Sanity

Sometimes, I worry about myself. I can be trucking along just fine. Then -- WHAM!!! Out of the clear blue, one innocent little comment is made or one little question is asked. Suddenly, my thoughts are spiraling out of control to the point of suicide. This cannot be sane. Ya think???

Tonight's question came from my "room mate". I use the term loosely because he is the guy I live with who is asking very little of me. His overflowing generosity is being used merely to keep my worthless, unemployed, pathetic ass off the street. I contribute a bit to the groceries and do some cooking and cleaning... and even those last two were because I insisted. Tonight, his simple question was, "Have you heard back from any of your jobs yet?"

I answered quickly and calmly. "No. I'd have told you if I did."

That was all it took. In a matter of about 10 minutes, my thoughts had gone something like this:

He must want me to leave. He's tired of me sitting around his house. (I should note that I apply for more than the requisite number of jobs per week as dictated by the Unemployment Security Commission... but still.)

I should put my stuff in the car and go. I should do it tomorrow morning. I'll go back to NC and see my family. Then, I'll pack as much of John's stuff in my car as I can and drive it to him in Florida. I'll leave the car with him and then just end it all. I could leave the car with Christi. She deserves something better. I'm going to miss meeting Olyvia. I wonder if they'll tell her nice things about me? I bet she'll be beautiful. My girls will be okay in the long run, though. I'm just another thing for them to worry about at this point. It's all pretty hopeless. I'm not contributing to society anymore. I'm a burden. I feel sad.

At this point, my depression is mounting like falling rock at the bottom of a ravine. I walk out of the house so my room mate will not have to be subject to this yet again. You see, I let myself be washed over by grief this past Sunday and had what I am quite certain would be classified as a bonafide breakdown. He was very supportive and comforting.

But one mustn't let those things happen too often or else people grow weary of them. They give up on you.

So I walked out of the house and rummaged around in my trunk for a moment. What I really wanted was a cigarette. I have a pack in my glove compartment and was truly tempted. The only thing that stopped me was the stench I'd have carried back into the house around my person. I don't know why I care about the stench. Some days I don't. Others, like today, when I feel like I am teetering between acceptance and rejection by someone I care about, I don't want to smell like a back alley. After all, if his earlier comment was indeed an indication that he was tired of me holding down his sofa on a daily basis, then I could hardly afford to make the situation worse by smelling like cigarettes.

Maybe I'll go have one anyway.

That's sane... isn't it?

sorrow

Thinking back on growing up, it's strange to notice what highlights I've picked. Always, once I've posted something, a half dozen new memories will rush into my head. They're just as important as any. Yet they become hidden. There's more to come about my adult years... maybe. Just now, I'm too grief stricken to commemorate events.

Loss comes in many forms. I've lost my job... twice in the last three years. I've lost my spouse. Soon, I will lose my family and friends. They are all still there, but I'm placing 600 miles between myself and them... all for what? Some hope that there will be the life I've always dreamed of waiting for me there? I'm sad that they won't be more than a couple of hours away anymore. And then there's my older daughter, son-in-law, and new granddaughter that are half a world away. I've lost my independence. I've lost my confidence. I've lost hope.

Instead, I cling to fears. Fears for my mother and what lies ahead for her. Two years of unemployment and her resources are drawing to a close. Never have I seen a woman less deserving of what has happened to her. She works with programs to help the homeless. She helps friends and family in their time of need. She always comes through for people. She always places others' needs and wants before hers. She's at church three times a week, singing in the choir, praying, and offering praises. No... mom doesn't deserve this. Oprah needs to step forward and pay off her mortgage. I'd do it if I could.

Those other fears. Fears for my grandmother and her health. Both grandmothers for that matter. One battles breast cancer and the other dementia. Fears for the unknown circumstances that are plaguing my dad. Fears for my daughter and how she'll handle motherhood alone in Hawaii when her husband is at sea. Fears for my other daughter who is incurring student loan debt in uncertain times... who has no place to call home when all of her classmates spend weekends in their old rooms at their parents' house. Fears that I get where I'm going and become so homesick that I can't focus on the future. Fears that the Mitsubishi will bite the dust and I'll be done for. Fears that after kicking a needy husband to the curb, I'll never find someone to hold me at night again (who's needy now?).

Fear that I've made the wrong decision yet again, and it will all come crumbling down. Is it fate or is it chaos? I'm exhausted, and I can't sleep.

