25 July 2016
Reposted from another author
Hi guys. Remember when I told you that my kids weren't going on vacation this summer? They're not. But I am. I'm here now. This is going to sound cruel but I do...n't believe in vacations with children. A vacation with a child (or three) is not a vacation, it's a trip. An adventure, maybe, but not a vacation.
I can't bring them. They're the reason I need a break, bless their hearts.
My husband didn't want me to tell people that we weren't home because he thinks someone will rob us. That made me laugh because we don't have any valuables. I'm not joking. I brought my computer with me and everything in our home is broken. What's a burglar going to steal? Laundry? Toys? Go ahead. We have too many toys. Help yourself. I consider a robbery decluttering at this point. I don't have any jewelry. I guess they could take the TV but the remote doesn't work well and it's some obscure brand so good luck replacing and reprogramming it.
I got off track. So anyway, we were at the airport two days ago and I was in a bad state. I was having another episode. People with anxiety, depression, or any other mental issue know what I'm talking about.
Maybe it was the stress of leaving the kids. Maybe it was the stress of leaving home (I don't do that a lot). Maybe it was just my brain being my brain but I was totally lost in the muck. I hid it alright but my husband knew and it made him sad which made me sad.
Then the voices started, "You're ruining everything. You're hurting him. You're hurting everyone. You're toxic. You're poison. You're nothing but a burden. They'd all be better off without you."
It played over and over again until I believed it.
Then I was a ghost.
After we got through security, I was walking like a zombie through the airport. I was in disbelief that here we were on our way to paradise and I didn't even want to be on earth. I was so deep in the muck. I was crumbling.
Out if the corner of my eye I saw a MAC makeup counter. Everyone knows the more terrible you feel, the better you should try to look, so I approached and asked for my shade of powder in a compact. My skin's dark so I figured they wouldn't have it and said aloud, "You probably won't have it. That's my destiny."
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, a woman with a loose blonde bun also standing at the makeup counter said to me: "Don't say that."
It wasn't what she said, it was how she said it. Not a flippant, jokey, "Aww don't say that, honey," with a smile. She said, "Don't say that" gently, but very firmly and with authority. Like she knew me.
I was startled because her words hit me like a brick. I felt it in my chest.
I looked at her. She looked at me and I said, "Why not?"
She said again, "Don't say that."
I turned to her, took two steps forward and we started talking. She talked, I told her the truth. I don't know why, but something about her made all of the pain flow out of my mouth. I told her how I felt. What was happening. And she stared right at me, as still and grounded as an oak or the air after a storm.
"What do you think about yourself?" she asked me, and even though I already knew she knew, I told her.
"I'm messed up. I'm different in a bad way," I said.
Her eyes were so determined and kind. I'd never seen anyone look at me like that, or look at anyone like that, really.
"What if," she said, "What if you're different in a good way."
I didn't say anything but let the words land where they fell, at my feet. That's the closest they could get to me.
"What if you're different in a good way."
She said it like a statement this time. I didn't know what to do with those words. They didn't fit in any of my pockets, so I just let them fall again.
"What if you're different in a good way?" She said it again. "How would you feel?"
I started crying. In public. I took one of the tissues meant for people trying on eye shadow. The MAC ladies looked annoyed.
"I don't know," I lied and blubbered. "I'd feel good I guess."
"What if you were made like this for a purpose?" she said and my mind was blown.
If always figured my mom didn't take enough prenatals or fell on her stomach while pregnant with me to make me like this. Maybe it was even a generational curse that could be traced to an ancestor who offended a medicine man. I didn't know.
But the idea, that I could have been made with my brain on purpose for a purpose, filled me with both hope and pure delight. Delight. De light. The light? I'll stop, sorry.
She talked to me there in front of the eye shadow. She told me about my thoughts and how they're creating my habits and patterns and gave me new ones to try. I asked her name. She said she does this for a living. I don't what that meant, I knew she didn't mean therapy. I prefer to imagine that she lives on a hill above a coast and wears all white while healing people. I bet she can talk to dolphins.
We said goodbye. I thanked her. We hugged. I felt like she power washed my soul.
So as I'm sitting here on the beach in the morning (I can't sleep past 7am anymore- thanks precious babies), I started to think.
People with mental issues, I'm talking to you. I know we're in mixed company with the normals, but this for you. What if we're special? Yes, it hurts. Yes, we get sad. Yes, we're tired of being in body that tortures us regularly, but what if we're special? What if there's a reason?
I don't want to bring Marvel into this because DC Comics is superior, but what if we're like X-Men? Take Cyclops. He has to wear those special glasses or he'd burn holes in everything with his laser eyes which must be hard, but he's also used them to save lives on missions. And Rouge. She hated her ability to absorb powers and longed to be able to do simple things like touch her boyfriend without possibly harming him, but through her interactions with Wolverine and Magneto, we all learned how amazing her gift is. Eventually, she learned how to hone and better control it.
What if we're like that? What if our brains that cause us so much torment, have hidden potential. What if we're special?
One thing I know for sure is that it's always the ones with holes in their chests that are full of unbridled empathy. Maybe that's just one of our gifts.
I know I haven't shed my last tear. In a few days I'll be home and scared of the freeway, obsessing about my kids' safety, and I'll still sometimes feel like I'm missing the protective layer of skin that almost everyone else was lucky enough to be born with, but something's different.
I know it was on purpose. We're not like this by accident. Maybe, it's our job to learn to live with it and figure out how to let the fire that burns us, warm our hearts and roast our marshmallows. Maybe the world needs us to make it better. Softer. Different.
It's not going to be easy and we'll still cry, but guys, what if we're X-Men?
