The Girl Who Lived.

I’ve heard people say that every day is a gift, but I think about it differently now.

I’ve been sick for nine days. And I’m thinking that it’s a privilege even to be sick. To stay in bed for over a week. To have a partner who brings me whatever I need and keeps things moving. To read a poem to him. To shower and put on cozy clothes.

I feel like something major has changed in my perspective, like I’m not quite the person I was this morning. I have had an awakening. Today and all future days will be different.

Why? Because I’ve been thinking about Harry Potter. I missed out on the books growing up; I read them at B’s request in my late twenties. Harry survived an encounter with an evil sorcerer, an encounter that killed his parents, that scarred him literally and figuratively, that no one should have lived through. Everyone called him The Boy Who Lived.

Fourteen years ago today, I survived risky O’s birth, a scary surgery, and a postpartum illness that easily could have killed me. I lived.

Five years ago next week, I put down bottles of pills and a razor. I got out of the bathtub, woke Josh, and went to the hospital. Despite a global pandemic, despite mental illness, despite impossible circumstances, despite despair, I lived.

I am The Girl Who Lived.

These fourteen years mark time I easily could have missed. Fourteen years to love, to see, to create, to read, to write, to advocate, to see so many brilliant shows, to watch movies and listen to music, to meet my best friend, to write my first novella. I feel like I haven’t done enough, but I have done so much with this extra time!

And I didn’t die in that bathtub, in an ambulance, or in an ER five years ago. I’ve won awards. I’ve completed books. I’ve gotten a book accepted for publication. I’ve visited my favorite city. I’ve read hundreds of books. I’ve discovered Pippi Post and Annie Stegg and Art by Isobelle, artists I adore. I’ve gone to bookshops, discovered Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh and Chapter House Books in Fayetteville and Strand in New York. I’ve gone to my first residency! I’ve taught again. I’ve sent out 150 submissions that never would have seen the light of day. I’ve discovered Shuly Cawood’s workshops and written so many poems. I’ve filled shelves of journals. I’ve cooked amazing meals all by myself—and that’s just recently! I’ve connected more personally with a couple of great people. I’ve started getting the Archer & Olive subscription box, which is one of my favorite things. I’ve found so many favorite things, so many great reasons to be alive. I discovered Pan downtown, a favorite restaurant. I’ve gone on dates and had weekend getaways. I’ve read my poetry to strangers. I’ve smelled candles and tasted Cold Stone Creamery milkshakes. I’ve found the most comfortable pants (Lou & Grey). I’ve gotten a cat! I’ve endured heartbreak and come out more authentic and more tender. I’ve found a new level of love.

I’ve celebrated five more Christmases. I’ve reached almost twenty years with J. I’ve started a fun Instagram. I started a website and a Substack. I’ve moved into a dreamy townhouse and decorated it just as I like. I’ve discovered poets. I’ve discovered Catriona Ward. I’ve seen the seen the Wicked movie! I’ve heard my child laugh so many times and watched him thrive at school. I’ve seen O find peace from his anxiety. I’ve seen Six and added a new cast album to my favorites. I’ve bought a pink glitter lamp—something I’ve wanted for over twenty years! I’ve taken classes with my favorite writer! I’ve found Pipsticks and Violette Stickers. I’ve put lights on my porch for the first time, and I’ve spent so many mornings sitting out there.

I’ve turned forty. I have made love. I have recognized my need for self-love. I have surrounded myself with a Glinda-pink bubble of beauty. I have sparkled. I have lived.

And I will live all ninety-seven days that are left in this year. I will engage. I will learn and love. I will let art enrapture me. I will grow closer to J. I will laugh with B until my stomach and my face hurt. I will say funny things, clever things. I will write poems. I will send writing out into the world. I will, to quote Little Women’s Marmee, embrace my liberty and see what wonderful things come of it.

Word of the Year 2024.

So, the new year has begun, my 39th January 1st. It is my 19th January 1st with Josh. And this year, we are sharing a word. The word is progress. 

