kimschlotwrites

Week 15: Periphery

2019-02-06T16:46:35Z

I’m not the main character in this story, or the star of this show. That’s not who I am. I’m the one on the periphery. Just watching everything unfold.

It started with the arguments. About money, about in-laws. About working late. About not working enough. About who will drive, about what breakfast cereal to buy. So many arguments.

Then one day, the disagreements stopped. I thought things we improving. But I was mistaken. It wasn’t just the fighting that stopped. It was the words. At least with the yelling there was the occasional, “I love you, but why would you do this?” There was no love in the silence. It was just a void that I could not fill.

After the quiet came the separation. It started gradually. He slept on the couch for a couple weeks before moving out all together. We all cried the day he left. Our lives were crumbling. But he promised me that he was “right around the corner,” and I could see him whenever I wanted.

I stayed home with her. I heard her cry at night in her bedroom. Loud, never ending sobs. I wanted to cry, too, at this time. But I didn’t. She was the key player, not me. I just listened to her. I didn’t know what I could do to help her. I don’t know if there was anything to help her.

Eventually, lawyers got involved, and the arguing began again. I heard the words “unfit,” and “drunk” when she talked about him, and “cunt” or “bitch” when he talked about her.

Again, the hateful words were followed by silence. The paperwork was signed. Their possessions were divided up. I may have been the only proof that they loved each other at some point.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was my story after all.

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Week 13: Enjoy Every Sandwich

2019-01-25T23:45:23Z

“Fuck this school.”

My head snapped up. My attention was no longer on my locker, but the locker next to me, and the angry guy trying to open it. “Yeah. Some of the teachers can be real assholes,” I sympathized.

“Not the teachers,” he said. That anger is still in his voice.

“Oh,” I replied, dumbly. His locker door finally swung open, and I watched him push his backpack inside. Just before the backpack disappeared, I saw that someone wrote the word “Fag” on it in purple marker. “Oh no.”

He slammed his locker shut. “I knew when we moved to this hick-ass town, with these hick-ass people that this would happen. It’s 2018, how have you guys never seen a gay person?”

“That’s not true!” I felt a little defensive now. “We’ve seen gay people. I love Ellen!” Why did I say that?

He raised his eyebrow.

“Okay. Maybe we are a bit hickish.”

This got a smile out of angry guy.

“I know it’s a little late, but welcome to East Brook High School. I’m Madison. And yes, there are some ‘hick-ass’ idiots in this school. Some nicer than others.”

“I’m Carter. I’ve been in this school for three days, and you’re the only kid to introduce themselves.”

“And I’m late doing it, too. Sorry about that.”

Carter shrugged. “Better late than never. And no homophobic shit coming out your mouth. Though that Ellen comment was borderline.”

I laughed. “No more Ellen comments,” I promised.

I kept my eye on Carter the rest of the day. I noticed it was mostly the male students giving him a hard time. The jocks. God, I thought that only happened in movies.

He was sitting by himself at lunch. I looked at the people I was sitting with. Do I trust them not to be jerks? I did. Would it look like pity invite to others? Did I care? In the end, I decided that I would try to make it look as natural as possible. I walked over to Carter and in my most cheery voice said, “There you are! We’re sitting over there. C’mon.” I grabbed his tray of food and walked back to my table before he could protest.

The people at my table—my friends—were great. They warmly welcomed Carter, included him in all conversations, and threw dirty looks at anyone who teased him. (It was about three people.)

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. I saw Carter once more at our lockers. He seemed to be in better spirits. He even thanked me for making the day “tolerable.”

I wish I could say that the rest of the week was a uneventful, too. Unfortunately I can’t say that without lying. Carter’s week was miserable. Having the neighboring locker, I saw first hand how horribly he was treated. I saw him being teased, pushed, even spit on. I started to say something a couple times, but each time Carter would shake his head at me. He told me he didn’t want me to get involved.

The biggest culprit was some guy on the football team, Brad. Brad and I had a few classes together, and he was an asshole in those as well. Interrupting the lessons, arguing that he didn’t need to learn anything because he would eventually play in the NFL. I don’t think I realized how annoying he was until he started picking on Carter. But even when he came into the deli where I worked after school he was an arrogant prick. He wanted free meals for being on the football team.

The following week I watched as Brad again messed with Carter, and the week after that. Carter did his best to ignore his bully, but I can tell he was still bothered. Hell, I was bothered. It was getting difficult to hold my tongue, but I promised Carter I wouldn’t say anything. I think he was afraid of making it worse. I can understand that. But I was still pissed.

Come to find out, he and I both had a breaking point. It came about two months after he started East Brook High. I was going to my locker in the morning when I saw one of the janitors at Carter’s locker. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to remove graffiti from the locker. The word “Faggot” was spray painted in big bold letters.

“What the fuck is this?” I screeched.

The janitor looked up. “Some punk kid. Don’t know which one.”

“You have to clean it before Carter gets here.”

“I’m trying, but it’s not coming off. We’re going to have to re-paint it.”

I looked down the hallway. Carter was walking to his locker, completely unaware of what he was about to see. I was about to run up to him and tell him to go home, fake an illness, but he saw the janitor at his locker and hurried over.

“Carter, they’re assholes. I’m sure somewhere there is security footage. It was probably Brad. He’ll get suspended, kicked off the football team.”

What happened next broke my heart. There was no yelling, “Fuck this school,” or complaining about the “hick-ass people in this hick-ass town.” No. Instead he fell down to the floor, put his head in hands, and cried. “What am I supposed to do?” He asked, miserably.

I sat down next to him and hugged him. There didn’t seem to be anything else I could do.

Brad confirmed he was the vandal in one of our shared classes. I heard him behind me, bragging to a friend how he came inside the school after football practice and “destroyed the fag’s locker.” It took every bit of strength that I possessed to not turn around and slap him. I gripped the sides of my desk until my knuckles turned white. Before the bell rang, I heard Brad tell his friend that he was going to stop by the deli before the game.

Oh great. I thought. I have to see this asshole while I’m working, too?

As I was walking to my next class I was struck with an idea that both excited me and freaked me out. But I knew I was going to do it. I just had to take a quick trip to the pharmacy before work.

I had the deli alone that night. It was a rare occurrence, but because of the high school football game, it wasn’t expected to get too busy. I shooed my coworker out as soon as I got there. She’s a single mom and had to pick up her kids from her neighbors, so instead of seeming suspicious that I wanted her gone, it looked like I was doing her a favor.

When her car was finally out of the parking lot, I grabbed the pharmacy bag from my backpack. With shaky hands, I took out the box of laxatives I had just purchased. Another look outside, and no one was in the parking lot. I took every last shit-inducing pill out of the package, and put them into the large food processor. Once they were crushed into a fine powder, I grabbed a bowl. “Mix with mayonnaise,” I said to myself, like I was on some cooking show. After mixing the poop powder with the mayo, all I could do was wait.

It was only a half hour, but it felt like forever. My stomach was knots. I felt like I may have taken the laxatives myself. But as soon as Brad walked into the deli with a couple friends, I knew I was ready.