Truth

At the end of my eighth grade year, my dad received notification that he was being transferred to North Carolina. My parents were thrilled as this was home to them. Nearly all of their family, including their parents, lived there. My take was a bit different. I was distraught. I'd found happiness in Indiana and a niche I never thought I'd find. I had fiercely loyal friends. I was less than thrilled at the idea of giving all of that up. Nonetheless, we left that summer. For a while, I wrote letters to my friends in Indiana, letting them know how I was and offering advice for their problems in all my fourteen year old wisdom. The letters became less frequent until they ended altogether.

The high school in which I enrolled was huge. The entire population of the school I'd have attended in Indiana was smaller than the freshmen class at Millbrook. I came in. I stayed quiet. A few people tried to cozy up to me. It didn't take me long to figure out that these people were bad news. They stayed in trouble. I might have attached myself to these people anyway in the name of being accepted, but another group of people unwittingly averted them from my attention. It was a group of friends in the church my parents joined. They were a much more savory bunch.

As kids will do, this group of church friends asked me why I was on crutches. My response was the oddest thing. I still don't know why I did it to this day. "Oh... I was hit by a car." Maybe I even told them I'd just been in a car accident. The quirkiness of my response lie in my answer to the follow-up question. "When will you be better?" My heart sank. "It's going to be a couple of months."

I lived this lie for quite a while. They would ask when I arrived at church if I had any more news. I always answered no. Before long, I knew I couldn't keep it up. I sat this group of friends down after Sunday night church one night and told them the truth about what happened to me and that I wasn't going to get better. If they weren't going to reject me for my physical imperfection, I figured they surely would now because of the lie.

They didn't. Life moved on, and it wasn't mentioned again. Out of this church group, I even found my first boyfriend. He pursued me relentlessly. I'm still not sure why. He was a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed soccer player. I don't know what he saw in me, but he sure came after me. At first, I spurned his advances. I suppose I wanted to make sure he was serious. Finally, I relented and let him take me out. He gave me my first kiss, which I'll never forget. It had all the requisite sparks and tingles and light-headedness. He was a good kisser! Still one of the best I've ever known.

His attention wasn't enough to stop me from spiraling into a pit of self-destructive depression. I hated myself. I hated who I was. I hated my disability. I hated whoever was at fault for making it happen. The guy driving the car wasn't available, so I directed my anger toward my parents and toward myself. I talked frequently of suicide. Though I probably would have never done it, I did lots of harm to myself. I tried to run away from home. When I was caught, I was sent to a private psychiatric hospital. I spent four months there dealing with my issues, including the month of my sixteenth birthday. There are things that happened surrounding this time that I still don't want to tell anyone.

It ended, though. I managed to survive. I got a little better every day. I survived high school. I graduated when I was supposed to... perhaps not with the grades I could have gotten, but it was enough to get me accepted into college. I got jobs and paid for my own clothes and gas. Childhood had been survived with one useless limb.

direction

We interrupt our regularly scheduled blogging for Megan to locate her self-esteem. It's gotten lost somewhere in a world of people who try to keep her down. To do this, she will perform the amazing feat of writing her own reference letter.

To Whom It May Concern:

I write to you today to recommend Megan for a job with your company. She possesses a lengthy career in the field of public education. To some, touting a career in teaching may seem unimpressive, and it may cause you to wonder what she may have to offer your company... one that is far from the educational field.

Teachers, you see, play many roles. They are educators seeking to impart knowledge and thinking skills on an untrained set of people. They are organizers planning to brilliantly execute state and local objectives. They are team members working for the betterment of their organization, their students, and themselves. They are public relations specialists who must keep in constant contact with the parent and local community, keeping them informed of the positive happenings within their classroom. They perform data entry and data analysis every time they grade a paper and enter that grade into a database. They are social workers concerned with the well being of their students from a social, cognitive, mental, and health standpoint. They are leaders striving to be a model for what is expected from their underlings and working to show growth and gain in their organization.

Yes, the last twelve years of Megan's life have been working as a teacher, but consider what teaching involves. In addition to work experience, Megan's personal qualities could prove beneficial to her prospective employer. Megan is driven to succeed, is highly analytical, and is an independent worker. Circumstances of her life might have offered her an excuse to sit back and be taken care of, but she doesn't think that way. She believes in showing what you CAN do. Not in creating excuses. She is quite confident that whatever job requirements are offered to her, she can do them and do them well.

Thank you for your time.

Redemption

Late in 5th grade, it became apparent to my doctors that I would have to give up the leg brace in favor of crutches. The stunted growth in my right leg caused a pronounced limp. The brace would rub sores on sensitive skin. My lack of sensation in that leg made it impossible for me to even know when something hurt, indicating an issue. Often, a problem would have cropped up before I knew it. And people think that feeling pain is a bad thing. It isn't. Trust me.

