Florida’s Weird & So Are We

I’m back in Florida to visit my family and to retrieve my daughter from a week of rollicking fun with her grandparents, aunt, and cousin. I mean, for real, they went to Legoland, to the beach, they swam, they played…

I’m back in Florida to visit my family and to retrieve my daughter from a week of rollicking fun with her grandparents, aunt, and cousin. I mean, for real, they went to Legoland, to the beach, they swam, they played… It was, apparently, some serious fun.

I think Jane grew at least 4 inches in this one week. But, in good news, I’m still one of her very favorite people. And she still likes to build stuff:

And she’s still weird as all get out, so there’s that.

I, of course, couldn’t resist a run this morning. It’s really just become part of my daily. And I miss it when I don’t get to go exploring on foot. I know: WEIRD.

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These birds are my nemesis. Seriously, one rose up and flapped it’s wings at me. I cussed him out & then hauled ass out of there. If you assumed I’d think these suckers were majestic or something, well, you just don’t know me at all.

Top left: Untamed Florida. I kept wondering if a gator was about to snatch me up. Bottom left: Planned, designed Florida. Still kept waiting for a gator to get me. Right: A magnolia tree. I checked it first for a gator.

And then, when I was done with my run, drowning in 90% humidity, and sure I was safe from the gators, I found this dude on a playground. I think I’ll call him Lil Whaler:

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Florida’s been fun. Catch y’all when I get back to Atlanta. ❤

5 Things I’ve Learned Today

If you go on & on about how hot Florida is, Georgia’s gonna get all jealous and show off. It’s okay to change plans. Seven year olds are non-truth tellers. Everyone needs to own their part. Today is always a good day for a do-over.

  1. If you go on & on about how hot Florida is, Georgia’s gonna get all jealous and show off. That’s why today it was 87 degrees by 10:30 a.m. And why, on a 5K run, I thought I might simply evaporate into thin air. Or spontaneously combust. Which one is more likely under oppressive heat that sucks all the oxygen out of the air? Either way, hot as actual hell. Sorry, Georgia. You are hot, too. The whole South is hot. So there.

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    Wait! Am I actually in hell?! No, no… that’s just the Atlanta Zoo parking lot. Whew!
  2. It’s okay to change plans. Like if, say, you’d planned on taking a nice jaunt through the cemetery on your run. But then you realize that the cemetery doesn’t have much shade to speak of. Then you might just decided that–unless you want to make the cemetery your permanent home–you should run through the park, where shade abounds and you’re likely to be hot and tired but ALIVE at the end of your run. Maybe, if something like that happened, it’d be okay to change plans.

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    Ah, shade: so beautiful… and life sustaining. 
  3. Seven year olds are non-truth tellers. I discovered this 3 days ago, when I started excavating Jane’s room. Normally, she frowns upon me touching her stuff. But she’s vacationing in Florida right now… which meant I got to venture in to her room and discover that it was DIRTY. Like, real, real dirty. Holy shit. She was supposed to be straightening, dusting, and sweeping her room every week. But, I guess I was also supposed to be checking that she done that oh for, say, the past year. Oops.

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    Jane in Florida with her aunt & her cousin. Shhh… don’t tell her I touched her stuff.
  4. Everyone needs to own their part when shit goes wrong. I know Jane tried to clean her room. There’s just too much STUFF in there for her to clean anything. I let her accumulate all that stuff. Then I didn’t check if she was really cleaning–because I’m overwhelmed by the stuff. I was lazy and wanted to avoid a hard conversation about hanging on to and collecting things …. and I paid for it for the last 3 days.

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    Me, after cleaning Jane’s room.
  5. Today is always a good day for a do-over. I tell Jane we can start our day over any time (thanks A.A. for that little nugget). So, I’m calling a do-over on cleanliness and orderliness. Whatever I’ve been teaching Jane about either one of those so far is a load of horseshit. No one needs as much stuff as she has. And cleanliness is next to godliness–or something like that. I just know that if I ever go into her room again and it’s that dirty, all she’s going to get for the next gift-giving-holiday is a Wet Swiffer and some dust cloths. And maybe a hutch to keep the dust bunnies in.
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    The clean version. For a before shot, imagine if a tornado swept through here. A very dirty tornado.