Brad ordered first. He got his usual sandwich: roast beef, American cheese, onions, and extra mayo. Oh you’ll get extra mayo, I thought. I put every last bit of that special mayonnaise on his sandwich. “I hope that’s not too much,” I said, in my fakest sweetest voice. He deemed it “perfect.” Yes it was.

The guys ate at one of the booths. I busied myself with cleaning out the food processor and the bowl. I glanced over at Brad and his friends a couple times. But they seemed fine. Maybe I didn’t use enough?

They left, and there was no look of discomfort or panic on Brad’s face. I shrugged. Well, I tried.

At 9:30, a half hour before I had to close up, Carter rushed through the door. “Oh my God, Madison! Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” I asked, confused. Carter was not crying anymore. He seemed downright ecstatic.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I’ve been doing homework. My last customer was like three hours ago. Tell me.”

“Let me show you.” With this mischievous smile, he pulls out his cell phone and pulls up a video. “This happened at tonight’s game.”

Even on the small screen of Carter’s cell, I saw Brad, mid-play run off the field, his hand on his butt. He goes over to the coach, and then I saw his uniform pants turning brown.

“Oh my God!”

“I know!” Carter squealed. “He shit his pants in front of everyone. And it’s online to enjoy for years to come.”

“Wow.” I don’t know what else to say. It was a disgusting, beautiful sight.

“I’ve never seen karma work so quickly.” He laughed and I loved that sound.

I looked at the time, and said, “We can talk and laugh about this more, but you need to help me clean up.”

“It’s worth it. I don’t want to stop talking about this.”

I smiled, and started cleaning the bathroom. Carter started take the garbage bags out of the trash cans to take to the dumpster (this wasn’t the first time he’s helped me clean up).

When I finished the bathroom, I came back out to wipe tables. I could just see the brown stain spreading across Brad’s uniform. I didn’t have to watch the video again, but I knew I would.

“Hey, Madison,” Carter interrupted my thoughts.

“What’s up?”

“Did Brad eat here before the game?”

“Yeah. But his friends didn’t get sick. So it’s not the food.”

“No. I don’t think it was the food.” He held up the empty package of laxatives. “I found these on the floor.” He raised an eyebrow.

I shrugged. “He seemed to enjoy his sandwich.”

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Week 12: Write Off

2019-01-20T22:16:44Z

Boobs.

Yeah. I thought that would get your attention.

So, I’m an overweight woman, but I haven’t blessed with a certain physical attribute that most other overweight woman have been blessed with. Yup, I got small boobs. It’s a pain in the butt with shirts. If it fits over my gut, it’s going to be too big in the top.

If you’re getting tired of reading about my boobs, don’t worry, I’m tired about writing about them. But I am going to tell you all about my theory as to why I am not well endowed.

Before a person is born, they’re kept in this big hotel. Really huge, really nice. Each being has their own room. Oh, and before you’re born, you’re just this gray mannequin looking thing.

Anyway, so one day before I’m born, I’m hanging out in my room, lying down, thinking about napping, when there is a knock at my door. With a heavy sigh, I get out of bed and walk to the door. There’s an envelope on the floor in front of the door. I pick it up, and look out my peephole. No one is waiting. I pick of the envelope, opening it while I walk back to the bed. It’s a letter in gold script.

You are invited to a Brunch Buffet with the Big Man.

Someone will be by to escort you to the banquet hall.

Please, do not share your invitation with any other being. This is an exclusive event, and not everyone has been invited.

A few things about this letter. First, a Brunch Buffet? Hell yeah. A Brunch Buffet is the second best type of buffet ever. Second, there is really no time in this hotel. The invite can’t just say be ready at 11am or something. So they have someone come to get you. Third, “The Big Man” can refer to God, the creator, or the universe itself. Whatever. But an invite his huge. And lastly, an exclusive event that I’m invited to? Go me! I’m special!

At some point, the knock came to my door. I flew out of bed, and was ready. I kept asking my escort questions, “What’s this about?” “How many other beings will be there?” “Is the bacon chewy or crispy?” But I got no answers. Very hush hush.

The ballroom is gorgeous. Crystal chandeliers, tables with linen napkins. And it smelled amazing. The food wasn’t out yet, but I could smell it. My mouth was watering.

My escort told me to sit, and relax. The food would be brought out shortly. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the long buffet tables. When was the food coming out? I was ready to eat!

Other beings kept filing in. There were a lot of us in the room, probably a couple hundred. Everyone eyed the empty buffet tables. Finally, the last person was seated. The banquet doors closed, and the buffet was brought out.

There was a lot of excited chatter. I heard people making game plans, “First, I’m getting eggs, then hashbrowns and bacon. I’ll eat those and go back up to the carving station, and do they have soup?”

When we were told that would could eat, it was like a stampede. I tried to show some restraint, but those Belgian Waffles with strawberries and whipped cream were calling my name. I may have jostled my way to the front of that line. I would have felt bad, but you should have the seen the way people were going for the smoked salmon. Insane!

After starting in on my second plate, the Big Man entered the banquet hall. Some clapped, some hooted and hollered. Some were just in complete awe that they stared open mouthed, their forks just hanging there.

The Big Man spoke, “Thank you all for being here.” He had the big booming voice you’d expect. “I hope you are all enjoying the brunch buffet. Please keep eating. I’m sure you all can eat and listen at the same time.” He smiled. There was some polite laughter. I mean it wasn’t funny, but he’s the Big Man. You laugh when he tells a joke.

“I’ve called you all here today because I wanted to warn you about your upcoming lives. You’re going to be fat. It’s going to be difficult, and I apologize.” He paused. “You’ll be teased, picked on. A lot of you will suffer from low self esteem and low self worth. You’ll wonder if you would be treated differently if you were thinner.”

There was talk among us. We did not like what we were hearing.

The Big Man continued. “However, to offset some of this, I’m going to give you a gift. I am going to give you boobs. Everyone loves boobs. And you will have them. So, please, line up, and I will give them to you.”

Like with the buffet, there’s a mad rush to get into line for this gift. I start to get in line, but I’m distracted by the buffet. They are taking the brunch buffet foods down, and putting up a dessert buffet. A dessert buffet. The best buffet ever. The only kind of buffet that is better than a brunch buffet.

I glance at the line for the boobs, and then back at the buffet line. Buffet line was shorter, it won out. I grabbed a couple cookies and a piece of cheesecake, and went back to my table to eat. When I finished I looked up at the boob line. Still incredibly long. The dessert buffet looks like it hasn’t been discovered by most of the beings in the room. Time for seconds. Pecan pie, here I come.

While I’m topping this ooey gooey goodness with whipped cream, The Big Man voice comes out again. “It looks like I have run out. To those who didn’t get their gift, I deeply apologize.”

I shrug it off. It didn’t seem worth waiting in that long line anyway.

As I’m walking back to my seat, this being comes up to me, and says excitedly, “I have boobs!”

Just as enthusiastically, I hold my plate in the air and answer, “I have pie!”

