TouchedByMadness » TouchedByMadness

Packing

TouchedByMadness — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 15:09:13 +0000

This is what packing is like when you have cats Dante . . .

“Boxes? Yay! I’m going to nom the box flaps!”

“Plant? Yay! I’m going to nom the plant. Why you yelling?”

“Why do you keep trying to put stuff in my kitty fort? See me rolling around in your box. Aren’t I cute?”

“If I didn’t have to climb your tower of boxes to nom the plant, I wouldn’t be knocking stuff down.”

“Wow, that looks heavy. Let me lie down exactly where you plan to put that. Why you yelling?”

“You’re going to move that big bookcase all by yourself? I help! I’ll sit on the shelf. Whee!”

“Whatcha doing? Hide-and-Seek? Are we playing a game? GOTCHA! Why you yelling? Ew, don’t bleed on me.”

“That looks fragile. I’ll lie on it and keep it safe.”

“How did I got on top of the TV? Uh . . . don’t know, actually.”

“I’m exhausted after all that hard work. Zzzzzzzzzzzz.”

Rainy Sundays

TouchedByMadness — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 17:59:24 +0000

. . . are perfect for playing hide-and-seek with Dante.

TouchedByMadness — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 00:27:25 +0000

I am texting the Captain (who is away yet again) about the puppy I put a deposit on (because I’m lonely . . . and he’s not here to say no). The Captain goes off on a tangent about one of his friends.

Him: [blah blah blah] and he’s not listening to me [blah blah blah blah blah]

Me: I don’t care about Drew’s problms

Me: I need a dog name

Me: And a spell check apparently

Him: I need you

This Is Me

TouchedByMadness — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 02:22:45 +0000

Part of the appeal of the Internet, for me anyway, is that you know me through my words. My words have power. I remember in high school when I was a mousy, socially-awkward kid in the back of the English class, no one paid me any attention. Not until I handed in my first writing assignment. I remember the teacher standing up in front of the classroom and urging the students to read my paper. His voice was filled with a mixture of surprise and excitement. As if he had discovered a very important secret.

In that moment, my writing made me special. My teacher saw me in a different way. I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t even ordinary. I was something else. Something more. Something noteworthy. I liked that. A LOT.

So I share my words with you. I tell you my stories. I expose my soul to you. Except . . .

Except sometimes I feel like maybe I hide behind my words.

Like I am showing you what I think are the best parts of me instead of sharing all of me.

Because maybe you’ll be satisfied with just words. I will give you all the words you want!

But photos?

Well, that’s a whole other story entirely.

I have a confession. I am not a cat.

I have a face.

This is me.

Loser

TouchedByMadness — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 19:46:07 +0000

My family moved when I was nine. Not across the country or even to another state, just the next town over. Even so, for me it was a BIG DEAL. I was beside myself with excitement. I was leaving a tiny private school where my entire grade consisted of six students to go to a public school where my grade would consist of two classes full of potential friends. Plus I’d get to ride the bus. And my days of ugly plaid jumpers were over.

I was a ball of nervous energy that summer before I entered the fifth grade. I daydreamed about all the amazing people I was sure to meet. Two whole classes full of kids my age! More classmates than I had ever seen before! It was hard to wrap my mind around. My social calendar would be teeming with play dates and parties! I was certain that my life would change in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

September finally rolled around. I was ready. On the first day of school, my sister and I waited for the bus at the end of our driveway. I smoothed the skirt of my brand new first day of school outfit over and over as I imagined the smiling faces of my peers. When I saw the bus rolling down the street, I practically burst with joy. I was going to make so many new friends!

But I didn’t. Not that day. Or the next. Or the following week. Or my first few months. Or at all that year. My classmates had known each other since kindergarten and their social circles were set. There was no warm welcome. They had no need of me. I was an outsider. There were occasional unkind words or a chair pulled out from under me, but for the most part I was ignored. I was invisible.

My mother went as far as to meet with my teacher and plead with her to help engineer a friendship between me and one of my classmates. But still every day I came home more alone than the day before. At this point my mother decided that birthday parties with friends from school were “too expensive,” a cover for her fear that I would blow out my candles in an empty room.

By ten years old, I decided that something must be horribly wrong with me that not a single student wanted to be my friend. I set aside my silly dreams of sleepovers and friendship bracelets. I crawled up deep inside myself. Sad and wounded, I refused to come out.

And now that twenty years has passed, I don’t know how to.

You Bring Me Calm

TouchedByMadness — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 01:08:32 +0000

One evening I find you reclining on the living room sofa. When you see me standing there, you roll onto your side, inviting me to lie down next to you. With our bodies pressed together, there is just enough room to share the space comfortably. You wind your arm around my waist and hold me tight to you. My t-shirt rides up my back, exposing a patch of skin. Your thumb finds it and rubs gently back and forth, perhaps without you ever realizing it. Our faces are so close. I look into the blue eyes that twinkle when you make me laugh. I touch the smiling lips that kiss me good morning and goodnight every day that you are home. Now you kiss my forehead, my nose, my eyelids. I feel my heart swell in my chest. We talk about nothing of importance. Mostly we lie there quietly enjoying the feel of each other. Awake, alert, but still.

