Normal, but not the good kind.

The normalness has settled like pollen all over our suburban 1960s mill house. It's a brick home, with pink azalea bushes out front and a flower pot on the front stoop that we use for an ash tray.

I spend a significant amount of time chasing dog hair tumbleweeds all over the hardwoods while he burns cardboard beer boxes and junk mail newspapers out back in the fire pit. The dogs have free roam of the half an acre of backyard that we mow semi-weekly. They nap in the sun next to the poison ivy we can't seem to kill. I paint in the living room while watching true crime documentaries. He smokes cigarettes under the car port. Life is, by all accounts, pretty normal.

The times do not come without struggle. In fact, I'd say struggle is the standard by which we operate. I feel more shut-up than I have in a long time, having just had yet another miscarriage-- my first one, though, with him. He was there through it, rubbing my lower back as I doubled over in pain on the bed. I sat on one of those puppy potty-training pad things to keep the copious amount of blood I was losing from staining our newish green sheets. It made him uncomfortable to talk about it, though, at a time where all I wanted to do was scream: I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING AGAIN.

And then it was done. I ran out of pain pills and eventually out of blood, and it was over for everyone but me. For me, it's this ever-present, really huge thing that I can't shake, like when you're in traffic and there's a tractor-trailer in front of you and you can't see around it to know if you need to change lanes or not.

So I stay quiet.

I can't blame him, though. This was his first miscarriage rodeo and there is no playbook (though I could have written one by now.) I remember finding it strange that he didn't know about my miscarriage rituals that I had formed over the years, but how could he? He wasn't there for the first three, and how was he to know that sushi is what I have for dinner every time a doctor can't seem to find a heartbeat? He had no way of preparing himself for the distracted brick wall I became when my body felt like a walking coffin and the cobwebs were really thick up there. I don't think he was prepared for the passive-aggressive, morbid jokes that ensued or the sudden burst of manic creativity followed by days and days on the couch.

I was trying to stay afloat, and he was trying to have a leisurely day at the beach. It takes its toll.

To him, it wasn't really a baby. I get that. To me, it was a real baby, because I was gagging every time I smelled sandwich meat, and I was exhausted. My boobs hurt. I had to stop drinking coffee. I had to inject myself with blood thinners to protect my placenta from clots, you know, just in case. I knew that the probability of losing this child was high and that I needed to enjoy my time with that creature living inside me for as long as I was able. Spoiler alert: it wasn't very long.

I think I'm mourning mostly because I know that will be my last pregnancy. Ever. My body has let me know that it can't sustain life, and now it's my turn to listen. My uterus is an inhospitable wasteland where nothing can grow-- a graveyard-- and I'm tired.

So yeah, basically what I'm saying is that everything here is normal.... so very, very normal.

For me.

It's not you, it's me.

Sometimes it just aches, you know? 

Depression.

I talk about it. I talk about it A LOT. Because we should.

I'm at work this week, after an amazing and long Christmas weekend. It was magical. I wouldn't change anything about it.

The house is back in order. I've removed the beautiful, but now-dead, tree from the corner of the living room and put my paintings back where they go.

There is something very cathartic about decorating for Christmas. Ritualistic almost. And having grown up in a religious home and then having later joined a sorority, it seems ritual has become really comforting to me in rough times. So the second the tree is in its stand, Mannheim Steamroller's Christmas album goes on Spotify and off I go.

But I also look forward to the fresh start that comes when Christmas is over. The return to a fresh, familiar space is equally as ritualistic for me. So last night I performed this ritual with an unprecedented meticulousness. I was on a mission.

Today I feel really low. I've been at work this week, but barely. My body has been sitting at my desk. My smile has been smiling. I'm crumbling on the inside. I can't tell you why, and that's how I know it's my depression. And since my limbs are all in place and on the outside, I look totally healthy, I'm really fighting to keep my head above water. 

This year has been exhausting. It's been horrible for most of us. Everyone is ready to see it go, and I am right there with them. But a few good things have happened this year worth mentioning. I will try to focus on those things while the fog lifts.

In the meantime, here's to a better 2017 for us all-- after all, it's now up to us.

If I told myself the things I tell my best friend, I would say...

...because I'm freaking trying, and trying is enough. Perfection isn't ideal, and turns out, some of my quirks make me interesting. Some of my stories are worth telling and there are people out there who want to hear them. So I'm going to stop comparing my life as it is right now to the life I thought I'd be living. This is the one I was supposed to be living all along.