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Week 12: MacGuffin

2019-01-16T23:02:57Z

Sunday, December 3, 2017

It finally happened. Brent proposed! After five years and ups and downs, he finally proposed. I can’t wait to be be Heather Barton.

We talked to our families and figured out a budget. No, I won’t get the wedding I dreamed about since I was a little girl. I can’t afford a bedazzled ball gown with a cathedral length veil. The flower hybrid I imagined just doesn’t exist. And did I really think the Harlem Boys Choir would sing me down the aisle?

I’m okay with not having any of that. The castle. That’s what’s important.

***

Thursday, December 7, 2017

I’m so excited! Tomorrow is the day. Brent and I are touring Claremont Castle, and putting a deposit down for the wedding. As I’ve written in this journal many times, we—or I should say I—already have a date picked out. Saturday, October 19, 2019. The day my grandparents got married.

How sweet would that be? Getting married on the same date and in the same place as my grandparents. I’m just so excited.

***

Friday, December 8, 2017

We’ve been home from Claremont Castle for about an hour now, and I’m still not sure what to do. The date, my date, is already booked. I’m devastated. Brent doesn’t seem as heartbroken as me. All he says is “It’s just a day. We can choose another.”

Why doesn’t he understand?

There is a small glimmer of hope. Grant and Chris. They are the ones who are in my spot at Claremont Castle. When the event coordinator left the room, I took a picture of her planner with the names and contact information of the couple. Brent didn’t notice. He was engrossed in something on his phone.

So, I have a phone number and email address for this couple. I tried searching Facebook by the email address, but the profile came up private. I plan on emailing tomorrow. Calling just seems crazy. But I may end up calling if I don’t get an answer in a week.

I’m starting to feel a little better. I can just picture it. I write a beautiful email, asking them if they would mind changing their wedding date. They would be so moved by my story, that the agree. We become close friends, and go to each other’s weddings. Maybe we’d have kids around the same time, and they would grow up together and be best friends. All because a date on a calendar.

***

Monday, December 11, 2017

My stomach has been in knots all weekend. First thing Saturday I emailed Grant. (At least I think it was him. His name was in the email address.) I checked my email just about every hour. Nothing. All weekend, no response.

I’ll admit the email wasn’t as...what’s the word...eloquent as I imagined. But it wasn’t psychotic. It was short and sweet.

I finally received a reply today while I was at work. I tried to wait until my lunch to open it, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything until I read the email.

Honestly, nothing has been resolved. He has questions. I guess it’s understandable. We’re going to meet for coffee this weekend and talk. He thinks it’s going to be a double date. But that’s not happening. No way am I bringing Brent. He has no idea what I’m doing, and I plan on keeping that way for as long as possible. He doesn’t understand how important this date is to me.

***

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Oh my God this week is dragging. Why can’t it be Saturday? I’ve chewed my nails off. I’ve barely slept this whole week. I’m both excited and nervous to meet with Chris and Grant.

I just hope it goes well.

***

Saturday, December 16, 2017

I DID IT!!! Oh my God. We’re getting our wedding date. I pulled it off.

Grant is awesome. It only ended up being me and him because Chris was called into work last minute. I guess they had booked the venue only a week before Brent and I tried to. They just chose it because they wanted a fall wedding in 2019. The day didn’t have any meaning to them. They already called Claremont to change the date. Because it was so far in advance, they could move it without losing money. I’ve already left a message with the event coordinator lady asking to “put me on a waiting list” for that date.

I did it!

***

Tuesday, December 18, 2017

It’s official! I’m getting married at Claremont Castle on Saturday, October 19th, 2019.

::Happy Dance::

***

Sunday, January 21, 2018

So, Grant and I are like best friends now. Crazy, right? We go out to lunch once a week, and we text all through the day. We’re so close. I love him.

That sounds so much worse than it is! I love him in a friend way. I’m not cheating on Brent with Grant. First of all, Chris has joined us a couple times for lunch. Second, Grant is gay. Chris is a guy.

They are such a cute couple. The times I’ve spent with them together they’re always holding hands, blowing each other kisses, winking at each other. It’s so adorable. You can tell they love each other.

I wish Brent and I were like that. I’ve been trying to hold his hand more, but he usually has them in his pockets, or holding his phone.

***

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Brent and I celebrated Valentine's Day tonight. I’m a bit disappointed. First of all, he left all the planning to me. I chose the restaurant, made the reservations. I even picked out his clothes for him.

At the restaurant, he complained that the service was slow, that the wine was overpriced, that the food was over cooked.

For a gift, I bought him tickets to see a band he likes. His response, “They’re last album sucked.”

You know Grant and Chris did for Valentine’s Day? They got a couples massage, and made dinner together. So much better.

Brent and I used to be like Grant and Chris. What happened?

***

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

I learned two new things today.

First, that Chris donated a piece of his liver to Grant a couple years ago. No questions asked. That’s true love.

And second, I don’t think I would do that for Brent.

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Week 11: Long Distance Dedication

2019-01-08T23:24:56Z

“That song was dedicated to Janice, with love from Brett,” I said into the microphone. “More of your requests after the break. This is Lydia with Late Night Love.”

I’d been working on the radio for about ten years. For the last three years my show had been syndicated, and broadcast nationally. I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty much a rip off of Delilah. Sweet love songs and sappy stories. Don’t get me wrong. I love it. I love love and love stories. But I’m just telling it how it is. The show is recorded during the day, and played at night.

My producer, Luke, is wonderful. We’ve been working together since I first started Late Night Love on a small radio station in Connecticut. He screens all the letters, emails, tweets, and voicemails. Unfortunately I can’t acknowledge everyone that writes in. Luke is good at finding the ones that people want to hear. Or, maybe almost as important, the ones I want to hear.

On this particular night, Luke was on fire. The stories and dedications he chose for me to read were amazing. There was the young woman who wanted to dedicate a song to her mom. (Her father recently passed away, and this would have been their 40th anniversary—the first one after he died.)

There was the woman who wanted to dedicate a song to her husband who was recently deployed. She wanted to let him know that she was pregnant with their third child.

Luke handed me the last dedication about ten minutes before our time ended. It was a letter written in slightly shaky, cursive handwriting. Usually, Luke will edit the letters a little, highlight the parts to read on air in bright yellow highlighter. But there were no colorful marks on the paper. I looked at my producer quizzically. He nodded. “Read it all, he mouthed.

“Our last story is a beautiful handwritten letter. It comes from,” I quickly glanced at the return address on the envelope, “Arthur in Idaho.”

Sometimes the writer wants to be anonymous. When that’s the case, Luke will note it somehow. But there was nothing. I looked at Luke for reassurance. He nodded. Good. No future angry letter from Arthur.

Dear Lydia,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve been listening to your show for a couple years. The beautiful stories you read brings tears to my eyes. I guess I’m an old softie.

My name is Arthur and I’m hoping that you can help me. I’m 75-years old. Fifty years ago, I lost my first wife, Marie, in a car accident. We had been newlyweds. We were trying to start a family. She was too young to die and I was too young to be a widower.

