Garden

"Got a garden of songs where I harvest all my thoughts / wish I could harvest one or two for small talk."

Ani DiFranco

All the thoughts, thriving together.

I have a lot of thoughts, just sitting in my garden. Are they seeding and rooting and growing; or are they simply rotting? I do not know. But I do know this: I thought I was better than I am. I thought I was big and tough and brave; thought I could do it on my own.

But, I am sad.

It sounds like my garden is rotting.

I thought the depression was under my thumb; but it seems that instead of me indenting it, it is leaving its mark on me.

Fight or climb; work with or against.

And I struggle. 

My little garden is sad that she does not get to grow her thoughts. 

I thought I was bigger than the depression; turns out making it a competition is no longer beneficial. Because there is no bigger or better: it just is. There are choices to be made. 

I would rather sit and just, not. 

Instead I just sit in a ball of insecurity, agonizing over the next minute and then the next one, all the while doing nothing. No tears, no anger, no release. 

I am the same Heidi I was before being motionless, before birthing a baby, before getting pregnant. I am still her, and I am quality goods, and I am goods with a depression. 

And that is okay. Plenty of goods came from the depression era.

Depression era glass, to name one good thing.

And plenty of good things have depressions in them.

Africa's Afar Depression

I am learning (in a painfully slow manner) to work with the depressions instead of against them. Instead of using my energy to fight, I'm turning the glass to see it in a different angle, to capture the mosaic in the light. To find the good in it, to see how the indents let light through.

And it is hard. Hard to turn it and work with instead of fighting against or giving in. Hard to make it work for me.

And I wonder how one with any other malady views their disease. Does one with glaucoma only focus on the haze or the light they see through it? 

Even in the smog there is light.

It all comes down to choice. Choosing the emote the good, because one knows it is there and not necessarily because they feel it.

I am not fighting. 

I am turning. I am changing. I am rephrasing. I am absolutely refusing to believe that this depression holds no good for me in it. 

 ". . .all things work together for good. . ."

Romans 8:28 KJV

I know there is more to the verse. And it applies to me and I am focusing that all works for good. Including depression. Somewhere in depression there is a prize for me and others. 

So, I choose to not wallow in it; because the prize is not found in wallowing. No, that is where death lies.

There's good in it, somewhere.

The prize is in finding the works for good. And maybe it is in doing the works that the real good is found: the actual act, and not the outcome.

Depressions are marks that become wells. Wells that can hold weight and water. 

I want my wells to be satisfying. For others to drink from the wells and be stronger, not hindered. For my wells to actually hold something and not be bone dry: would that not be worse than bitter waters? At least with bitter waters you know to stay away... but with empty, there is no indication, there is simply a well.

Come on in, the water's fine.

I want the easy. I want the cured. I want the smooth surface.

But that is not me. 

I am Heidi: wife, mother, friend, sister, homebody, writer, reader, runner, needy, road tripper, student, hopeful, haunted, needed, tenacious... and there's so much more to me than a list even. 

And there is so much more to you, too. 

You are more than a list. More than a name. You are more than a body.

You are enough. You are plenty.

And what could be more than that? What could be more than enough; more than plenty?

Today I just need enough. Today my plenty is enough.

"We both have gardens of songs and maybe it's okay / that I am speechless because I picked you this bouquet."

Ani DiFranco

Deleted

I got deleted. My words and intent and heart... deleted. Again.

"Fell off the jet way again."

When I was younger I got deleted a lot. I was told I did not remember properly. Or that I just made things up. In adulthood I was told the person just simply forgot the things they made me endure as a child. Made to feel like I was either crazy or my hurt was not worthy of remembrance. 

My innocence deleted, no apologies.

I do not remember many things that happened; but I can feel them in the shadow of my memory bank. I can feel how my psyche will not allow them to surface. And what I do remember is mingled with different sights and smells that sometimes distort whether the memory was of pain or joy.

They are there, but I just cannot reach them.

Punches thrown on Thanksgiving. Insults hurled at Christmas. Palpable fear at birthdays. Horror movies under kitchen chairs.

These I remember but then they were all thrown away because the person did not know better. My path beaten, all for the ignorance or illness of my caretakers.

I would journal insults and harsh words said for future reference. And though I knew I did not lie in my diary; when I would confront the person I was met with ridicule. 

Just as though my words and memories were deleted by them. 

Worthless.

Let go of the deletions: you are worthy of remembrance.

Of course, that is simply not true. My words and memories have value and exist, regardless of who tries to delete them, or block them. My heart and intent are valuable because I am valuable. My hurt matters because I am a living, breathing person. 