     

 

 

 

Header Image by Franck V. on Unsplash

Lessons from the Lake

I lived in Florida my whole life (until 2 years ago), and I swear I never experienced Florida the way my kid does. She loves boats, tubing, kayaking. She really embraces lake life, mosquitos and all.

Yesterday, my kid took me tubing for the first time. Which is really just skimming and bouncing on the top of the lake at very high speeds. She’d done it a dozen or so times before. Me… not so much. Okay, okay. Not at all. Not ever.

I lived in Florida my whole life (until 2 years ago), and I swear I never experienced Florida the way my kid does. She loves boats, tubing, kayaking. She really embraces lake life, mosquitos and all. Before I met Simon’s family, I could count on one hand the times I’d been on a boat. Jane’s been on the boat more times that that in the month of June alone. So, yeah… Florida’s real, real different for her than it was for me.

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Back to the tube…

We’re sitting in this contraption that is more cushy lounge chair than tube. Simon assures me that Jane and I are NOT going to fall out. But we take off and suddenly it feels like we are flying across the water. I’m giggling maniacally and at the same time muttering “Shit. Shit. Shit.” under my breath. Jane looks… I don’t know… amused? Terrified? I can’t tell.

She leans closer to me and says, “It’s a little scary sometimes.”

Now I’m all Mama Bear. “Are you scared?” I ask, fully intending to make them slow this shit down so the baby isn’t scared.

“Mommy,” she says sternly. “I’ll worry about me. YOU worry about yourself.”

Well, there’s a life lesson if I ever heard one.

My water-buddha-guru kid eyes me, sizes me up, and says: “Mommy. If you start to fall off, just let go. It’s so much better that way.”

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When did this kid get so wise? And so grown. She can really handle herself around the boat (and the archery set, for that matter) in a way that impresses the hell out of me. I admire her confidence and her independence.

Later on, Jane told Simon that she doesn’t want to tube with me any more. BUMMER. Bu, apparently, I bring her down with all my worrying. Touché, small person. Touché.

I’m going to work on letting go. It’s so much better that way. 

 

Whose Script Is This?

When I walked up into Alcoholics Anonymous in my cowboy boots, feeling mighty superior, I had my script firmly in hand. I was a smart, sensitive, tragic victim. The world simply couldn’t understand someone as deeply empathic and intuitive as I was. So, I drank to shield myself from the tragedy of the every day as it unfolded around me.

We become the story that we tell ourselves. 

From the time we’re born, people that we love–and even complete strangers–feed us a script about who we are. We see foremost what they call forward. We become what they nurture–and we learn to hide (or feel shame) about what they dismiss. We keep this script close, reverting back to it when we feel off-base.

But, sometimes, the script is a lie.

When I walked up into Alcoholics Anonymous in my cowboy boots, feeling mighty superior, I had my script firmly in hand. I was a smart, sensitive, tragic victim. The world simply couldn’t understand someone as deeply empathic and intuitive as I was. So, I drank to shield myself from the tragedy of the every day as it unfolded around me.

You can imagine how quickly the A.A.ers called bullshit on that.

They immediately started asking me to find my part in my own pain. I resisted mightily. For real. I thought I was exempt from the basic truths that, in every situation, we have choices. Often we don’t choose what happens to us. But we do get to choose how we deal with it. We get to write our own story.

But writing your own story is hard.

It means excavating psychic pain, long buried, to figure out what really happened… and to examine how your beliefs, attitudes, and/or resentments (mix & match any of these!) play into how you experience that pain now. Shiiiiiiiit. And then there’s the whole “making a list of people you’ve harmed”…. which really could be its own level of hell.

BUT.