...and I would stop using the terms "train wreck" and "fatty mcfatterson" and "basket case" when jokingly referring to myself, because I'm not actually joking when I use them, and those terms do not encompass who I actually am.  They keep people at a distance from the real substance of who I am and what I'm experiencing. They keep me from being authentic, which in turn, keeps me from connecting to the people around me.

And if you know anything about depression, that's when it wins-- when you don't get out of bed and you turn down dates and you skip dinner with your girls because you're tired and maybe you don't want them to know that you haven't showered in two days and you don't plan to tomorrow either. I need community. I need that push. I need to stop giving my brain the dynamite it needs to slowly blast away at my identity while I sit on my couch and eat my feelings.

I really hate it when my best friend downs herself. She does this a lot, and she's been really fighting those demons. When we talk on the phone and she tells me she hates the way she looks and that she is frustrated and feels like a bad mother and wife because the chores aren't done and the baby has cheerios in her hair or whatever, I just want to shake her and tell her that I see her. I really see her. And she's trying. And she's more than those things she thinks about herself. And she is enough.

She is so much more than that, but it's a decent place for us all to start.

It's loud in here.

I don't remember a time when I wasn't questioning things (I imagine my mother would agree.) I was a talkative child, always processing things I didn't understand out loud. We had long conversations in the car about complicated subjects like race and sexuality and faith on the way to elementary school. 

Something about hearing the words was affirming to me, as if I were making progress simply by asking the questions. Solid answers were never necessary.

This has followed me into my writing. It's a tragic flaw-- a gift, because there's always more to understand, but a curse, because I'm exhausting company. 

All that to say I'm finally doing the work. Not in a "yeah girl, do work!" kind of way, but in the way that involves a lot of heart and a lot of tears and a lot of standing up to big things and screaming at them until they back down.

Now, more than ever, I'm craving answers. WHY did these things happen to me? WHERE does this all fit in my story? WHO will I ever love as much as I loved my ex-husband? HOW will I even bring myself to date again? WHEN will I get to the other side of this? WHO will be left when I do?

What fear looks like

I don't have nightmares. It's been a while since I've woken up in a cold sweat, reaching for Tater or the nightlight of my phone screen to soothe me. But tomorrow I start counseling. God only knows the demons that will awaken. I imagine this is going to get much, much worse before it gets any better.

I left my ex-husband and proved I was strong enough to stay gone. I started skating to prove to myself I wasn't fragile. Maybe this is what courage looks like for me these days. At twenty-seven years old, I will sit in front of a stranger twice a month and talk about the hard shit that I only write about in my journals.

Lucky her.

To say I'm dreading it would be an understatement.

She's not here.

How do I even write this post? I've stared at the blinking cursor in this blank, white box at least ten times since I wrote my last post in March. How many times can a person say they're sad? How many? And how long can a person be sad before they've worn out their welcome? How long will this be my story, and why does everything hurt so deeply?

How many mindless blog posts could I have written between then and now in an attempt to mask the truth?

I have all this stuff and it doesn't mean anything to me, it just fills the space. Every time I wash a load of towels I cringe because it's just me and why does one person need ten towels anyway? And a great friend of mine gave me my living room set, but it's been almost a year now and I have yet to have a friend over to sit on it. I finally broke down and bought a large bamboo cutting board for my weekly meal preps, which feels stupid and lame because I'm just cooking for myself and who the hell cares if the peppers are diced evenly anyway?

Some days my dog is the only reason I wake up. He has to pee and I have to go to work so I can pay bills in order to continue living a life that doesn't feel authentically mine, like wearing some oversized Goodwill sweater that has holes in it. I feel the draft. I feel the weight of my body in my bed. I feel like I have accomplished something great if I can find clothes that match in the pile on my floor and then there's a whole day to go! There's a whole desk covered with shit to do! There are people who need me to show up and be present and look alive and for god's sake SMILE, girl. 

But nobody knows, because I get up and I dress up and I show up and my makeup's done and I snuggle their babies and take their pictures and answer their emails and attend their meetings regardless of the toll it takes. That's the price of living a life that doesn't feel like it belongs to you. You have to keep going no matter what or you'll lose everything. You have to smile when you don't feel like it because your friends have major life things happening and they need you. And you need them. I have myself convinced that if I push myself into situations that are painful-- if I pretend for long enough-- my story will change and one day it won't hurt and I won't be so angry and the season of not-quite-fitting-in-anywhere will be over. 

So I wait, and I wonder if this life will swallow me whole, or if one day just maybe the person I am will finally fit inside this threadbare sweater.

