A child is a child is a child is a child a child. 

Sweet Omran, you are the face of war today. And I see you. Being pulled from the rubble. Sitting in shock and confusion. Your empty stare. And I want you to know that I am fully present in this moment. Instead of hopelessness, there is a fire in my belly that was started a year ago and it continues to grow. 

I was going to wait to post this until September 2nd. In honor of Alan. But now I see you, Omran. It’s almost been a year since I first saw his lifeless body laying on a Turkish shoreline. A baby, really, like my own. Since he grabbed a piece of my heart that I will never get back. Nor do I want to. Because he has taught me so much. 

That we are the same...

It’s been a little over 365 days since I first published those words. Since I decided to make my private life an open book. To start a blog with a story about wanting to commit suicide for the umpteenth time. You know, really bland stuff. Super low key. 

Welcome to the freak show, everybody.

The minute I chose to share my ugly little secret of being one of the wackadoodle folk with the world, was the day I became the victor. The boss. I finally had control. And suddenly, all those words were just that; Words. Tiny. Little. Invisible. Weak words.  

Instead I’ve become a wrecking ball in the fight against the stigma towards mental illness. I’ve had my meds changed twice this year and even my diagnosis altered. I still struggle daily, but for the first time in my life, I am ahead of this disease ...

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...