For two years after she died, I’d bring fresh flowers to her grave once a week. The first month or so, I would go to the florist, grab a premade bouquet, and buy it, head down with tears in my eyes. Eventually, I talked with the girl who worked at the shop.

Her name was Peggy. She was a sweet girl. When she found out that all the flowers I purchased were for Marie’s grave, she started making special bouquets for me. Each arrangement more beautiful than the last.

Over the months, I told her all about Marie, and she told me about her fiancé, Paul. She told me how she moved to Idaho from Connecticut. I looked forward to the visits to the florist and talking to Peggy. She help me get through that difficult time.

She moved away about two months before I stopped going to the florist. I still loved and missed Marie, but I knew it was time to move on.

I never did get to tell Peggy how much her friendship meant to me. How she helped me get through a very dark time in my life.

That’s why I’m writing to you, Lydia. I’m hoping that if you read this letter on air, she will hear it and reach out.

I don’t know her maiden name, but her married name would have been Quigley.

Sincerely,

Arthur in Idaho

“Arthur, thank you so much for writing in. Peggy, if you’re listening, please let us know.”

I closed out the show as I usually do. Thanking everyone for listening, one last shout out to any sponsors, and telling my listeners how to contact me.

As I always did on the drive home, I put in my bluetooth earpiece, and called my mom. We exchanged pleasantries. I told her about my daughter’s baseball game the night. “So, what did Luke find for you tonight?” I told her a couple of the stories from the recording. “And the best for last?”

I told my mom Arthur’s story. When I finished, it was dead air. “Mom? Did I lose you?”

“No. No. I’m still here. I….” She trailed off.

“You what?”

“I think I know Peggy.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“He did mention that she was from Connecticut.” I paused. Then, “What a fucking coincidence.”

“Language, Lydia Renee,” my mom teased.

“Sorry,” I laughed. “So who is it? Do I know her? Someone you went to school with?”

“Lydia.”

“Mom.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Language, Margaret Louise.”

Mom coughed.

Finally, I was understanding. “Margaret,” I said, slowly. “Peggy. Peggy is short for Margaret. Oh my God. Mom. Are you lying to me?”

“I’m Peggy,” she said simply.

This was too much. I had to pull over to the side of the road.

Mom started telling me her side of the story. How she saw how heartbroken Arthur was at first. How he slowly seemed happier and happier until she moved back to Connecticut.

I smiled through her story, yet something was gnawing at me. I finally realized what it was. “Mom, why were you living in Idaho? And who the hell is Paul?”

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Week 10: Nadir

2019-01-02T21:49:55Z

I’m asked all the time, “How didn’t you know?” Or, “How did you let that happen?” And I just don’t know. While it’s happening it doesn’t seem so bad. It’s a lot of talk. But somehow you get swept up in all. We got carried away.

It was a difficult time in my life. I was 27, divorced. My parents had both died before I turned 25. I requested a transfer from the Connecticut office to the Pennsylvania office. I thought the best way to start over after the end of my five year marriage was to move away.

It was my coworker at the new office, Bianca, who recruited me. After two months in Pennsylvania I still hadn’t made friends. Sure, I smiled and greeted my new coworkers and neighbors, but there was no connection. Not until the day Bianca came up to my desk and asked, “Hey Brenda, do you want to come to Happy Hour with us?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I don’t drink.” I probably blushed. For some reason I always get embarrassed when I tell people I don’t drink. I feel like an outsider.

“That’s fine. I don’t drink either. But I do eat. And there will be good half priced appetizers.”

I smiled and rubbed my stomach. I had gained almost fifteen pounds since the divorce. Stress and emotional eating, “Well food I do like! I’ll be there.”

Happy Hour was fun, maybe a little awkward. My coworkers seemed to know each other pretty well. But Bianca was by my side, making sure I was involved in the conversation, or whispered pieces of information that I needed to follow along (names of spouses, how many children someone had, etc.).

Bianca and I exchanged phone numbers that night, and I left Happy Hour feeling, well, happy. I made a friend. She was nice, funny, and everyone seemed to like her.

The “grooming” process, I guess you call it, didn’t start for a few months. Of course, at the time, I didn’t realize what was going on. Now that I look back at it, I don’t know how missed it. I guess I was lonely, depressed, and wanted desperately to not feel that way.

So, it started with a book club that Bianca invited me to join. She has been a part of this book club for about three years she said. We didn’t read anything that would raise any suspicions, and her friends were very nice and welcoming. They did ask me a lot of questions, but that’s what people do. The questions were harmless. At least I think they were.

Shortly after joining book club, I was invited to dinner parties, cookouts, brunches, picnics. I had a life and new friends. These people seemed amazing.

It was at least a year after my first book club meeting that they told me about their group. (Even now, now that I know, I can’t bring myself to say that “c” word.). I don’t even know exactly what was said. Bianca just told me that she, and the other women in the book club were a part of a “community.” Most of the people from the get togethers were in it, too. She said once a week they go to their friends house for a dinner. (I do remember she said their “leader”, not their friend. She giggled when she said leader. I just thought it was a nickname for the man who hosts everyone for dinner. Ugh. I was so stupid.) She told me how once a month they collected $50 from each person. She explained it was to help offset the costs of buying the food. Whatever was left over went into a fund for parties or other gatherings.

I did hesitate when Bianca asked if I wanted to join the community. At least I think I did. She invited me to their next dinner, and told me there was no obligation to join.

What was the harm in one dinner?

Obviously the dinner went well. Again, everyone was nice and welcoming. Well, everyone I was able to meet. There had to be at least 50 people at the mansion. (It definitely was a mansion!). Two large rooms held two large tables, and I was lucky enough to be seated between the leader, Horace, and Bianca.

I spent a lot of time talking to leader, Horace. He told me he has been doing these dinners for ten years. I told him about my divorce, and how lucky I was to find a friend in Bianca.

By the time I left, I was the first one to leave, I knew I would be joining this community. It felt like the loving family that I wanted to be a part of.

I wish I could pinpoint when Horace’s started me on his teachings. (“Horaecisms” we affectionately called them.) I just remembered that at one dinner, Horace asked me to stay later. “Time for you to officially become a part of the community.”

The way the teachings worked were he’d read us one or two Horaceisms out of a worn, leather bound journal. He’d tell us the story behind how he came up with it. Then, we’d go around the room. Each person talking about how they incorporate Horace’s wisdom into their lives.

At first the Horaceisms were sweet, inspirational. “When you’re feeling like there is no hope, The Community is your light in the darkness.” Or, “To put love into the Community is to put love into the world.” At some point, the Horaceisms because less innocuous. “Only trust the Community.” “The Community does what it does for your own good.” I was so captivated by the previous teachings that at the time, I didn’t notice the change.

I know now that I was brainwashed. I don’t know how I let it happen, but I did. The teachings seemed to make sense. And there was the cd of subliminal messages that Horace gave me after I told him that I was having difficulty sleeping. He said they were nature sounds intended to promote restfulness. And again, I didn’t realize what was on that disc until after.

