Hope and Garbage

In the middle of an inner city neighborhood, on a tiny corner of green space wedged between two dilapidated houses stands a clumsy frame of the word 'hope'.  Instead of the bright beacon of light we normally associate with the word, this hope is full of garbage-- crumbled, used waste. 

I had to stop. You see, I saw myself in this artful pile of trash-- so much so that I parked on the side of the road and wept as I looked out at the structure. I felt long-buried feelings of worthlessness bubbling up to the surface. 

My entire life I've struggled with self-worth. Even as a child, I struggled to simply feel worthy for life, itself, let alone any good things. I have treated myself like garbage, as if I was simply the detritus left in the wake of someone better. I have often wondered why everyone around me seemed to have it all together when I was suffering so inside my head. It has always seemed that I am missing a piece that everyone else is born with as I seem to fit in nowhere. 

I drove past this the same day that an article I wrote in which I finally come forward as a rape survivor after twenty long years of silence went live to the world.  I have long wondered if I deserved what happened to me that night-- if I am worthless, deserving of terrible, awful things. I have spent my life gathering evidence to support my belief of unworthy.  Shame will take you deep in the darkness in unspeakable ways and much of my life has been spent inside the velvet obscurity of depression. 

Today I dredged deep into the filth inside myself and I pulled it out into the light where the shame will die(shame cannot live in the light). I am taking out the trash and using that pain to give others hope. 

Bringing up the shame is excruciating. 

Bringing up the shame is beautiful. 

It is excruciatingly beautiful.

I am on a roller coaster of emotion, the ups and downs coming with no warning.However,  I firmly believe that this roller coaster will end with my feet solidly planted in the light, with no garbage in sight.

I am thankful for my time living in the dumpster of despair. It has reminded me how lovely the light is and that we cannot appreciate love without the juxtaposition of hate. At the end of even the darkest journey lies hope, as hope always lies in wait in the most unexpected of places.
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Are We Taking Modern-Day Criticism Too Far?

I always know that an article that I have written is doing well and being widely shared when I open up my messages to find cruel remarks inside. It is simply a fact of writing on our modern-day internet. The internet is full of trolls that thrill in sitting in anonymity behind the glow of their computer screen and writing cruel things to others. 

The past few months have been a time when I chose to dig deep, push past societal stigmas and come forward with really painful things in my life. It has not been easy for me, even though I feel that if I helped even a single person that it was worth it. 

When my article about being a suicide attempt survivor went live, I received messages saying that they wish I "would've been successful" at killing myself, that I was a "loser and an embarrassment to their country" and that I will be going to hell. This was my first article to go "viral" and was my first experience with how ugly people can be. I sat vigil through the night that first night, reading the messages and weeping. Very few times in my life have I felt as alone as I did that night. 

When my article about being a rape survivor went live, I received messages stating that I am "so ugly that I should be grateful that I was raped", that I should've "relaxed and enjoyed it" and a few pornographic pictures mixed in(Hey, boys- unsolicited dick pics are never cool, Man. Keep your pants on.) I was not prepared both for the vulnerability that I felt in the days after that piece first hit the internet(and still feel to some degree today), for the few friends that turned away from me and made me feel shame and for the onslaught of feedback, mostly wonderful but with some powerfully hateful things missed in. I became physically ill and I truly believe that my body could not handle the immediate and overwhelming emotions that I was not in any way ready for. I went to bed for days and when I finally was able to emerge from my self-imposed isolation, I can tell you that I was not the same person than I was when I went into my cocoon- in ways both wonderful and awful.

Yesterday, when an article that I wrote to bring awareness to CMV(a virus) went live I received messages stating that I'm a "fear mongering bitch" and again that I'm going to hell( what is it with internet trolls and hell?). This time, I was rather shocked by the hate even after growing a thicker skin through these past months. I was simply trying to help others to not suffer in the way that my friend and her family has. I still can't wrap my mind around why someone can find fault with that. 

My core belief since childhood has been that I am not worthy, a belief that many of us struggle with. These comments play on that fear, strumming the tight strings of my misery and giving evidence to that belief that I've tried to hard in my life to eradicate. It always amazes me how we seek and gather evidence to support any of our beliefs, even the ones that we wish we didn't have. It is so painful. 

