You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

It is April 2004. I have stopped taking anti-depressants. My temp job is almost over. The company is closing, I was there to fill holes and finish projects. There is a dinner scheduled for everyone in the office. My period is late. I think nothing of it, I’ve never been regular. After lunch I have a stomach ache, a horrible stomach ache. I am sick. I am bleeding, a lot. These are not normal circumstances. My doctor tells me it is probably a very early term miscarriage. I know that. I have had one other one. In January of that same year, right about the time Grandma had her stroke. We didn’t tell anyone at the time; it seems so insignificant compared to my grandma, lying partially paralyzed in a hospital bed. But in my head I begin to panic. It took my parents years and years to get pregnant with me. I want a baby so much. And now this is happening again. I panic. I blame myself. The voices in my head have a field day. If you weighed less you would be able to sustain a pregnancy. If you had less stress, better nutrition, if you were better, stronger, right, and good. Then you would be able to sustain a pregnancy. I am obsessed with getting pregnant. I read books and do research.

By the first part of June I know that I am pregnant again, and although I expect to start bleeding at any time it never happens. My due date is February 11th, a year to the day after my Grandma died. I panic at the thought of my baby being born on that day. My mom goes on and on about the circle of life or some such crap and I want to throw up. I will have none of it. I want the two days to be separate, a day to mourn and a day for joy. I get my wish, but not in the way I expected. My food demons come calling during pregnancy and I am diagnosed with gestational diabetes. I know that I have to watch what I eat, but I continue to numb myself with sugar. I feel guilty, knowing that I am hurting my baby, choosing my comfort over health. I eat more when I am worried. I am put on bed rest for the last six weeks before Andrew is born. Bed rest is great for the first day. After that I pass the time by knitting lopsided baby hats and watching Dawson’s Creek in its entirety. It does not take six weeks to finish Dawson’s Creek. I am bored. I eat. My body is so confused from years of abuse that I cannot tell when my body is actually hungry. I still can’t. With two weeks to go before my due date I go to a doctor’s appointment with a horrible headache, I am seeing spots and am dizzy even when lying down. My blood pressure is continuing its climb and my doctor says that it is time to intervene. I am to go to the hospital and be induced. I am twenty-five years old.

Andrew is born amidst last-minute epidurals and a blur of activity. I am a little worse for wear. I spend a lot of time with the doctors while Justin and my mom hang out with Andrew. The hospital feels surreal. I set myself up for a fall with my expectations. This little alien that the nurses hand me is not what I expected. I look at him in wonder – a boy! I did not know if we were having a boy or a girl, but I kind of assumed it would be a girl. I mean, I’m a girl, my mom is a girl, my grandma is a girl, my cousins are girls, of course my baby would be a girl. I did not say that I wanted a girl. I just knew the baby would be a girl. So having this boy is a little much for my sleep deprived brain and doped up body to handle. I am tired. I want to sleep. The hospital is loud and uncomfortable. I am traumatized by the experience of birth. I try to nurse, it doesn’t feel right but the lactation consultant tells me not to worry, that Andrew is getting everything he needs and that everything will work out. I believe her. Andrew is crying. It is the middle of the night. We have been up for the better part of 72 hours at this point. I try to hold Andrew and I nearly drop him, my arms are so tired. Justin reaches over to take him and trips over nothing, stumbling around the room with a newborn. He is shaken and goes to ask the nurse for help. She agrees to take care of Andrew for a couple of hours until it is time to nurse again. We fall instantly asleep, relieved that a professional is on the job.

When the nurse brings him back to us, he is sleeping happily. She explains that he was hungry, that sometimes newborns need more than their mothers can give at first and that after feeding him a little bit from the bottle, he calmed down and fell right asleep. She thinks nothing of it, just another baby on another night, believes that she is reassuring us. She does not realize what I do with her words, what I twist them to say. Couldn’t you see that he was hungry? You are not taking good care of him. You did not feed him. You have one job here and you were unable to do it. Your baby was hungry and you could not feed him. You can not feed your baby. You are not good enough. You cannot do this.

I am home and nursing still doesn’t feel right. Andrew has jaundice and we have to take him to the doctor for some blood tests. I talk to the pediatrician about our feeding problems and they suggest that I continue to supplement with a bottle until we figure out nursing. We make appointments with the lactation consultant, a wonderful woman who encourages me to keep trying, giving me this bit of information, “Sometimes when women have lots of drugs during delivery, pitocin, pain medications and epidurals, it can slow down milk production. Just give it more time.” She thinks nothing of it, just more worried parents on another afternoon, believes that she is reassuring us. She does not realize what I do with her words, what I twist them to say. You are not feeding your baby. The choices that you made have created this situation. If you had been better, stronger, right, good, this would not be happening. You chose your own comfort over the well-being of your baby. Your baby is hungry and you can not feed him. It is your fault. You cannot feed your baby. You have one job here and you are unable to do it. You are not good enough. You cannot do this.

Andrew is a fussy baby. He eats for a few minutes and then screams, aching his back, inconsolable. He doesn’t sleep well, usually only about 45 minutes at a time. Justin and I are zombies, and like every other new parent, we believe that we are the only ones to feel this way. Justin’s two weeks off fly by. Toward the end of his time off I am producing more milk, enough that even though Andrew is still supplementing with a bottle he is eating exclusively breast milk. This is what I want for him. I feel like I am caring for my baby, like I am doing something right. Nursing him is extremely important to me and we are making headway with the lactation consultant. It is Saturday morning, almost two weeks after Andrew was born. We have bundled him up and taken him for his first walk in the stroller. He is unimpressed. We are elated. My body is starting to feel normal again. I am no longer scared to move. Justin’s parents are coming over to help with some housework and visit with Andrew, my mom will be here later. The grandparents are loopy around him. I notice that I have started bleeding again and decide to lie down for a while. The bleeding continues and I call my doctor’s office. They close in 30 minutes and advise me to go to the hospital if the bleeding continues. It does. We leave Andrew with my mom and head up to the hospital. The ER is crowded and they are unconcerned about a new mom who is bleeding a little more than normal. A male doctor examines me with little sympathy and I try to protect my mind from this invasion. He tells me that everything is fine and sends me home with instructions to return if the bleeding worsens.

