Clarity

Hello, everyone. It’s been a long time since I’ve updated this blog. I thought I’d share some updates regarding recent events. Before I begin, however, it should be noted this blog is for mature audiences. This also acts as a content warning for discussion of mental health, self harm, and s*icide. I am going to be open, and honest, as I always am when discussing my mental health, but I understand it is not an easy discussion for all to have. You have been warned.

For those who know me personally, you know October is a very difficult month. As a (not so) former goth kid, October used to be my favorite month. I loved immersing myself in the culture of spooky, finding new house decorations (because we all know Halloween decorations are year round). And then I lost someone very near and dear. I didn’t get to tell her goodbye, there was so much left unspoken between us that it left a giant hole that took years to recover. Then I lost my grandfather, the only grandparent I really knew or gave a shit about. October is also my birthday month, and as the years tick by and my circle of friends shrinks, the day is more depressing than celebratory. Finally, there is the loss of Dave. Readers of my blog might recall the post I made about him shortly after he passed in February 2020.

I first noticed my mental health taking a downward spiral towards the end of September. Whether it was in anticipation of the following month, or another trigger, I am unsure. What I do know is I was thrown into an unfamiliar social gathering and completely froze. Now, to understand why this is such a big deal, you need to know me as a person. I have extreme social anxiety, and I’m actually quite shy. But I’ve learned if I can entertain the crowds, hide the fact that I’m terrified beyond all comprehension, I get less attention than I would if I hung to the wall in a corner. To me, it is all a performance, which has brought on feelings of being a fraud from time to time. Needless to say, no one ever believes me when I state how truly introverted and shy I am. But at this particular gathering, I completely froze. Everything I’d taught myself about navigating social situations went out the window. I had two mild panic attacks and had to excuse myself while I reminded myself how to breathe.

The next indication was having a full blown anxiety attack after my shift at work. I hid in a corner and fought my brain to stay grounded in reality all the while clawing at my skin and stimming uncontrollably. It lasted about twenty minutes before releasing me from its grasp. I was exhausted afterward.

Back in the old days when I started to slip down the dastardly hole of severe depression, I would self harm. Nothing serious, but enough to require my attention. When my emotions got too overwhelming, it helped me turn an abstract concept into a physical pain that I could care for and fix. The price for that is self harm is an addiction. I started self harming again, small cuts across a tattoo that I hate, and wore several long sleeve shirts. I also banked on the hope that if my sleeve were to slip and my cuts were to show, no one would question it because mental health in such an obvious fashion makes people uncomfortable. People will typically avoid that which makes them uncomfortable.

The final straw, however, was my brain sending me from a gentle spiral all the way into a full nose dive to rock bottom. It happened so quickly even I didn’t have time to prepare. My nerves were shot, my anxiety at an all time high. I was uncomfortable in my own skin and my mind was so loud it took every ounce of focus just to function from day to day. And then the realization that no matter what I do, no matter how good I am, this is never going to stop. A never-ending cycle of ups and downs, of reality forming and breaking before my eyes that leaves me scrambling to rebuild. A perfectly logical decision one day turns into a terrible decision the next, and all have the potential to absolutely destroy my life. And it is never going to stop.

I’ve always known this, but when you’re drowning in a blackened pit searching for a way out, realizations such as these are truly devastating. I hurt myself again. It didn’t take it away. And I decided it was the end. It was time.

I won’t say I didn’t cry. I did. I cried a lot. Sadness, relief, anguish, joy…all combined into one. Soon it would all stop. Soon the pain, the rushing thoughts, would stop. Soon I would know peace and escape this hell.

I executed the plan perfectly, said my goodbyes, my I love you’s. Took off for the cemetery where Dave rests. I let myself cry, mourn, but ultimately everything felt very final. No one knew where I was. No one knew I wasn’t home. It was late, it was dark. It was perfect. I walked into the cemetery where dew had already begun to gather in the grass. It was so dark, I could see every star in the sky above my head. It was quiet. I sat beside Dave and I talked. I said out loud all the things I’d bottled up, all the feelings I’d kept hidden with nowhere to go. I was honest with myself. I laid back and enjoyed the stars. And my mind was quiet. My soul at peace. Soon.

On my way back to the car, I paused and asked for a sign that I should continue on. Right in my line of sight, a shooting star streaked across the sky. Not much of a sign, I’d seen three just like it only moments before. I sat in my car, turned on my music, dumped the pills in my hand….. And nothing happened.

It didn’t make any sense. My set up was perfect. No one could interfere. No one was rescuing me….. I could feel the pills in my hand so heavy. Waiting. I knew what they’d feel like in my mouth, I knew what they’d taste like. I wasn’t afraid. But I couldn’t do it. I sat there for an hour just holding the pills. My mind was still quiet. My soul still at peace. But my hand wouldn’t move. I grabbed my phone and texted a friend, asking her to call me. The first thing I said to her was “I am an actual fucking coward.” “Why?” “Because I can’t do it.”

The next day I was left feeling very confused. What stopped me? What force lives deep down, hidden from even me, and stilled my hand? I don’t know. But something stopped me, and chose to continue living. Even if it meant pain. The ultimate question I was then left with… Was why? I contemplated on this all day. I’m no closer to an answer now than I was in the graveyard. And maybe I’m not supposed to make sense of it.

There is a song I’ve been listening to by a song artist named Citizen Soldier. Fantastic artist, highly recommend him. The song is called “Thank You for Hating Me”. The title is self explanatory, but essentially he thanks the people who hated him, tried to break him, because their hate made him stronger than he ever thought he could be. It made me realize something about myself.

I hate myself, or so I claim. But I do my best to avoid situations where I’ll be embarrassed, humiliated, or harmed. If I actually hated myself as I claim, why should I care? Why am I afraid of failure if I’m already a failure? So either I hate myself, or I don’t hate myself as much as I think. Maybe I don’t hate myself, but I don’t know how to love myself.

Today, however, has been one of the best days. I have laughed, genuinely laughed. Mostly at myself. The interactions with people today have been more real, not just a stage performance. I have enjoyed it. And the best part is….. It’s mine. It isn’t a chemical forcing my brain to be happy. It’s my happiness. And that is so rare. I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m going to enjoy it while it is here.

Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have life figured out. Maybe not having all the answers isn’t a bad thing. Maybe one day I’ll learn to love myself. Or accept myself at the least. It’s even possible that maybe something did die that night, and something else took its place. I don’t know. I might never know. But what I will say is I’m so thankful to so many of my friends who listened to me and refused to pass judgement. I am grateful.

Turmoil

A few days ago, I was in bed trying desperately to sleep before my shift at work. My eyes were heavy, my body exhausted, but my brain didn’t get the memo. My brain was rushing around, no singular thought, but a conglomeration of thousands in a symphony of chaotic bits. My brain is never quiet, there is always noise. Sometimes I can tune it out, sometimes it is deafening. I describe it often as trying to live, and function, in a very crowded food court.

That day it was very loud, and I knew there would be no sleep. No matter how hard I fought it. To those with a mental disorder, they are no stranger to this. Sometimes just laying in bed and resting my eyes is enough.

As I’m laying there, my anxiety goes through the roof. Heart pounding, shallow breathing, followed immediately by the overwhelming urge to hurt myself. Not in a suicidal fashion, but cause some form of harm to myself. I needed a cigarette, I needed drugs, I needed to cut myself until I bled. I needed to get so messed up that I couldn’t recognize who I was anymore. I needed pain so I could fix it.

I tried grounding myself, telling myself I didn’t really want to hurt, but I didn’t listen to me. Of course I needed to hurt, wasn’t I listening? The longer I denied it, the worse the anxiety began to feel. Soon, invisible insects were crawling along my skin, and I was scared too move for fear that any movement would be to bring about this harm.

A pen wouldn’t work, a popular technique taught to those prone to self harm allowing them to draw on themselves rather than harming themselves. I needed the actual pain of it, not just seeing the marks left behind. I tried thinking of anything else, tried to drown out my thoughts with television. But I quickly lost focus because I wasn’t LISTENING to me.

I found a crisis text line, but couldn’t bring myself to text them. Couldn’t bring myself to admit it, because how do you explain to perfect strangers that you want to hurt yourself, need to hurt yourself, but you don’t want to kill yourself? Mental illnesses are stupid. And complex. So very complex.

I was in no condition to work, but I had no choice. I had to do something. The only thing I could think of to do was pop myself with a rubber band, so I wore one around my wrist. That seemed to help. Whenever I felt the urge, I’d just pop the rubber band. It helped. Healthiest way to deal with it? Maybe not.

But I didn’t drink.

I didn’t smoke.

I didn’t cut myself open.

I didn’t resort to drugs.

Just a rubber band pop every so often.

I’m calling it a win in my book, and truth be told, I’m proud of myself. I made it through my shift, and when I got home that night I was exhausted. I slept.

When I woke you, I felt….different. I felt better. Better than I had in a long time. The weird overwhelming urge to hurt myself had pulled me out of the depressive funk I’d been trapped in for the better part of a year. And it was nice.

But this is one of the reasons I hate how romanticized mental illness has become. Depression isn’t curling up in a blanket, eating a tub of ice cream. Manic isn’t a “good thing”. Not everything can be cured with a positive mental attitude. Trust me, we’ve all tried that, and when it fails, it makes the symptoms worse. Because then not only am I depressed, I’m also a fail whale for not being able to just snap out of it. With everyone trying to fix me, whatever the intentions, what my brain picks up on is you believe I’m broken, and you’re trying to fix me because I’m problematic. So depressed, failure, broken, burden.

My impulses aren’t always funny, though it has led to personally funny moments. Like once I bought a life size cardboard cut out of Matt Smith because I was really manic. But do you know how much money I could have saved, how much trouble I would be out of right now, if I could control those impulses? That’s not a joke.

I won’t lie, this blog just took an entirely different direction than my original intention, but I needed to get that little rant over before I could continue. It has taken me years of studying, and research, to get where I am today with my mental health. Years of personal growth, acceptance, and forgiveness (of myself and others) as well. The only reason I didn’t completely collapse under the mental pressure the other day was the familiarity of what was happening, and applying knowledge/techniques I’d learned. Even with the knowledge of what was happening and why (invasive thinking exasperated by OCD turning it into a mental compulsion, and the inability to complete the compulsion caused anxiety, fueling the compulsion), it was still terrifying.

As a teenager, I didn’t know what was happening, or why, I only knew that I needed to hurt so I could feel better. I will always carry the scars on my arms. With the knowledge I have, I was able to forgive teenage me. Teenage me as even more afraid than adult me. A lot of shame was just taken off my heart, a lot of pain was repaired.

And that’s why I felt better. That’s why I feel better than I have in years.

Getting myself back where I need to be in order to function as an adult, a mother, is hard. But I finally feel like I’m back in the driving seat of my head and I can control the car. But just like operating a motor vehicle, I have to accept there are elements beyond my control, and sometimes I just have to hold on and hope for the best. But in the more turbulent parts, where I feel like I’m hydroplaning out of control, I just hope that I never touch the brakes.

One Year Ago

Normally when something terrible, or tragic, happens, I instinctively want to write about it in order to mentally work my way through the tragedy. It helps me focus, allows me to get thoughts out of the way so that I may have a better chance of coping. I am given the opportunity through art and written word to come to peace with whatever has occurred.

So when I scrolled through my blog to discover no such post existed for April 25, 2019, I was actually a little surprised. Then again, when I think back to that day, I am also not surprised. A year has passed now, and I finally feel I am able to bury my dead, so to speak.

April 24, 2019, I was working at Motel 6 in Ruston, Louisiana. The shift wasn’t particularly eventful, though I was drowning in laundry left over by the morning shift. I knew if I didn’t get it done, I was going to have to do it in the morning as I was scheduled for a turnaround shift the next day. I was stressed out, going through a few personal things, on top of the struggle of being generally unhappy in my position. Between accidental poisonings when someone decided to mix the wrong chemicals together, to various and assorted drama, I was not looking forward to spending my entire shift folding sheets. I called on my dear friend Megane, who happily came in on her off day to assist me, and we spent the day laughing while digging our way out of the laundry hole.

A customer came into the motel, who was particularly rude and argumentative over the tiniest things. I wanted him as far away from me as possible, so I sent him to the very last room in the front of the property. I’d checked in a number of guests that night, situating them in various places throughout the motel. Eleven, to be exact. But that guy, the last guy, just left a sour taste in my mouth. I knew there was no way I could simply go home and sleep after such an interaction, so Megane and I sat outside and visited while I calmed down.