You, my friend, have value no matter who refuses to acknowledge it. Parent reject you? That's on them, not you. Not. Your. Fault. Leader or mentor makes false accusations against you? You don't have to prove a thing because you are already approved. You are alive, brave one. You don't have to prove yourself to anyone but you. Get unfriended on Facebook? Find me and I'll friend you and keep you as my own. You are living no matter who unfriends you-that makes you a tangible and valuable being.

Wayne and Garth may not be worthy, but you are.

Know who you are. Know that your mere existence is worthwhile. Know that you choosing to live and breathe against the odds is a task to be treasured. 

Your words, intent, and heart matter. And they can never be deleted by any mere mortal. Refuse to allow their rejection to be accepted by you; meaning, accept yourself no matter who rejects you or tries to silence you. Keep speaking. Keep living. Know your immense value. And live it.

Need a ear to listen or eye to read your words? Email me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or comment right here on the blog. 

Bitter Girl

"The butter melts out of habit/the toast isn't even warm."

Ani DiFranco

Oh, Ani. She has so many words to express my feels.

I have been making it a habit to have ten minutes of silence sometime throughout my day. Ten solid minutes where I purposely shut my mind to my extraneous thoughts and to-do lists. Oftentimes a word or phrase will come to mind and that will be my theme or mantra for the day. Last week it was the word still. And in my mind's eye I went through different "stills" from my life. The nursing staff that mistreated my husband. Words that cut me to the quick spoken by a mentor. The family member who lied. And it all came back to me holding on to the grudge, refusing to forgive because I want (demand?) justice. 

I want their blood (not literally). I want them to pay. For the nursing staff to lose their licenses. The cutting words to be choked on. The liar to be publicly humiliated. For me and my honor to be vindicated.

I know that is ugly. And it is also true. 

I am bitter.

 Bitter out of habit. Bitter due to neglect of acknowledging the grudges I hold onto for dear life.

The bitterness leaves one haunted, hardened, homeless.

And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me.

Ruth 1:20, KJV

"Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter."

Ruth 1:20, NIV

I read that verse in different versions. I used to read it and think that Naomi was crazy to not see how good she still had it, ungrateful to blame God for the life she was living. Then recently I read it and thought it was wonderful that everyone else still called her Naomi instead of Mara; and I took that to mean that they still saw one who was pleasant (Naomi means pleasant) and not someone who was bitter. That her loved ones saw her in a beautiful light; no matter what frame her mind was in. Now I read it and admire her: she was bitter and she owned it.

There is a saying that you cannot conquer what you will not confront, and you cannot confront what you will not acknowledge. And I cannot change what I do not own. I hate it when cliches are true for me. Ugh.

I will not stop being bitter until I own it, put it in my hand, and admit it is in my possession. And I do not want to own it because it is ugly. And I like some ugly things. It is true--ask anyone who went to school with me. I was a bit eclectic and I liked it. But this.. this bitterness? There is nothing eclectic or unique or redeeming about it.

It is just plain old ugly bitter. I cannot get accustomed to the taste of it: no one can.

 

I don't wanna, either.

It is dark and ugly and lonely. And I cannot change it when I refuse to own it. Either way it is mine: but when I refuse to own it I don't see how I can change it. When I own it I can think, be, different.

I can assure you that is not my elephant...

I do not have the ending right now. I have not arrived. And I am a bit miserable and it is difficult to see beyond the big fat bitter elephant in the room. Still fighting to make it so I do not have to own it because it stinks to know I am bitter and that other people see so clearly what I thought I had hidden. It is a process. I am learning and doing. I am moving forward... inching forward at a sloth's pace... closer to being like Mara... closer to being like me.

Mara was such a brave lady. She flat out said that God was dealing with her bitterly and that is what she would be calling herself until further notice. I never thought I would ever say I want to be more like Mara; but today I do. Brave and owning up to who and what I am. Even the ugly. That is what oftentimes makes a person beautiful: when they own the ugly and use it for beauty.

Oh, Frida. She took the things I remove from my face and made them iconic.

Use it on purpose and not out of habit. I want to live on purpose, not because of obligation, and surely not because it is habit. I want to breathe and move and love and live on purpose: not out of duty or because it's just what I do. And if I am going to be bitter I want it to be a choice and not something that blindsides me. I will be bitter on purpose or not at all. And I will keep choosing until the choosing sticks; one day the bitterness will be spread more thin and the pleasant will be more substantial. I'm practicing living by choice.

Mara was brave because she lived on purpose. I want to live on purpose, too. Join me? Living life on purpose even when it sucks the breath and force out of you? Choosing bitter or pleasant because you have the choice? I did not get to choose my growing up or genetics: but I do get to choose how I live with them and adapt. No matter what you believe as far as spirit or religion: you have a free will. Use it and use it on purpose; eyes wide open and heart thumping with abandon. 

Be more than butter that melts out of habit. Because you are more.

Please do not go it alone. Reach me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or here in the comments.