Between the teachings, the subliminal messages, and the Community, somehow it just seemed natural that we’d follow Horace to the ends of the earth.

We adopted the Las Vegas slogan at the Community. “What happens in the Community, stays in the Community.” I didn’t dare tell anyone about them for fear of being kicked out. This was my family. I would die for them.

Horace started getting paranoid. He thought people were out to get him, out to get us. We discussed “Only trust the community” for weeks on end. Eventually, we all believed him, too.

Bianca and I both quit our jobs and moved in with Horace for protection. Many of the others in the Community did as well.

This didn’t happen overnight. I was maybe three years into the Community when Horace started showing substantial signs of paranoia. It was another 18 months before Bianca and I moved in. And probably another two months before Horace introduced “The Plan.”

The Plan. That’s why I’m here talking, isn’t it? Simply put, the plan was mass suicide. Horace had a huge pool. He said he we were all going to be baptized. He chose April 19th, his birthday.

The detailed plan was that we’d all have to dressed in all white. We’d all have to take at least three sleeping pills (possibly four depending on your weight). Horace would give each of us a backpack to wear. The backpack was full of rocks and sand. We would all walk to his backyard. We would walk into the pool, three or four at a time, and keep walking into the pool until we were submerged. He said we would all fall asleep and wake up in paradise, together.

That was the plan. And we all agreed to it. It was executed almost flawlessly, except for me. I was the only survivor.

I was the last one to enter the pool. By then, most of the Community was unconscious under water. Slowly dying. I started my sleepy walk across the pool. I thought I heard someone yelling, but the sleeping pills had already kicked in, so I wasn’t sure. Just as I finally was fully submerged, I felt a hand grabbing me, pulling me back to the surface. Then, everything went black.

I woke up in a hospital room. It was there I found out that one of the members of the Community left a suicide note. Colleen. She was the newest member, young. Nineteen, sophomore in college, but still wasn’t adjusting well. She needed us. Her roommate found her note. She wrote where to find her body so her mother could bury her. The roommate called 911, and I was saved. Colleen was not. No one else was.

Why am I the lucky one who got to live? Why wasn’t it Colleen, whose heart broken mother visited me several times while I was in the hospital? Why wasn’t it Derek, who left behind a wife of twenty years? Why was it me? The one with no one.

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Week 9: Sucker Punch

2018-12-16T20:16:50Z

I’m in a small room, talking to a lady who smells like the mints Granny gives me. The ones that are red and white, the same colors of Mama’s tablecloth.

“Caleb,” the lady says to me. “Do you know where you are?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course I do. I’m ten, not four.”

The lady smiles. “You’re right. I’m sorry. So tell me. Where are you? Where are we?”

I sigh and roll my eyes again before answering. “We’re in some room at the hospital.”

The lady nods. And writes something in a notebook that sits in her lap. “What happened,” she asks. “Why are you here?”

“Do you really not know? Or is this one like the others?”

“‘This one’ what?”

“Ugh. This question. Are you asking me to see if I know? Are you asking me because you don’t know?” I stop. I feel like I’m going to cry. Dad said that there is nothing wrong with a man crying, but he shouldn’t do it in front of strangers. Mama tried to tell me that it’s okay to cry no matter where you are if that’s how you’re feeling. But I think Dad knows more about man stuff than Mama.

The lady offers me a tissue. I take it, but don’t use it. “I know you know what happened,” she says quietly. “I have a pretty good idea of what happened. I’m just here for you to talk to if you need to.”

“A car crash,” I say before I can stop myself. I probably screamed it because the lady looks startled. “Me and my parents were in the car. I don’t know where they are now. A doctor told me they went somewhere else.” I got goosebumps. All the hair on my body stood up. My whole body, but my face was freezing. My face felt very hot. And I thought I was going to be sick. “Are they dead? I thought the doctor meant they went to another hospital.”

I can’t help it. I start crying. When Dad said not to cry in front of strangers, I don’t think he thought this would happen. The lady hands me the box of tissues. She starts to say something, but I can’t hear her over my crying and yelling.

The screams become louder. I don’t know if they’re mine anymore.

**********

Two months later:

There’s about a dozen faces in this room. They all look sad. Well, it is supposed to be grief counseling. The woman at the hospital gave me information on this meeting two days after the crash. At first, I hated her because she saw me cry. Strangers aren’t supposed to see men cry. That’s what my dad always told me. But the woman and I both agreed that this is surely an exception. (Actually she didn’t really say that this is was an exception; what she said was, “Men shouldn’t cry in front of strangers? That’s horse shit! Pardon my language.”)

The meeting starts. A few people tell their stories. Wives dying after a long battle with cancer. Fathers who no longer remembered their daughters names before they die. After each story they look at me, waiting for me to talk.

I wait until everyone else has told their story before I begin. “Two months ago, my son, Caleb, was killed in a car accident.”

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Week 7: Steadfast

2018-11-29T03:08:37Z

I lost everything because of him. Family, friends, even jobs. I lost my happiness, and quite honestly, I lost my will to live because of him.

It started when I was 19. A lot of people rolled their eyes, thinking I was still just a kid and didn’t know what I was getting myself into to. I didn’t pay them any mind. I was an adult. Old enough to vote, serve in the military, smoke, and buy a lottery ticket.

My loved ones told me that he changed me, that I was a different person when I was with him. A person they didn’t like. But again, I didn’t listen. I didn’t care. I was loyal to him.

There were a few times when I thought he was going to kill me. I’d tell everyone that we were done. But, I think we all knew that I couldn’t stay away. He had this hold on me. He was there when I wanted him or needed him. He was reliable like that.

Sometimes I think back to that time, and ask myself, Who abused who? Was it a chicken and an egg thing? Was I bad because of him? Or was he bad because of me?

Thankfully, I was able to rid myself of him. He’s out of my life completely. It’s been two years. Exactly two years. I’m not going to lie, it hasn’t been an easy two years. There were so many times when I wanted to crawl back to him. I told myself that one night wouldn’t mean anything. Then I remembered the other relationships that I was trying to mend, and I would do something else to keep my mind occupied.

So, here I am. Two years sober. Thank you all for supporting me. I said it before, I’ll say it again. I’m Heather, and I’m an alcoholic.

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Thanksgiving

2018-11-25T02:55:53Z

I wrote my first Thank You Note at age 10. My mom thought it was time I thank people myself for my gifts. I didn’t mind. Hell, it beat an awkward phone conversation that consisted of me saying “Thank you,” 2-3 minutes of silence, before handing the phone back to the nearest adult.

This first note was to Aunt Sally:

Dear Aunt Sally,

Thank you for the Christmas gift.

Love,

Diane

Short and sweet. I thought I nailed it. My mom, however thought I needed to write something longer. Something more personal. I believe she said to me, “Don’t be shy. Tell Aunt Sally how you feel about your gift.”

Well, okay. Take two.

Dear Aunt Sally,

Thank you for the Christmas gift. The stuffed frog is cute, but I would rather have the remote control car you gave to Tommy. You do know that he’s only four and does not know how to use it. Wait. I hear him crying now. Be right back.