In doing all that–in laying out my own pain & the pain I’d caused others–I could see patterns in my behaviors and beliefs. I found triggers that I could then defuse. And I could speak it all… and begin to let it go.

None of us get to re-write our past. In fact, I’ve long stopped wishing that I could. What’s way more important to me is writing my future. In order to do that, I have to create my own script about who I am. And that is the work of every day.

For a long time, my script read that I was a tragic fuck-up with lots of potential.

I mean, if you’ve got dramatic flair, you can be good at playing that part. But, ultimately, it’s not very fulfilling.

As I re-frame my story, I don’t see wasted years. I see an illness that drove my life to a standstill. I see the ravages of unchecked mental health issues. I see darkness—that, ultimately, I emerged from. I don’t see a fuck-up. I see a warrior.

I have to check my script every day, to make sure I have the right one. There are moments when I remember vividly–too vividly–the pain I caused people I loved and the agony I put myself through. And the old script plays. I have to check it. Stop it in it’s tracks. I do not have to be that person any more. Full stop.

I get to write my story. And it’s compassion, and love, and rising up from the wreckage… It’s being worthy and loved simply because. It’s being real and loving hard and not letting fear shut me down. It’s being fully alive and watching my real story unfold. 

Adventures in Florida

Tubing. Boating. Waterskiiing. Archery. Woodcrafting. Golf cart driving. And real, real tasty food. Life at Camp Kellogg is pretty dang good.

Simon, Jane, and I flew down to Florida this weekend to visit these folks:

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They’re my bonus family (aka in-laws). Jane’s aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents… all present and accounted for! I love that Jane is a product of this large, boisterous group of charming, quirky people. They’re not all often in the same place–but, man, when they are, they do it up. Jane got to go tubing (behind the boat) twice. Squirt guns? Of course there were squirt guns, too! She drove the golf cart (well, kinda sorta–but still!). She built things in the woodshop. She also shot her first arrow. Because nothing says “I’m living my best childhood” like bows & arrows.

While she was living it up at Camp Kellogg, I snuck out for a run. Florida is a special kind of hot–like melt-your-skin-off-your-body hot. The thermometer said it was 83 degrees. But I think it’s a lying bastard. It was SO HOT and humid, that I could barely breathe. At 9 a.m. But I did get this shot on my run:

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Florida’s no one-trick pony, y’all.

Florida summer running is humbling, for sure. But all the years I put in running in Florida (with it’s year-round scorching weather) sure do make summer running in Atlanta seem like a breeze.

A weather-related flight-fiasco kept us in Florida last night, unexpectedly–which I’m sure was a good, teachable moment for Jane about rolling with changes-in-plan, especially when traveling. Problem was, no one felt like teaching her a damn thing. We felt like going home. But that was a no-go. So we rallied and were back at the airport by 5:15 this morning. With our 7 year old. Our lovely, chatty, question-asking 7 year old.

I’m not sure if it was lack of sleep, a driving desire to be home in Atlanta, or just plain old gratitude—but the flight this morning felt nothing short of mesmerizing. The take-off especially felt magical. How could it be that one moment we were on the ground– then rising through the sky, just as the sun came up?

And when I saw Atlanta finally come into view, I felt that same thrill that I always have when I see the skyline:

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Florida is home to so many people I love. But Atlanta has my heart… and always has. I am so thankful to be back home–where I belong.

#SummerRunning

I’ve been exploring Kirkwood, Edgewood, Cabbagetown, Reynoldstown, and a little bit of Decatur. It’s Georgia hot out there, which means that by the time I start running at 9 a.m., it’s already 80 some-odd degrees. That frees me up to not worry about my time and just enjoy the run. And I have! Like, for real. 

I’m really FEELING running right now. This isn’t always the case. Sometimes I trudge through a run because I know I’ll feel better later (running is a central part of my mental health maintenance routine). But, for the past few weeks, I’ve woken up excited about each new running adventure.

