From My Daughter

Taken from the revised Lost Inside
 

When my daughter was born I hoped and prayed that my demons would not passed onto her.  I did not want the childhood I lived through for her.  When she was two years old I could see that my prayers were answered with an ear shattering NO.

I knew she would be in for a tough adolescence and the only thing I could actually do for her is let her know I would be there if she needed to talk.  I knew hard conversations were ahead of me, full of tears and heartache. 

Being that she has inherited my gift for expressing emotions into words I tell her to just write out what she feels and the darkness will not be able to consume her as long as she keeps letting it out.  At age eleven she started writing and now, at fourteen, she is a much better writer than I am.

The following is her work, in her own words, expressing how she feels and dealing with the emotions that plague her.  Her demons may try, but they will not defeat her.

 

To Those Who Hear But Don’t Listen

 

As kids we’re lead to believe,

You need a reason to be sad.
And we’re taught by society,
That it’s okay to make fun of,
Those who are.

I once asked,

“How do I explain depression,
To people who’ve NEVER experienced it?”
 
Just because you’re sad doesn’t mean you’re depressed.

Depression is the feeling of drowning,

While everyone around you,
Can clearly breathe.

Like walking down the street

And it suddenly decides to swallow you whole.

That nightmare of that dark creature

You never knew but were scared of.
THAT’S depression.
 
The coolness of a blade as it slices your skin,
Is what some people rely on
To take away the pain.
 
It causes physical pain,
But mentally,
It’s as if everything bad
Trickles away with every single
Drop of crimson.
 
Everything wrong and cruel
Fades away in that moment in time.
 
People don’t realize that it’s not
Cowardness that pushes
People toward suicide.
They are brave.

Knowing you’re leaving and never coming back.

Knowing you’re hurting those that care.
Knowing you’re doing this and won’t know what happens next.
Walking into this blindly and being able to push the fear away.

They aren’t cowards looking for a way out,

They are brave enough to move on.

As I was once wisely told,

“No one wants to die,
But everyone wants to go to heaven.”

Whoop 'Em

Growing up I use to get my butt whooped.  I can laugh about it now but I’ve been beat with whatever was within arm reach, shoe, flip flop, belt, hair brush, and I’ve even broken a couple of wooden spoons or four.  For the psychological torture I would have to go get my won switch and then skin it before handing it over.  When I got in trouble the amount of whippings I received depended on where I was at the time I got in trouble.

While all my loving aunts say they did not whip me because I was the “Angel” of the group my bottom begs to differ and thankfully my cousins can vouch for the beatings my butt took.  I have to admit I deserved a third of the beatings I got but didn’t get half the beatings I should have, so by my mother’s logic, and grandmother’s for that matter, it all balanced out.

Now, as an adult, with a child of my own, I can freely talk about those whoopins and laugh about it.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been told that you are never too old to get whooped, but honestly, we wore them out to where the fire that fueled our beatings is now smoldering ashes.  That’s okay because now it’s my turn to be the discipliner.

My parents, were the great discipliners for sure.  Everyone agrees that my siblings and I were the well behaved ones and the “good” ones or “special” ones, and those words come with a hint of resentment when spoken most times, and when I see that look of disgust and calling us the “good” ones I laugh.  We were the “good” ones because of what would happen to us if we misbehaved.

Why do I say all of this?  Well, as appose to when I was growing up I have noticed that most parents refuse to discipline their children, one mother going as far as to tell me she does NOT tell her child No and how dare I grab her son.  Well, your son that you never tell No to was about to fall of the second floor balcony and by me grabbing his arm I pulled him back from the edge just as he was going over.  I told him No, because I’m not afraid to, and he said okay and ran back to his friends like nothing had happened.

I see it on a daily bases, parents who look like they don’t care and are afraid of their children.  I also see the ones who have given up and don’t care anymore.  I shake my head because the solution is so simple, whip their butts when it’s needed.  Trust me, they will learn and listen.  And for those who say you’re hurting the kid mentally every time you hit them, guess what, NO YOU ARE NOT!!!

I was whooped and I turned out fine.  I have a cousin who was not whipped and she turned out fine too, but her argument is invalid because notice I said, as needed.  She did not need spankings because she truly was a good child.  My own child, has only been whipped twice in her life and those were, again, as needed.