I’m back. He was crying because he broke the car. Told you so.

Love,

Diane

P.S—It’s turtles I like. Not frogs!

P.P.S—You know you’re not really my aunt. Your just my mom’s old friend.

Neither parent proof read the letter. They were too busy trying to console Tommy. Of course, Aunt Sally called my mom after she read my heartfelt letter. After that, Mom always read my Thank You notes. For the record, though, Dad thought the letter was hysterical. I think he even high-fived me. (My dad and Aunt Sally didn’t really get along.)

Not all my Thank Yous were bad. But over the years, I was told to do a few rewrites. Here are a few ones that got blocked by the censor.

Age 12:

Dear LeAnn,

Thank you for coming to my birthday party, and for the birthday gift! How did you know that I wanted that tape?

Oh, I know how you knew. Because when you got Cooleyhighharmony for your birthday last month, I gave you a blank tape for you to record it for me. Instead of just doing the small favor, you did it for my birthday. You didn’t even buy the tape. That’s not a real gift, LeAnn. A real gift would have been you buying the tape in the store. That way I could have the little book with the lyrics in it.

I hope your boom box eats your tape.

Love,

Diane

I did get enough money for my birthday to buy the real Boyz II Men tape. I used the other tape to record songs from the radio.

Age 18:

Dear Uncle Lou,

Thank you for the typewriter and the graduation card.

I wanted to set the record straight, though. I am not going to “Secretary School.” Does that even exist anymore? In case you were not aware, it’s the 1990s. Women have more options for employment than being a teacher or a secretary. I know you’re in your 80s, but you can’t use that as an excuse to be sexist.

Love,

Diane

This one I actually felt bad about writing. Not right away, though. I was fuming when my mom told me that I should reconsider my words. I felt guilty when a couple months later, Uncle Lou was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He probably had no idea what year it was. Or, he was sexist. I don’t know.

Age 28:

Dear Mrs. Nash,

I know that you were not a completely on board with Grant and I moving in together before we got married, but I do appreciate you coming to our housewarming party.

Thank you for your generous gift of high end cleaning products, as well as instructions on the best way to clean your son’s shirts. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m regifting those instructions to Grant. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but he’s an adult and can wash his own clothes. He can also use some of these expensive cleaning supplies and clean the house, too.

Your baby is an adult. He will act like it.

Love,

Diane

P.S.—I also want to thank you for the grill. I’m sure it was just an oversight that the tag on that gift just had Grant’s name.

Grant is the one that vetoed that. Considering what I really wanted to say, I thought that was pretty tame. Side note, when I told my mom about the letter, it was her turn to high five me.

Age 32:

Dear Jeff and Tanya,

Thank you so much for sharing our wedding day. We were delighted that you brought your three kids who we never met and didn’t invite. It was such a sweet moment when one of them loudly yelled, “Eww! Get a room!” when we shared our first kiss as husband and wife.

We also want to tell you how much we appreciate your thoughtful gift of $20. Just $100 more and we can cover the plates of your offspring, that just complained that their potatoes were touching their chicken.

Love,

Diane & Grant

Both my mom and mother-in-law agreed with me, but thought it best to go the short and sweet route.

I don’t want you to think that I am ungrateful. I mean, I did sign all my letters with “Love, Diane.” I’ve written plenty of nicely worded Thank You Notes. Those just aren’t as fun!

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Week 6: Not My First Rodeo

2018-11-15T15:15:24Z

“Welcome to your new home,” announced Arlin.

“New? We’re in the same box,” Geovanni was quick to point out.

Arlin sighed. He was used to Geovanni being difficult, but he was annoyed that his big proclamation was suffering. “Yes, we are in the same box. But the box is in a different place.”

All the others tried to jump up to get a better view of the new surroundings.

“What happened to Gloria?” Fatima asked, looking concerned.

“Dear,” Lisbet touch Fatima’s arm. “You know what happened.”

“No,” Fatima insisted, shaking her head. “Gloria gave me all her health worries, but she hadn’t taken me out of the box for at least a month. She was getting better.”

“She wasn’t getting better,” Lisbet said, gently. “She was accepting it was her time to go.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s true,” Nilsa spoke up. “Remember, she gave me her worries about family. She worried how her family would go on without her. Would they resent her for being ready to die?”

“So, where are we now?” Fatima asked. “And where is Diego?”

“Gloria passed us on to her daughter, Heather,” Arlin explained. “Heather only has one worry for the night. How is she supposed to live without her mom? Diego is carrying it for her so she can sleep.”

“What a horrible burden for Diego to carry overnight!”

Geovanni shrugged. “It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.”

“According to legend, Guatemalan children tell one worry to each doll at night when they go to bed at night. They place the dolls under their pillow, and in the morning the dolls have taken their worries away.”

--From the "instructions" in a box of Worry Dolls.

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Week 5: Kayfabe

2018-11-09T21:26:14Z

Several years ago, my therapist called me a liar.

Kind of.

She told me that most of my smiles are fake; they don’t quite reach my eyes. She said that it could be considered lying. She had a point. It was a lie so deeply imbedded in me that even I believed it was true. I believed my fake smiles were genuine. Or at least I thought I was fooling people. Apparently I wasn’t.

That was the first time I considered myself a liar, or a fake. Wasn’t the last.

I fake smiles, happiness, and a cherry attitude on a daily basis. Not only do I work in customer service, where the sweet as sugar act is commonplace, but I don’t want to let people in. You think I’m doing fine, that I don’t feel that familiar pull of depression, that’s fantastic. It’s what I want you to believe. I don’t want you to know that most days I don’t want to get out of bed, that I have to continuously remind myself that showering is not an enormous chore. I don’t want you to know how far down that worn path I’ve already traveled.

Facebook is another place you see the fake me. I guess that’s not too surprising. A lot of people like to either portray their life on social media as either really amazing or really fucked up. The show I put on is a little different. I remain quiet while I’m screaming on the inside. (Hmm. I guess that’s a thing with me.) It’s mostly political stuff. If you saw my posts on Facebook, you would think I’m either very neutral or I just don’t care. I don’t post anything political, or anything showing which way I lean. I will like the posts my friends make that I agree with, hide some of the stuff I don’t want to see. Sometimes I would love to post “I believe ‘X, Y, Z,’ and if you don’t like it, too bad.” But I don’t. I hold back. I don’t want to offend people, I don’t want conflict.

LJ Idol, Literary Prize Fight. This may be my most difficult confession. I read the entries every week, and I’m amazed by all the talent. How I’m still here, I don’t know. I keep expecting someone to call me out as an imposter. Or even a child playing make believe. I’m not a writer. I’ve wanted to be. But, I’m not. It’s why I never ask for constructive criticism. I’m afraid this fragile little house I’ve built—this story that I am a writer—will come crashing down. It’s why I don’t comment as much as I want, or why I just reply “Thank you,” to 99% of the comments on my entries. I feel I don’t belong.

I guess I’m just trying to keep up appearances.

