kimschlotwrites

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.