have a hard time just talking to the neighbor up the street. I don’t think my brain is capable of handling all of that information, on a daily basis, any longer. I hate to be the party pooper, but I need to be selfish. I need to acknowledge that I’m spending too much time on social media and that I’m allowing all the things you all say to each other affect me negatively.

I’m not going to deactivate my accounts because I’m hoping to blog every now and then and maybe interact with you that way. I also have my paranormal group’s account to maintain. But I also want to remind you all that even if I do exercise the nuclear option and disappear from Facebook, I’m not gone. There’s still email. There’s still snail mail. And I’ll always be here, in the cul-de-sac. It’s my thing, you know?

Mad Cow

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

mad_cow

Paraphrased…

Her: How are you feeling?

Me: OK, I guess. I don’t know. I just feel like there’s nothing there. No emotion. I’m just… here. You know? I don’t know if I like this. I don’t feel like me.

Her: But, Heather. Think about this. You were on a rampage for so long. Maybe this is what normal is supposed to feel like? The other you? That wasn’t healthy.

Me: Yeah, you’re probably right.

Her: Give it time, Der.

There are moments when your friends put everything into perspective. I don’t think I’ve probably ever felt truly even-keeled. I think most of my life has been just me on a tear and now that I’m balancing out, calming down, what feels out-of-sorts for me is actually what life is SUPPOSED to feel like.

It’s weird. Pre-Zoloft/Klonopin me was just angry all the time. As well as sad. And now that I’ve stepped back and can see that me from outside… wow. Just, wow. What a hot-ass mess. But, while I’m examining this, I’ve also been mourning. For some strange reason, I’ve been saddened because that old me is going away. And even though that me is batshit crazy, I kind of miss her. Don’t get me wrong. The sarcasm is still there. The opinions are still there. The emotions are still there. They’re just not bubbling on the surface, waiting to splatter all over the place like hot bacon grease. They’re all functioning in proper order, waiting for the proper moment, quietly biding their time.

Does any of that make sense?

I’ve been a mad, daft cow for quite some time. While watching an old Boston Legal tonight where Denny Crane decides he doesn’t have Alzheimer’s but instead suffers from Mad Cow, I made an off-handed comment about how the dog probably calls me that in her head. “Oh, look. There goes that Mad Cow again.” And then, I thought, maybe that’s how a lot of people have seen me over the last decade or so. I really have been quite mad. Every time I talk to my friends about my mother or post some nonsense on Facebook or when the neighbor saw me lose my shit over the garden hose this summer (quelle horreur) that’s been sad, angry-at-the-world me.

Mad cow.

I’m sorry, everybody. I really, truly had no idea, until just now, how bad I’ve been.

 

Monster Mash

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

IMG_3958I’ve now been on Zoloft for two weeks. I won’t feel the full effects of it for another two to four weeks, but I’m already feeling a glimmer of better. My doctor also gave me klonopin, a drug I’ve heard of but never used. When I first looked it up, I discovered its main use is to treat seizures. When I read that, I was confused, but considering that my panic attack pretty much caused my heart to have its own little seizure-fest, I got it. Then I saw also treats panic disorders, which is what I’m going to someday have tattooed onto my forehead. So, I took one, immediately after my doctor’s appointment. And you know what? Best. Drug. Ever. I didn’t care. I had that cheap-ass-glass-of-moscato buzz going on and the pope himself could have walked through my front door and insulted my cat and I would have been all Yo, dog! Come and get summa dis kpin! It’s the shiz!

I only took the one because I was pretty sure that all the other carpool moms knew I was higher than the ISS and that DFACS would be at my front doorstep before the kids finished their homework. (PS Dear teachers, I’m sure the kids’ homework that afternoon was a cluster. It was my fault. Common core and klonopin don’t mix.) I haven’t touched the bottle since. But I feel better just knowing it’s there if I need it.

We all have monsters living inside us, monsters that are chemical imbalances or brain deformities or bad memories of traumatic events. All of these things shape us into who we are, for better or for worse. I don’t think I would be the creative person I am without my depression and anxiety. I mean, I like me, I just hate the monster living inside of me. After spending the last ten years reading books to my children, I’ve read about many different monsters. All of them are deformed, horrific, external projections of the bad in the world. Two of the hardest things on the Teach Alla Dis Shit To Your Kids list isn’t potty training and it isn’t sex. It’s (1) Death and (2) The monsters are not only inside us, but the ones outside look just like us.

The last time I checked, Ted Bundy was a handsome charmer and John Wayne Gacy was a Jaycee and a community volunteer. Aileen Wuornos wasn’t exactly beautiful or a civic leader, but she was a human, not a red-eyed, fur-covered, evil demon under the basement stairs. Now, I’m no serial killer, but my depression turns me into a monster of sorts. It makes me angry at the world and the people in it for no reason other than it’s me versus all of you. And it makes me so terribly sad and takes away any semblance of hope.