It was getting late. But I wasn’t ready for sleep just yet. I wanted to stay awake and visit more, so the thought occurred to me to get a room for the night. Megane and I could visit a bit longer, and I wouldn’t have to worry about driving in the morning. My phone, meanwhile, chirped away in my pocket warning me of a thunderstorm. I ignored it, as I often did, because in Louisiana we get bad storms all the time. Being the homebody that I am, however, I decide at the last minute to just go home, lose the extra sleep, and return in the morning.

The week prior to April 25, I couldn’t fight the nagging feeling that I wouldn’t be at Motel 6 much longer. Truthfully, I figured I was going to be fired, given much of the drama from management. Job security wasn’t really a thing.

I made it home approximately 12:30 AM, and after tossing and turning, I finally managed to fall asleep around 1 AM.

At 4 AM I was awakened. I’m not sure by what, precisely. Out of habit I checked my phone for the time, and groaned because I probably wasn’t going to go back to sleep. I was going to be exhausted, and buried in more laundry. But my phone had blown up with notifications.

A tornado has hit Ruston.

A tornado hit Ruston around 1:50 AM.

Quickly I checked the news, but all they would focus on was Lousiana Tech University, and the damage done. Through Facebook videos I discovered the gas station right next to my motel was destroyed. The one video I saw showed Motel 6, and it appeared to be intact. Conflicting reports began to fly, and some were saying the Pizza Hut right next to the Motel had been destroyed, but Motel 6 was fine. My manager said the roads were fine to come to work, so I got dressed and drove to Ruston.

Post apocalyptic is the phrase I would use to describe what I saw. Normally busy roads were empty, replaced with downed power lines and trees. Tree limbs, dumpsters, insulation covered the roads. Signs were twisted and warped into strange figures, with signal light posts being turned entirely backwards. Roads were blocked off, power was out, and for the first time I was able to see the damage to the city that was basically a second home to me. My friends lived there, I’d gone to school there, my mom worked there. I had family not far from there.

And it was plunged into a nightmare.

I couldn’t get close to the motel. Even the back roads were completely cut off. The motel was in total isolation and no way for me to get close. I texted my manager and explained I could not get close to the building, to which he suggested I park at the library across the street and walk over. I kindly, but firmly, told him he was out of his damned mind if he expected me to walk across a street filled with downed power lines just so I could do some laundry (remember, I have not seen the damage, so to me it was a terrible tragedy happening around us, but not directly affecting me). I checked my mom’s business, and it was fine. But now I had the problem of trying to get home. With the city plunged into chaos, and no power to any of the main streets, traffic was exceptionally dangerous. So my mother helped me navigate the back roads out of the city.

As it turns out, I am not that good at taking directions and she is not that good at giving directions when she can’t see where I am. So a fifteen minute drive home turned into an hour and a half adventure through the back roads. I went to her house to pick up my daughter, and that is when the full scale of what had happened hit. A drone had been flown overhead to capture the damage.

I was stunned. Floored. Devastated. This couldn’t be real. What I was seeing could not be real. I’d seen tornado damage on television before, but never thought I’d live it.

Later that afternoon, I drove to the motel to see the damage for myself. I had to see it. Because what I saw on the news wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

It was real, and far worse than I could have imagined. As I walked around the property, surveying the damage, the bad and terrible memories were furthest from my mind. The good memories I’d made there began to skitter across my mind.

The friends I’d made there.

The jokes we’d shared.

The songs we’d sung together.

Late night Youtube marathons.

Gone. Just like that.

I remember getting angry at all the people driving by, checking out the damage. I remember getting angry as the news crews swarmed in to record the damage. It felt too raw. Too personal. Like an exposed wound.

I was without a job, but strangely… it felt like more than that. The motel had become a central location for us to meet up and hang out, equal distance from all of our homes. It was a place to run when we needed a break from home life. It had become like a home. There were fights, and drama, but when I hugged my manager I couldn’t help but cry. In fact, all I did for the following days was cry.

Every time I had to drive by, every time I saw news footage, it was a slap to the face.

That was MY motel. I remember getting angry because there was no one to blame for it. It was a natural occurrence, nothing could have prevented it. We couldn’t have been smarter, we couldn’t have prepared, there was nothing we could have done to prevent it from happening. These things just happen, people would say, but I wasn’t satisfied with that answer. Surely someone was to blame. SomeTHING was to blame. These things don’t just happen, right?

I’d taken up drawing again in that place, had watched my skills grow better over time. I’d found my confidence as a creator again. I’d learned how to edit videos in that place, and shared my progress with my friends. I’d found confidence in ME again in that place. I’d seen the absolute truest colors of people I’d once cared for and trusted, which aided in decisions to separate from them and grow into a better person.

I’d lost my school in that place, as a month and 20 days prior to this, the school I was attending shut down, leaving me in debt with no degree. I’d cried with my coworkers.

It was more than a job, more than a building, it was so much more.

I searched for work, but things I was qualified for were either damaged from the tornado (insult), or required a degree (injury). I watched the savings I’d managed to uphold dwindle into nothingness, and was forced to rely on the kindness of others, especially my family, just to stay afloat.

My mind felt torn. Shattered.

I tried to draw, to find any way to express how I was feeling.

But I hated it. Drawing gave me anxiety. Creating gave me anxiety. The hard won progress I’d made in my creativity was gone, as far as I was concerned. I tried to write, but there were no words that could fully embrace precisely what I was feeling. I felt like I was drowning, with no end in sight. My mental health didn’t just take a hit, it was knocked backwards into a pit and each time I tried to claw my way out, I was slapped down again.

I’m afraid of storms, even more so when they come attached with weather alerts. And I feel stupid for being afraid. I used to love them. I used to sit outside for hours and let the rolling thunder calm my chaotic soul. The danger, the severity, the true power that is mother nature became real.

I lost myself in a video game, Red Dead Redemption II to be precise, because I understood the pain each of the characters were feeling. I understood the tragedy of losing everything, of feelings unresolved, of things that didn’t make sense. I understood the mental downfall, the heartache, the longing for the way things once were. I understood the need for freedom.

And the need for money, ironically.