I traded in the brace with trepidation. In my mind, somehow, walking with the crutches was less normal than walking with the brace. With coaxing and some encouragement from my parents and teachers, I did it. What choice did I have? I took it in stride.

I survived after that with the positive attitude instilled in me by my parents.

The power of positive thinking. I hate those words.

Growing up with a disability, my parents had let me try what I wanted and set my own limits. The glowing reviews I received from the grown-ups were enough to keep me going. Sunshine. A hero. Such a force of strength. Doesn't quit. Doctors, nurses, family members, church members... they all thought I was the bomb. And it kept me going. Up until the point when I realized what my peers really thought. That 5th grade year might have done me in, but then my saviors arrived.

The first one was Sara. I remember one of the early days of 6th grade, the teachers put us out on the black top for what they lovingly referred to as free time. There, Sara found me and quickly befriended me. I don't know why. I've never asked her. It never dawned on me to ask something like that. Nonetheless, Sara became my champion. She was a tough as nails girl who'd been through her own fair share of crap. The only difference was that no one could see her challenges. It didn't matter. She adopted me quickly as someone who needed a friend. And she took nothing off of anyone on my behalf. She carried my books for me between classes. If anyone gave me problems, she'd kick their ass. Plain and simple. Once or twice, she actually did. Sara and I had our own problems as friends during this turbulent time in our lives. We fought. We had issues. But in the end, we belonged to one another. She is still one of my best friends to this day.

The other was Kevin. He liked me in that private middle school sort of way. He respected me, but we couldn't let anyone know that. And he saw my need for a champion. His bravery when it came to me showed itself during gym class.

I always hated gym class. In elementary school, P.E. teachers were content to let me watch from the sidelines. They didn't know what to do with me, and when I didn't demand participation, they happily let me slide under the radar. I watched from the sidelines as they penned A's on my report card.

Mrs. Wilson, the middle school P.E. teacher, was different, though. She demanded that I do what I could. In retrospect, it should be appreciated. At the time, though, it didn't seem like it. It seemed like cruelty.

She took us out on that same black top one day early in 6th grade for a game of kickball. Teams were picked. I was one of the last ones, but not THE dreaded last one. Mrs. Wilson insisted that I step up to home plate and try to have my foot make contact with the ball, crutches and all. Then she asked who in class would be my runner when I kicked it. That's when Kevin stepped forward. I didn't know him before then. From that point on, he was my hero, though. For you see, there was no hesitation on his part. No awkward silence when no one wanted to be the one to run for the crip. It took him a split second to volunteer.

From that point on, kids in that class were no longer mean to me. Kevin, an all-American -- intelligent and athletic, had become my protector. He wasn't afraid to talk to me. We debated and argued, always in competition for who was going to make the best grade on something. We debated philosophies on evolution and history. He talked to me. It was his acceptance of me, I think, that got me to the point where people left me alone.

I wasn't enough hot stuff to be included in the popular group. However, that group of neanderthals from 5th grade never gave me another problem. Between Kevin and Sara and a few other kids, I found a niche where I fit comfortably, knowing I would be looked out for from a distance. Everyone else knew it, too. It gave me a confidence that I might otherwise never have found in that awful, cruel place called middle school. It carried me all the way through eighth grade. My handicap never felt like much of a burden until the end of eighth grade.

Reality

My first dose of reality came in 5th grade. Mr. Ross wanted nothing more than to be one of the cool teachers. He made jokes in class. He allowed the kids to cut up. In the name of being one of the popular teachers, he let the popular kids fall neatly into their mean girl and tough boy roles without any hint that they might be going about things the wrong way. That included their treatment of me.

I'd started my transition from cute kid to the awkward pre-adolescent stage. I needed braces. I'd become a little pudgy. Let's not forget that pesky little limp that came with the stunted growth in my right leg. Oh, and that leg brace.

I arrived at school each day with all of the necessities provided by a family who cared about my well-being. An umbrella in case it rained. A new lunchbox. A backpack filled with shiny new school supplies each year, provided by Mom-mom. Mom-mom was my grandmother, and I loved her more than life itself. She spoiled me. She loved me. She defended me. Each and every possession that she gave me was precious.

I tried to stay obscure in class. I stayed quiet and did my work. In all of my conspicuousness, I wanted to blend with the other students.

Between my shyness and my awareness that I needed to lay low, I became a perfect target for the bullies. The boys' misguided attempts at masculinity involved whatever means were at their disposal to impress the future cheerleaders. One of their means included touting their control over me.