Now it’s, “Cough cough, I don’t want to go to school,” or “I just don’t feel like going to school,” or “I don’t want that.”  I cringe when I hear that because of what I have been conditioned to hear what comes next and then, it never comes.  The response I would have gotten was, “Are you dying? Get your butt to school,” “I don’t care if you don’t feel like it, get your butt to school,” and “You can either do it with or without tears, but you’re going to do it.”

Parents need to remember that your child is your CHILD, not your best friend.  You can not discipline your best friend.  When that parent/child relationship is no longer defined as it should be then all other relationships break down.  The lack of respect in the family unit has gone out the window.

I hear child call their parents, their aunts or uncles, and sometimes even their grandparents, by their first name without a title before it.  I had this problem when my daughter stated talking and she would call someone by their name and I would correct her, “I can call him by his but you call him Uncle.”  Then Uncle would say, “It’s okay, she doesn’t have to.”  To which my response was always, “Yes, she does.” Leaving no room for arguing this point.  That’s how I was raised and it was with respect.

If I ever called one of my aunts or uncles by their first name only a slap would soon follow, either across the face or up the back of my head, it came, then I had to say their name properly, according to what it was to me.  My nieces and nephew, grown adults and with children of their own, still call me with Uncle before saying my name.  Their children do the same, even if they do not want to, they know what will happen if they don’t.  I won’t hit them per say but I will ignore them until they call me by my proper name according to them.

Why do I say all of this?  Because this is a major part of why this country is going to hell in a hand basket.  I will give you a chance to discipline your own child and if after a while you do not I will tell you something.  If you can’t play well with others in society then leave but I’m not about to let it go without something being said and if you choose to set me straight rather than your own kid then you need to be taught a lesson and I will gladly be the instructor.  I care about your child’s wellbeing, even if you do not.  They need to be taught, it is not automatic and if nothing is ever said then nothing can ever be taught.  By not saying anything you are contributing to the downfall of our youth.

 

This rant has been brought to you by a well-adjusted member of society who got his ass whooped.

Saying Goodbye

It's 4am and I'm awake. Not because my body is ahead by two hours but because my soul is trained to wake up at 4am when I'm under the same roof as my grandmother. For an entire school year I had to wake up at four am so I could shower and get ready for school. There was six of us, one shower, and all had to be ready to go by 7 o'clock so I will let you do the math.
Each morning as I walked out of my bedroom, with sleep still in my eyes, I would say, "Good morning grandma," and go take my shower. When I got out she would be waiting for me at the kitchen table, coffee in one hand and the Stockton Record in the other. Breakfast would be sitting on a plate across from her and I would sit there eating my breakfast in silence as she read her paper.
Sometimes she would read me a story and ask me what I thought or she would start with, "You know..." and go off to ranting her wisdom. She is a passionate person, my grandmother, and that passion lives on in us, her grandchildren, as I witnessed with my cousins yesterday, one of them triggering my grandmother's passion as she lovingly scolded her.
Now it's 4:45 in the morning and the only ones awake are me and the cat. I keep waiting for her door to open, her walk into the kitchen and start the coffee pot and start making breakfast but her time is nearing and she isn't able to do all that she once was. Which is why I'm here, why all of us are here, to say our goodbyes, to see her and kiss her and hug her, but not too tightly for fear of breaking her and then who ever did it would really get a whoopin from the aunts who swear they never hit us like we remember them hitting us.
While to some that may sound morbid, saying your goodbyes to someone who is still alive, oddly enough, in this goofball family, it's perfectly normal and a lesson I've learned from her. Reality is she will pass, it's a part of life, so let's not kid ourselves. When she goes then everyone's last memory of seeing her will be a sad one. By coming now, we get to see her and make new happy memories and more important she gets to see all of us and keep those memories fresh in her mind.
Sitting here alone in the dark, it's now past 5am and as I type the tears flow of the memories I made yesterday, the ones I will make today, and for the ones I won't be able to have in the future but those are mine and mine alone. At least I can say yesterday was a good day, full of laughter, smiles, good food, minus the tamales I was promised, but it's okay because we all ate home made tortillas like we did as kids, hot, fresh, and will lots and lots of butter. THAT is a memory I would not trade for the world.

Stalker

 I have a stalker. He follows me everywhere I go, lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack me when I'm most unaware and defenseless. His mark last long after he's gone and the sting is deep. I wish he would just die. Mosquito is his name.