I blame this guy:

I mean, come on! Adventure! Fun! And he always seems so genuinely thrilled to be running. So, I got kinda thrilled, too.

I’ve been exploring Kirkwood, Edgewood, Cabbagetown, Reynoldstown, and a little bit of Decatur. It’s Georgia hot out there, which means that by the time I start running at 9 a.m., it’s already 80 some-odd degrees. That frees me up to not worry about my time and just enjoy the run. And I have! Like, for real.

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My 4 big takeaways over the last few weeks:

  1. Things are rarely what they seem. The hill that looms so large… once I start climbing it, doesn’t seem so bad. The air that feels cooler because of the cloud cover is going to produce inescapable sticky-hot humidity that will ultimately slow me down. I’ve stopped trying to anticipate the future–even the next few minutes–and just go with what is.
  2. There’s an adventure waiting–but you have to look for it. I found a forest in Kirkwood! And a completely shaded, lovely trail… that’d I’d been by a million times but simply never turned the corner to explore it.
  3. It’s easier to enjoy the moment with no agenda. There’s a time & a place for plans (and training). But just being… taking things as they are, walking when I need to, stopping to take pictures makes running so much more exciting and enjoyable. No expectations. It’s really lovely.
  4. Make time for what matters. I rarely feel so enamored with running. So I don’t often devote this much time to it. But, lately, it helps me feel grounded, connected to myself. Making the time to do this for myself makes me a better mother, partner, writer.

Running… it’s how I’ve spent my summer so far. What’s your summer been about?

I KNOW It’s Okay Not to be Okay… but

When I stared freaking out earlier this week, I got scared. Scared because something that looked perfect wound up not being perfect at all. Scared because I started getting all in my head about what I lacked–instead of celebrating what I have. Scared because I felt down. 

In my 20s, I suffered from a serious bout of situational depression. I write frequently about the drinking I did to muddle through my depression, but not a lot about depression itself.

That’s because it scares me.

Although I’d struggled with depression before (from about 8 onward into college), I’d never been completely knocked on my ass by it. But, at 26, I found myself in such a dark, hopeless place that I couldn’t find a reason to put one foot in front of the other. So, often I didn’t. I drank until I blacked out. I missed work incessantly. I would come to in a complete panic–which immediately shifted into despair over the shitshow that was my life. I had people that loved me. I knew I did. But I couldn’t feel that love. I couldn’t feel anything.

Somehow, I managed to take baby steps toward getting better. I started doing yoga, alone in my bedroom. Sometimes, I managed to take my Boxer, Jezebel, for a walk. I took antidepressants prescribed by my doctor–but they didn’t work so well coupled with 12 Bud Lites a night. I could see a glimmer of hope that things wouldn’t always be so dark. But many, many days were still consumed by a sorrow I can only liken to grief. It was all-consuming. And so very, very painful. 94596518_97728a25d5_o

It took one of the worst, most painful events of my life to make me realize that I wanted to live. I’m not sure how or why, but that trauma jolted me. It brought me from darkness back toward the light. It gave me the will to fight. Day by day, I rediscovered joy. And purpose. It was like I’d been rebooted or something. Miraculous, really.

BUT…

Every time I wake up feeling blue, every time I feel listless and uninterested, every time I feel deeply sad–I’m afraid it’s back. Intellectually, I know it’s okay not to be okay. But I struggle–not with letting people know how I feel. I mean, I’m kind of an open book here. But with actually sitting with my feelings. I fight against feeling the entire spectrum of human emotion–which sometimes includes intense sadness or–gasp!–ennui.

When I stared freaking out earlier this week, I got scared. Scared because something that looked perfect wound up not being perfect at all. Scared because I started getting all in my head about what I lacked–instead of celebrating what I have. Scared because I felt down.

But, for real, it’s okay to be down because a big client fell through. It’s okay to be bummed that I haven’t published that book (that’s sitting in my computer, just waiting for an agent). It’s okay to be frustrated at the messy house, the sassy kid, the barking dog.

It’s okay.

I am okay.