I can receive dozens of lovely messages(thank you to those that have sent them!) but it is those awful comments that pluck at my heart and leave me feeling stuck. I find myself on a roller coaster of emotion as I swing from the highs of having a successful article and the lows of reading through the name-calling, criticism, and general ickiness of cruel messages and e-mails. 

Years ago, these comments would have made me take a break from writing--out of fear, out of that place of unworthiness, out of pure shame. I would have believed each and every unkind word, too mired in shame to refuse to acknowledge the cruelty. 

However, today-- even after shedding a few tears-- I am celebrating my response to these comments as a win. Why? Because instead of choosing not to write, I'm going write more and write harder in spite of the naysayers and in honor of myself. In the words and advice of the great Cheryl Strayed, today I'm gonna "write like a motherfucker." 

Write on criticizers of my work-- I will use your hate to fuel my flame. I am truly sorry for whatever circumstances of your life have led you to such a low place that this is the way that you choose to spend your days. I refuse to concede to your assholery. You may think of me as your nemesis--wherever you choose to bring darkness, I will bring the light threefold. The war has begun. The light will win. 

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Not One of Us Are Perfect Parents

I am saddened tonight and wondering what in the hell kind of people we have become. In the wake of a week of horror in Florida, I woke this morning to the horrible news of a little boy snatched into the jaws of an alligator at a Disney Resort. 

If that news wasn't awful enough, the commentary has been of people damning the parents and blaming them for this child's death. Blaming the grief-laden, shocked parents of a sweet two year old boy that they will take home from the "happiest place on Earth" in a body bag. A body bag. Let that image sweep through your mind. My children are no longer toddlers but I can image their round cheeked, dimpled handed toddler selves as though they were right in front of me. What I cannot imagine is my sweet children lifeless, their short life taken in a single moment in the shallow waters of a man-made pool that, by all accounts, had never before seen an alligator.

This death could have been my child. It could have been yours. This little boy was doing what two year-olds do-- exploring the world with his loving parents nearby. This Nebraska family that had likely never seen an alligator before was suddenly fighting with an incredibly strong and fast animal to save their young son but he was quickly swept away into the dark water.

These parents likely did what many of us do-- saved for months to give our children the perfect memorable vacation, because we love our children so very dearly. Their dream became a nightmare. One that most of us cannot fathom.

I understand that by twisting these stories into an idea that it is parental error, that we somehow can imagine that it would never happen to us and that allows us to sleep at night. After all, our children are the most precious things in our lives. I, too, do not like to  confront the fact that one of my children could die while in their youth. It is my very worst nightmare. However, I know--as a pediatric nurse and a human being-- that children do die. Everyday, in fact. Even the children with the most diligent parents can die. It is a heart-crushing fact.

However, if this is consciously or unconsciously your way to spare yourself sorrow-- you are doing it at the expense of the grieving families who may come across your heated damnation on that news article or in their twitter or Facebook feeds. These families that are swimming in the dark waters of grief are, instead of being buoyed by kindness, pushed farther into the black waters and are being drowned in a public crucifixion of sorts--a modern day witch hunt, with cruel words thrown instead of pitchforks.

We all have a choose. Our words can help to heal the world or they can create pain--great, blistering pain. Please choose with love.

In Search of Freedom

I've been thinking about my teenage self, a girl who heavily embraced non-conformity and had great disdain for the docility of traditional suburban life.

 I've wondered if she(the old me) would have a haughty insolence towards my current self and the choices that I have made.

 However, tonight-- while listening to music from my teenage years and riding down the road with my husband, I put my hand out my window to feel the wind as I used to do years ago and I had a moment of clarity. Sixteen year old Mandi and Thirty-six year old Mandi have always wanted the same thing, although they may have envisioned it in different forms- we want to be free.

One last lesson

Ten years ago I attended the funeral of a woman who wasn't terribly kind. At her funeral the priest asked if anyone would like to say a kind word about her and no one moved to speak.  No one. Not her family, or the scattering of friends inside the church. The silence was deafening.  Everyone turned and looked around for a brave soul to stand but there were no words to be said. I left with a heavy heart and a sick feeling of a life wasted.