I Am Bipolar

“Now there's some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
the tears of a clown
When there's no one around” – Smokey Robinson

When I first heard those lyrics they did nothing for me.  Just another oldies song from my parents’ youth that I enjoyed.  Of course I was too young to understand what those words actually meant. 

My parents did the best they could at the time, I do realize that now.  Having to raise six kids not everyone was going to get equal attention.  By the time I was old enough to start helping out around the house my three older siblings were out on their own which left me as the oldest in the house.

My little brother and I were as opposite as could be.  On the surface I was the calm one and he was super hyper.  We also had nephews who were just as wild as the Tasmanian Devil.  To say we pushed my mother to the edge of breaking would be an understatement.  My mother was strong enough to endure the stress we caused her, however, I can not say the same for one of my favorite aunts.

All I knew was that she was “sick” and we should pray for her.  My mother had told me that she had enough problems with those younger than me so I wasn’t allowed to have problems.  I was the good child and I needed to help her.  I love my mother so of course I said yes.  Now the meaning of the lyrics became clear to me.

I became that clown.  My grandmother use to say, “Laughter is the best medicine.”  My family loves to laugh and I figured if I could be the cause of that laughter it could serve as medication for me as well.

Even though I was surrounded by people I often felt alone.  I felt I did not fit into my own family.  For years, once I found out what it meant, I actually thought I was adopted because I was so different.

When everyone wanted to run around and play outside, I wanted to sit and read a book.  When it rained and everyone complained about the weather I loved it and would be out in it if I could.  Everyone else could sleep for hours and I could never sleep longer than four hours.

I learned to burry my feelings deep inside.  I kept them bottled up as I projected a happy persona to the world.  I was helping.  My mother never had to worry about me, I took care of myself as well as those I was responsible for, my younger siblings, my nieces and nephews.  As the years went on the list grew and I was willing to do it if it meant keeping my mother sane.

Upon entering high school, unknown to anyone, I had attempted to kill myself three times, thinking the world would be a better place without me in it and no one would notice anyway.  As tough as I pretended to be on the outside, inside I was a coward.  Make no mistake, unless you have been to that point, you have no idea what real strength it takes to follow through on the act of suicide.  For those brave enough to succeed, I feel at peace for them, their suffering is no more.

Because I became an expert in hiding my feelings I was able to spot others attempting to do the same.  I knew what they were feeling and wanted them to know they were not alone.  I became a shoulder to cry on, and ear to talk to, a hand to pull them back from the ledge.  Helping others, all the while, unable to help myself, living in a constant state of fear.

That deep cold dark fear exist to this day.  After everything I’ve been through from those days to now, learning that I have clinical depression and bipolar disorder, learning how to control it, without medication, I thought I had overcome that fear.  One night, during a family discussion, I found out that that cold overwhelming fear never goes away.

A family friend had mention that his mother and sister has bipolar.  It was stated by my family that if someone who has bipolar is not taking medication then they are a danger to themselves and others.  When I heard that my stomach dropped to floor and an ice cold chill ran up my spine.  Fear wrapped around me and bundled me tightly in its grasp.  I was afraid, genially afraid in the one place I should have felt safe, surround by the people I should never fear.

My life from childhood to present flashed before my eyes in an instant, fear threatening to consume me.  Suddenly anger took over, quickly burning away that fear.  I was ready to explode, but that was due to having anger issues that is deeply rooted in my family.  I was ready to fight, a product of both sides of my parent’s families.  I was being pulled in many different directions, a product of my bipolar.  All of this in a time span of five seconds.

“I have bipolar,” I found myself saying.  “And I don’t take medication for it.”

Silence filled the air briefly then the conversation continued on, with me sitting back not saying another word on the subject.  It took three days for that fear to subside but I realized that it’s still there, lingering in the shadows of my mind, never to leave me.  I took a deep breath and a few other realizations came to me.

I know that some people do need medication, they can not function without it.  Others, however, do not.  It’s easier to take the medication and go through life without seeing the real world around you but what kind of life is that?

I am friends with both types of bipolar.  One needs the medication.  I can tell when it’s not taken because there is a slight change in attitude and while most people will never see that change, it’s clear to me as night and day.

Another friend was in that state of the world passing by.  Trusting the doctor, medication that was not needed was being taken.  Just like any dependency, there were withdraws as they slowly came off the meds, having them reduced.  It was an adjustment but a weight was being lifted as they understood they were not alone when they needed to weather a storm.