I chose the word, and Josh agreed to it. Last year, my word was nourish, which I eventually realized I actually used for a past year. I encouraged/nagged Josh to choose a word last year too. I suggested challenge, but he didn't like the sound of that--too much pressure. He came up with Endure. While the word has some romantic associations (Anne Shirley's "For as long as the sun and the moon shall endure"), this sounded too much like suffering, like bare survival, like not quite dying to me. I proposed an alternative: persevere. It has the same basic meaning but with a much more positive connotation. He (reluctantly?) agreed to this. I don't know how much he ever thought of the word. But he did persevere through last year; I did too, and we persevered together even though at times, it was more like endurance. And did I nourish myself? 

As I wrote yesterday, I think I often did, storing up as much love and joy as I could. I spent too much money this--last summer, and I ate too much junk food and drank too much soda and coffee, especially toward the end of the year. But I tried to establish a habit of eating breakfast every day. I did some yoga. I read 112 books. I read 19 books specifically on art, fashion, or design. I read 31 books of poetry in October. I wrote many poems in the latter half of the year, dozens, more than I have written, perhaps, in years. I interrogated memories and polished the genuine ones until they shone. I clung to what I know to be true, which, this year--last year, hasn't felt--didn't feel like much. 

But that's last year. This year is something new. Josh said we'd wake up to our same lives, but I don't think that's necessarily true. This is a different space of time, a time for new decisions, and yes, a blank canvas. On this canvas, we can (we already have started, today) paint something entirely new. It's not that we won't remember what came before, that we won't still have ink stains on our hands (from the heartbreaks, from the traumas, from the acting out, from the episodes, from the anger) that may smudge our canvas, especially if we are not careful. But. It is a new space. This year can be a year of sobriety, of love, of rebuilt trust, of stability, of joy. 

Of progress. Another sober day. Another poem written. Another song sung. Another journal completed. Another book by a non-male author read. Another workout. Another run. Another session. Another term--three of them. Another new word.

I haven't made great leaps today. But I have moved. While, for the past two or three months, I have crawled, today, I strolled. Tomorrow, I may stride. I'm really thinking of tomorrow as the beginning of the year's work as everyone goes back to work. I will try to welcome all beginnings: today as the first day of the year, tomorrow as the first day Josh goes back to work, Thursday as the first day Oliver goes back to school, January 15th as the day I see my nephrologist and (hopefully) begin to see a reduction in pain and bleeding, January 16th as the day classes begin, February 1st as the first day of a new month, February 16 as the first day of our 18th year of marriage, and so on. I marked the first day of winter. On any day, I may frolic or run, climb or dance. 

I marked the last day of 2023. And I marked the first day (just a few days ago) of my medication change. I will continue to mark days as well as look forward to them. I am determined to believe that each day will bring good, whether it comes to me or I create it. I will have days, as I did last year, in which I cannot create the good. But the good is there anyway. I will continue to store love, continue to plant seeds. I will make progress. 

Touch.

Josh's touch, simple as a hand squeeze or complex as a massage, has a tremendous impact on me. So I'll write this to him.

Josh, your touch

• is water running down my arms.
• is pansies in winter.
• reminds me of my bold childhood curiosity about bugs, frogs, and tiny blue-tail lizards.
• is like a wrapped journal that I stealthily open at Barnes to check the quality of the paper--and I find it perfect.
• is more addictive than Whisps, the cheese-turned-cracker I'm currently crazy about.
• is all the blankets in the house.
• is all the unlit candles we own--alight. 
• is every time you make me laugh. And every time we go back and forth like a comedy duo.
• is someone loving a movie I love.
• is lace that doesn't itch.
• is purple paper that can become anything.
• keeps me alive.
• is the moment when a tornado warning is canceled. 
• is multiple sets of matching pajamas.
• is the release date for a book I pre-ordered.
• is a black moto jacket with a scatter of white stars.
• is the cinnamon tea that lights up our cabinets with its scent.
• calls me by my secret names, including some I don't know.
• is the Secret Garden to my sickly Colin. 
• is my hair turning red.
• is a tiny light-up Christmas village.
• is glasses without smudges--clear and sharp.
• is the heating pad that comforts me enough, so I can fall asleep.
• is black metal and rhinestone jewelry. 
• is you, belonging to me.

Nourish/Challenge: Week 4.

This past week was not my best. I didn't finish any books, and I came nowhere near my halfway point on my list. But the week was still interesting.

Josh turned 34, and I'm not far behind him. We went grocery shopping together, which I always enjoy. We ponder over which foods Oliver will actually eat. Josh and I also took a nap, holding hands. Holding hands is the greatest.

