Hurts and hopes

I have a Master's degree. In counseling. So I like to think I know a thing or two about humans. But there is still so much I do not understand. I totally get that growth and change are a-turtle-in-molasses slow. But it feels to me, in my limited understanding, that we are worse than stuck. We are moving backwards.

We are overly sensitive and too easily offended by everything and at the same time so self-centered we don't care who we hurt. What happened to walking a mile in someone else's shoes? What happened to if you can't say something nice don't say anything at all? What happened to the simple, genuine apology? We are so defensive. All. The. Time.

While I don't necessarily agree with it, I am beginning to understand the Huz's desire to acquire an arsenal. He sees lawlessness ahead and wants to defend that which he loves. I want to prevent the lawlessness from becoming reality.

I have never been what I would call an active activist. I don't go to marches or rallies. I don't closely follow politics and platforms and such. I fully acknowledge I am pitifully uninformed about some big things. I read the local news on my phone to see if any of my clients' parents have been shot or ODed.

I can't handle more than that. My heart hurts too much to know more than surface details. I am appalled by the fear and ignorance (yes, I said it, ignorance) that I see.

People are people. Love is love. Why can't we learn to move on? Why are we stuck fighting the same battles? Why do we still need #metoo movements and black lives matter and rainbow flags? Have we learned nothing?

I am ashamed of us. Yes! That's what that feeling is. Shame. Shame to be part of the stuck-ness. Shame to be associated with an organization that I feel just made a huge error in judgment. Shame for my backseat feminism.

Am I suddenly going to attend rallies and financially support all the causes I believe in and get political tattoos? Well, let's be real. No. I am not. I don't like crowds and I have no money.

I will continue my quiet, respectful defiance and hope that people listen when I do speak. Because my words are carefully chosen. I do not wish to add to the noise of life.

I will make Wonder Woman earmuffs.

I will love and support and encourage each young life I have the pleasure of coming into contact with whether they be black, white, yellow, purple, or green; gay, straight, or bi-curious; male, female, gender confused, or transgender.

I will work on my own fears and ignorances.

I will hold on to hope.

And maybe I will get a new tattoo.

Bruised and battered

It started at 3 am on December 22, 2018 and hasn't stopped. I don't mean to be dramatic, come on!

I frequently encourage my kids, er clients, to write about their feelings and tell them about my multiple journals to show them I am not asking them to do something I wouldn't do. But to be honest, words are failing me.

How do you write about the guilt and anxiety of not taking your kid's tooth pain more seriously? Is 4 (soon to be 5) trips to 3 dentists since the 22nd penance enough?

Does lecturing you parent that an ER visit equals a phone call, not a text, no matter the time of day make that ER visit any less panic inducing?

What is there to say about driving almost the exact stretch of highway where the accident happened on your way to the funeral?

And just when you think you are finding your balance again you are thrown an unexpected snow day followed by unexplained stomach pain.  Just when you think the dark cloud of sadness, stress, and anxiety is lifting you learn of the death of another kind, wise, remarkable individual with whom you had a personal connection. What words come then?

When the dog escapes the fenced in yard and is off roaming the neighborhood, when two fights break out at school before breakfast is over, when you pack peanut butter and a knife, but no bread. What then?

For a reader and wannabe writer, words soothe. Words bring understanding. Words heal. But sometimes words don't come easily. Sometimes counting stitches feels too much like work and the hand can't figure out how to draw the jumble of emotions.

Sometimes it is easier to find a Golden Girls marathon on TV. But only when you can't find M*A*S*H. And you shake your fist at the heavens or the universe, or your partner who stepped over the basket of clean clothes rather than carrying it upstairs. And you blast the music alone in your car. And buy the candy bar you know you will regret (but just one!). And you cry at a stupid video of people making wigs for kids with cancer.  And you put on your pajamas at 6:30pm on a Friday.

You ask for a hug. Then remind yourself that you are stronger than what life throws at you; that the tooth is out, and the stomach is better, and the scar is barely visible; that your sense of humor will return, the stitches will come together, the hand will make sense of the madness, the sadness will lift, and the words will come.

Bruised and battered. Sad but strong.