Either option does not take away the fear we live with.  Will those I love understand when I say I’m bipolar or will they look at me like the monster I know myself to be?  Will those I interact with daily treat me differently, afraid themselves of what they do not understand?  Worst yet, will I be taken away somewhere, locked up like a caged animal, no longer a human being?

These fears are very real for us but another thing I realized, we need to educate non M.I.s about our condition.  We do not need to live in fear because living in fear is not living at all.

Whatever your M.I. do not keep it to yourself, tell someone.  Talk about it, answer questions they may have.  You will feel a huge weight lifted if you do.  I know it’s hard, it’s hard for me, but we can do it.  I’m tired of living in fear, aren’t you?

Depression

Artist Solar-citrus made this meaningful comic about depression and how it can effect anyone, anywhere. Don't be afraid to talk about it and seek help if needed, and don't forget those around you may be suffering in silence. Here are a few more important words from the artist followed by the comic...

“You would be surprised with how many people in your life could be going through depression at this very moment. People hide it like a paper bag over their heads out of fear of being judged, made fun of, seen as weak, or just not taken seriously. Depression should not be taken lightly, it holds us down from our purpose and potential in life. Those who tell you that it doesn’t exist have never experienced depression in their life, therefore not understanding the symptoms and how it’s something that cannot be fixed in a day! So if you think you are depressed or if you think you know someone else who is, please talk to a friend, a family member, or anyone else in your life that you trust - never overlook the possibility of seeing a doctor for more professional help!! Your feelings are real, your feelings are shared upon millions. Don’t hide it, talk to someone about it. With the right help, you can rediscover your confidence and begin life anew with our undying love and support!

We are right here!!”

 

I Am An American

“I'm tired of being labeled. I'm an American. I'm not an African-American. I'm an American. I mean, I don't know where my roots go to. I don't know how far back they go. ... I don't know what country in Africa I'm from, but I do know that my roots are in Louisiana. I'm an American, and that's a colorless person, because we're all people. I have lots of things running through my veins.”

Recently Raven Symone made the comment above and has been attacked by the Black Community.  I find this sad but have to call into question as to why they are attacking her.

First of all people, you need to understand the difference between NATIONALITY vs ETHNICITY because there is a huge difference.

Nationality is where you were born.  It’s where you are from or where you call home.  Nationality can be changed because, as I said, it’s where you call home.

Ethnicity is your race and despite what people want to believe there are only three races: Asian, Black, and Caucasian.  When you learn the difference you won’t sound so stupid when you try to use labels, because after all, we are all human beings.

I have always like Raven, she is a great comedian and actress.  American fell in love with her on the Cosby show and from the sounds of it, she fell in love with America as well.  She came up in a time when you were PROUD to be called an American, when it meant something.

I agree with Raven, I am a human being and I am an American.  If you feel the need to add any more to that than you need to take a hard look at yourself and ask why?  If you use anything else in front of “American” then go ahead and stop at that word and leave American off, because if you are an American then there is nothing else that matters. I AM AN AMERICAN AND I AM PROUD TO SAY SO.

#IAMANAMERICAN #ravensymone

God Bless America

"God bless America,

Land that I love,

Stand beside her, and guide her

Through the night with a light from above.

From the mountains, to the prairies,

To the oceans, white with foam

God bless America, My home sweet home."

 

When I was a kid I was told it was against my religion to pledge to the flag but I should always respect it. I did as I was told.

Until I was in the 5th grade I had thought God Bless America was our National Anthem. Being the 80s I was told by all my adult figures how I was suppose to hate Russia. One teacher even told me those dirty Russians wanted to kill me, a kid, because I was a free American.

I learned to love my country, take pride in her, and know in my heart we lived in the best place in the world.

When we did "Duck and Cover" drills I was scared but my teacher would sing, God Bless America, and it soothed me like a protective blanket. I don't know if it was the lyrics or her voice but the song ALWAYS chokes me up to this day.

When I think about the lyrics today, however, I'm filled with a mixture of pride and sadness. My child will not know the same pride I felt at her age. Day after day I see my country slowly dying. She's bleeding out and it seems that no one can stop it.

We were great once so what happened? Where did we go wrong? Standing up to stupidity and bullies use to be a good thing yet now, the cry babies have taken over.

Advice I got from my parents, aunts and uncles use to be to STOP being a cry baby but now that's all we see.

I want my country back. I am an AMERICAN damn it! and that still means something to me.

#IAMANAMERICAN