Our heat stopped working. The people at the office know me by my voice. The maintenance guy came quickly and stayed a long time. I was here alone, so it was a challenge.

I found (for 50% off) a beautiful trunk-shape decorative box with pink hydrangea on it! My tank top box is falling apart, so maybe I'll use the new box for tanks. Or for journals I want to use soon. The sight of those flowers gives me sustenance like pure sunlight.

I worked on organizing my jewelry. I have a lot of it, and almost none of it is real. I have so much fun with it. I feel happy when I see the pretty trinkets. I sometimes build outfits based on a necklace or pair of earrings.

Whimsical. I love the word and its meaning. I like whimsy in my life. I feel whimsical when I wear cute jewelry or use the Winky Lux Mer Kitten Eyeshadow Palette.

At Michaels, I bought a few cards of adhesive rhinestones. I stuck a green one by the corner of my right eye. I hoped Josh would like it. He did. Now where did I put those rhinestones?

Bruce and I went to see our third show of the season: Miss Saigon. I knew the plot but not the songs. We had an excellent cast and a massive ensemble. Our Chris had an astonishing voice. I need to see if he has an album. I'd love to hear him sing other showtunes. But the story is dark. Raunchy. Painful. Still--musical theatre tends to pry open my heart.

Using Energy for Joy.

I've known some people who are or once were full of casual hate. They complained; fed off each other's dissatisfaction; and searched for reasons to disdain people, music, movies, and ideas. This made me feel ill.

Hate, even if it's for a CD, requires a lot of energy. It can also curtail or destroy someone else's joy. Not everyone is this way, but when I hear someone trashing, say, a movie I love, it makes me sad and uncertain. I try hard to avoid negative comments when I'm with others. If they take joy in something I don't care for, why should I steal that joy. Indulging hate, even for a movie, poisons a person.

So instead of feeding hate, I try to feed love and appreciation. Even if I wasn't crazy about a movie, I can take joy in, perhaps, the costumes. I can focus on the good qualities in a person. I can think of a good use for a gift. I can encouraging others' joy in what they love. I can find color, shine, or comfort in an object that doesn't automatically appeal to me.

I want to be ever on the lookout for people, places, and objects to love and enjoy.

Why Josh Is Perfect for Me.

• He never makes me feel stupid when I ask obvious questions or show my ignorance.
• He reads poetry.
• He'll sit with me while I watch a scary movie.
• He wears glasses.
• He has curly hair.
• He dresses up for work.
• He's an English professor.
• He's loving and patient when caring for our son is difficult.
• He likes My Fair Lady (one of the first details I learned about him).
• He reads daily.
• He has a brilliant smile.
• He is quick to laugh and make me laugh.
• He loves learning.
• He's curious.
• He has a quick mind.
• He understands maps (I don't!).
• He doesn't mind driving.
• He takes notice of my interests.
• He's always proud of me.
• He has a beautifully-shaped mouth.
• He's helped me study.
• He wants to know what I'm reading.
• He's usually serene.
• He supports my friendships.
• He thinks I'm perfect for him.

To My Husband on His Birthday.

Josh and I met in college theatre and poetry classes. I asked him to read a thematically difficult poem to the class, and he did it without hesitation. I thought he was a good poet, and I respected his comments on my poems. We were 20.

About a year and a half later, we got married. His champagne tie matched my lacy dress. We've never regretted our court house wedding with just parents, siblings, and my darling friend Melissa. We had jumped on my brother's trampoline that morning.

Today, Josh is 33. He's teaching an English class at the local community college right now. We've done a lot of growing up together. He was diagnosed with narcolepsy. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and later with bipolar disorder and panic disorder. We had a son through a harrowing birth. Our baby was diagnosed with autism a few years later. We've lived through many other disasters and tragedies. We're still alive and still together. Here are some of my favorite things about him:

• He's a patient and energetic father. He's taken Oliver to the park (actually many local parks) countless times.
• He works so hard. When I could no longer work he took over and has taken care of us, working as much as possible.
• He has a great sense of humor. He laughs freely and knows what will make me laugh.
• He's generous. He wants me to have everything I want, and he always thinks well of me.
• He's a bold reader. He could read anything. And sometimes, he reads books I've just finished. He sets a good example of reading for Oliver.
• He has a talent and great patience for genealogy. 
• He supports my reading and writing, staying aware of what I'm reading.
• His curls are adorable.
• I love his face when he laughs.
• I like the way he types.
• He is always gentle.