We drive home and I try to nurse again. Milk is everywhere except Andrew’s stomach. He wants the ease of the bottle. I am annoyed and agree that my mom can feed him. I stand up and feel a rush down my legs. Blood. Lots of blood. I get in to the bathroom and there is blood everywhere. I try to get clean but there is too much. We leave the mess for my mom to clean up and speed back to the hospital. The admitting nurse takes notice of us this time. My pants are soaked with blood. People rush to get me hooked up to IVs. I see a different doctor this time. A woman. She is gentle and kind and says, “I have worked in a lot of emergency rooms and this is an impressive amount of blood.” For some reason this makes me feel better. I am not over-reacting. I am not melodramatic (this time). We spend 10 hours in the emergency room while they try to figure out what is going on. I have lost a lot of blood but my counts are staying relatively close to normal. Ultrasounds and more examinations and lots of observation and they can’t really decide what is happening. They to send me home with a prescription for birth control pills, assuming that they will stop the bleeding and then force me to have a normal period. It is close to midnight. My mom stays overnight and takes care of Andrew for the rest of the day while I sleep. I wake up and try to nurse again on Sunday evening. He is adamantly opposed to this idea. Twenty-four hours of exclusive bottle feeding has taken its toll. I let him have the bottle for that night and resolve to regroup and start again the next day.

The week progresses and nursing does not get any easier. It seems like I have less milk than before and I have to start using formula again. Andrew is still screaming every time I feed him and I am beyond frustrated. I call a friend who worked as a labor and delivery nurse and ask her for some help. We talk for a while and she mentions that birth control pills can decrease milk supply. I am shocked. This is the first I have heard about that possibility. I recognize that the first priority over the weekend was to stop the bleeding, but I wish someone would have told me of this possible side effect. I call the doctor’s office to ask what my options are and she says that I can try to stop the pills, but that, if I stop them, I might start bleeding again. I am terrified of bleeding again. I keep on the pills. I am working like a crazy woman to increase my milk supply and nothing is helping, fenugreek, pumping all the time, water, warm compresses … I am obsessing about my inability to nurse Andrew. The voices get louder. You are doing it again. You are choosing your comfort above the well-being of your child. But I am scared. Justin is back at work. What if I start bleeding when I am home alone with Andrew? Good mothers nurse their children. Didn’t you read the books, the websites, the message boards? Breast milk is best. Your body was created to do this and, because of your selfish choices, it is not working. I become convinced that all of Andrew’s crying and discomfort is due to the formula. I try harder, doing everything that anyone suggests to increase my milk supply, but there is not enough. He is not gaining weight like he should. He is still not latching on. He loves the bottle.

I am failing at something I am supposed to be good at. Again.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

My Pastor’s Wife is driving me home. I don’t know who is covering either of our classes. I don’t know how I am going to get my car back from the school parking lot – the thought of figuring this out sends me in to another barrage of tears. She is talking quietly and trying her best to get to my apartment without any directions. She says things like, “this is your body’s reaction to stress” “I know you feel overwhelmed but we are going to figure this out”. She is a mother to me for those moments, in a detached way that my mother could not have been. She walks me up to our apartment and looks in the phone book to find Justin’s work number. He cannot be reached right away. She calls my mom. I don’t know who is covering my mom’s classroom and I panic and tell her not to come. My Pastor’s Wife stays until my mom gets there. My mom calls my doctor and they tell me to come right in. I don’t talk. I cry and stare and cry again. We get to the doctor’s office and they let me go in to the room right away. My doctor comes in and asks my mom to leave. She asks me to tell her everything and I do. I tell her about The School, about my failings as a teacher, about the thoughts that have been going through my head lately. About running away. About killing myself. About killing Justin. She listens but says nothing. I talk until I am spent and she asks my mom to come back in. She gives me two prescriptions, one for an anti-depressant and one for an anti-anxiety drug. She tells me that I may not go back to work for at least one month. She refers me to a counselor and the nurse makes an appointment for me later that week. She talks to my mom a little bit longer and I stare. I am starting to come down. You are being ridiculous. Look at how much trouble you caused everyone. What will they all think of you? They’ll never leave you alone after this. You are not safe. People will still try to hurt you. You are in danger. You have to leave. You are so weak. You are pathetic. Why couldn’t you just be normal like everyone else? There are robbers and spiders and people watching all the time. They are coming to get you. I get home and I hide under my bed and sleep.

I do not remember the days between January 2 and the appointment with my therapist. It may have been only one day. I know it was the same week. I sleep. I make a nest for myself under our bed. There are blankets there, the stuffed animal Scott gave me, my books and food, lots of food. My counselor is a gift. She is calm and quiet, which is probably a common trait among counselors; she makes me Good Earth Original tea, lets me talk and only asks a few questions. She does not tell me that everything will be fine. I love her immediately. She tweaks my prescription a little bit and brings Justin in so she can talk to both of us. I do not remember what she said.

The next weeks are lost to me, except for a few events.

It is Justin’s birthday. We gather at my parent’s house with his parents and youngest sister. It is a quiet, small celebration. I can not handle crowds. I have not been anywhere except my apartment, my parent’s house and Grandma’s house. By controlling my environment, and with the help of narcotics, I am able to retain control. But there is something about this night, suddenly, in my head, the people begin to multiply. The room is getting louder and louder. More than one person is talking at a time and then a phone rings. I break. I panic. I am upstairs with Justin and my mom, screaming and crying and clawing my arms. Justin’s family leaves, Justin drives me home. I am embarrassed. I take my pills and sleep.

The end of January has come. My counselor and I have decided that I am not going back to my job. Justin has notified the school and we go with my parents to get my stuff out of my classroom. There is so much there. So much work that I put in to this place and I am leaving. You are quitting. You are failing. You are not good enough. If you were stronger this wouldn’t have happened. I sort and pack as quickly as possible and the boxes sit in my parents shed for years. I write a letter to the kids and say that I have a medical condition that prevents me from coming back to school. A letter comes in return from my favorite family, a letter of support and love and hope, a letter that tells me that they see the bigger picture, a letter that I only recently took out of my purse. I feel guilty and wonder if I am doing the right thing. Am I being selfish? I know no boundaries. I think nothing of protecting myself.

It is late in February. Justin and I have tickets to see Fiddler on the Roof, tickets that we purchased a long time ago. We decide to try and go, with the understanding that we can leave - no questions asked. The play is beautiful and I cry, as always. We walk around Seattle on a clear day and talk about something other than The Crazy. It is a good day. We get home and there is a message on the machine. I hit play and stop in my tracks. “Hi, this is The Girl’s Father. The Girl and I wanted to come over and bring flowers to you. We found your information in the phone book. Call us back and let us know when would be a good time.” I lose my fucking mind. Justin immediately calls The Administrator from The School and he is incensed. He makes it clear that we do not want to hear from anyone and that she needs to relay that message to the families. In the midst of my panic, I remember his anger. This is the night of the Green Chair Conversation, I tell Justin that he has to let me leave. I tell him I want to kill myself and he believes me. This is the low point.