A very short time later I attended the funeral of my grandfather, perhaps the kindest man I had ever known after he left us suddenly in a car accident.  The same priest asked for volunteers to speak and person after person stood and recounted the many ways that this man had impacted their lives.  The fullness of his life reverberated off of the walls in that sacred space and there was a reverent silence among us as we took in the measure of a life well lived. We all left with full, if sorrowful hearts, certain that he had left his mark on the world before he departed. It was the first time that I  pondered what may be said after my final breath.

I have thought of this final lesson everyday since, and it reminds be to be kinder, live fuller and love more.

My Grandpa taught us to be humble. His humble spirit probably shrugged off the kind words spoken on that day, if indeed he heard the words from his new angelic home—in his mind sure that he should have done more. I wish that I had told him more than just an ‘I love you’. I wish that I had told him that he was the greatest man that I ever knew. He would have just shaken his head in embarrassment, but I wish that I had told him anyway. I did not tell him in life, but I did tell that room of people those exact words, among others. 

You know that expression, that someone would give the ‘shirt of his back’. That was my Grandpa. He lived his life gifting his time, his money, his life to others. He gifted silently and many were not aware of the ways that he was out there saving the world, one person at a time. As a father who, before his time-- would change a diaper and do midnight feeding, as a firefighter, as a business owner that donated his time and money to many causes, as a friend whom you could count on even in the middle of the night, as a grandfather that would love you as fiercely as anyone could…he lived his life serving others.

He left us on Memorial Day in 2006. He was in what seemed to be a minor car accident and was ever so suddenly gone from this Earth. Memorial Day seems such an appropriate day for him to leave us- we have remembered him every single day since. In many ways, the ways that we live our lives is a memorial to him everyday. 

The lessons that he left will live on forever. His eight children, seventeen grandchildren, his great grandchildren and friends and family will remember forever his kindness, love without boundaries, humility and willingness to learn new ways even until his last days(he taught me that there is no wisdom without open-minded learning) will stay on this Earth at least as long as we carry on his ways.

Thanks for the final lesson, Gramps. I love you even more today than the day you left us. Ten years have passed but your lessons remain.

 I’ll see you on the other side.

End of Life Lessons

When I was a hospice nurse I often asked my patients some version of the question, "Do you feel that you've learned all that you were meant to from your life?".

Hospice nursing actually gave me time to sit and speak with my patients(unlike many nursing fields) and I got to know many of them very well. And, I was genuinely curious as a young person who felt so confused by life and the pain that seemed to be all around me. So, I started asking if they, many approaching 100 years of age, had the answers that I was seeking. 

There were many different answers to this question, some very profound. But, what really strikes me even after years have passed since I was a nurse in that field, is that no one, NO ONE answered yes. Everyone felt that many things about life were still a mystery to them and even though they felt more wise as they aged- they still had more questions than answers. They all wished that they had been kinder to themselves on this journey.  They wished that they had spent less time working and earning money and more time following the tiny voice in their head that tried to guide them to a more loving life.

We are here to live and to learn, each and every day, until our last breath. We are not meant to have all of the answers. That's okay.

If you're feeling frustrated and confused by life, my friends- you are not alone. It is a mysterious journey. We may never receive all of the answers that we wish for.

Be kind to yourselves as you walk this long road. You don't need all of the answers. We're all just doing the best that we can.

The Beauty of Scars

My daughter has a tiny scar next to her mouth from a fall out of bed years ago. Tonight, as I tucked her into bed, I noticed that it glinted subtly silvery in the glow of the night-light. It is beautiful to me although I remember the night that she fell out of her bed with a cringe, even four years later. 

I know that my insides are full of unseen scars. After seeing the beauty of my daughter's scar tonight, I imagined the inside of my body held together by a mass of silvery threads- the glittery by-product of years of hurt. A body truly held together by shiny threads-- threads which once burned with pain but have weathered into beauty.

Our scars are what make us different from one another. 

And, what makes us different and unique is what makes us beautiful. 

Your beauty doesn't lie in perfection. The real beauty is often in the scars and the pain and how we carry ourselves when we are weighted down with burden. 

I see your scars. And, I think they are beautiful.