See? That therapist was right. I am a liar.

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Week 4: Ghosting

2018-11-01T01:10:54Z

The following is the introduction in the Your Beginning After Life textbook. It is the required textbook for Ghosting 101.

Introduction

A note from the author: When I started my ghost training, the text we read was so dry and boring. It’s a big reason I went into ghost education and not haunting. The old-time authors made everything boring. I knew there was something more exciting, more amusing than what was being captured in those books. That’s why this one is different. There’s jokes, there’s sarcasm. There is something to get excited about.

ghost

/gōst/

noun

an apparition of a dead person that is believed to appear or become manifest to the living, typically as a nebulous image.

What you hold in your hand is the very first step to becoming a ghost.

Before getting into what is in store for you in the pages of this book, we do have something very important to address. You are now dead. Most of you that are reading this already know this. However, there will be a decent amount of you who do not realize this. You may think you’re dreaming, or in a coma. You may think that you’re hallucinating. But you’re not. I can guarantee you that you are dead. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.

The good news is that life can go on. Albeit in a vastly different way. This book will show you the various options available to you now. Each chapter will outline a different type of ghost that you can be.

Here are some of the Ghost types you’ll read about in this book.

The first Chapter focuses on The Lingering Ghost. The Lingering Ghost is one who wants to keep an eye on their family or friends after death. For the most part, no one knows that the Lingering Ghost is there, but there are two exceptions.

The first, is scent. As a Lingering Ghost you are permitted to release a scent no more than three times a month that will automatically remind your loved ones of you.

The second is Imaginary Friend. An Imaginary Friend is a type of Lingering Ghost that children can communicate with. Yes. I see the wheels turning in your now non-existent brains. (Please, take no offense to that. We’re dead. None of us have brains anymore.) You’re thinking back to your childhood. Trying to remember your imaginary friends. What ghost could that have been? Here’s a little spoiler, it may not have been a ghost. It could have just been your imagination. Not all imaginary friends are ghosts. You can read about this in more detail in Chapter 1.

In Chapter 4, you will learn about being a Homestead Ghost. These are the ones that will haunt a particular place. Most ghosts choose to haunt the place that they died, but you can haunt pretty much anywhere that had a significance in your living life.

This chapter focuses on the more agreeable Homestead Ghosts. These may create a breeze throughout the house when wind is still. Or be able to stomp around. These ghosts can be seen by the living for very short periods of time.

Please note, if you’re looking for information on the aggressive Homestead Ghosts in the movies, the ones that terrorizes the homeowners, and eventually driven out by seances or clergy, that will be covered briefly in Chapter 5. We don’t condone being that type of spirit, but there are no laws against it.

When you get to Chapter 9, you will read about the Prankster Ghost. This one is one of my favorites. Like the Lingering Ghost, this one will stay with his or her friends and family. However, the Prankster ghost will do little things to interact with the living. Some examples are: hiding keys or other small objects, taking a sock from the dryer, and giving them the sensation that their phone is vibrating in their pocket.

That was just a few types of ghosts that you’ll read about in the rest of the book. As I stated earlier, each chapter explains a different type of spirit that you can be when you finish your After Life Schooling.

At the end of the course, you will decide which apparition type you want to pursue. If after completing this textbook you are still unsure of what path you want to take, feel free to take our assessment quiz. It will tell you what form of haunting, if any, is right for you.

You are not obligated to remain the same type of spirit for eternity. This is not a life—or death—sentence.

Happy Ghosting!

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Week 3: Tsundoku

2018-10-23T22:37:24Z

“If it wasn’t for the fucking bible, I wouldn’t be here.”

I sit back in my chair, straight faced and quiet. It’s a tactic some of us therapists use. Silence can make the patient speak more. It doesn’t work for everyone. There are plenty of people who are fine with the quiet. But I have a feeling that Lucy will continue to talk if I keep my mouth shut.

“It’s not like I haven’t felt the guilt before. Every time I swipe something I feel it. Guilt, shame. Blah, blah. It’s never enough to stop me. The urge to steal, that adrenaline rush is usually stronger than the guilt.”

Lucy sighs, and starts biting her nails. “How is it the Bible’s fault that you’re here?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes before answering. “Ugh. I know an inanimate object can’t make me do something. That’s not what I meant. I’m not insane.”

Do I think she is insane? No. Do I think she has a psychological issue? Yes.

“How long have you been stealing?” I ask.

Her mouth twitches. “Since I was young. Maybe I was nine? Ten? I’m forty now. So about 30 years.”

“Have you ever been caught?”

“Not really. Not by anyone with authority. Just friends who saw me do it it when I was younger.”

“And your friends never turned you in?”

Lucy laughed. It was a loud, barking laugh. “God no. We were teens. They thought it cool, and they lifted a couple things, too.”

“Do you plan your shoplifting? Go with a list? Do you know what you’re going to take beforehand?”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s never planned. Always impulsive.”

“How do you feel right before you steal something?”

Lucy rolled her eyes again. I guess you don’t really grow out of an eye roll. “Feelings. Feelings,” she says in an annoyed sing song voice.

“Yes. We tend to talk about those a lot here,” I reply, drily.

This got a small smirk out of her. “It’s hard to say,” she begins. “I see something. I don’t need it. I probably won’t use it, but it’s this uncontrollable urge to take it.” She pauses a second. Then, “When I’m actually taking the book, the candy, whatever it is, it’s this strange combination of anxiety and adrenaline.”

“And after?” I prompt.

“Like I said before, guilt. A fear of getting caught or arrested. It doesn’t last too long. And it hasn’t been strong enough to get me to stop.”

“Until the Bible.”

“Until the Bible,” Lucy agrees.

“What is it, or was it about the Bible that made it different?”

She draws in a deep breath before answering. I can tell she’s already thought about this. “I’ve never been really religious. My parents dragged me and my brother to Easter mass every year for show. Trying to look like good Christians to the other families that only came to mass on Easter. That’s the extent of religious schooling. If you ask me if I believe in God, I’d probably just shrug and tell you I don’t know.” She pauses. “But I know somewhere in that book, the Bible, somewhere it says ‘Thou Shall Not Steal.’ And that has me screwed up in the head.” She inhales again. “Maybe I am crazy,” she mumbles.

“Do you believe in God?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

Lucy shrugs, and laughs. This time it’s a nicer, gentler laugh. I smile at her.

“Have you ever been formally diagnosed as a kleptomaniac?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. You’re the first shrink I’ve ever been to. I’ve read about it. Thought I might be a klepto. But I haven’t been able to put those symptoms into webmd.” She laughs that gentle laugh again.

“And it’s good that you can’t! It will make you think that you’re dying no matter what your symptoms. Felt the urge to steal? Must be an incurable disease.”

We both laugh.

“So do you think I’m a klepto?” Lucy asks.

I nod slowly. “You seem to have the behavior of a kleptomaniac.”

Lucy stared at the wall, a smile starting to creep across her face.

“This is not a get out of jail free card,” I warned. If caught, you can still face jail time, whether your diagnosed or not.”