Happy birthday, my love.

Times I've Felt Most Loved: Part 2.

• My dearest friend, Keely, picked me up and ran to the house when I got a bee sting as a kid.
• On her last visit, Mom took out the trash as she left.
• When I was little, my nanna told me a long story (with answers to my many questions) about how she would take care of me if I were Thumbelina-sized.
• I was on a business trip with my parents, and I forgot to bring a notebook. I felt sick without one. Mom and Dad went to a dinner, and Mom came back to the hotel with a spiral notebook from a gas station. I was astounded by the love in that gesture. She didn't have to understand; loving me was enough.
• Melissa is always a brilliant gift-giber, tuning into my obsessions and wishes.
• My grandfather used to buy me a book or two for the plane ride home.
• Nursing Oliver, I felt a pure, simple, and profound form of love flowing between us.
• Nick used to bring me a giant Frappuccino when I had a lot of homework.
• Mom put scented gel pens in one of my last Easter baskets.
• My uncle Chris took me to see Peter Pan and got me Peter's autograph!
• After I got my wisdom teeth removed recently, Mom got up in the night to give me pain meds.
• Dad took me to see Sunset Boulevard and bought me all the souvenirs I wanted.
• Mom came with me to meetings as I tried to get Oliver into Pre-K. She took over when I wore down.
• Shane gave us a new washer and dryer when ours were breaking down. Oliver was a newborn, and we were doing laundry constantly.
• Michelle gave me a Q & A for Writers book. I feel great any time someone validates my writer self.
• Bruce took care of Oliver all day while I was in the ER with lithium toxicity.
• I taught Oliver to kiss early, and he was a generous kisser.
• My mom-in-law kissed my check when I was in labor.

Love Threads.

"Love weaves itself from hundreds of threads."

David Levithan

This caught my attention. Maybe the initial meetings, the first bright lights of attraction and empathy form the loom. It's not everything, but it's important. Those memories need protecting and frequent polishing. The loom is the beginning of love, the base for growth.

And then, if it's to be, the threads begin to unravel and stretch across the loom. Sometimes, the supply is generous and richly colored. At other times, the thread is pale and thin. But if we keep weaving, even the weaker threads become a part of a beautiful pattern. Threads can be as trivial as a shared love of strawberry jam or as thick and varied as having a child together.

I always want to gather new threads. Josh and I recently celebrated our 12 years together. Our love has many strong places and some that may need bolstering. We both love sunshine naps! Even something like that makes our love stronger and more beautiful.

A Kind of Prayer.

I feel perplexed and wordless. But I'd rather say the wrong thing than say nothing.

As a person with panic disorder, I live in great fear every day. I dread what many or most barely notice. And I know how fear cripples my ability to love.

Fear coupled with hate breeds cruelty, violence, and evil. This can splatter far beyond the actual objects of the fear and hate. It can cover everything.

Every person needs to acknowledge his or her fear. His or her hate.

Love has got to be stronger than hate.

Love has got to be bigger than fear.

Love coupled with kindness creates hope.

We need hope desperately.

Times I've Felt Most Loved Part I.

This is just a small selection.

• My dad took me to see Phantom when I was 8. I had been obsessed with it. He validated and participated in that Phantom (and theatre in general) obsession.
• My parents gave me tickets to Phantom (I promise these aren't all about Phantom) for my...22nd birthday. Mom even decorated a gift bag with a still from the show and lots of black and silver ribbons. I have that pinned to the wall by my bed.
• My dad sent me the song "Comfort You" by Erick Baker. The lyrics show acceptance and validation for a daughter's mental or emotional struggles.
• My mom told me about Edwin McCain's song "I Want It All," which also made me feel accepted and valuable. I feel better every time I hear it.
• A high school teacher seemed geniunely sad that I was switching schools. He said, "We haven't hurt you. We've helped you." Now, it makes me wonder what he noticed. He also wrote great recommendations for me. He described me as introspective, a kind word to sum up my personality and some of my flaws. 
• Bruce told me about Alanis Morisette's song "Guardian." Noticing a pattern? I'll write more about these kinds of songs soon. 
• When I was 15, I had a terrible break-up aftermath issue, and my friend Jamie stayed up with me as I cried for hours.
• Josh encourages me all the time. He always seems happy and even surprised to see me, even if I were just right around the corner.