I am under my bed most of the time now. I do not answer the door or the phone. They are coming to get me. They are coming to get me. They are coming to get me. I tell my counselor about it and she, rightly, says that if staying under my bed is what it takes to get me through the day then we can work with it. She acknowledges that she is validating my binge eating, but she knows that we have bigger problems. I can not leave the bedroom at night to go to the bathroom. Leaving the house to go to appointments takes all of my strength. I drive a different route each time so that no one can follow me. Sometimes I have to leave more than an hour early, driving miles out of my way. It is worth it. I am hallucinating when I am awake. Slamming the brakes on in my car because I am about to run over a child that isn’t there, always it is one of the children from my class. I see people looking in the window of my second-story apartment, hear voices and noises. I start having Spider Dreams. Spider Dreams are not just dreams about spiders. They are the same dream, sometimes more than once a night. I am lying in bed and there is a huge spider above me, about to come down and land on me. I can not find the words to express how terrifying this is to me, but maybe you can imagine. I scream and flail my arms, sometimes I jump out of bed. Justin can not calm me down right away; at times he can not even wake me up. For weeks I have Spider Dreams almost every night.

Time passes and things start to change. Maybe it is the drugs, maybe it is distance, maybe it is therapy, maybe it is grace, maybe that is just what happens and it only seems like a miracle when it happens to you. Spring comes and summer. I walk. I walk and walk and walk. I take off in the mornings with headphones, a cell phone and some water. I get lost. I end up in Auburn, in Tacoma, in Kent. I make a point to get home just before Justin because I don’t want him to worry. I realize how much he has been worrying and I feel guilty. I resolve to not make him feel that way again, and I start the process of deciding how much of The Crazy I can keep in and not be Crazy. I am still working on that one. Summer comes and I skip the Family Picnic, I just can’t explain to the people in my family what has happened. My family doesn’t deal with shit like that. The Family Picnic is for barbecue and Grandma’s chocolate unbaked cookies. My mom gives me very little grief about this decision and I am surprised. My Grandma tells me I am doing the right thing and I learn something more about her. My Great Aunt nags me about it repeatedly and I am strong enough not to care. I am seeing my therapist every other week now and that is good, both as a sign of recovery and because my allotment of yearly visits was used up long ago. I struggle with the fact that I am not contributing to our family financially. I know we don’t have much and I know our dreams are big. I let the idea of going back to work float through my brain.

I panic. I go for some more long walks. I recover.

I decide that maybe I should try going back to school first. Highline is a safe place to test myself in social situations. I look at the class offerings and find that they have a paralegal certification program. It seems like a good fit. I can build on the knowledge I already have while gaining some skills needed to land a job in the legal field, plus, with my background I figure there is essentially a guarantee of academic success. I am right. But the experience is not about academics. It is about recovering. It is about new friends, about Amy with the bar in the trunk of her sedan, always willing to spice up whatever you are drinking before going to a boring class. It is about Bri, getting out of the military and on a mission to change some things. It is about figuring out a way to talk to people when I am afraid. It is about remembering what it feels like to care about something and be passionate. It is about boundaries and knowing what I can and can not handle, about turning down an internship as a Court Appointed Special Advocate for abused children because I know that working with those kids and making visits to their homes will send me back under my bed. It is about not feeling guilty for protecting myself. It is about confidence. And it works. Sort of.

Fly through the next year and then some. Life is normal. Good and bad and good again. Justin is working for part of the time and then in grad school full time, I am working. We pass in the night, little more than roommates. My job is in a law office and it is super interesting and some of my co-workers are jewels. I learn that I have bad luck with jobs. This knowledge is not defeatist, it is just a fact. My kooky, passionate, hell-of-a-lawyer boss is overly fond of the phrase “get your fucking head out of your fucking ass” especially when that phrase can be yelled amidst flying spittle when he is less than three inches from your face. This does not do great things for my still-fragile psyche. But I do not break, completely. One of the women I work with also numbs her pain with food and lower Queen Anne is the right place to find that particular drug. We stock our drawers with shit from 7-11 and our fridge with quality shit from the restaurants that surround us. We decorate our walls with pictures of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. We are warriors. It works for a while. And then I grow tired of the yelling and the ineptitude of our other co-worker and instead of stating my case and working for change I burn another bridge. It is easier. Safer. It might have even been for the best. I don’t know. I just run. I retreat. Confrontation is too hard. I just want to pay the bills. I sign up with a temp agency and land a job close to home. I swim in the mornings before work. I keep bags of candy in my desk. I answer phones and file things and the days pass.

I love to swim. It is almost better for my head than walking. The repetition soothes me. The water holds me up and I feel light, and strong. But my elbows hurt. They hurt so much that I can’t sleep. I assume that my swimming form is bad and I work to improve it. I take a lot of pain relievers. But it does not help. They hurt so bad that I throw up. I go to the doctor and she does some tests. Later that week my phone rings at work. It is my doctor. She tells me I have rheumatoid arthritis. I don’t know what to do with this information. I play out possibilities in my mind and worse-case-scenario myself in to a panic. I go in for a follow-up appointment and learn more. I do research and find out what my options are. My heart stops racing. I have to stop swimming, at least for a time. I curl in around myself and eat so that I have something to do. I am twenty-four years old.

Last night my friend Alecia and I went to Third Place Books to see Anne Lamott read from her latest book.

She. Was. Amazing.

I knew she would be, I mean, you can’t write the way she does and not be a legitimately fantastic person.

Her main point was that the truth that we are told to believe all our lives is not necessarily the Truth. She claims, in more eloquent language, that we have been sold a lie and that we don’t have to live according to that lie. I remember the first time I entertained that notion, the sense of freedom it brought, the sense of possibility. I felt those same things last night, in a hot, crowded space at a book store surrounded by people who are unwilling to be content with the current state of things.

She talked about the fact that life on earth and the whole human experience is not a great fit for her, and she talked about the subversive and rebellious power of joy. Listening to her, I was struck with the idea that all of the stuff we carry with us, all of the things we worry about, is probably not that important. I was reminded that our goal here is really very simple, to love God and love others.

That works for me.

I sat and listened to her and I thought about the stuff that I carry around, I mean, seriously, I’ve got baggage and carry-ons. I thought about the weight of it all and I imagined what it would feel like to really let it go. I questioned my decision to publish The Crazy. Originally, my thought was that, by publishing The Crazy, I would let it go. Away. Out in to the world. But now that I am in the middle of it, I feel smothered, it is dark and scary and I can’t get out. Publishing in installments has allowed me to get caught up in the drama. And while I wanted that for my readers, as a tool to further understanding, I can’t allow myself to go there. It is not safe. But, as I explained before, I believe that The Crazy needs to see the light. So I will finish it, quickly. And by Monday we will all move on.

Are you with me?

