I'm Not Fine

Lisa-Jo Baker, the author of this post, says she's over being "fine". Hers is a beautiful post...so sweet, so transparent. I admire her attitude and openness greatly.

I'm not where she is. I may never be.

When someone asks me how I am I usually answer with a smile and the usual, "Fine, thank you."

In my mind, I justify my answer because, really, I guess I am fine...if you compare my problems with those who have it much worse than me. That works, right? That makes it okay to say "I'm fine" when I'm anything but fine, doesn't it?

You've done it. I've done it. We've asked someone how they are, just because that's what we're supposed to do. Sometimes we might really want to hear their answer. And sometimes, we might be dealing with too much ourselves to be able to listen and to care. I get that. But I have to say that there have been very, very few times when someone asked me that over-used question and I knew, felt, that they wanted to know. That they cared. And even in those few instances I couldn't answer honestly. It hurt too much, and it opened me up to rejection. Again.

Sometimes I want to tell them, just tell them, "If you don't want to know, don't ask. I'm tired of being untruthful." But I know they're only doing what I have done over and over.

Sometimes I want to spill. I want to tell them that I'm not okay. That from childhood I have dealt with anxiety and depression and that I despair of ever getting better. I want to tell them to stop judging me just because I might not handle stress as well as they do. I want to warn them to not even think about telling me to "buck up", because that's what I do. I have to in order to simply live through some days. I want to tell them that sometimes I feel like I've been sucked into a black hole from which there is no escape. And God doesn't seem to be there. He doesn't seem to be anywhere. I want to tell them that sometimes I feel like a broken little girl who will forever be looking for acceptance and love from her mom...or a stand-in mom...from anyone...but who will never believe anyone who says they love her, because she can't. I want to tell them about my family, one of the saddest I've ever heard of. I want to tell them how I've been crushed by people who others would call saints. I want to scream that I don't get it...any of it...and that I'm worn out trying. I want to tell them about the fears that haunt me, especially at night. Fears of failing in every area of my life. Fears that cause my heart to palpitate and bring on something akin to a panic attack. I want to tell them how much I miss the two dearest people on earth to me. How I weep for them when no one sees, and how I hurt because I know that almost no one mourns their deaths with me. I want to tell them not to believe the bright smile I wear, because it's only a mask that hides the ugly mess I really am. I want to tell them how I despise myself. I want to tell them that I know I have it better than most...I do...but that doesn't take away the pain. And it doesn't make me ungrateful at all. In fact, it probably makes me more so, because I know how little I deserve all with which I have been blessed.

I want to tell them all these things, but I can't. Because they would be startled, embarrassed, shocked, angry and disgusted. They might tell me that I'm being over-dramatic. That I'm feeling sorry for myself. And, if they did, I would die inside...all over again.

It's a whole lot simpler to just say, "I'm fine."

But, I'm not fine. And I'm too scared to say so.

Please think of this when you ask someone how they're feeling. And, to those of you who have chalked this post up to one big pity party, I guess there's nothing I can say to change your opinion. But I ask that you think about your judgments until you've walked where I have walked. And I ask you to take the time, at least once, to listen to the answer to your question and to hear, really hear, what that person is not saying.

I'm reaching...grasping...for hope. I'm praying that God can help me not necessarily to be "fine", but to just get better. To get real.

There are a lot of people who need to do that, too. You're not fine. I won't offer you advice that I'm not even following, but I do want you to know that you're not alone. More of us are wearing masks than you could imagine.

God sees behind the mask. Sometimes that terrifies me. Mostly, it comforts me, because He's the only one Who can help me with what He finds there. He can help you, too.

I still believe that, someday, I can be healed and used of God to help others who wear the mask of "fine".

~Jessica

P.S.
To a certain person who has been faithful to ask me how I am, to want to know, and to persist until she gets the answer, thank you. You know who you are.

Lazy Discipline

My son knows how to push my buttons. He really does. 

I yell his middle name for effect, and then proceed with my tirade. "Go to your room. Now! Do not pass "Go", do not collect any money, and do not come out until you're ready to straighten up. Or until you turn 21. Whichever comes first." 

(To read the rest of this post, please visit Cherish the Call.)

Super Bowl Clean-up, Please!

Yes, we watched the Super Bowl, but we watched very few commercials. I was the only one who remained in the room at halftime and I busied myself with something else while I waited for it to be over. I didn't see all the garbage that was broadcasted, but I saw enough, and heard enough, to make me a very unhappy mama. 

I'm the type of person who would rather fight for something good, like football, than give it up to those who trash it. However, I won't do it at the expense of the innocence of my children. Skipping commercials and the raunchy halftime show works, but I think we can take it further. At the very least, we can email the offending retailers and let them know they won't have our business.

Another unhappy mama says it far better than I, so please read her post...and fight hard for the innocence of our little ones!

Lisa-Jo Baker: When Mama Ain't Happy

$100 Amazon Gift Card Giveaway!

If you haven't finished your Christmas shopping yet, (you're probably in the majority ;)) here's a little help!

Enter here to win a $100 gift card to Amazon.com from Mama Chocolate.

Good luck!

A Shared Dream

Since we took over my grandfather's care over two years ago my son has become very close to his Pappaw. Our little boy seems to know that somewhere in the heart of my seemingly unemotional Pappaw there is a need for a child's love; for little arms to give him a hug and a small voice to say, "I love you, Pappaw!" This is good, but it's also painful, because we know that Pappaw won't be with us long and our son's heart will be broken when it's time to say "good-bye".

When I take supper to Pappaw and clean up his house, my son begs to go in to see him. If I'm in a hurry and need to just pop in and out and he thinks he might not get to go inside, he melts. "But I want to see him and give him a hug!"