It has taken a year for me to finally really come to terms with everything. To fully understand why I was tormented so by the loss of a job. It was, and is, a slow climb, but I did manage to climb out of the pit. I can finally look back at pictures Megane and I took within the hotel with joy and happiness rather than the urge the vomit from pain. I can finally get to work repairing myself, and finding that confidence again in who I am. I never want to be there again, I never want to feel helpless like that again. I never want to be that close to ending my own life again. The shadows got too close, they squeezed too hard.

I have made new friends, and strengthened existing friendships. I learned who, and what, was important in my life and who, or what, was not. It took a year for me to finally start creating again, though in many ways I am not back to where I was. I did manage to write a book, a comedy, so I feel that is massive progress that I can be proud of myself for accomplishing.

So with all of the above being said, I can finally close this chapter of my life and let it rest in the past where it belongs. Though the memories, good and bad, will live with me for the rest of my days, I can look back on them as the lessons they were meant to be.

The last drawing I completed on April 24, 2019

The last photo Megane and I took outside of Motel 6 on April 24, 2019.

Grief and Introspection

Today I was retrieving something from my trunk, and hit the Bop-It someone got my daughter for Christmas (or birthday, I don’t remember). My daughter, my dad, and I would play with it and compete against each other. Dad ended up with the highest score, and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t best it. So the high score remains. The Bop-It lived at Dave’s house, and every so often it would get bumped, prompting it to say “Bop It to Start! High Score, 76!” which would prompt us all to yell at it. Like you do. While I was retrieving something from the trunk, I bumped it on accident and it started.

It made me sad. Which seems like such a silly thing to get sad about because it’s just a stupid Bop It. I pushed it from my mind because I had to get to work. Needless to say, I’ve had plenty of time to sit and think, and reminded myself of it again. I started to cry. Allowed myself the moment of sadness, no matter how silly it might have seemed. Which sparked its own moment of self reflection, I think.

I used to think crying, or acknowledging that I was hurting, was really stupid. I used to hate myself for feeling pain. I don’t really know why, I don’t know where I picked it up from, but I did. Hiding your pain, hiding your hurt, doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it fester. Like slapping a bandaid on a wound, it doesn’t stop the infection growing. Pretending not to hurt only prolongs the grieving process, or turns it into anger. Perhaps that is why I was always such an angry person. Anger made sense. Anger I could control. But pain? No. Pain was a foreign object in the eye of my existence.

Grief is not a one size fits all kind of deal. Grief hits different for everyone. Today has been a sad day, but it has caused a bit of self reflection. It reminds me how strange the grieving process really is. It isn’t the day to day loss that hits the hardest. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t worked through the shock to mourn properly, or if I’m still actively grieving. It’s the little things that catch me up, and generally take me by surprise.

Everyone talks about the five stages of grief, but so many fail to realize how misleading those five stages really are to people. Grief cannot be defined, and you cannot plan for it. It does not come wrapped with a pretty bow, and as long as you complete the steps you’ll be back to normal. With loss, you have to define a new normal, and depending on the severity of loss, you have a lot of rebuilding to do.

The point I’m making in all of my word soup is we need to stop looking at pain, especially grieving, as something we can just get over. We need to stop burying it deep and hoping it’ll sort itself out. This isn’t something that can be tossed in the “For Later” pile and forgotten. Life has a funny way of throwing reminders at you as though to say “Hey, you forgot to grieve”. I will confess, right after his passing, I did still feel anger. I did try to bury it, to deal with it later, when it was more convenient. But let’s be honest, there is never a convenient time to grieve.

So even though I’m at work, I allowed myself the little cry, and decided to move forward by writing about it. Yes, this moment will hurt. Many more moments will hurt. The pain is still fresh, the wounds are still raw. But every single one of those moments is a reminder that we loved. It is a reminder that we felt deeply enough to feel. Pain, and love, are the strongest reminders that we are alive, still human.

I am glad that I have found the strength to realize pain does not make me weaker. To realize tears do not mean I am not strong. I am glad I can freely say “I feel sad”. I am VERY glad that I don’t let my emotions fester like an oozing wound.

In Remembrance of David Colvin

Content Warning: This blog will delve heavily into the topic of death.

Recently, my family and I experienced one of the hardest losses we’ve ever had to endure. It has taken a bit of time to process all of it, but now I feel I must share this story with the world.

Before I begin, allow me to tell you the story of David Colvin.

David “Big Dave” Colvin came into my life when I was eight years old. He began as my mother’s client (my mother is a massage therapist), and very quickly became a friend. However, by this point, my mother had welcomed many clients into our lives, but many of them had left. Not to be malicious, but some of them had passed away, moved away, or simply ran out of funding to be able to see her regularly. My heart had been broken countless times by people I really loved just leaving. Needless to say, when this man entered her life with the unspoken promise of sticking around, I was hesitant.

Very quickly, however, it became apparent he was in this for the long haul. Our entire lives became focused on Big Dave. Entire routines were built around this man. His scheduled appointment was Monday, he and my mother would go out for lunch on Thursdays, and Saturday was race day. He raced at the dirt track, and soon I discovered a love for the sport as well. I enjoyed every part of it, from the smell of the fuel burning, to the dirt flinging around, the sound of engines revving… there was something oddly comforting about it, a feeling I still have today. After each race, late into the night or early into the morning, we would go out to eat at some 24 hour restaurant (Usually Huddle House), and discuss track politics. This became our life, our routine.

When I was thirteen and had attempted suicide, he brought me something to eat in the hospital because I’d been tired of hospital food. He sat and talked, and he became an oddly comforting presence. That was the moment when I knew, for certain, he was never going to leave us. And he didn’t.

He was there for every birthday party.

He was there for every program.

He was there for every event he could swing.

I remember once when I was a Girl Scout, we were in the local Christmas parade. He showed up with my mother in a 1961 Corvette convertible. I loved that car, and wanted so badly to ride in it. So he told me to hop in, and the two of us rode around the parking lot. He drove, and I held my hands in the air and let the wind flow through my fingers yelling “WOO HOO!”. He drove around until I was finally bored with it and he took me back to my mother. My hair was a mess, but I was absolutely thrilled. Also, my friends thought it was cool that I got to ride around in the cool car.

