Melancholic Relief

I've been toying with a phrase for the past couple weeks. Something of a "melancholic relief" has settled on me. I've been really struggling with several major pieces of who I am since the year began. Several things in my life have changed and several more are yet to change.

I've come to some important conclusions in the past couple weeks. These decisions are pulling me into a place of sadness for the loss of what was, but also a peace because decisions that haven't been easy are finally being made in a way that I know is best for me and my family.

Change is good, right? Everyone says that, but when the change requires a complete rearrangement of priorities and even things you have believed your whole life... well, it just makes the change all the more difficult to deal with - even when you know it's a necessary step in the journey to become who you are supposed to be.

So, it's melancholy. I look at what I'm losing, knowing I may never have it again - at least not in the same way. But it's relief. It's best for me and my immediate family. It's necessary. It's part of who I am inside and who I need to become. And as sad and scary as it is, I know it's right.

Ice Cream and Power of Attorney

Today I realized I'm "old." Now I realize that probably half my readership is older than I am, so don't freak out on me. Just go with it.

When I was my son's age, I was in awe of the fact that my parents were older than 30. I couldn't imagine ever being that old. They were so big and they knew so much. They never had any problems. They didn't have to ask permission to go anywhere or do anything they wanted to. They could eat ice cream whenever they wanted - even after I went to bed. Yes, I did sneak downstairs once in a while and catch you, Mom and Dad.

I could go into how I've grown up, had my own kids, and have gained perspective on and respect for my parents in ways I never could have as a child. And yes, I confess, I too eat ice cream after my kids go to bed... and yes, it is so that I don't have to share it with them - mom's prerogative. But, that's not the point of this post.

Point is, I've watched my father take care of his mother for the past several years. He sat through various doctor visits with her: paying attention, asking questions, taking notes, and communicating how Gramma was doing to all of the rest of us. He was the oldest child and power of attorney, and had the distinct "privilege" to watch his mother's health decline right in front of him.

So this morning, my mom asked me to take her to the eye doctor. Now, it had nothing to do with me being POA and everything to do with the fact that she wasn't able to drive home because they had to dilate her eyes. It was an odd feeling though. I sat and listened to the doctor explaining what was going on with her, and I was reminded of the fact that I have all that to look forward to: the symptoms, the meds, the tests, etc.

And it better be years (and hopefully a couple decades) before I have to serve as Power of Attorney for either of my parents. They're not "that old." But they took care of me, and someday I'll take care of them (as I was reminded by my parents last night when we had dinner for Dad's birthday).


But, time marches on. And sometimes it just hits me. Nothing ever stays the same... except for the ice cream.

Where the Road Leads

I'm on a journey and I can't see the end. I mean, I don't even know where I'm going, to be honest. But it's a bit like a road trip: I've piled into the car with no real defined destination, as little stuff possible, and some amazing friends, knowing there will be stops along the way. There will be bumps in the road, detours to be made, and even random break downs. We'll take unexpected hikes with a gas can because we were too busy enjoying each others' company to pay attention to the gauge.

But we'll also see things we wouldn't have if we'd stayed at home in our comfort zones, instead of taking the risk and seeking this adventure of life together. We'll learn more about one another than we need to know and see each other at our worst. There's no need for make-up, fancy clothes, or any sort of facade on a road trip. There will be days we don't know when we'll shower next, what we'll find for our next meal, or where we'll sleep that night.

But it's good. It's growth. It's learning about ourselves and trusting one another to help us survive this trip even if we don't know where we're headed. We can get out the maps and guidebooks or consult the GPS to find out where others have been before us. We can learn from their experiences and enjoy their pictures and stories, but their journey is not ours. We have to find our own way. And we have to do it ourselves, learning with our companions along the way, finding treasures that are distinctly ours to discover.

I love this road trip, even if I don't know where it ends. It's fun and it's exciting. To those of you who've hopped in the car with me and have decided to ride off into the unknown, thank you. This is an adventure that will change us. And I'm happy knowing I'll never be the same and my life has been worth living, because of my journey with you.

Thank God for this New Laughter...

I was born to laugh
I learned to laugh through my tears
I was born to love
I'm gonna learn to love without fear
~"Born" (Over the Rhine)

I'm laughing today. Not just at the moon. Not just at the night. Not just in some feeble attempt to convince myself that I'm happy. Today, I am truly laughing.

It's just... Something as small as laughter. Something as important as laughter. Something that I haven't fully experienced for a while. Something I'm afraid to allow myself to experience most of the time, because of what it usually means for me.

See, laughter often signifies a manic episode. I become hyper-active, bounce off the walls, fail to sleep (and sometimes eat), and laugh hysterically over stupid things; I'm invincible and uninhibited and I am literally unstoppable. And I'm often not aware of it. Oh, I know how I feel and I know how I'm acting, but it doesn't register.

It registers more clearly when I hit the intense irritability and anger, the almost paranoia over the feeling of spinning completely and wildly out of control, the panic attacks that make it impossible to breathe with stabbing knives in my heart, and the inability to stop laughing, even when it's wildly inappropriate to laugh.

During my last manic episode, I made a comment on Twitter about how the upside to a manic insomnia was the ability to go all night without sleeping and still feel charged and ready to go the next day. A friend replied with something to the effect of, "I think all moms should be manic."

No, Sweetheart, you really don't want that. Manic episodes are terrifying, and not just for me, but for everyone around me. Sure, I'm far more productive during those periods, but I'm also entirely unpredictable and irrational, and no child should ever have to deal with a mother like that. Happily, my mania is mild, my kids are in good hands, and I have the help I need to make sure we're all taken care of when necessary.

Still, because of this, laughter has become a bit of a warning signal for me. A symptom of something else that has incredibly ominous potential. And so, it's been a long time since I have been able to enjoy laughter this much.

But I do. Today, I do. This is a new laughter, a healing laughter. This is a laughter that overflows from hope and love.

Because I have found reasons for laughter. Reasons to believe that the pain of the past couple years might actually be closing and a new chapter in my life might actually be opening.

And this chapter might actually be full of real, honest, and non-mania-induced laughter.