How to Stay in Love (and Make it Work!) for 10 Years.

Somehow, Josh and I have done this. We had rocky beginnings, and I often regard our relationship as a miracle. And while I still believe that, I want to think about what we've done, practically, to keep our relationship strong, happy, and fun.

• Find common interests or experiences as soon as possible. Josh and I were taking two of the same classes, so we were pre-connected through theatre and poetry. We found music and movies we both liked. These are little bits of relationship glue.
• Gather experiences together, such as visiting botanical gardens, going out to a movie or play, going to concerts, or talking about books at Barnes and Noble.
• Touch. Don't skip the joy of holding hands. This one is tricky, but touch (even a touch on the shoulder) wakes up all those bonding hormones. This can build a close connection quickly and can patch a relationship that is facing challenges. So keep touching no matter how long you've been together.
• Learn the other person's sense of humor. Try to merge it with yours. Laughter creates intimacy too. Make inside jokes over time.
• Tell your secrets. Invest when it feels like a bearable risk. 
• Commit to avoiding destructive behaviors such as shouting and name calling. These can wreck in minutes what you've worked on for years.

Top Ten Books.

1. Jane Eyre
2. Dangerous Angels
3. The 13th Tale
4. Writing Down the Bones
5. A Little Princess
6. Sugar Queen
7. Love Walked In
8. Necklace of Kisses
9. Eight Cousins
10. Her Fearful Symmetry

This is so difficult! Titles escape me. I need to look in my special book cabinet. But I would love to have these books with me if I couldn't read anything else. They mark points in my life.

For example, Necklace of Kisses was the first Christmas gift Josh gave to me. I remember reading it during my nights in the dorms at ASU and reading it in the bathtub. It was a difficult time in my life, and Block's word-spinning left a shimmer on me that probably helped me survive internally. So it's appropriate that Josh gave me the book (even though I asked him for it!); he's often left that shimmer or led me to it, knowing me as he does now.

The Mind I Love.

--Katherine Mansfield

Josh and I have been together for over 10 years now, and we still have so much to discover about each other. Often, some of our old beliefs about each other will change. We can't keep up, and in many ways, that's wonderful.

Josh's mind works in odd ways. Sometimes, it drives me crazy; sometimes, it amuses me, or it's endearing. I'm probably strange in ways both charming and maddening too.

While my mind snaps like an animal trap on specific obsessions, Josh is jumping around from subject to subject, over my head and beyond my strength. But to him, it's easy as reading comics. No book or topic seems to overwhelm him. He's read some of the most difficult books I know of (Ulysses, War and Peace).

I'm impressed. I'm in love.

What a Great Life.

I wonder where I got this phrase. A little string of words will catch me, and I follow it later. So what is so great about my life?

The three of us are here, and everyone is quiet. No one is angry or throwing up. The sun is out.

I've got stacks of books to read--many of which could, in some way, make me a better person. I can scribble for years and never run out of pretty volumes to use.

Food is in the kitchen though we're due for a grocery trip. Josh brought me a Dr. Pepper back from the gym.

Love surrounds me--both through present people and through gifts others have given me. Love is in the robe I'm wearing, the journal I'm picking up.

My husband gets excited when I blog, write, or read. He is always reading at a great pace. I admire him for that. We encourage each other, especially to read.

Soon, it will be summer, and Josh will be home more. Bruce and I may start swimming again.

Someone calls me beautiful or pretty every day.

I have a deep, pink-ink ridge on my middle finger: evidence that I've been writing.

The Hush.

4:40 a.m. I spoke to his back: “I need you to love me.”

I heard the exhalation that meant he was instantly awake and smiling. He turned onto his back and pulled me to his chest. 

“I’m down,” I said.

“Any reason?”

“I don’t know if there’s a reason.” Pause. “I can feel myself pulling away.”

“From your friendship?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you mean it’s something you’re actively doing, not that he’s drifting away?”

“It’s me. But I’m pretty sure it’s not voluntary. I guess it’s some defense mechanism, and stupid things trip it.”

“That must feel kind of scary.”

I turned onto my back, looking up at the proportionally placed glowing planets on the ceiling. “Yeah. And it’s really sad.”