Being in Southern, USA, with people with more money than sense, it didn’t take long for the rumor mill to start and soon we were hearing rumors that Big Dave and my mother were having an affair. At the time, a small sex shop had opened (you can imagine how well this went over in a town that has a population of about 22,000 and well over 60 churches). So Big Dave, and my mom, showed up to this sex shop in the Corvette and parked right out front where everyone could see them. To us, these rumors were hilarious, but it spoke volumes as to the level of friendship, and how valuable he was to my family. He wasn’t just a client, he was family. These rumors became the running joke for all of us, including my dad who often referred to Big Dave as “my wife’s boyfriend”. IN PUBLIC. TO PEOPLE OUTSIDE OUR CIRCLE. When my mom and dad renewed their wedding vows, Big Dave was the best man, because “Of course I have to be the best man, my girlfriend is getting married”.

As a teenager, when I was in trouble, I knew Dave was always there to help me. He would drop whatever he was doing to help. And that came in handy because I ended up in a lot of sticky situations. He wasn’t afraid to tell me that whatever I’d done had been stupid (and it was), but he helped me regardless of the level of stupid I’d managed to end up in.

When I played basketball for school and our games were out of town (out of state really because we had to travel to Arkansas), he was there. When I had my first big wreck after driving for a very long time (me v. deer), he showed up in the middle of the night to pick my car up and towed it to his house, even helped us with repairing the damage.

At some point along the way, Big Dave became just… Dave.

My dad built his own race car in Dave’s shop, and soon we were out there supporting my dad.

My graduation party was held at his house.

He was at my wedding. Both of them. In fact, one of them was at his house.

And then my daughter was born.

The routine expanded to include Wednesday family nights.

Dave loved Ellie. Spoiled her so much. He would lay in the floor and play marbles with her, play blocks with her, taught her how to play chess. He bought her skates, and let her skate around the house. There were games of tag, and when my daughter started school, she started giving him homework. She “taught him” how to count, “taught him” his colors, “taught him” math. She showed him science experiments she’d learned, and as a result she is far better at math and science than my mother and I could have ever hoped to be. He had a way of connecting with her and getting to her that to the rest of us seemed magical. They understood each other.

We had “Daveisms”, or little phrases or quirks that Dave was famous (or infamous) for saying. We had the “official egg boiling pot”, a little joke amongst us. We were as much a part of his life as he was in ours, and as the routine grew to include more birthday parties, more events, perhaps we took for granted that he was always going to be there.

His health began to turn for the worst, and we watched him very slowly deteriorate. But powered by pure stubbornness alone, he insisted on living as normal a life as he could. He still cooked on his designated Wednesday, it just took a little longer. He still went out of his way to help people, regardless of how he was feeling that day. He went out of his way to make sure everyone was comfortable, everyone was happy.

I hope we did the same for him.

Towards the last days of his life, he held onto that same spark, but it was obvious he wasn’t turning around this time.

When he had his heart attack, the doctors didn’t think he’d last long. It would have been ten years this July.

Two years ago, the doctors told him he needed dialysis or he would die within the week.

We all thought if anyone could pull it off, it would be him. Perhaps selfishly, perhaps hopefully, I waited for the fateful moment where he sat up and said “Alright I’m tired of this, what are we doing for Ellie’s birthday party?”

That moment never came.

He started hallucinating, but he hallucinated good things. He would tell “someone” stories of his life; he would tell “someone” stories of his friend Marvin, of showing up to my poetry reading wearing purple pigtails (he did, it was ridiculous), of racing. He hallucinated candy on the ceilings. He hallucinated my daughter drawing him pretty pictures on the walls. Least surprising, he hallucinated working on a car until he was told he could work on it later because now he needed to rest. “Okay”.

When it became obvious he wasn’t going to pull out of this, that we were nearing the end, we practically moved into his house so he was never alone. My mother remained vigilant by his side the entire time, sleeping in five to ten minute spurts and refusing to stay gone for long for fear that he might need her. After all he’d done for us, it was the least we could do for him. Another friend, Carla, stepped up to the plate and did anything and everything the rest of us could not do. I am so proud of her and I hope she knows that. Marvin, another dear friend, was the backbone we needed through everything, trying to stay one step ahead of the game and be everyone’s rock. I hope he knows how valuable. I hope they both know how amazing they are.

On the day of his death, he started coughing really badly. We rolled him onto his side and his eyes popped open. He looked afraid. I dropped down onto my knees so that I was face to face with him, and spoke to him so he wouldn’t be scared. I said “Hi!” and he looked at me. He knew who I was. I saw recognition in his eyes. And he didn’t look afraid anymore. He said “Hi”, in his Dave way of talking. That’s all I wanted, was a moment just between the two of us where he was completely lucid and he knew who I was. Knew we were there taking care of him.

A funny moment happened when mom asked my dad to “get the wash cloth off the freezer” except my dad and I both heard “Get the wash cloth out of the freezer”. When this came to light, my dad said “Good, then I don’t feel stupid about checking in the freezer first.” We all had a laugh, and dad said a common Daveism “I just does as I’m told”. Dave smiled. He actually smiled.

In preparation for my shift at work, I laid down for a small nap. Napping there was easy, because Dave’s home had become like a second home for me during swing shifts and random night shifts. My dad walked down the hall and I panicked, only to realize he was going to the bathroom. I settled back down for a nap. Then my dad walked down the hall again, inducing more panic, and dropped some batteries, but I settled back down again. The third time I heard him walk down the hall, I thought it was to go to the bathroom again… until I heard him say my name. I knew what he was about to say.

I reiterate the content warning from the start of the post. This next part might be difficult for some to read.

I jumped up and ran down the hall to his room… His breathing had become shallow, and was beginning to rattle. He was no longer responding to our voices. I sat at one side, Carla sat at the other, and mom took her place at his head. We spoke to him, and we all tried to sound strong but inside we were all falling apart. We began making frantic phone calls to get the local friends and family there as quickly as possible. I held his hand. My mind was racing. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. What would it be like? What would it be like to watch someone I loved dearly, a man I considered a second father and a grandfather to my child die? Could I do it? I felt like I needed to be there. I felt like I owed him that. To be with him in his final moment. I could see his heart beating, and I focused on that.

I begged and pleaded to anyone who could hear me to please make his heart stronger, please… give him more time, give us more time. Give him more time, there was still good he could do for the world.