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

The Christmas Program is approaching. This is a big deal. Teachers of the younger kids are responsible for keeping their kids under control on the stage. The program will take place in the evening on the last day of school before Christmas Break, I am counting the hours. The day arrives and I am informed that I am not dressed nicely enough for this important event, I hang my head and go home to change (although Justin talks me out of putting a band-aid over my tattoo). The kids are supposed to arrive early to get lined up, The Girl is late. When she does arrive, Her Mother takes me aside to tell me that The Girl has a lot of people in the audience and that The Girl needs to stand in front so that all her friends and family can see her. By this time I am so cowed by this woman that I pull the strings, move the kids, and make it happen. The program ends, I go home and tell Justin more of what is going on and he witnesses his first panic attack. I can not hide it from him any longer and yet I try. I cry so hard that I throw up and I do not sleep.

I swim through Christmas. Actually, I still do not remember that holiday. I can look at pictures, but I do not remember. All the family was there, my cousin and her boy up from California, uncles, aunts, nephews, more cousins, moms, dads, Grandma. Christmas insanity, Aunt-Mary-style. I’m sure it was a beautiful thing, but I do not remember. I dye my hair over the break, a desperate attempt to make a change. It accomplishes nothing. We see Lord of the Rings in the theater with friends on December 30. The theater is oppressive. I have to leave, to breathe. I have to get out. Someone is going to come in to the theater and start shooting. There will be a terrorist attack. I am in danger. I need to go home, to be safe. I can’t breathe. I splash water on my face and go back to my seat. I do not tell Justin what happened. The movie is new to me when I see it months later on video. On the way home from the theater we talk about going back to The School. I say, “I feel like I am going to have a nervous breakdown” then I laugh so that Justin knows I am joking. I work in my classroom the next three days and have lesson plans written out through March. On January 1, 2002 I sit in my empty classroom crying. School starts tomorrow. What will I do? I can’t breathe. The voices in my head remind me You’re not going to make it. You have to make it. You signed a contract. You would make a great teacher. You can’t do this. You can’t do this. You have to do this. You can’t do this.

I’m going to get sick.

I wake up early on Tuesday, January 2nd. I want to get to The School early. I stop for sugar on the way there, cookie dough, chocolate, donuts, Reese’s peanut butter cups. My heart is racing from the sugar high. There you go. You’re going to be fine. Just keep eating. Numb yourself. You need this to get through the day. You can do this again tomorrow morning. Just keep eating. I eat it all before I arrive at The School.

I consider re-writing my plans for this week but there is not time. Where did the morning go? I have to go to staff meeting. I have to go. I can’t move. I have to go. It’s time to go. We pray at Staff Meeting and I ask for prayer. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I don’t…. I don’t feel good.” And then I lose it. I give myself over to all the fears and doubts. I can’t be here. You are failing. This isn’t safe. You aren’t good enough. I am scared. Someone is going to hurt you. I can’t do this. I start to cry, to shake, to scratch my arms and face. I won’t let them move my hands away. Someone tries to put an arm around me. I scream. I push them away. They are going to hurt you. They are going to yell at you. I have to get out of here. You are not safe. This is your fault. If you were a good teacher this wouldn’t be happening. If you were a good Christian this wouldn’t be happening. This is your fault. You are failing.

I let The Crazy out.

I fail.

The so-called Terrible Twos have taken up residence at our house.

Some things about them are fantastic. Andrew is talking all the time and developing a sense of humor. His new life motto could be: Why walk when you can run? And he spends hours driving his trains around the track and making up little stories about them, “No, Molly, Fergus has to go up the hill first. You wait over here.” It is really cute.

But then there are the drawbacks, like this morning, when I gave him the choice of two activities. We had finished our grocery shopping and I said that we could go home and play or go to the mall. At first he said, “Go to mall.” Which I foolishly interpreted to mean that he wanted to go to the mall. But, when we headed off in that direction, he started screaming and sobbing, “Go to Andrew’s house. GO. TO. ANDREW’S. HOUSE.” I asked for clarification, “So you are saying that you want to go to Andrew’s house instead of going to the mall?” “Ok” he replied cheerfully. This plan worked for me so I agreed and headed home. Once he realized where we were going, the screaming started again. “GO. TO. MALL.” I informed him that he had made a decision to go home and that was what we were going to do.

As you can imagine, that did not go over well.

We got home and I let him eat chicken nuggets while watching a Thomas show (which I thought was a pretty good deal). But now the show is over and he is screaming about going to the mall. I don’t want to give in because, a) we do not negotiate with terrorists and b) he needs to learn that his words and decisions have consequences. But I am really frustrated too. I know I need to pick my battles, and the one about sticking with your decisions and dealing with the consequences is one we have chosen to fight. But I don’t know what kind of message I’m sending by letting him lounge in front of the TV all day in an effort to keep him from screaming. I mean, at least at the mall he would be running around.

I have a headache.

Any words of wisdom from those who have gone before?

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

During the third week in October, The Girl is sidelined with chickenpox. Her parents call to make arrangements to pick up some of her school work. I am embarrassed to present them with a huge stack of worksheets, but I hope that the problems The Girl has in school would be apparent as she worked through her homework. Her Mother starts to complain about the amount of worksheets and I get defensive, telling her that The Girl is not keeping up with the class and that she needs to complete the work that I assigned.

I breathe deep and look forward to a week without The Girl in my class. On Thursday, after dismissing the kids for the day, I walk over to the main school building to make a phone call. When I come back to my classroom I find The Girl’s Mother looking through papers on my desk. She jumps away as I open the door, my heart pounding as I ask her, “Can I help you with something?” “I brought all of The Girl’s homework back.” She says, handing a pile of papers to me. I look down at the top one and notice that all the answers are filled in correctly, and neatly. I ask Her Mother who had done the homework and she looks at me and says calmly, “Her Sister.” I ask why and she steps closer before answering.

I am panicking.

Her voice is getting louder and louder. She leans in towards me, a tall woman who I can not intimidate with my size. I am aware of how far away my classroom is from the rest of the school, that I am all alone. I move to put my desk between the two of us and she follows me. In the context of “wanting what is best for my daughter” she tells me exactly what she thinks of me. Alternating between an angry hiss and outright yelling, she assures me that I am the worst teacher she has ever seen. That I have no idea what I am doing. That I am harsh with the students and that The Girl is afraid of me. The Girl’s Mother tells me that she is keeping track of the things I am doing wrong and that the kids in my class are not learning as much as they should. That the pile of homework I sent home was a complete waste of time and that there was no way she would have made her daughter complete the work.

I am so intimidated by her. I believe that she is telling the truth.

She is right, you know. You are not the best person for this job. The kids are not learning as much as they would from another teacher. You do not know how to be a good teacher, regardless of how much you care about those kids. You can’t manage a classroom. They should have hired someone else. They hired you because you lied. You got yourself in to this, now you have to stick it out. You are rude and harsh with the kids. They are afraid of you. You take out your stress on them.

I knew it all. And as I heard her say it, I knew that someone else did too.

