Just a Poem

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Maybe

Winter.
SAD.
Cold, wet, dark.
Siren song of depression
lulling me to sleep,
enticing me deeper into blackness.

I need to prop my eyes open
like Odysseus.

But maybe I don’t want to see
the endless ocean,
relying on nothing but hope
to get me home.
Maybe I want to close my eyes.

Let the dark overtake me.

-Tacy Stine

Kindness Really Does Matter

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Being kind has almost become cliché these days. There are t-shirts, billboards and posts throughout social media, so I wondered if I should post about it, but it really, truly is important. One of the things I love the most about my eleven-year-old daughter is how sweet and kind she is. That is what people always say about her, and I would rather have them saying that than that she’s competitive, smart, talented, etc. Those are good things, too, but I love that she is kind.

Several weeks ago a teacher friend brought up a parent who had said some pretty harsh, unkind things. Sometimes I think people expect professionals to be immune. But we’re all human, we all have emotions, and we’re all affected. It made me think of times I probably hadn’t been as considerate or kind as I should have been. It reminded me of my daughter, and I decided to make an effort to be more kind.

The next day I was at a mall/shopping center in downtown Salt Lake City, about 20 minutes from my house. As I came up the escalator from parking I saw this huge Christmas tree already set up (it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet). A man was attempting to take a selfie with his daughter who looked about 4. I smiled and continued walking until I noticed his wife, with a toddler, go up to them. I had a thought that I should offer to get a picture of all four of them in front of the tree. I almost dismissed it. What if they thought I was weird? What if they didn’t want one? It’s not like I was walking right past them—it would mean curving around, out of my way. Then I decided to just do it. Even if they said, “No thanks,” at least I was attempting to do something nice.

When I asked them if they wanted me to get a picture of all of them they both looked so grateful as they told me, “Yes!” The mom got the toddler out of his stroller and they stood in front of the tree. I took an adorable picture of this cute family. When I handed the phone back the dad, again, looked so grateful and told me, “Thank you,” like he absolutely meant it. It made me so happy! Several minutes later I realized I was still smiling. It was such a simple thing to do something nice for someone, and I was the one who was happy, smiling and feeling great. That’s what kindness does. It makes others happy, and it makes you happy, too. I know it might sound cheesy or cliché, but I really do believe this world would be a better place if we all practiced a little more kindness.

I Miss Writing

I miss writing. I miss my books, my characters, the worlds I’ve created. We writers are a strange bunch, aren’t we?

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I’m the kind of writer who edits and revises as I go—over and over and over again. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to. I’ve heard fellow writers and published authors at writing conferences say not to go back over your work until you completely finish it. But I can’t. My OCD doesn’t allow it. I have to revise as I go along. Sometimes I get sick of my books, my characters, my worlds because of it, and I end up having to take a break. Now, I miss them because they have long been absent. I have long been absent. I have no time. My day starts at 4:00 in the morning and usually ends between 9-9:30 at night when I collapse into bed. I’m going all the time. I miss writing. I miss my creations. I miss having time.

I don’t mean to whine, I don’t mean to complain. I am blessed, so very, very blessed. I’m just overwhelmed and missing the thing that has been such a part of my life for such a long time. I had a panic attack last week, the first one I’d had in quite awhile. Even though I am blessed and doing better, mental illness is still a part of me, too.

Time

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I went for a walk this evening on a trail near my house. Even though I was still in the middle of the city, the beauty of the fields and trees, the colors of the setting sun, made me feel as if I were out in the wild, one with nature. It reminded me of how often I used to take walks like this, when I was young—how often I used to spend time out in nature. Making decisions was so much easier back then because there were far fewer decisions to make. And those decisions didn’t hold the weight that they do now.

It was such a beautiful night, cool, crisp, alive. A hawk perched at the top of a tree, surveying the same scene I was drinking in. I couldn’t tell what kind it was because it was too far away, without enough light, and I cursed myself for not bringing my camera with its zoom. I love the way cameras stop a moment in time. As I thought of that, it made me realize what a hard time I often have living in the present—when the past is dragging at my heels like the chains that Marley was forced to wear and with the future constantly looming before me, as hazy scenes, ever-changing, shifting and slithering, and always just out of reach. Sometimes it feels like every decision is do or die, and I die more often than I do, because I can’t shake the past, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to shape the future. So I wish I had a camera that could actually stop time, so I could stop moving, so I could know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. But I don’t; I can’t. I keep moving and hope that I’m doing the right thing. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. And time never stops. It just keeps moving. I keep moving.

The Change of the Seasons

I have long been absent. I’ve been working two jobs since August, on top of being a single mom, and I just haven’t had any time or motivation to write. But I have a little of both right now, and not too long ago a friend told me she missed my posts. It meant the world to me to hear that.

A week or two ago I was looking back through old journals and found this entry from almost six years ago. I know I have written other similar entries because it is still what I feel. Every year.

The change of the seasons is intertwined with my soul. What happens in Nature also happens within me. The gray sky, the morning fog, the jeweled moon at night above the mountains, and the cold air kissing my skin haul in memory, attach it to my mind. It drags behind me through the change and beyond. A wondrous, mysterious time, but also a dark time.

For some reason the past is tied to the change in seasons—at least summer to autumn and autumn to winter. As the seasons change my mind is filled with memories of the past, some good, some bad and some good that feel bad now because of changes that have happened. The memories achingly gnaw at me, often confuse me, sometimes consume me. Perhaps part of it is the seasonal affective disorder that is already beginning. Or maybe I’m just . . . weird. Maybe I’m that last red maple leaf, stubbornly clinging to the tree and what was, yet unable to hold on as winter rips me free, waiting on the frozen ground for what spring and summer inevitably have in store.

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Life Inside the Box

I didn’t want to let this much time go by between posts, but life has been insanely busy the last few weeks. I feel like I have no time. All of my time is working or my kids. I’ve been worried about losing myself again the way I did when I had postpartum depression, the way I did in my marriage. I feel like I just found myself again in the last few months. I know who I am, and I like who I am. I just don’t know if I can hold onto it with my busy schedule.

I had this training I had to go to on Friday. It was on the same road that leads to Antelope Island, one of my favorite local spots, one of my local sanctuaries, I suppose you could say. I so desperately wanted to screw the training and just keep driving—out to the island.

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I have this yearning inside me to escape. I continue to have dreams, even small ones—like driving out to Antelope Island—that seem so far out of reach. Is this life? Living in a box with holes, where you can see the outside, see what you want, but are never able to get out?

I want to do more than survive. I’m just not sure how or if it really is possible.

We Are More Than One Piece

I think I can confidently say that all of us with mental illness have been judged, stereotyped or stigmatized (or all three) based on that one simple fact—we have mental illness. Rather than seeing all of us, people just see that one thing. But we are more than our mental illness. All of us are more.

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It’s extremely frustrating to be judged, stereotyped or stigmatized based on one illness, one choice, one mistake, one anything. Who wants to see a single puzzle piece rather than the whole picture? And yet that’s what so many people do. They base their entire opinion of you on the puzzle piece rather than the whole, big, put-together puzzle.

How do we deal with people like that? Do we? Is there anything that can be done? I don’t have the answer, but I sure wish I did.