“It’s not surprising though. This is completely new for you. It’s way beyond anything you ever thought could be your comfort zone. Well, I don’t think he’s going to let you pull away. And I won’t let you either.” He gave me a Peter Cetera look. “I am a Joe who will fight for your friendship.”

I looked at him and hugged him hard around the shoulders. “You’re so nice.”

“I’m in love with you. And I want you to be happy. So, so happy. And I think this is good for you. I’ve felt hopeful.”

“Why?”

“You’ve seemed lighter, not so prone to darkness. Your friend can’t cure it, but I think he’s a good long-term treatment.”

He left the room and came back with his Diet Pepsi and Fruit Loops. “I’m going to eat breakfast and sit here with you, tickling you or whatever you want.”

The smile glowed into the muscles of my face. He read me a brilliant new poem. And I slipped back into sleep.

Tools from Father Christmas.

I have always been melancholy. It is a major aspect of my personality as are being quiet and somewhat isolated. Depression was probably with me from age ten through age nineteen, with a respite when I was sixteen. In adulthood, it has come and faded, and I've started and stopped (lack of insurance, pregnancy) taking antidepressants. I don't know how much of my more recent struggle has been postpartum depression, physical and mental recovery from a traumatic birth, the repeated whiplash of small and large direct and indirect betrayals (mine and others'), and simply my natural shadow reasserting itself. As my mother said, though, "Eventually, it doesn't matter what caused it. It's there, and you have to treat it."

One of the blessings of being married to Josh is that he is so like me. We have obvious differences: he does not actively believe in any god while I have a faith that simply is, he is a vegetarian while I'm not, he usually doesn't care for movies while movies seem to be part of my stitching, he feels a deep ache and compassion for the world and its individuals while my empathy usually keeps to those closest to me, he has interest in and knows a great deal about many subjects while I am more focused and obsessive, he is relaxed while I am ambitious and irritable, he feels a deep connection to heritage while I rarely do, he constantly weeds through his possessions while I seek and store. But as he says, "Our core is the same." We share quiet and closeness, a fascination and kinship with the magical (science fiction, fantasy, myth), a treasuring of books, a tie to music and musicals and theater, a weariness in company, and an insatiable curiosity (though the objects diverge).

We also share this shadow, this depression. This may seem like a problem, and it could be. But since I met him and recognized this, I felt such relief. We don't have to explain or justify it. People who don't have the tendency really can't understand it, and that's probably wonderful. Recently, we become better at not just accepting it in ourselves and in each other but also accepting that we are still responsible for our experience. We do have to work and sometimes to fight to keep the shadow a shadow only and not a consuming or damaging (to ourselves or others) darkness. Josh wrote about this beautifully on his blog in January.

 Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.

http://www.empireonline.com/images/uploaded/father-christmas-narnia.jpg

I often think of Father Christmas in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, coming to the three remaining children just before the battle. I liked the way the recent movie portrayed him: magical, yes, but not the carefree, jolly Santa I usually see. He is rustic, strong, benevolent, deliberate, and weary. Even his clothes (no red suit!) show this. And he tells the children that he is giving them tools rather than toys. My mind and heart catch on this part of the story, even though swords and bows don't hold much appeal. Now, though, I'm noticing a new way to think about it.

Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.

http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20101012031623/narnia/images/c/c5/Father_christmas_lucy_cordial.jpg

Josh and I may always need medication or therapy or both to help us, to fill in the lowest points, to keep us capable of trying. We've accepted this. And one of the greatest moments of acceptance I've ever experienced was when my mother (an extroverted woman of rock-solid faith who doesn't, to my knowledge, deal with that depression that defies circumstance and whose family experiences with mental illness may have made her recoil from or fear depression in me when I was younger) said, "You know, your stopping medication just may not be the goal." She said it in the most loving and reassuring way. I can't quite describe how light I felt when she said that. But medication is like Lucy's healing cordial. It's quick. It works. It's fairly effortless if we know when we need it. It is valuable and necessary for many people. But it's not everything.

Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.
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My doctor told me this when she wrote my most recent prescription. She told me I had to get exercise and sunlight every day. Fighting depression is just that: a fight. Even when it isn't a battle, it requires that I prepare and build. This reminds me of Susan's bow and Peter's sword and even Lucy's dagger. Unlike the potion, these require movement, risk, muscle, aim. I have to work to overcome the shadow. I have be active. Getting up to go for a walk, exploring a library, reading a new book or an old favorite, watching a meaningful movie, having a real conversation, keeping up with this blog, spending time with my journal...these may not seem like offensive moves. But they are. They are so especially when I am tired or overwhelmed or already slumped in the shadow or complacent in a silly feeling that the shadow is gone. I have to fight, sharpen, polish, retrieve, practice.

Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.
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And we have to protect ourselves. I checked out a translation of German short stories about crime recently. I read a couple of them, sparse and subtle but gruesome and ready to speak to some of my quietest fears. The writing was unusual. I wanted to learn from the spare style. And part of me wanted those ugly details. But I put the book down. I told Josh, "I shouldn't read this." He said he might read it, and I shook my head. "I don't think either of us should read it." This was as much to protect myself from wanting to pick it up again as from wanting to protect Josh. Maybe at another point I would be able to handle it. Recognizing and admitting that I couldn't was hard. I have to put choices, actions, and thoughts away regularly. I have to say, "No, I can't do that" or "I can't deal with that right now." I even have to take moments in a room by myself if I am around people (even those I love) for a long time. I have to be aware and be ready to defend myself even from basically harmless or even good things. I work to avoid inviting the shadow or letting it creep in. This is Peter's shield.

Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.
  http://www.yourprops.com/movieprops/default/yp_4f32c15737b6c8.52276806/Susan-s-Horn.jpg

The last tool can be the most difficult because I want to be healthy and strong and fine. I like to feel capable and independent. Sometimes it's denial, sometimes bravado, sometimes hopelessness. But asking for help is not easy. Asking can be as big as calling a doctor and admitting a problem or as seemingly small as looking Josh in the eyes and saying, "I'm feeling depressed" or "I need to spend time on the balcony." It shouldn't be difficult, especially with someone who is so often near me and who certainly understands. But it is. And I've been pushing myself to tell my mom too, whether I'm just inexplicably sad or paralyzed with anxiety about work or finding that I'm skipping meals. And recently, I also told my dad and my best friend (who actually first mentioned postpartum depression). I don't know what I expected or feared. But they both said something like "I'm so glad you're getting help." Telling and asking are Susan's horn. If I am quick and direct about the noise I make (not those "acting out" mechanisms), someone will come.

Often, it's Josh who comes to remind me about the potion, put the bow in my hands, polish the sword. He can't do the fighting and defending and calling for me, but he's next to me. We're both fighting.

Mirror.

The losses I've had, self-inflicted and blindsiding, permanent and temporary, seem to intersect or at least echo each other. This is what that sounds like now.

I feel like someone else, like I'm looking at reflections or symbols of whatever was formerly familiar. I don't know how much of that is sleep deprivation or the recent inability to focus on much besides scrambling through the end of the semester. I don't know whether or not, after the initial break, the world through the looking glass will be better, clearer, or brighter.

Six Years.

Josh and I have been catching up on Up All Night, an NBC show that, with the new baby and stay-at-home dad, is quite timely for us. We've been watching it on NBC's Web site, and the same two or three commercials appear constantly. One of them is a Lowe's commercial that shows two cardinals remodeling their birdhouse. I keep expecting it to stop being cute, but it hasn't yet. Anyway, the song playing along has the words "Have I paid my dues just to be with you?" That reminds me of the last six years. We've had crazy times. I think Josh wonders how his life became so dramatic.

I would think that adding a third member to our family would make it feel stronger and more stable. Instead, everything feels more fragile. I had to realize how easily I could lose my family. My own delicacy is part of this.

Yesterday, Josh and I were able to really snuggle during one of Oliver's naps. For the first time in months, I didn't have a huge stomach or various bruises and injuries keeping me at arm's length from him.

A few days after we got home from the hospital, I couldn't sleep and was up all night cleaning. When Josh came into the kitchen to try to make me go to bed (saying, "I don't want you to start whimpering like a puppy again"), I started bawling for no apparent reason (well, I guess I had general reasons). He didn't say anything but stood straight and held me firmly until I was calm. That was perfect. I don't think I've had a breakdown since (yet).