I clench my fists and hold it together until she leaves and then I break down. Crying, shaking, pulling at my skin, scratching welts in to my arms, and feeling as I haven’t felt since Bellingham. A panic attack. The panic of the experience and the intimidation exceeded only by the panic that someone would find out how I was dealing with it. I make sure that nobody can see me, splash water on my face and walk over to tell My Pastor’s Wife what had just happened. She is shocked and suggests that I document everything that I can remember about my interactions with The Girl and Her Parents. Just to be safe. I go back to my classroom, call Justin and tell him I will be late and I start writing. I write and cry and panic again. When I get home I tell
Justin an abridged version of the events and pretended to sleep.

A few days later, The Girl returns to school, chicken pox scabs and coffee cup in hand. Her Dad drops her off and comes in to my classroom to talk with me. He says, “My wife tells me she had a conversation with you the other day. You need to know that I stand behind everything she said and we will be keeping our eyes on you. The Girl will tell us what is going on in the class. Things need to change.” The kids watch this interaction with wide eyes, continuing to stare after he leaves and I sit down at my desk trying to breathe and get my hands to stop shaking. I take a deep breath, tuck my fear farther away and prepare to teach the class.

In the weeks that follow, The Girl and Her Parents continue to make comments and push the limits. Tardiness, incomplete assignments and presence. Constant presence. Her Mother comes in to class, to help, or so she says. Except every time I ask her to do something that requires leaving the classroom she refuses. She asks more questions than the kids do, questions that force me to teach – and expose my failings. She stays after school to “review the day” with me at least twice a week and often shows up when I do not expect her. I am convinced that she is doing it all on purpose, all with the intention of getting in my head, all with the goal of humiliating me. I am intimidated. I am terrified. I have constant stomach aches. I can not sleep. I am sick almost every day. I eat and eat, hiding food in my classroom, keeping the sugar levels high enough that I am constantly numb. I take the situation to the Administrator and to the Board and they tell me that The School needs this family’s tuition. They tell me that they have full confidence in my ability to smooth this situation over and that they support me.

I know they are lying.

They will not help you. They will never understand. You can’t tell them how scared you are. You can’t tell them that you want to quit. They hired you, they expect you to finish. Don’t disappoint them. Suck it up and make it through the year. You got yourself in to this situation. You have no options.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

I observe much at The School during the first few weeks. I learn that The School is not a safe place to make mistakes or admit my annoying habit of being imperfect. The God that is worshiped at The School is not the God that I know now. According to them, His love is known through the cleanliness of your mouth, the contents of your cd case, the size of your bank account and the ease with which you glide through anything life throws at you. After all, every problem can be answered or explained with one of three clichés: The Lord works in mysterious ways; Our God is an awesome God; You need to believe it to receive it.

These clichés even apply during the second week of school, September 11, 2001.

I am getting ready to go to work and hear the phone ring, Justin tells me to put the news on, I watch the planes hit the towers again and again, feel the guilt of being an American, of being alive. This is my first reaction to 9/11. The terrible weight of the knowledge that we have created this mess, that the blood of 9/11 is on the hands of al-Qaeda, yes, but it is also on the hands of the arrogant American people, the short sighted American government. But when I arrive at The School that morning, the party line had been drawn. Up! Up! Up! with America, the greatest country in the world. Those who oppose us oppose all that is good. WAR! War Is Peace. Freedom Is Slavery. Ignorance Is Strength. I cried and prayed and mourned, just like everyone else, and I believe that those were the right things to do. But I also filed away another piece of information: your ways and thoughts are not welcome here, you are different and different is wrong, these people could never understand what is in your head. I applied that knowledge to everything in my head, not just politics.

I did not know to factor The Girl and Her Family in to my equation for success at The School. I call role the first morning and I notice The Girl is missing. I ask the kids if they have talked to her or if they know whether she would be in our class or not. The three that had been in her kindergarten class (My Pastor’s Wife’s class), assure me that she would be here, “The Girl is always late” they say. Oh. Okay. And sure enough a few minutes later a little, messy girl waltzes in to class carrying a Starbucks cup. Ignoring the fact that I am in the middle of a sentence, she announces, “Sorry I’m late. My dad wanted to stop and get me some coffee before school. I was up really late last night.” (Blink. Blink. I peek at the side of her cup and it was, in fact, coffee. Double-shot. Holy Shit.) I regain my composure and check her in on the first day of school. The weeks go on and I realize that I know nothing about classroom management, or preparing a lesson and that my lack of understanding in math even affects my ability to teach it to first graders. Not that I can’t do the problems, I just lack the ability to break it down and explain it to them when they don’t understand. I also lack the ability to teach reading, science, social studies and Bible. I have no doubt that I could be capable of teaching these things; it is just that I do not know how. Apparently there is more to this teaching gig than I thought.

I compensate for my lack of experience by handing out masses of worksheets, they are easy to grade and if I can just keep the kids busy long enough, maybe I can figure out what I am going to do next. Most of the kids do fine, at least meeting the grade level expectations. But The Girl does not. She can not read. She can not write her letters correctly. She can not do math. She can not pay attention long enough to ever have a chance of learning things. He caffeine addled body is insane in the morning and comatose in the afternoon. She often comes to school with no lunch. She tells me that she misses breakfast because her family can not afford it. I am irate.

After the first few weeks of tardy, coffee-filled mornings, I bring her up in a staff meeting. “What do I do about The Girl and Her Family? I have tried talking to the parents, telling them that they needed to be on time and they need to provide lunches, but there is no response, only excuses.” “Oh, them” most of the staff roll their eyes, “just do the best you can. They are a handful.” Not helpful, but okay. I decide to let the tardiness go if it is under 15 minutes. It usually isn’t. The first time I send The Girl and Her Dad to the office to sign in and report themselves tardy, they get back in the car and drive away, only to be late again the next day. When I send them to the office again, the dad spends ten minutes yelling at me about how he is in a hurry and he didn’t have time to fill out forms in the office. I tell him that he should hurry down to the office and stop wasting his time in here. Sarcasm may be my one of my best honed talents, but it doesn’t win many friends. He does not go to the office that day, although The Girl stays in class. I don’t know what to do. I start to worry. I can’t sleep. I spend hours and hours of extra time trying to be a better teacher, convincing myself that if I just get completely organized I can gain control over this situation.

I talk with My Pastor’s Wife to try to find out more about The Girl and Her Family. Their story makes me feel sick. Her Dad is a pastor at a failing church located more than an hour from their home. Her Mom used to be a teacher, and now worked as a substitute on occasion. Her Dad works odd-jobs to make ends meet, but they rarely do. Her Dad refuses to give up his pastoral position because the ministry is the only ‘worthwhile’ career choice. The Girl and Her Family (4th grade sister and 10th grade brother) are required to be at every church event. They are often out until 10 or 11pm on weeknights. Her Parents think any reading that is not overtly Christian is sinful and freely allow their children to ignore any homework that is not directly related to Bible stories. They think that their children are perfect, smart and always right, anyone who says otherwise is obviously wrong. They fight to defend their positions at all costs. They send three children to The School. Their tuition money is very important to our struggling institution. Just do the best you can. Everything will be okay. They are harmless.