Vegan cookies are the best medicine, and other thoughts on grief and gratitude

To this day I have only received one shipment of homemade vegan cookies.

Then that box of yummy, banana-y, chocolate-y love arrived on my doorstep. I had just experienced my third miscarriage. I was delirious. I laughed constantly, which was weird to most people. A coping mechanism, I was told. My sarcasm was at an all-time high. And I was at an all-time high, too, taking more pain pills than I needed. I had lost all motivation to exist, except for to watch the box set of Harry Potter that Brittany had lent me while eating batch after batch of the most delicious cookies Carey had sent-- with love from California.

After my first miscarriage, my small group leader, Jacki (who coincidentally was also vegan), brought over this sausage and lentil stew with freshly baked bread. "My friend recommended it, and I wanted to make sure I brought you something that would make you feel a little warmer." It was February. I wasn't a seasoned miscarriage veteran at this point. I broke down sobbing in the kitchen, my bare feet on the cold tiles.

Today is the Remembrance Day / Wave of Light-- a day to remember the babies we've lost to miscarriage or stillbirth. I have three that I will remember today, along with many other babies that my friends have lost over the years.

But I will also remember those friendships that came from these losses. I will remember after my second loss my college professor and mentor, Anabel, brought me spaghetti and a heart-shaped dish and sat on the floor next to my bed for hours. It was the first time I had smiled-- really smiled-- since losing Micah. We talked about travel and family and languages, and it reminded me that outside of this overwhelming, life-altering event, I was a whole person with interests and joys and dreams, and for a moment I didn't feel minimized by my loss.

I will remember when Stephanie brought me Chick-fil-a and her favorite book of comics that she thought would make me smile. And she didn't judge me, even though I was clearly drinking too much and sleeping too little.

I remember Meghan, who baked peanut butter blossoms and sat in bed with me and just listened-- really listened-- to my sorrows and my fears and didn't turn her face away from my messy, ugly grief. 

I'll remember Julie, who saved all her baby stuff for me instead of selling it in a yard sale, because she really believed that I would need it eventually. In lieu of the divorce, I gave her my blessing to sell it to someone else who needed it, but the fact that she held onto hope for me for so long meant everything, especially on the days when I had no hope at all.

I remember my yoga-teacher-turned-friend, Sarah, who let me cry and cry and cry on my mat in her yoga class as she taught me to reconnect with the body that betrayed my children.

I remember my parents taking turns coming over, helping with chores, cooking meals, and making me shower, even if it was just to get back in bed. The depression was so heavy at times.

I could go on and on and on and on. It wasn't about what these people so graciously gave to me or did for me, but I really learned who would be there in the hard places. I really learned who my friends are and I saw God in those moments when I felt really alone.

My babies gave me that.

So today, I remember.

I light my candle.

And I give thanks.

Struggle in three parts

FOOD, WEIGHT, AND BODY IMAGE:

I've had the most stressful month at work and turned immediately to my two most trusted friends, Ben and Jerry, to get me through. I skipped the gym, drank wine and no water, and ate pizza and burgers and fries and hot wings and cookies. So many cookies. My brother tells me that I deserve a piece of pizza now and then, which is like saying an alcoholic deserves a swig once in a while. One day I will begin treating food as the addiction it is, and recovery will begin. After all, I hit rock bottom a while ago and have been rolling around on its dirt floor ever since.

My weight has been an issue since I was young. Some people have stringy hair, some people have bad teeth or major acne. My weight is the cross I bear. I am totally on board with the I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR, CURVES AND STUFF mantra and all that jazz. I do think women with curves are beautiful. I think women without curves are beautiful, too.

Before you say that I am worth more than my weight, please know that I both know and agree with you. But still, this is a struggle for me, when it takes me so long to get ready in the morning because my skin doesn't fit, much less my clothing. I have no real resolutions, except to just keep trying. And try I will.

DEPRESSION AND MENTAL ILLNESS:

Just the other day I told my good friend that it was too soon to tell a new guy friend about my struggles with depression and anxiety. That afternoon Robin Williams was found dead of an apparent suicide in his home, and I realized just how important it is for people in your immediate realm to be aware of your struggle.

I have nothing to add to this conversation that hasn't been added via Facebook or Twitter or even Buzzfeed, except to say that I am just one of the ten percent of Americans that is currently being treated for depression. I wouldn't be scared to tell him if I had a heart condition, so I'm not sure why it would be too soon to tell him I have a brain condition.