I put up my Halloween decorations today. I got a jump on October 1st, but I have absolutely no shame in doing so. It was a combination of surprise the kids when they return from their grandparents’ house and I need to do this for me because I love Halloween. And, yeah, I need to do things for me. But I also need to do things for a few others. Like apologize for that monster inside of me that convinced me to lash out in anger rather than in understanding. That monster that gets upset and angry for no reason whatsoever except that maybe it’s a Tuesday.

I’ve got a long way to go in accepting myself as not just “Heather” but as “Heather with a side of mental illness.” It’s not that I’ll allow it to define me, but that I can no longer be ashamed of it or assume it will get better on its own. I need help and I’m on my way. The monster will always be here, let’s just hope I get her under control because goodness knows every day can’t be Tuesday.

Stuck

Posted on by Heather Scarbro Dobson

IMG_6275The last several weeks have been… difficult. As summer drew to a close, I found myself anticipating the beginning of school and some quiet time to myself once the kids were gone each day. For those first two weeks, I pounded through this house like a woman obsessed. I cleaned, dusted, scrubbed, organized, and entered the third week feeling in my element, convinced I had all my shit together.

I so don’t have any of my shit together. When you’re in the middle of a downhill slide, all you can do is feel the rush of the wind while trying to convince yourself that it’s fun and exhilarating. All the while, you’re avoiding staring at the pit at the bottom. You imagine that you can just sail over it to the next side and be OK.

I dropped straight down into that pit over Labor Day weekend and can’t quite figure out how to climb out.

Suicide has visited my circle of bloggers this week. I never knew Anastacia, but I knew that she inspired many of my online friends and that many of them are saddened and beyond grief-stricken. I was excited about meeting her this November when she was to join my paranormal group on an investigation and just the evening before, I had discussed her coming with another blogger friend. Then, the news. And my newsfeed was filled with grief and utter confusion. I have sadness for my dear friends who are grieving today and for the days to come because of the hole Stacy has left behind.

I’ve never contemplated suicide, the ultimate in disappearing acts, but I have thought about leaving. I confessed to Tyler just last month that I always have it in the back of my mind to take some money, pack up, and leave in the middle of the night. I’ll just disappear and that will be that. I think about this not because I can’t stand my family and want to leave them behind. I think about leaving because I constantly battle feelings of unworthiness, despair, and self-loathing. I think The people I love would be better off without me and because I have this all-encompassing fear of pain and botching the job and being horribly disfigured, I imagine leaving for parts unknown and desolate, giving my family and friends a chance to find someone more worthy to fill my absence.

That’s what it all comes down to. Worthiness. I’m not worthy of this life. I’m not worthy of this love. I’m not worthy of this job. I’m not worthy of this hug. I’m not worthy.

This long, slow decline into the pit of depression has been happening to me for quite a while. The bad days are outnumbering the good. I sit and wonder What do I want to be when I’m grown up? but the rub is that I’m already grown up. So, how do I decide what I want to be and then juggle the dream master’s degree, then the dream job, all while balancing the dream motherhood without further losing my mind? My worthiness? Should I just stay here and be a “supermom” who runs the daily carpool and homework drill and escapes to her closet each evening to cry? And would I be truly happy in a 9 to 5 environment again?

I don’t know.

I do know that I need a break. After a week-long anxiety-panic attack that left me wondering if my heart may just end it all for me, I went to my doctor and cried on her shoulder. I have, yet again, embraced the bottle of Zoloft and have a pending appointment with my counselor. Going along with my constant, negative inner-monologue is the outer-monologue I see everyday on social media and that monologue is more vitriolic than not. I have to admit that I probably have more than a passing obsession with everything having to do with Twitter/Facebook/Instagram and that’s not healthy. To constantly read and know the inner thoughts of other people all day, every day, is bad for my mental health.

I always say to myself I’m going to blog more. I’m going to write more. I’m going to call my friends more. I’m going to ______________ more. and I know I need to stop doing that because I’m just setting myself up for failure. I’m not going to put up a timeline or a promise here. Except for the promise that I won’t run away. I won’t disappear. I’ll still be here, with my family and my Zoloft, working through this morass of self-judgement and unworthiness. If any of you need me, you know how to find me. Just know that I’m looking up out of the pit and I see the light above. And I’m trying really hard to make it up there where the rest of you are.

(If someone you know and love is struggling with depression and you’re worried for them, or you’re struggling, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline number is 1-800-273-8255. And remember. You’re not alone. We’re all in this together.)