I do not know what to do.

In the course of writing this blog I have received many variations of the aforementioned question.

Why do you feel the need to publish your life on the internet?

Why do you keep going over all these things from your past?

Why don’t you just move on with your life?

Why can’t you just keep your secrets like everyone else?

Why can’t things just be clean and easy, wrapped up in a nice package?

Why is this so important?

The list goes on. The questions hurt. Partially because they diminish the importance of my journey and partially because, when they come from people that love me, they prove that those people still do not understand.

I write, and publish, because I have to. I know it sounds melodramatic, but it is true. My life, from a young age, was full of dark and twisty places, lies and fantasies, dreams and nightmares. It got to the point that I could not distinguish fact from fiction. I so believed the stories I told that they became a part of my history. I had no anchor, even my diary reflected the story as I wanted it to be. I collected masks and costumes, dressing myself appropriately for every situation, playing a role. Acting. Hiding. Lying. I wanted people to like me. I was convinced that the real me was un-likable. I reinvented myself in an attempt to please people.

Being an actress is easy. Being real is hard. I am ashamed at the amount of time I spend acting, even now.

I choose to publish the real me on the internet because I need to know that someone sees it. I need to know that, even in weak moments when I put the mask back on, the truth is out there. I need to know that there is truth in me. I need to look my friends in the eye and not feel guilty for lying to them. I need to communicate the truth to people in a way that is safe. And right now, for me, this website is that way. There are times when I imagine meeting someone who has followed this site for a while, but doesn’t know me in real life. The idea that there are strangers who read this, know only the real, and still like me is revolutionary. The idea that there are people who have known me for years, read this, and still like me is absolutely inconceivable in my mind.

And yet, against all my assumptions, it happens. Frequently.

And as it happens, I learn. I learn that most people have some dark and twisty places. I learn that I am way, way too hard on myself. I learn that my assumptions are full of crap and that I still have more to learn.

I write to grow, and to chronicle the growth that has already occurred. I write because acting is exhausting and writing feels like rest. I write because I need to know that someone hears and because much of what I have to say is still too hard to vocalize.

I write to bring things in to the light, to tell the truth of my experience and in so doing, to acknowledge that the events of my life matter. I write because I can no longer stand to keep silent. I publish in a desperate attempt to connect with someone, to know that I am not alone with the thoughts in my head. I publish in faith, trusting that as readers follow my whole story, they will hear the truth of my heart. I publish to be known, as a dare to those who read, as a hedge against any temptation to wear a mask.

I have wasted too much time worrying about what people will think of me. I can not do that here.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

As I sit in the interview room I can feel the panic rise. Sure, My Pastor’s Wife is smiling warmly at me, but the rest of the committee is asking some pretty tough questions. They keep wondering why I think I am capable of teaching with no training and no previous experience. I reassure them that, although I lack classroom experience, I love kids and have worked in educational atmospheres (at church, at camp, during school) and that I am confident I can do it. I am desperate for a job. I tell them anything they want to hear. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, but I am not going to back down now. I had already told them I could do it, I can’t say, “I have doubts. Maybe this isn’t the job for me.”

I plow forward and keep telling myself that this is first grade, not rocket science, and that I had just managed to pull some damn good grades in some of the hardest classes in my department – I mean, if I could do that, surely I can teach a small group of kids how to read. I am cocky. I have no idea what I am getting myself in to. A few weeks later I receive a phone call from The School telling me that I am the most qualified applicant and asking me if I am still interested in the teaching job. A fact that I already knew since My Pastor’s Wife had told me that she had been the deciding vote in my favor in the interview committee. I agree immediately, conveniently ignoring the red flag now waving madly in front of my face. The most qualified applicant? A 21 year old kid with no training, no experience and no clue what she was doing? What were they not telling me?

I need a job, and I sure as hell am not turning my back on the only offer I have, no matter the doubts that might creep in to my head. I am stubborn and confident, too confident. I drive down to sign my contract and take a look at my classroom, and I learn something more about The School. It seems that The School is falling apart. The principal, who was also on the elder board at the sponsoring church, has just been caught having an affair and diverting some of the funds from The School in to a personal account to finance the niceties of his affair. He has been fired and is in the middle of a divorce. His wife is a teacher at The School and their children remain enrolled as students. Secrets and discrepancies are being revealed left and right and parents are pulling their kids out so fast the doors to the office are little more than a blur. There is no money and all salaries have been cut. The church that sponsors The School is wary of being hasty in their hiring of a new principal and they decide to administrate by committee for a year while they interview candidates. The office manager will act as administrator in all possible situations, appealing to the pastor of the church if there was something that she can not handle. I am one of five new hires that year, three of which have never had actual classroom experience – although the other two did have teaching degrees. The School was in the process of changing its accreditation and all grade levels are required to evaluate the Student Learning Requirements and make sure that we are providing the best possible educational experience for the children we teach. The School is not a part of any district and the governing board is made up of parents and teachers and acts as little more than a glorified PTA. All of the major decisions are made by the governing body of the church that sponsors The School. None of the board members or administrators have any experience as teachers. The board advises me to not advertise the fact that I do not have a teaching degree. They suggest that I say, “I am a recent graduate of the University of Washington” and leave it at that.

I go to see my classroom and find that I am not in an actual classroom. I will teach in a portable on the edge of the campus. There are ten kids in my class, although one moves during the first week so I end up with nine. Despite the overwhelming problems, I remain blindly naive. Nine kids, most of who come from families that choose to stay with the school and work to make it better? I can handle nine kids from good homes. I start to get stressed, but I attribute it to change and remind myself that I could not be a college student forever, even though I was good at it. A couple of people ask me if it is smart to put myself in the middle of such chaos, but I brush them off. These people are Christians, right? Everything will be fine. You are destined for great things. You will succeed in anything you do. Teaching first grade will be a breeze. And yes, mistakes were made but everyone seemed so friendly and helpful … you will be fine. And it is only for a year. Labor Day weekend comes and goes in a flash of last minute preparations. My birthday passes unnoticed, I am twenty two years old.

“If my heart were a garden, it would be in bloom with roses and wrinkly Indian poppies and wild flowers. There would be two unmarked tracts of scorched earth, and scattered headstones covered with weeds and ivy and moss, a functioning compost pile, great tangles of blackberry bushes, and some piles of trash I’ve meant to haul away for years.”

-Anne Lamott
Grace (Eventually)

Me: ah-CHOOO!

Andrew: (amidst much laughter) Mommy did a bless you!