FAILURE AND PERSEVERANCE:

Yesterday a coworker gave me this riddle by Albert Einstein and challenged me to give her the answer. After about an hour of drawing diagrams and starting over a few times, I finally solved it. I spent sixty-ish minutes telling myself that I could figure it out, but also beating myself up for it taking so long. That old familiar feeling.

I hate failing at anything. I hate it when things don't come easily, and roller derby brings out all of my insecurities more than anything else in my life. I hate it that I'm not bouting yet. I hate it that I still look like a toddler learning to walk when do a tomahawk stop.  I hate it that I still haven't passed my final endurance assessment. But I really have to take a step back and realize that the stride skills I was working on just a month ago have become second nature, and my crosses (while they still don't feel natural) are becoming more fluid, and my stance is becoming wider and stronger. So progress is being made, but it doesn't look like I expected it would look by now.

But there is no room for my insecurity on the track. There is no room for my insecurity at the gym. There is no room for my insecurity in my relationships. And it is for this reason that these three things are totally intertwined, so I guess I'll roll on.

On worth, identity, and where I've been

I am hesitant to write this post, but it needs to be written.

I have been described as both introspective and extroverted, which is quite the volatile concoction. I dream new dreams before completing old ones, and I share my excitement about them openly, even when everyone around me knows I will never complete them before a new one hangs its curtains in my heart. In times of uncertainty, I fall into a sort of puddle form at the feet of anyone I perceive to own a mop. In moments of sorrow, I find arms that will wrap around me, even when I know I should not allow arms that snuggle up to another woman at night to hold me together by day.

It goes without saying that the last few years have been trying. My identity has waxed and waned like the phases of the moon-- bright and bold, barely there, totally absent. I have seen ultimate highs and solemn lows. I went through a stage where I could not be hugged without bursting into tears. This was followed by the stage where the lack of human touch in any form made me feel worthless and unloved.

My roller derby team took me under their wing at a time when I felt broken and proved to me that I was not fragile at all. I quickly became part of this new family, laughing louder than I ever have before and really meaning it. Since the fall things have taken a sharp turn south. My laughter is louder than my sobs, sure, but my sobs surely are still there. The bandage couldn't hold back the flood waters forever. I've stopped going to practice, to parties, to away bouts. I've tucked myself so deeply back in my shell where I can't hear anything, not even the ocean.

Last night I was driving home from Savannah, singing at the top of my lungs to keep my head from spinning. It hit my like a ton of bricks:

My worth is not found in his hands on my hips, my cheek, my thighs. It's not measured by how well I skate or how cute my butt looks in a pair of booty shorts. It's not equivalent to the amount of calories I eat in one day or how much sweat pours out of me at the gym. It's not a number on a scale. It's not the number of people I've loved. It's not the husband who abused me. It's not the divorce that has defined me or the babies I couldn't carry. It's not the photos in my Instagram feed. It's not the art I make. It's not the length of my hair or the job that I do or the place that I live. It's not my volunteer work. My worth is packaged in my ability to experience all of these things and love myself because of my story and not in spite of it.

I'll admit, I'm still working on that while the world spins madly on.

An open letter to those who mourn

It may have been only a few hours since you first got the news that someone you love is gone, permanently, from this earth. Your knees may still be weak and your hands still numb. You may have already cried the ugly cry, or you may still be waiting for it to hit you.

It may have been days by now, or weeks even. You've gone to the funeral or sent flowers from across the country in your stead. You've read the obituary online more than ten times, and you've left a comment on the online guestbook, and you've lit a virtual candle.

It may have been years now. You've navigated holidays and anniversaries somewhat successfully, trying to stay in the moment without getting caught in the tangled webs of "should bes" and "what ifs." But it's there, this gaping hole in your tradition, where that person once was but no longer is.

My advice to you is this: Cry those buffalo tears.

Mourning is the ultimate compliment you can give to someone who has affected your life so beautifully. It's the goal, if you think about it, to mean so much to someone in this life that they grieve your absence once you're gone. Allow yourself to give them that.

Then search your memories of them for what it is that they gave you in their time here-- courage? a love of classic cars/comic books/astronomy? an extremely long list of great advice that got you through some really dark times in your life? They inevitably instilled something in you that was meaningful. Find some way to continue on this legacy of theirs in your own way. Continue to go to car shows. Watch a meteor shower in the middle of the night with your favorite tiny human from a blanket in your driveway. Take the time to really listen to that friend who feels like this life is meaningless.

The truth is, most of us won't make it into the history books. Future generations likely won't know my name, or yours, or theirs. This is the best advice I can give for mourning: continue living, and don't allow their death to be the end of their mission.