In these moments we don’t think about work or bills or trainings or deployments. The half-packed suitcase in the bedroom is forgotten. Our blackberries are ignored. We are not burdened with worry, grief, or despair. And other people’s drama? For this while it doesn’t exist. We lie there like this for a long time. The room slowly darkens; still we are reluctant to move. We are completely and utterly content. For those hours we are happy. For those hours we are at peace.

Adjusting

TouchedByMadness — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 23:00:54 +0000

You knew what you were getting into.

I hear that a lot. Sometimes it comes across as a question, but often it sounds more like an admonishment. “So he’s away again. Stop your moping. You knew what you were getting into.”

It’s true. Mostly. I knew about the weekends. I knew about the annual “summer camp.” I knew that at least every five years the possibility of deployment comes up. I knew of his plans to be a career soldier.

But I didn’t know he’ll be away for weeks at a time nearly every month for the year leading up to deployment. I didn’t know our meals and movie nights are to be regularly interrupted by phone calls. I didn’t know we’ll be spending our first wedding anniversary apart – me at home and him in Afghanistan.

And even if I knew, it doesn’t stop the ache in my heart whenever he’s away. It doesn’t prevent the nights I lie awake missing the touch of his hand on my back. It doesn’t cure my loneliness or heal my pain. And it doesn’t keep the tears from falling as each day brings us closer to him leaving for war, unable to promise he’ll come back.

“Knowing,” unfortunately, doesn’t make me strong or make the situation less hard. It just means I made the choice to be with this man despite what is hard.

You knew what you were getting into, they say.

I knew. I also know that I need to feel my feelings. And today, I feel sad.

Love Story

TouchedByMadness — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 23:54:01 +0000

I think Dante had intended to watch me tie back my hair when he jumped onto the bathroom vanity. He sat patiently, waiting for an ear scratch. Then he saw the daddy long legs in the sink. This new creature captivated Dante’s simple mind. He lowered his face close to it to get a better look.

The daddy long legs appeared enchanted by Dante’s long, white eyebrow whiskers. As the hairs brushed past the arachnid, it climbed aboard and embraced them.

Dante sat up, surprised. He looked at me with a pitiful expression. Picture a face full of confusion with a daddy long legs dangling in one eye, intertwined amorously in the cat’s eyebrow whiskers. Dante blinked. Help, Mama.

“I don’t even know what to do with that,” I said.

I'm cute, but I have no idea what's going on.

Answers

TouchedByMadness — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 11:54:27 +0000

Damaged lining along the esophagus and stomach. Four more weeks . . . → Read More: Answers

One Day

TouchedByMadness — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 16:24:58 +0000

Yesterday I read Hilly’s post about how she intervened when she saw a teen girl about to be humiliated by a group of unkind boys.

There are many things we pretend we don’t see because we have our own problems, or we couldn’t be bothered, or it’s none of our business. How do you decide when it’s your place to get involved?

I knew a girl in college (let’s call her Hannah) who made a point of being friendly to “the quiet ones,” students like me who kept their heads down and often ate alone (hello first semester). Hannah was fun and quirky. I enjoyed her company.

Usually Hannah talked about light-hearted subjects such as how she had altered the lyrics of a Shakira song to teach math. She’d sing, I’d laugh, and a good time would be had by all. Then one day the conversation took a sharp turn into serious.

Like many of us, high school had been difficult for Hannah. Despite her bubbly personality, she was troubled by teen angst. She explained how she would rub the tip of a pen quickly back and forth against the edge of her desk, making it hot enough to leave tiny burns on her arms. That was the way to cope when no one understood.

While Hannah sometimes struggled with her emotions and the awkwardness of adolescence, she had her friends to see her through the tough times. However, she noticed that one of her classmates didn’t have the same support system. He was a quiet loner, just another sullen teenager to most people.

Of course, being separated from the herd made him vulnerable. He was frequently tormented by cruel classmates who couldn’t recognize their own insecurities. But that’s high school, right? So he suffered silently. What else was there to do?

Hannah watched him go through the motions of each school day and felt a pang. She told herself that she should become a friend to the boy. One day she would sit beside him, touch his hand, and tell him, “I get it.” She would let him know he was not alone. After all, they were not that different.

Classes. Yearbook. Parties. Football games. First dates. Drama Club. Homecoming. SATs. Honor Society. Prom. There was always something to do, somewhere to be. There was chemistry homework to be finished or a friend with a major crush crisis to be consoled. Hannah hadn’t forgotten her promise though. She would make the time for him. One day she would connect with that quiet classmate. One day.

And then one day he wasn’t in school. Maybe others didn’t notice, but she did. One day he just wasn’t there and nobody gave it a second thought. Not til the grief counselors arrived.

Although Hannah knew his suicide wasn’t her fault, she felt partially responsible. She had sensed his pain and wanted to help, planned to help, but he never knew. For all her good intentions, she never actually did anything. After that she always questioned herself. If she had given him her time, if she had been his friend on that one day that never came, would it have made a difference?