I tried to bargain my life for his. His life has meaning, purpose, I’ve been trying to get rid of mine since I was thirteen, let him have it. Please, there are people that need him, there’s still so much he has left to do. There are still projects he’s never finished.

But no one listened.

I held his hand.

Surrounded by family and friends, I watched him take his last breath… I watched his heart stop beating. He died at 9:52 PM.

I had a lot of preconceived notions about death prior to this. I had always thought death would be….dramatic. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. It was so sudden, I honestly got upset because I thought everyone had just… given up on him. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t give up. I held his hand. I kept holding his hand. Everyone walked away. I held his hand. No, he had to be there still, life doesn’t just….STOP like that. I kept holding his hand. I couldn’t let go. If I let go, he was gone, and I couldn’t let go. I stared at his chest, willing it to rise again, willing his heart to pump again, bargaining again. Just not yet. Not yet.

I broke down… I sobbed… I didn’t care who was around me… I didn’t care who saw… I cried. After that everything became a blur of phone calls, of coroners, of investigators, of more phone calls, of funeral home directors loading him up and taking him away.

I let my daughter see him. She cried and held my hand. I couldn’t stand to just leave him alone, but it felt so wrong to be there when he wasn’t “there”. I kept touching him, kept kissing his forehead, kept… hoping… The universe is funny, maybe it just took a little longer to do the trade and any minute I would be in his place and he would be in mine. Any minute. Those minutes turned into hours as more frantic phone calls, took place… and I don’t remember much after they took him away.

CW: If you tuned out, you are safe to continue reading from this point

The past few weeks have been a blur. I was in shock for a few days. I felt like I was watching someone else live my life for me. I was a robot doing what I was programmed to do, and little more. When I wasn’t doing anything, I would just stare at the wall until hours passed. I didn’t sleep much. I didn’t eat much. He died on February 15, 2020, and I still haven’t quite worked my way back to normal.

It didn’t seem real. None of it seems real.

We did a simple graveside service for him where we buried his urn, precisely as he wanted. I am thankful for that opportunity. But it made it all more real.

And made me realize the hardest part of loss is not the loss itself. It is learning to live again after the loss. 22 years of routines, of patterns, of sayings, of understandings, gone. Just gone in the blink of an eye.

But Dave was more than that. He was more than a client, more than a family friend. He was family. He amounted to more than his things, his stuff. We had his trust, his love, we had “Daveisms” and memories.

I don’t know if I ever made him proud. I hope I did. I hope I have. I am honored to have been there during his final moments, and I hope he knows just how much he was loved.

Dave taught me many things about life. He taught me the power of giving for the sake of giving, but he also taught me the need for caution when it came to giving. Because many took advantage of his kindness. Dave taught me the importance of family, and helped me learn that sometimes the strongest family ties aren’t through blood, though blood family should be honored, such as his parents. Dave taught me that people make mistakes, and no matter how dumb they were, they could be fixed. Through him I extended my family to include new people, and feel the strongest sort of pride for having them in my life.

I also watched my mother be so strong through one of the hardest moments in her life, and I hope she knows how proud I am of her, and how much I love her. I know for a fact she made Dave proud.

I hope Ellie never forgets him, and always remembers his quirks. There was an interesting moment when he was still in the hospital. He was asleep, so we didn’t want to disturb him. I kissed him on the forehead to tell him goodbye, then Ellie wanted to say goodbye as well. Mom and I stood at the door and watched as she stood there. She didn’t say a word. Just stared at him. After a moment, she nodded, and walked out. I don’t know if she saw something, as kids sometimes do, or if she accepted what was happening. I just don’t know. But it was a powerful moment, regardless.

And if my life was not a good enough trade for his, then perhaps it means my life still has purpose? Perhaps there is something more I am meant to do in this world still.

We weren’t ready, and no amount of time would have made us ready. Even if we had a hundred more years, the world would not have been ready to lose someone so precious.

Thank you, David Colvin, Dave, for everything you did for me, for us. I hope we made you proud, and continue to make you proud. I hope you know how much you meant to each and every one of us.

Rest in peace, Dave. I love you.

Religion, and other ramblings

I had a long, and lengthy, discussion with a friend of mine on the topic of religion and beliefs. For the longest time, I thought of myself as a pagan. Then, when belief failed me, I turned to atheism. Now, I am not so sure what to call myself. I cannot say there is nothing out there, but I cannot definitively say something is out there either. I simply do not know.

What I can say with certainty is there is much to this world that we still do not understand.

I believe gods were created out of necessity. People needed something to put their faith in to believe that everything would be okay. This could be anything from the weather patterns, food, fertility, even death. Every culture, every people that has walked this earth, has held some form of belief. By the time Christianity was conceived, tens of thousands of cultures had been long dead, and with them their gods died as well.

We must then choose to belief that there is something, or there is nothing. Furthermore, we must then decide who is right, and who is wrong. But what if the truth was no one was completely right, and no one is completely wrong?

I am of the belief that true faith comes from acknowledging the fact that we simply do not know. We can strive to find answers, but ultimately, we just do not know. We want to be right so badly that we sometimes miss the fact that answers can lie in unsuspecting places. Religion does not explain everything, and science does not explain everything. If you were to put the two together, however, you get more answers, and the divide between people is thinned. If you acknowledge that answers can lie within multiple religions rather than just one, more answers are presented.

I do not believe in absolutes. Nothing is absolutely bad, and nothing is absolutely good. Nothing is absolutely correct, or absolutely wrong. Bad can have good intentions, and with bad comes lessons. Good can have bad intentions, and good can also have its own set of lessons. While we argue incessantly over who is right and who is wrong, we are missing the biggest picture of them all; we are all human beings sharing an earth together, and our bickering is leading to our own demise.

Religion, and even a lack thereof, has led to countless centuries of bloodshed. Our earth is covered in gallons of blood from fallen warriors willing to die for what they believed to be correct, and its the age old chess match. There is no winner when there is death. The biggest armies does not mean one is more correct than another. A religion with a massive following is no better than a smaller following. The number of followers does not dictate the level of faith a group of people may possess. The only thing numbers provide is a larger army from which wars can begin, and how history will remember the fallen.