Lots of love, don't rob me.
Bunmi
Reposted from another author
Hi guys. Remember when I told you that my kids weren't going on vacation this summer? They're not. But I am. I'm here now. This is going to sound cruel but I do...n't believe in vacations with children. A vacation with a child (or three) is not a vacation, it's a trip. An adventure, maybe, but not a vacation.
I can't bring them. They're the reason I need a break, bless their hearts.
My husband didn't want me to tell people that we weren't home because he thinks someone will rob us. That made me laugh because we don't have any valuables. I'm not joking. I brought my computer with me and everything in our home is broken. What's a burglar going to steal? Laundry? Toys? Go ahead. We have too many toys. Help yourself. I consider a robbery decluttering at this point. I don't have any jewelry. I guess they could take the TV but the remote doesn't work well and it's some obscure brand so good luck replacing and reprogramming it.
I got off track. So anyway, we were at the airport two days ago and I was in a bad state. I was having another episode. People with anxiety, depression, or any other mental issue know what I'm talking about.
Maybe it was the stress of leaving the kids. Maybe it was the stress of leaving home (I don't do that a lot). Maybe it was just my brain being my brain but I was totally lost in the muck. I hid it alright but my husband knew and it made him sad which made me sad.
Then the voices started, "You're ruining everything. You're hurting him. You're hurting everyone. You're toxic. You're poison. You're nothing but a burden. They'd all be better off without you."
It played over and over again until I believed it.
Then I was a ghost.
After we got through security, I was walking like a zombie through the airport. I was in disbelief that here we were on our way to paradise and I didn't even want to be on earth. I was so deep in the muck. I was crumbling.
Out if the corner of my eye I saw a MAC makeup counter. Everyone knows the more terrible you feel, the better you should try to look, so I approached and asked for my shade of powder in a compact. My skin's dark so I figured they wouldn't have it and said aloud, "You probably won't have it. That's my destiny."
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, a woman with a loose blonde bun also standing at the makeup counter said to me: "Don't say that."
It wasn't what she said, it was how she said it. Not a flippant, jokey, "Aww don't say that, honey," with a smile. She said, "Don't say that" gently, but very firmly and with authority. Like she knew me.
I was startled because her words hit me like a brick. I felt it in my chest.
I looked at her. She looked at me and I said, "Why not?"
She said again, "Don't say that."
I turned to her, took two steps forward and we started talking. She talked, I told her the truth. I don't know why, but something about her made all of the pain flow out of my mouth. I told her how I felt. What was happening. And she stared right at me, as still and grounded as an oak or the air after a storm.
"What do you think about yourself?" she asked me, and even though I already knew she knew, I told her.
"I'm messed up. I'm different in a bad way," I said.
Her eyes were so determined and kind. I'd never seen anyone look at me like that, or look at anyone like that, really.
I didn't say anything but let the words land where they fell, at my feet. That's the closest they could get to me.
"What if you're different in a good way."
She said it like a statement this time. I didn't know what to do with those words. They didn't fit in any of my pockets, so I just let them fall again.
"What if you're different in a good way?" She said it again. "How would you feel?"
I started crying. In public. I took one of the tissues meant for people trying on eye shadow. The MAC ladies looked annoyed.
"I don't know," I lied and blubbered. "I'd feel good I guess."
"What if you were made like this for a purpose?" she said and my mind was blown.
If always figured my mom didn't take enough prenatals or fell on her stomach while pregnant with me to make me like this. Maybe it was even a generational curse that could be traced to an ancestor who offended a medicine man. I didn't know.
But the idea, that I could have been made with my brain on purpose for a purpose, filled me with both hope and pure delight. Delight. De light. The light? I'll stop, sorry.
She talked to me there in front of the eye shadow. She told me about my thoughts and how they're creating my habits and patterns and gave me new ones to try. I asked her name. She said she does this for a living. I don't what that meant, I knew she didn't mean therapy. I prefer to imagine that she lives on a hill above a coast and wears all white while healing people. I bet she can talk to dolphins.
We said goodbye. I thanked her. We hugged. I felt like she power washed my soul.
So as I'm sitting here on the beach in the morning (I can't sleep past 7am anymore- thanks precious babies), I started to think.
People with mental issues, I'm talking to you. I know we're in mixed company with the normals, but this for you. What if we're special? Yes, it hurts. Yes, we get sad. Yes, we're tired of being in body that tortures us regularly, but what if we're special? What if there's a reason?
I don't want to bring Marvel into this because DC Comics is superior, but what if we're like X-Men? Take Cyclops. He has to wear those special glasses or he'd burn holes in everything with his laser eyes which must be hard, but he's also used them to save lives on missions. And Rouge. She hated her ability to absorb powers and longed to be able to do simple things like touch her boyfriend without possibly harming him, but through her interactions with Wolverine and Magneto, we all learned how amazing her gift is. Eventually, she learned how to hone and better control it.
What if we're like that? What if our brains that cause us so much torment, have hidden potential. What if we're special?
One thing I know for sure is that it's always the ones with holes in their chests that are full of unbridled empathy. Maybe that's just one of our gifts.
I know I haven't shed my last tear. In a few days I'll be home and scared of the freeway, obsessing about my kids' safety, and I'll still sometimes feel like I'm missing the protective layer of skin that almost everyone else was lucky enough to be born with, but something's different.
I know it was on purpose. We're not like this by accident. Maybe, it's our job to learn to live with it and figure out how to let the fire that burns us, warm our hearts and roast our marshmallows. Maybe the world needs us to make it better. Softer. Different.
It's not going to be easy and we'll still cry, but guys, what if we're X-Men?
Lots of love, don't rob me.
Bunmi
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