He is one cute kid.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

I come home from Western and go back to the life that is safe, Highline Community College, Family Christian Store, trying desperately to convince the elusive Jason that I am wife material. Sleeping with my night-light and running up the stairs in the dark because the wolves in the basement might catch me. Laying in bed trying not to look in the corner of my closet where the thin man in the cowboy hat was standing, watching me. Back to normal life.

I keep The Crazy at bay.

I grow up and marry the dependable Justin, a man who knows I have a few quirks but is convinced that I am essentially normal. I put my brain to work and figure out what I want to do in school. I finish my Political Science degree with the intention to go back to law school after working a few years to help pull our little family our of the post-college financial pit. I know that even if I can’t be a lawyer right now, I can certainly find a job that would help people, I know I could do something that would make a difference, I am destined for great things – or so I am told.

Many people, including one of the TAs in my Political Science department, wonder why I am not pursuing a career in education. “You could make a great teacher; you’re so good with kids.” “You are so much like your mom; you would be a great teacher too.” “You have a way of explaining things that is really clear; you could be a great teacher.” “You’re so patient with kids, have you ever thought about being a teacher?” I don’t know why it is that every woman who likes kids is automatically cast as teacher. As though there is nothing else she might do with her life, as though the love and desire of children must be legitimized in the professional world, as though mother is not a high enough calling. (But that is another post.)

My end of July graduation date approaches. I start to send out resumes. I send them to law offices and non-profits, to libraries and hospitals. I include glowing reference letters from my best professors and from my former employers, I pad my resume as much as is safe, I prep for interviews and make phone calls, but no one calls me back. We have lived off savings for the better part of a year and the funds are running low. We know that we can not live with either of our families, despite their offers. I need to find a job. About this time, My Pastor’s Wife (not my current pastor’s wife) mentions that the small private school she teaches at is interviewing for a first grade teacher. I am a little confused as to why they are still interviewing in the beginning of August, and why they would ever consider someone with no background in education or early childhood development, but I put those qualms aside as the voices in my head get louder. Everyone always said you would make a great teacher. It’s just for one school year, you can teach for nine months, bring home a paycheck and stop all this worrying. Everyone always said you would make a great teacher. You don’t know what you want to do, maybe they are right. I send in my resume, assuring her that I was interested and get an interview. I am twenty one years old.

I realize that with all the Crazy floating around, there has not been much room here for the news of our daily lives. Here’s a quick rundown. Yes, it’s a list.

Andrew:
• Seems to be feeling better.
• Eating like a teenage boy.
• Not sleeping very well. (4:40am is not an appropriate time to wake up.)
• Obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine.
• Likes to help us cook and garden.
• More fun than ever.

Justin:
• Busy at work.
• Busy at home.
• Busy at church.
• It’s good. But it’s busy.
• Keeps talking about not doing a lot of projects around the house this summer. We’ll see how that goes.

Jenny:
• Not sleeping well. (see note about Andrew and mentions of The Crazy below)
• Ready for summer.
• Trying to adjust to new weekly schedule (more on that later)
• Fighting off a sore throat.
• Ready for summer. Ready for summer. Ready for summer.

Travel Plans and Complications:
Did you know that we are going to New York? Have I been remiss in mentioning our travel plans? Why, you ask? Partly it’s because we have been having a hard time getting excited about the trip. And that sounds horrible. And I don’t want to complain about the opportunity to travel. It’s not that we don’t want to go; it’s just that the timing isn’t great. I realize, though, that the timing is rarely great. So I’ll stop talking about that. But there are some other, more legitimate, reasons.

This trip is a microcosm for one of the most basic problems in our marriage. I am a city girl. Justin is a suburban boy. He likes things to move more slowly. He likes predictability and space. He likes quiet and early bedtimes. I like people and noise and new things. I like lights and hustle. I like coffee and conversation at 2am. I am rejuvenated walking around a city. Justin enjoys the walk and waits to get home.

Suffice it to say our levels of excited anticipation about this trip differ.

But Justin is not the only one with reservations about this trip. I am trying to keep The Crazy at bay when I think about flying and being away from Andrew. As I lay in bed at night I see our plane crashing or being part of a terror attack. I have visions of something happening to Andrew while we’re gone. I have visions of something happening to us. The voices of The Crazy say, You are going to get killed. You are going to orphan your child because you are selfish and you are leaving him. You need to stay home and be safe. You will be punished for your selfish desire to travel without Andrew. It’s utter crap. I know it is crap. I am trying to ignore these voices. But they don’t help my sleeping.

I am getting more excited as the trip approaches.

We are going to celebrate Easter at Yankee Stadium. Sacrilegious? Perhaps. Isn’t Steinbrenner kin to Beelzebub himself? The Devil wears pinstripes, you know. But it’s the only home Yankee game in the time we are there, so I think God will understand. We are also going to see Wicked. We are going to walk around the city and breathe. I am attempting to not obsess about the schedule too much and allow for spontaneity. One of our favorite memories from another vacation is walking for 6-7 hours around San Francisco. We had no idea where we were going (or sometimes where we were) but we saw things that were not found in any guidebook. We hope to repeat this experience. My tendency is to set out a detailed schedule for every day and then cry if we don’t meet that schedule. (Maybe that’s why Justin was having a hard time getting excited about the trip.) I am working to shut that tendency down.

I want both of us to enjoy our trip. I am hoping we will. Of course, I’ll let you know.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

I do well in high school. Everyone “expects great things” from me. But something in me holds back. I am not ready to go to university. I really do not know what I want to do with my life, the ambiguity of “doing something worthwhile, something to help people” doesn’t seem to justify tens of thousands of dollars spent. So I go to community college for a year and, although I meet Justin, I hate most everything about it. It is just like high school, except nobody calls your parents if you don’t show up for class. I thought college was supposed to be different – the best years of my life, right? So I decide to follow my friends north to Western Washington University in Bellingham. Surely things would change with the scenery.

I live alone in a 450 sq foot studio apartment. I am supposed to live with a friend, but at the last minute I break our agreement. She chose to leave the church and I am so incapable of thinking for myself that I believe it would be a mistake to room with her. I believe other Christians when they say I will be better off on my own, that I don’t need that influence in my life. Looking back on it, I can place a safe bet on two things: one, that my faith, being mine, would have been fine, and two, that if I had a roommate, someone would have talked to me as I sat on the floor in the bathroom screaming and scratching bright red welts in to the skin on my arms, agonizing over the fears and voices in my head. I imagine that a good friend, and Mary was a good friend, would have called my parents and told them that things were not fine, that this was beyond homesick, that I was having almost daily panic attacks. She might have suggested that I ask someone for help, she might have told me that I was not the only person to feel this way; that I didn’t have to keep pretending.

I might have known better than to continue pretending everything was fine for the next three years, only to break down again – and worse.