Tonight he had some extra time to visit with Pappaw while I worked in the kitchen. When I finished, I started to the bedroom but stopped before entering when I overheard their conversation.

"...And you want to go to heaven to see Mammaw, 'cuz she died." my son said, matter-of-factly. And he's right. Pappaw wants to go home. He's just waiting, and he'll tell you so! "I think she'll remember me when I get there. I'll tell her my name and she'll know I'm her grandson."

"Yeah, she'll know you." Pappaw said, with certainty.

How I wish I could have recorded what they said! Already I can barely remember it. But I do remember my Pappaw admonishing my son to live right...to live for God...so that he could see him in Heaven.

The conversation went on for a little while and I listened, almost reverently, peeking in at the two of them sitting on the bed: one, old, stooped and tired, and the other so young and full of life. Years...no, lifetimes...apart and yet, they share one dream. Heaven.

I dream of that day, too, when we'll all be together, free of everything that hurt and disappointed us down here. It's the shared dream of all God's children, the hope that gives purpose to life on this reeling, sin-cursed, messed-up earth.

I don't know how much longer we'll have our Pappaw here with us but, no matter how much it will hurt when he leaves us, we'll have the comfort of knowing that he'll be waiting for us to join him. When we get there, I'm pretty sure my son won't have to remind Mammaw who he is. Pappaw will be there with her, and they'll  be waiting for us...together...for a big, group hug.

Blessings, 

End of "Just Another Day"

I tiptoe into their bedroom to hang up freshly ironed dresses, all ready for church in the morning, and pause to take a mental capture of those beautiful faces. Giggles are quieted for now; sisterly quarrels paused until the next major catastrophe. (As perceived by them. Because everything  is a major catastrophe.) So soon they'll be young ladies...all grown up and, hopefully, less dramatic. And I'll miss that. Maybe almost as much as I'll miss kissing those pink cheeks goodnight and being struck once again with that wonderful, heady sense that to them, I'm the best mom in the world, and they love me. Unconditionally. And, oh, how I love them! On the way out of the room I take one more peek. Two little girls, all snuggled up, the youngest with her cheek resting on the furry back of our tiny dog. (Another "we'll never...!" broken. Oh, well.) Not very long ago that little girl was terrified of that little dog. How she's changed--and grown. 

Into the room with John Deere tractors, John Deere prints, and John Deere decorations everywhere you look. This little kid is all boy. I am once again amazed at how angelic he looks lying there, mischievous blue eyes closed, sweet lips closed for just a little while, and busy, trouble-making little hands finally still. This child, who has driven me to distraction and caused me to rewrite my mental book on parenting over and over, who has brought joy, laughter, and little-girl screams of terror into our lives, is a mystery to me. One minute sweet as honey, and the next.... But I love him so much it hurts. He's got some big plans, this little man. So far, he's going to be a builder, a policeman, a fireman, and, most recently, an artist who lives at home with his mommy. I like that last one. I'm sure I won't like the idea when he's thirty. He's four now, but already losing the need to snuggle, and that's just another painful reminder that my little boy is growing up far too quickly. Tonight was different. He wanted me to hold him. Of course, I did. All too soon I won't be able to hold him anymore...and I don't even want to think about that. 

I'm ready to do a little more ironing when she comes into the kitchen, the tall, slender girl who used to be so tiny that preemie clothes nearly fell off her. Her wisdom and wit astonish me, but I'm still pleasantly surprised at times to see that little-girl need for her mommy deep in those eyes. I hope I'll always see it. She heads off to get ready for bed, I admonish her to hurry. I'm wasting my breath, I know. She's slow, and a dreamer. Like her mom. Pity. Everything takes her twice or three times as long as it should. And, just as I supposed, far too long has passed before she's finally ready to get a goodnight kiss and hug and turn in. I already feel sorry for the man who will spend half his life waiting for her, as her father has for me.  We're kindred spirits, she and I. I couldn't love her more, and yet I do every day. 

Another day is marked off the calendar, time irreversibly passed. Everyone is resting up for tomorrow when we'll start it all over again. 

Blessed sameness. 

And I love that, too. 

Fun Friday: Random Things

Today, I'm supposed to share 10 random facts about myself. So, without further ado, here's the list:

1. I'd rather organize than clean. (Yes, I copied this from Jennifer. And I quit reading her list because I didn't want to be influenced further! It's uncanny how many things we seem to have in common.)
2. I don't like to dress up. When I lose 100 pounds, this might change. For now, I prefer denim skirts and shirts that hide a multitude of flab...if possible.
3. I rarely enjoy talking on the phone. I used to spend untold hours on the phone. My, how things have changed.
4. I'm scared of escalators. I will walk far out of my way to avoid one.
5. I have eaten alligator tail, squirrel legs, and frog legs, among other "exotic" foods. Tasted like chicken.
6. It's hard for me to sit still and do nothing. I have to be reading something, fidgeting with a phone, toying with my hair, etc. Horrible habit.
7. I went to college. For 6-8 hours.
8. I hide it well, maybe too well at times, but I am an extremely timid person.
9. I shot a gun once at Grandpa Brewster's house. I missed the target. Shame about Grandpa's neighbor's horse.....*
10. I...um....I--don't, well, that is to say..... Aw, ferget it. (gulp) Okay, here goes. For those of you who don't know, Idon'thaveadriver'slicensebecauseIchickenedoutandneverwentbackafterIfailedmyfirstdrivingtest. And now you know.

Now click over to Cherish the Call for more fun facts. :)

*Oh, and though I did miss the target, I didn't really shoot a horse. ;)