When Josh and I first met, I had long straight hair and wore Mudd jeans and glitter. He and a friend referred to me as "the goddess." Now, that's something I can always ponder when I don't feel good about myself. I saw a quiet, steady boy who never got awkward or uncomfortable, who listened intently, and who noticed the slightest details like a purple silk scarf in my hair. I found out that his hair curled when he grew it out and that he would wear glasses when his contact prescription ran out. Those are just superficial examples of the ways I've repeatedly found my dream boy in him. Since then, Josh and I have changed quite a bit, our lives have changed remarkably (several times), and he has seen my appearance evolve and my body completely transform. How much of our happiness is in who we each are, and how much of it is in how we choose to see each other every day?

And now, we've made a miracle together. The making could have dismantled us, but we are here, three of us together. Josh is outside in jeans and a white T-shirt, switching the car seat to the other car so that he can take Oliver to his pediatrician appointment tomorrow while I'm at work. I can't imagine leaving my boys, but I know I'll get through it and then rush home to them. I'll just try to never think about it too much. People will give me a hard time about going back to work so quickly, but I know what I have to do to take care of my family, to ensure that we all have health insurance and can buy groceries and live in Oliver's Love Palace. And Oliver will float safely in the center of a six-year love bubble.

Poet Blessings.

I have a new annoying habit of waking up at least an hour before I need to. This means that I end up hungry and end up eating second breakfast to avoid starving at work. This may or may not be contributing to the stray and completely unnecessary stretch marks that are showing up all over me. 

Speaking of food, someone stole my lunch on Tuesday. I'm not talking about a PB&J. I'm talking about a frozen steamer meal of pasta, marinara, tomatoes, sausage, and meatballs. The dejection (and extreme suspicion of everyone in my building) was pretty all-consuming for part of the afternoon.

Yesterday was a good day though. I had the crazy good fortune of having my thesis adviser and one of my thesis readers come to my school to give readings in the spring. In fact, my thesis adviser came just when Oliver began to hear outside sounds. How cool is that? Anyway, yesterday, a professor with whom Josh and I took a class together came to read. I didn't really expect him to remember me since it was a class he team taught with a visiting poet (if only she would come too!). But he had that trying-to-place-you look when he shook my hand, and as soon as I told him how we'd met, he remembered me and Josh.

"Didn't you two get married?"
"Yes. We're having a baby. Two and a half weeks!"
"Or whenever," my coworker said.

Josh came to the main reading in the library, and our Mr. Poet said hello to him in the middle of his presentation. The reading was excellent, and Oliver seemed very responsive to the voice. Afterward, Mr. Poet came to talk to us, and the college president (who is an old friend) then talked to him about us. The P and VP came to meet Josh, saying they had seen him on campus. Josh explained that he's on standby for the big event. The P invited Josh along to the lunch at the P's house. Well! Now, everyone knows who Josh is, and I would get to have him with me.

The house was lovely. The P and his wife gave us an adorable sleeper set with bear feet and a pattern of little bears cuddling their blankets. It came with a cloth (machine washable!) bear to cuddle. The food included a chicken casserole with fancy green beans and almonds; bread crumb, onion, and zucchini casserole; yeasty rolls; and some kind of tomato gelatin. Josh the veggie-head did just fine. We sat on a cushioned glider on the screen-in, ceiling-fanned porch. We chatted with administrators and my coworkers and answered Mr. Poet's questions about what we've been doing. He kept telling everyone that he takes credit for our marriage. We also got to meet his wife, whom I liked right away. I felt unusually relaxed (despite a slight fear with every twinge that I may stain the president's white cushion with some labor-y fluid). Then, Josh went to get me a generous slice of cake. The cake was pumpkin with a thin layer of spiced icing and walnut halves. I can't describe the perfection of it.

We said goodbye, and Mr. Poet told us to let him know. He complimented our literary choice of name and was just charming all around (in his coat, tie, bushy beard, hiking sandals, and woolly socks). Josh and I started thinking about all those creative writing classes we took together and about the evenings at the visiting poet's octagonal cottage, drinking raspberry soda in plastic wine glasses and talking about writing. We were poor and outcast and alone up on a mountain, but it was a beautiful and privileged time in our lives.

I think some kind of fairy tale is here. Since I began, in earnest, my journey to motherhood, I have received visits from two of my MFA professors and one professor Josh and I shared when we were beginning our lives together. They've all read their poems, and in their way, blessed this baby and me.