A lot of things might have happened, but we will never know, because one night I break. You can’t leave. There is someone here. You better run. Where are you going to go? Someone is coming. Someone is watching. You can’t leave. I know that I can not play intramural volleyball as scheduled because someone will be hiding in the bathroom of my apartment when I come home. I squeak out one sane phone call, to tell Mary that I don’t feel well and can’t make it, and I give myself over to the fear. I don’t tell Mary what the problem is. In fact, I don’t speak with her again, ever. I avoid her for the remainder of the quarter, pack up my stuff and never come back to Western.

I panic. I run. I hurt good, nice people, leave them wondering what happened. I lie and tell people that I am fine and I convince myself that I am, that those nights when the wind blows outside my window and The Crazy climbs over my well built wall are just flukes. That I can control circumstances and that I can will myself to Never. Let. It. Happen. Again. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Buck up. That is your only option. No one will understand. What do you have to worry about? Nothing is really wrong. If you were stronger/smarter/better this wouldn’t happen. Fix yourself. I believe the lies. I am nineteen years old.

Andrew loves to help us cook. Unfortunately, he also has his own ideas about what we should eat.

Tyler, Jamie, Emeril - you’ve been warned.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

The walls hold. People believe that I move through high school with a few scratches and bruises, just like they do. I have all the right answers in class and at church. I see hypocrisy all around and I believe that it is the norm. I feel better about my lies. I am a chameleon, blending in with my surroundings. The jock, the party-girl, the Young Life girl, the youth group girl, the girlfriend, the friend, the loner, the smart girl, the dumb girl – I don’t remember who I am. I hate social situations, they are just too hard. These people don’t like you. They don’t want you here. They have no idea how you feel. No one could understand you. They will all think you are crazy. You are crazy. Hide it!

I start to avoid people.

I retreat to memories and dreams. I climb my tree at Saltwater State Park and list my regrets: Ryan, Cortney, Scott, Teri, Christy, Mr. Jacobson, Mrs. Phipps, Jessie, Ashlee, Rebecca, Gane, Amanda, all people I put on an act for, trying to be what they want me to be. All people I push away when they get too close. I regret losing these people who love me. Some I apologize to and we remain friends, some I do not and I harden myself against the hurt. I blame myself; I cannot see these losses as the natural casualties of high school. I see them as failures. My failures. I hold myself in reserve with new friends so as not to repeat the mistakes of the past. I talk less and eat more. I am lonely. My head is down. My eyes are wary.

My walls are strong now.

I watch people that I used know enjoy the last days of high school. I step back and wait to get out; convinced that I can start again once this is all over. I am seventeen years old.

Query: Should I switch to Roman Numerals since this is going to last for a while? Answer: Yes, they are so much more fun.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

Things are getting worse. I can not let it go. The voices in my head get louder. You are not safe. Someone is waiting to hurt you. You can’t trust anyone. You are not safe. I am old enough to know that the fears are irrational and I hide them far away. I look at the people around me and I think that nobody can understand the way I feel. I believe that telling people the depth of my fears would disappoint them and I believe that they would encourage me to get over it and reminded me that it was just The Neighbor Boy Who Is Always In Trouble, not a real robber.

I do not believe that my problems are important enough to share with anyone else.

The concepts of anxiety, panic attacks and depression are not yet commonly accepted, at least not in my world, and I have no vocabulary available to express what I feel. I put up a great front. I stay up late so that when I lay down I am so tired that I fall instantly to sleep. I keep a bat and a shot put in my room so that next time, I will be ready. I tell everyone I am fine and, although I avoid The Neighbor Boy Who Is Always In Trouble, I convince everyone that I am telling the truth. I keep my grades up. I take steps to protect myself, severing ties with some of the people I love, reinventing myself every few months to keep people guessing, keeping people at a distance with sarcasm and false friendship, carefully building my walls so that there are only a few people who could hurt me. I learn to love Simon and Garfunkel. I am a rock, an island. I hide my hurts and fears and enter High School encased in my façade. I am fourteen years old.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

The robbers never come. But, in the summer of 1993, The Neighbor Boy Who Is Always In Trouble tries to get in to my window in the middle of the night. He says that he just wants to talk to me, but I don’t believe him. It proves a point, the world is hostile. Someone, somewhere, wishes me and mine harm. Someone is trying to get me. I am terrified. It is just like I imagined it. A sense that someone was outside, a flashlight shining in my window, the screen being removed, a hand reaching in to push my window open a little bit farther… I run in to my parent’s room and tell my mom what I saw. Her mother-bear instincts kick in right away and she is out on the deck, picking The Neighbor Boy Who Is Always In Trouble up by the scruff of his neck, shaking him and screaming by the time my dad wakes up enough to know that anything is happening. We realize who it is and call his parents. He has to have a talk with his priest. He is in trouble again. I see more than shadows in the dark. I am thirteen years old.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

I am being watched and chased all the time. The constant prickling on the back of my neck… Turn around! Did you hear that? It’s just your imagination, go back to sleep.

I worry. I get stomach aches and headaches when big events approach, even events that I look forward to. What if they don’t turn out right? What if, while I am off having fun, something happens to my family or friends or pets? I worry that the people I love might get sick or hurt or that they might die and I worry that there would be some way that I could have prevented this from happening but that I fail, and through my failing calamity had come. I have vivid, recurring nightmares that my mom is drowning and that my dad and I were standing on the beach, watching it happen but unwilling or unable to help. I worry when our neighbor’s house was broken in to and I wait for the robbers to come for me. I am eleven years old.

Warning: This is a post exclusively about diapers and their contents. If you are not interested in reading a post about diapers, stop now.

Andrew has graced us with the diaper explosions for the better part of the last six weeks. I didn’t really worry about it because he wasn’t dehydrated or too lethargic. Until last week when he fell asleep in my lap while watching a Thomas show and reverted back to two naps per day.

So I took him to the doctor. And the doctor ordered some tests. And the tests included a stool sample. And this is where this post gets ugly. DO YOU KNOW HOW YOU COLLECT A STOOL SAMPLE FROM A KID IN DIAPERS? Apparently, you cannot let the poop touch the diaper so you have two options, 1) you can let the kid run around naked and hope to, literally, catch him in the act, or 2) you can line the diaper with plastic wrap and proceed from there.

I chose the latter. Things did not go well, but we persevered due to some kick-ass friends who forced me out of bed and agreed to stick to the plan of watching Andrew even though he had plastic wrap in his diaper.

After everything had been dropped off at the lab and Justin and I were laying in bed last night I recounted the day to him. This was our conversation:

Me (possibly feeling a bit sorry for myself and overly dramatic): I stand by my statement that this day was a disaster.

Justin: I know it didn’t go well, but I’m sure things will get better tomorrow.

At least I won’t have to sort poop.

You’re right. There is a hell of a lot that could go wrong tomorrow and it would still be better than that.

It’s good to have things in perspective.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.