I wrote three blogs this week. And I’m on vacation, so that should give you an idea of how fired up I am.  The first one is a heated mess about how every parent has a breaking point. Every. Single. Parent. And I got to witness one such mother’s in a state campground two weeks ago. A quick high light? She may or may not have been outside, disrobed and shouting at one point. Yep. I AM this mother. The second is a deep and soul searching piece about racial relations and recent events in our country. The third you ask? Public restrooms. This one, without question, is the one I have chosen to deliver first.

GIVEN THE CURRENT CLIMATE, THIS FEELS NECESSARY. You can thank me later.

Dear Public Restrooms, 

I have a bone to pick with you. Actually, more like a roll. Or many, many rolls, in fact. You are failing at your job. You exist for two purposes: good hygiene and effective human waste removal...

Sometimes I lie to myself. I allow my mind to wander as I watch my sweet twin three-year-old boys climb the entertainment center babbling something like, “Beep beep, here comes the mountain train.” What could possibly go wrong here?  

This one precious room in our tiny town home is where they can actually play inside. I mean, we live in Minnesota where it’s winter for approximately 18 months out the year. And as fun as -30 might sound to you adventurous outdoor folks, just no. I like to be able to shut my eyelids on command, to feel my feet actually touching the ground when I walk, but not my nostril hairs.  

I live in Narnia and the White Witch is a stupid voice in my head that sounds an awful lot like my dorm mother from boarding school, saying, “If it’s fun, it will probably kill them."...

One of the hardest parts of being mentally ill was realizing the reason I was so sad all the time was because I did not have the appropriate set of skills to maneuver the hard emotional hits of life. Both big and small. You assume, as a child, you are either just broken or doing it wrong. And I was. Both. But it was not my fault.  

I was that girl that always laughed way too loud. Cried a little too much. And always at the wrong time. And it was more awkward for me then it was for everyone else. Believe me. It led to immense self-loathing.  

It took over three decades for me to receive a diagnosis and appropriate medication and therapy. I am still in therapy. Probably will be for the rest of my life. But one of the best things I learned to do through intensive counseling was to face my inability to deal with tragedy and pain.  

To grieve...