“I understand.”

“I want to give you some resources. Some information on different support groups for kleptomania. Excuse me one moment.” I left the room for a minute to get printouts from the filing cabinet that all the therapists in the office share. When I came back Lucy was right where I left her.

“Here you go,” I said handing her the papers. “The support groups are free. Unfortunately there’s not a whole lot of them. They’re not as easy to find as like an alcoholics anonymous. But there’s a few.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, Lucy, it’s up to you. Do you want to schedule another session? I think therapy would be good for you. Even if it’s not with me.”

“You’re right. It probably would be good. Let’s schedule another one.”

“Great. Let me just take a look at my calendar.” I go back to my desk, but I don’t see my large planner where I keep track of all my appointments. “What did I do with it?” I ask myself. I look over at Lucy. With a sheepish smile, she opens her big purse.

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Week 2: My Mount Rushmore

2018-10-15T21:56:07Z

When I think of Mount Rushmore, I think of four of our presidents looking down on America, judging its citizens. Making sure that we uphold the “American Way of Life.” (Though lately, I think we’ve been failing miserably.) Those carved faces are a part of what made the United States what we are, or what we could be.

So what is my Mount Rushmore? What has made me who I am?

In the first position, is alcoholism. We’ll depict that with a very large Busch can. Me, personally? I don’t drink. The most I’ve had was maybe a sip of someone’s drink. I come from a family of alcoholics. Grandparents, parents, and now my sister.

My father had to quit drinking when I was young, or risk losing his job. My mother increased her alcohol intake after my father quit. It’s like she wanted to keep Anheuser Busch business alive on her own. I remember vaguely that my father was a “funny drunk.” Cracking jokes and acting like a child.

I vividly remember my mother being a mean drunk. Nasty comments, yelling, screaming. You could see it in her eyes when she had that beer that pushed her over the edge. A psychiatrist once told me I would be better off living in a homeless shelter than with my mom. My mom finally quit drinking about a month before my wedding. Even if someone gave me a million dollar wedding gift, nothing could top the gift of my mom’s sobriety. (She’s been sober for seven years now.)

My sister is following in the footsteps of my parents. She’s the mean drunk that my mom was. Nasty, abusive (physically and verbally). She blames my mom for her drinking. Because it’s my mom’s blood that’s in her. (She won’t blame our dad. Because he’s dead he’s a saint in her eyes.) I pray that my niece does not follow in her footsteps. It breaks my heart that she has to live through this.

Depression would be in the second position. If we can construct a lead blanket out of rock, that would be how it is represented. It’s been with me for as long as a I remember, and when I think it’s gone, it’s still here.

I remember going through my first bout of severe depression. I didn’t know what it was. I just knew that for some reason I was incredibly unhappy. I had myself believe that the key to my happiness would be going to a Boyz II Men concert. I can replay the scene in my head. Grabbing a knife out of a drawer, telling my parents to just kill me if I wasn’t able to go to the concert. For years, I cringed at that memory. I thought I was being melodramatic. I know my family thought that. It wasn’t until recently, about 25 years later, that I realized that I wasn’t overreacting. I honestly believed that that concert would take the sadness out of me. Of course, it did not.

Depression has been the constant in my life for years. Thankfully, it’s not always severe. But it’s so much a part of who I am that I used to get offended that when friends said they were depressed. I would think, “Hey. That’s my thing. I’m the one who is depressed.”

I’m no longer possessive or territorial over depression. But, I have gone down the path of “if only this happens, then I will be happy.” And “this” has been anything from a new job to starting a blog.

Right next to the Lead Blanket on my Mt. Rushmore would be a book. Ahh. Books. Reading. My escape. My other worlds.

I can’t tell you when my love of books developed. Or where I got it from. I don’t remember seeing my parents read. I’m guessing they read to my sister and me when we were young. I know my father owned Yankee Biographies, so I’m assuming he read those.

Real life friends? I didn’t have many. But my books made it a little easier. I remember reading “The Baby-Sitters Club” series. I wanted to be a part of the club. To belong. In my mind, they became my friends. I was shy like Mary Anne, I could talk to Kristy about baseball, and Mallory and I can bond over our crazy curly hair.

I still love the escape I feel when I read a book. When it’s well written, I can lose myself entirely in the pages. I’ll see a polar bear on t.v. and want to text my friend who loves polar bears. Then I remember that this friend is fictional and exists only in the book I’ve been reading.

The last carving in my Mount Rushmore is a heart. I know, it sounds like a cliche, but my mountain has to have love.

I think I first understood love at age 27, when my niece was born. Don’t get me wrong, before Ayla was born I had been in love twice with guys who left me wrecked in one way or another. My niece was this little perfect being that would eventually love me unconditionally.

Eventually, my love life improved when I met my husband, John. Like when my niece was born, I was shown that love does not have to be emotionally painful.

It’s not just the love of the family that the heart represents. It also represents a project I’ve been doing for almost two years. I call it Project Spread Love. After the last presidential election, I realized how much hate is in the world. I wanted to do something to to put a little love in the world. Every month, I make a donation to a different charity. I also participate in walks for the AFSP and fundraise for them when I can.

So that is my Mount Rushmore: A beer can, a lead blanket, a book, and a heart. There were other objects I thought about including, but those others are connected with the others. Low self esteem (which would have been represented by eyes looking down) is related to depression. Anxiety (a tightly clenched fist) is related to both depression and alcoholism.

Maybe one day my mountain will change. And that’s okay. It’s not like it’s set in stone.

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Week 1: It's hard to beat a person that never gives up.

2018-10-05T21:47:03Z

First, I made her lose interest in things she once enjoyed. She stopped writing. She no longer saw a blank page as an opportunity; now it was an obstacle.

Next, I sapped her motivation. She used to have the motto, “There’s no reason not to,” when it came to going to the gym. Not anymore. I gave her plenty of reasons—excuses—not to go. You had a long day at work; go home and relax. Or It’s raining. You don’t want to work out in the rain. Oh, and my favorite excuse to feed her, If you’re worried about reaching your step goal, you can just pace the house.

Getting her to isolate from family and friends has been a little harder than I expected. She knows what it’s like to be lonely, and she’s trying her best not to feel that way. But, I’ve been in her head. I’ve been telling her that her friends are too busy for her. That they have better things to do than spend time with her.

I’ve caused her anxiety that has her worried about the strangest things, things that have no impact on her life. I’ve caused her to sleep too much or sleep too little. I’ve caused her to overeat. (That’s a great one. She gets fat, her self esteem goes down, and I feel even more secure in my position.)

She has been seeing someone to talk about me. But she never delves too deep. That’s because of me, too. I’ve conditioned her to hold back. Don’t reveal too much to anyone. Suffer in silence.

I will be with her forever. I think a small part of her knows that, accepts that. She can’t beat me. I do not give up.

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Let's Do This

2018-09-25T22:27:45Z

My LJ name is i_am_an_angel. I've participated in LJ Idol as kimschlotwrites on LJ. Now I'm doing it again. Same name, different platform.

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