One day, they stole my umbrella. I'll never forget how incensed my mother became when I walked in the door from the bus stop soaking wet. I'm certain she called the principal to complain, but I don't know what, if any, corrective actions were taken toward the boys. Whatever they were, they refused to be tamed.

The worst day, they took my ruler. I remember the pink plastic with the stencils in the center. When I looked at it, I was reminded of Mom-mom. She bought it for me that year on our annual school supply shopping trip. Using it brought about reminders of how much she loved me.

At the end of that day, Mr. Ross left the room when another teacher summoned him. No sooner was he gone than a pack of boys surrounded me. One of them snatched the ruler from it's resting place at the front of my desk. Mortified, I watched as this heathen snapped my ruler into a dozen pieces while his neanderthal buddies laughed. The girls who idolized them grinned from their seats. The others who sympathized with me -- though not enough to rebuke the behavior -- pretended not to see. When the ruler had been mutilated, they threw the pieces to the ground under my desk and strutted away. The tears began spilling from my cheeks. I didn't want anyone to know how they had gotten to me, so I dropped to the floor and began picking up the pieces. My heart broke that Mom-mom's ruler had been vandalized.

As kids will do, someone must have told Mr. Ross that I was crying. I remember seeing his large feet and the bottoms of his khaki pants appear beside my desk. I pretended I didn't see him. I refused to look up. In a reflection of his misshapen priorities, he said nothing and walked away. Once he disappeared, I wiped the tears and pulled myself off the floor, placing the shards of plastic inside my desk.

Up to that point, I'd held my head as high as I could. My academics excelled. I worked far above my grade level in class. Often, teachers provided me with extra assignments to keep me busy. Socially, I survived with a few friends who also liked staying incognito. Mom led a Girl Scout troop. Several classmates belonged to it. I'd shown the superiority that came with having a mom who was the leader.

After that day, none of it mattered. I was well on my way to being dominated by childhood bullies. Middle School lay just around the corner. Things looked dismal to me.

Lies

The truth is never popular. If you don't believe me, try living life with one leg. Try picking yourself up every day and telling yourself that you will survive the hours. Try pretending that you're just like the others. Try pretending that no one cares.

I dare you.

I don't mean you lucky stars who were born normal and healthy and lived most of your youth as a vibrant and beautiful human being but then later became maimed. I don't even mean those of you who may have been average in the face or a little bit pudgy. Those things are forgivable... as long as you look normal.

Actually, I was born as normal as the next girl. Cute little blond head of hair that later turned brunette. A real charmer. My parents struggled, though. My mother worked every day as a bank teller while my father finished his engineering degree. Harrowed and weary, they trudged home every day, trying their best to survive the meager beginnings of a couple who became parents too soon. However, they cared for me well. They loved me. In my tiny world, all was lovely.

Didn't last long though. A few months after my second birthday, a couple of neighborhood pre-teens stopped by the apartment. They asked if I could come out to play. They'd keep a keen eye on me, they promised. My mother, relieved by the thought of being able to cook dinner without having to keep tabs on a toddler, agreed. The screeching tires a few minutes later drew her attention to the street outside the kitchen window. Horrified, she saw my lifeless body lying in the road. I'd been hit by a car. The kid behind the wheel, who'd barely had his license a minute, allowed himself to be distracted long enough to not notice me darting into the road. (Later, the police discovered that the pre-teens had lost interest in me. I'd wandered off chasing after a black and white neighborhood cat named Oreo.)

Pleading to Jesus to save her baby, she went tearing out the door. They rushed me to the hospital and saved my life. There had been a head injury. That impact caused me to regress in my development. I had to learn to crawl again when I got home. That's when they noticed my right leg dragging behind me. More tests revealed some sciatic nerve damage that caused partial paralysis to my right leg. I made it through childhood and early adolescence with a leg brace, but the damage caused my leg to develop abnormally. The muscles in my lower leg failed to properly form, and my foot dropped. Sensitive skin made me susceptible to pressure wounds from the brace.

For the early years of my childhood, all that mattered was my family. My self-esteem stayed relatively intact through the praises proffered by my family and other adults in my life.

"You're such a brave girl!"

"An inspiration!"

"You're little Miss Sunshine! Would you look at that smile?"

Relatives and friends and even my father's boss doted on me, even more so when I spent weeks in the hospital or in spika casts. It made me okay with it all -- even the stares and rude questions from strangers.

The head injury didn't cause any cognitive damage, thank goodness. At least I guess it didn't. Maybe I'd be a Pulitzer-prize winning member of MENSA if the "accident" never happened. Maybe I wouldn't. Who knows? Nobody complained, though, because I always stayed at the top of my class in all of my subjects.

Then I began to notice my peers.