Going back to a point I made earlier within this post, I believe gods were created from faith, and that faith came from necessity. As people moved from land to land, they took their gods with them. The people changed, evolved, and the gods were forced to do the same. That is why we see so many who call themselves by the same name, yet believe so differently. This is why we see so many beliefs that are similar to other religious beliefs from countries we’ve never visited. What I see now, however, is stagnation. The world, like it or not, is constantly evolving. New gods are being created out of necessity, new beliefs are forming from necessity, yet people cling so dearly to the old ways they have always known. This is not the way the universe is supposed to work. This is not to say, of course, that we should completely abandon the “old ways”, but we should not stay stuck in them. If we remained stuck, you would not be sitting at your computer, or holding your phone, reading these words while constructing your responses. We must learn from the old ways, and bring the old into the new. We must take the lessons we’ve been given, but continue to move forward. We will be ancient history one day. Our future generations will look back on this generation in disgust, as we look back on certain aspects of our ancestors, and wonder “How could people sit by and allow this to happen?” Stagnation.

There must be a balance, a harmony. The longer we continue to allow ourselves to be divided, the more we see the world being destroyed. Soon, there will be no one to argue with of right and wrong, because there will be no one left to have an opinion.

I do not believe faith comes from a book written by men. In fact, I believe religious texts are one of the poisons of our society. A book that teaches people how to live can easily be rewritten, or mistranslated, to sway the public opinion. We have seen the evidence of this, in fact, with the changes made to the bible over time. Faith comes from within, belief comes from within, and we create our gods out of necessity. Each person serves a purpose, and therefore we must also accept that “bad” people also serve a purpose. With the recent popularity in Ted Bundy, I’ll use him as an example. Ted Bundy did terrible things, but from those terrible things, we got a unique insight into the way the mind of a serial killer functions. We have a better understanding of just how terrible the human mind can be, and we saw warning signs. We bettered our understanding of the evolution of a serial killer, While we focus on the acts done by the man, we also looked at the victims. Each death gives us more answers about the human body, the human vessel. Each day we continue to move forward and learn, and that is the way we are supposed to be. We are supposed to move forward and learn more so that we may have stronger beliefs in the capability of mankind.

From all the negative things that have happened, good has come out of them. Every experience shapes who we are as people. While some events have a bigger impact than others, we cannot point fingers and continue to hate one group or the other. Instead, we take the information, good and bad, and we learn from it. The situations thrown upon us are up to us to decide how we are going to react to them. Bad can be changed to good.

Perhaps I’m getting a bit rambling, and perhaps I’m even not making sense now. I honestly cannot tell. I can only hope these words make sense to someone out there. I wish these words could help the progression by helping people realize the importance of accepting change, of accepting progression, of accepting we do not know everything, and accepting that absolutes simply don’t exist. No one is right, no one is wrong, no one is bad, no one is good all the time. It is simply impossible. Change, evolution of ourselves, however, is very possible, if we’d simply allow it to happen.

The True Power of Positive Mental Attitude

I get a lot of comments on my tattoos. Sometimes they’re positive, sometimes negative. You get used to it after some time, and the explanations can become jaded. But a nice woman came in to get a room, and asked me what this tattoo was all about, because it looked cool.

I don’t know what possessed me, but I decided to give her the actual meaning behind it.

I asked if she was familiar with YouTube, to which she said she was. I told her there was a man, named JackSepticEye, who does a lot of charity work, who makes people laugh, who publicly fights depression, and maintains a message known as PMA.

“What is PMA?” She asks. Her questions are genuine.

“Positive Mental Attitude.” I explain, “As a person who suffers from a mental disorder on a daily basis, I got this tattoo to show my support for him, his movement, but also a reminder to myself when things get bad.”

She’s fallen silent. I look up at her, having been busy looking down at the computer screen checking her in. Had I gone too far?

She breathes what I can only describe as a sigh of relief and says “I’m going to have to tell my husband to look him up. He’s bipolar, and he could use a bit of positivity in his life like that.” I looked at her, and we had an unspoken understanding. Mental illness is hard on everyone. It’s hard for the person dealing with it, and it’s hard for those we love. I set my professionalism aside, and told her she was awesome.

I’ve had people walk out of my life, cast me aside, because they “couldn’t handle” my “crazy”. Indeed, I’ve destroyed friendships with my “crazy”. To have her standing in front of me, and tell me of her husband’s condition not because she was ashamed, or because she hated him, but because she saw someone who understood from both sides how stressful and difficult it could be… I told her she was awesome, and thanked her for being a good person.

A man was sitting in my lobby at the time, and overheard everything. He’d needed a place to stop to change his daughter’s diaper. As soon as the guest left, he approached the counter and handed me $20. I was shocked and said “Sir, you don’t have to do that.” He shook his head, waved his hand, and said “Thank you for letting us stop. Keep up that positive mental attitude.” Then he walked out as I thanked him.

THAT’S the power of Positive Mental Attitude. That’s the TRUE POWER OF PMA.

The Fridge Project

So, I wanted to share a bit of a story with you guys. A YouTuber I watch, named Markiplier, started this thing called Kick Cult. We were all going to spread positivity, joy, be happy, etc. But with all things Markiplier does, there is always a plot twist. He started a chat server on Discord.

During Markiplier’s Kick Cult craziness, I stumbled into one of the discord channels known, at first, as Yippee. It became Congay, a safe haven for all members of the LGBT community to join. We became fast friends, the chat was very chill. But the plot twist came when one by one, Mark began closing the channels. As the channels began to die, Congay members rushed to create new servers, spamming them as fast as possible to continue the friendship a little further. I clicked on one, and after a short time I began to realize….I was probably the oldest one there. Let me tell you. If you’ve never experienced this for yourself, it is a very awkward situation.

I thought about leaving. After all, what do I have in common with a group of teenagers? I’m old to them! So, I observed. And I noticed something interesting. Many of them were in bad places, with parental figures who didn’t support them. They’d been betrayed by family, by friends. Most of them just wanted someone to be proud of them. I realized then… I had EVERYTHING in common with them. Not only that, but I was in a unique position to share with them my experiences and…being an adult, I could help them. I could spread some of that JackSepticEye PMA (Positive Mental Attitude). I became the mother of the group. It started off simply with reminding them they were loved, telling them I was proud of their accomplishments… But I had no way of showing it. I’m a firm believer in actions speaking louder than words…but how? How can I show almost 300 people that I cared.

Then it hit me.

When I was a kid, every time I accomplished something, my mother would put it on the refrigerator for all to see. So. I went to the store.

And bought 1,000 post it notes. I posted a message to the server.

And waited. It didn’t take long before something amazing began to happen.

These kids, some of whom had so many self esteem issues, were finding positive things about themselves so they could get on the refrigerator. They were going out, trying new things, and telling me about them. Not just that, but they started nominating each other. Encouraging each other. Tagging me left and right to make sure I saw the accomplishments. I started carrying a notebook around with me so that even at work, I could keep up with messages.

I got many of their birthdays and added them to my calendar.

(August is a slow month. September and October are where the party is!)

And I’m just so blown away by all of this. Somehow, I managed to become the mom to so many people…But I realized I wasn’t just helping them. I was helping me, too..I was able to tell them all the things I wish I’d heard, or all the things I wish I’d known. I want to push myself harder to help them see they can do AMAZING things!!

The protect has only been going for about two to three days, but this is what my refrigerator looks like now.

(Pardon the stains, it was a hand me down). More and more messages come in and I’m so…happy… And my “babies” helped me more than I could have ever imagined. I went from being a very lonely, sad individual to the mother of a bunch of people… I matter. I make a difference.

You live once, but you grow up thrice.

Hello, my dedicated readers. It has been a while, and for that, I must apologize. I felt I had much to say, but no great way to say it. I don’t ever want to feel I’m wasting my reader’s time, but most importantly, I want to feel proud of everything I deliver. Until now, I did not feel I could do such a task. I am, however, going to attempt to post more regularly. With that out of the way, one of the reasons I’ve been so quiet is actually the topic of today’s blog. It is my personal opinion that each person grows up three times.

The first time is legally. In the United States, an individual is classified as an adult upon reaching the age eighteen. At eighteen, most teenagers are finishing, or just recently finished, high school. They’re preparing to go out into the world and take in all it has to offer. Many are filled with hopes of what the future holds. Some begin working, others go off to school, while others wait patiently to see what comes their way.

The second time a person grows up is independently. This is the first time an individual pays a bill on their own, acquires debt of any sort, makes a big purchase, so forth. This is growth in the sense of realizing you’re on your own. I should mention now that each stage of growth can happen at any point. A person could reach this stage at sixteen, or be considered legally an adult at sixteen depending on circumstances. Like much of life, these are not considered absolutes.

The third time an individual grows up is, arguably, the most difficult growth of them all. Mentally. In many ways, this growth is depressing. It is the realization that life is not what you thought it would be, and the people you’ve surrounded yourself with are not who you thought they were. This is the moment where long held relationships are brought into question, closely examined to judge compatibility. It is the moment when you question everything you’ve done with your life, and compare it to what you want to do in your future. Have you made the right choices? Are your actions moving you forward? Dreams are replaced with reality. It is a hard pill to swallow, and can break you. It is painful, much like the growing pains of our youth, because not everyone reaches this stage at the same time. You’ll find friendships that you’d always counted on distancing, interests you’ve always held slipping away into obscurity, and you’re left wondering…what’s the point? You feel, suddenly, very alone.

What is the point?

Here’s the beauty of the third stage. It is not a guarantee deal breaker. Those around you may grow to match your new found adulthood. Others will not. Your priorities will change. Just like when you made your first big purchase by yourself, you can control how this growth controls your life. Those that refuse to grow may cease to matter, but you find those who grew with you grow closer to you. Dreams may be replaced with reality, but we all shape our reality. You now have the clearest mind to make those dreams come true. Perhaps with some adjustments. This is different for everyone and it is painful. But you have the strength to push forward.

The reason for my silence can be blamed on growth number three. I’ve had to make quite a number of changes in my life, not all of them easy. I did feel broken. I fought hard for friendships I knew, deep down, were over. I’d become so focused on the lack of direction towards the things I wanted that I became stagnant. Upon realizing what I was experiencing, I finally surrendered to it and accepted the change. I was the one holding myself back rather than making myself go in the direction I wanted to go.

I started having dreams again.

I’m not holding onto as much stress as I was by trying to conquer the world’s problems, while it spit on me in return. I learned to pick my own battles, I learned to appreciate what was important. It hurts. It absolutely hurts. You begin to accept the things you cannot control, you cannot handle, and you find a new path. Even if you have to carve that path from stone with a spoon.

Do not be afraid of this growth, my friends. It is okay to be afraid. It is okay to make mistakes. It is okay to try new things. It is okay to fail. It is okay to say no. You will come out the other side stronger than ever before. I am not preaching from the perspective of a success story, I’m telling you from the point of view of someone who has finally realized…life is mine… Truly mine… And I’m okay with that.

I hope this, in some small way, helps someone out there.

Witnessing Tragedy from Afar

April 5th began as a normal day. I drove to work, had fun with my coworkers, made plans for dinner… On my way home, I noticed police activity ahead, and traffic was slowed to a crawl. I had places to go, things to do, and the slow moving traffic was an inconvenience. I’ve learned, however, that sometimes life forces you to slow down for a reason.

The reason this time was a tragic accident. A young man had been struck by another vehicle, killing him instantly. His body, hidden from view by a sheet, lay in the road surrounded by cops and witnesses. It was so startling. You never expect to see such a sight when an accident slows traffic.

It broke my heart. Still does. I won’t go into too many details, but I will simply say it was bad. It stuck with me, sent me into a bit of shock. For the remainder of the evening, I couldn’t get it out of my head, and desperately searched through the news trying to find more information on what happened.

They released his name.

I found him on Facebook. This led me to his family, who hadn’t yet heard the news. Friends who were carrying on like normal. They’d released his name in the early hours of April 6th.

I continued to check his Facebook, and saw when the news of his demise spread to his family and friends. I wanted so badly to reach out and say something, but what could I say?

Nothing I could offer would make the situation better. Witnessing the travesty of the accident was a few moments for me, but will be a life time of pain for them. My heart aches for them, but I have no right to share in their grief.

I can only hope the family is able to find peace, and solice. I can only hope that the death of their friend, their son, their brother, has touched the life of a random stranger.

Web Weavings

Where shadow and light dance