August 27, 2015- Memory Lane is always open. No need to live on it.

So there I was, in my hometown, pulling into an empty parking spot, with lines barely visible, in an empty parking lot. The conformist in me would never park all willy-nilly (I'm not Helen Keller); even if I was 99.9% sure that the parking lot wasn't going to explode with cars at 8:30 in the evening on a Wednesday. I was going to walk. Simple. No cell phone, no music. I have always preferred doing my exercise without music. It helps me to notice things. Things like the sound of my feet, the wind through the trees, the approach of a car. My thoughts seemingly narrating the walking tour of my childhood. Wondering of all the changes time managed to make while I've been gone. Noticing homes I'd never noticed before. Seeing homes my classmates grew up in and the now, vacant lot, where my middle school best friend used to live, until she moved away with her family to California. I remember the devastation of her departure. Feeling so sad to lose my very own friend. There has never been a time that I've been by here that I didn't think of her. I found her on Facebook a few years ago and she was kind enough to accept my request. Our social media reunion was like a deflated balloon, there was nothing left of who we knew each other to be.
I pass by the mothers of 2 of my school mates, as they share each other's company on a perfect evening to be outdoors. It was as if time had stopped, and it could've easily been one of the many other times I had passed one or both of them walking along our city streets, when I was in high school. I see the familiar furrow of the brow as one tries to place a name with my face. I hear the silence of their conversation as our steps take us farther and farther apart. Did they ask each other if they knew who I was? Maybe they knew it was an "Albertson" girl. Maybe, like me, they let a handful of memories we might have shared, breeze through their mind and briefly noted that we have all lived a lifetime since the last time we spoke, and that the world just isn't the same anymore.
My tour of town takes me up into the new development of homes where a cornfield used to stand. I say new, but I believe it has been around 10 years or more. These homes could be like any across the US. I don't say that to sound rude. It just seems that, for whatever reason, these homes wouldn't be viewed from the street, 50 years from now, as anything special. The homes in town that have graced this city for a handful of decades are just different. The air around the old homes seems full of history and mystery. The new homes built for young couples, young families, older professionals staking claim to their piece of Loogootee land, don't inspire awe. I have no doubt that they are gorgeous inside. They do not however, have character like old historical homes have and it makes me wonder if that was the same thought others had when those historical homes were new.  I have mixed emotions as the new street intersects with the old. It seems to me that I don't belong on either.
The High School has had an addition built on, of which I've never seen the inside of. Looking at the high school, my high school, I imagine all the stories it can tell. Thinking of the thousands of kids who walked through those halls and out into the world, made me come to terms with the startling fact that the Loogootee High School experience has changed little over the last 100 years.
I cross the highway for a 3rd time, never having to stop for traffic. In the slow, winding thoughts that have swam through my mind, I ask myself what I am doing here. I see vague visions in my mind's eye of a possible home, life and future living out my life here. My nephew and niece are there, my mom, my sisters. It  doesn't stay long, like a sandstorm, the images disintegrate. There are no emotions tied to the images, and my futuristic photo journey leaps into the scenes of many various places. I am there, in the images this time, smiling, with children around me, with life and abundance filling my heart as I see the work of God in me. I now consider myself called to do more, to be more than I have ever done before. The revelation settles in, comfortable and obvious.
I love it here, in my hometown. It is beautiful and fairly uncomplicated. I am lucky. There will always be a place called home for me. On these streets, I am always welcome. My feet will talk this path again, as they have uncountable times before.
No, I don't listen to music when I walk. I like to notice when God is telling me something.

So there I was...: August 13, 2015- Don't be a troll

So there I was...: August 13, 2015- Don't be a troll: I love to write. Well, let me rephrase that. I love sharing my thoughts about things to really let people understand that they aren't al...

August 13, 2015- Don't be a troll

I love to write. Well, let me rephrase that. I love sharing my thoughts about things to really let people understand that they aren't alone in their kind of crazy! Whether it's my disdain for automatic flushing sinks and toilets, Wal-mart parking lots at Christmas, or mosquitos that try to assassinate me, I have covered all kinds of crazy issues. Quite literally "crazy" when speaking about my immobilizing depression. Which I'm happy to report has not reared it's ugly head since December 17th, 2014. I sound like I'm in a 12 step program. Hi, my name is Brooke, I've been non-suicidal for 249 days. I've mostly been happy for those days, but like all crazy (read= normal) people I have days that are just, rude. Have you ever had that happen to you, where your day just feels like an ugly, itchy wool sweater? All you want to do is get home and take it off. I don't know about you, but I can tell when I open my eyes in the morning if that hideous sweater is already on. It doesn't always happen, but when it does I drink Dos Equis. Wait...scratch that, I'm not the most interesting man in the world. Shocking I know..but apparently a la' Bruce Jenner, I could be! Which certainly sounds like hell to me. I mean, getting paid more than female co-workers who do the same job, having very few people have any real expectations of me, being able to pull off telling perverted jokes..(that might be a bad example, I might have done that once or 700 times), being able to go months without shaving. Tough life.
Well, to be fair, there are a few downsides to being a man; testicles, balding (I've got that going on right now..this list is getting weird), erectile mishaps in general (weirder), not being a mind reader so you tend to make your girl angry, and not being fully accepted as a man after you cried watching Remember the Titans. At the end of the day, it's all what you make of it. If I look back to my ugly itchy sweater days, I'm almost certain that I wore that sweater all day voluntarily. Lord knows I have changed my mind on an outfit once or twice. I didn't have to take one step with the happy hater on.
We've all heard the advice that we have the power to change our thoughts and change our mood.  So why don't we? If anything, we have the control of our thoughts. Yes we do, but our mood is sometimes different.
How many women have picked up a magazine on women's "health"? Don't they just piss you off in the long run? They become a nagging mother in-law pointing out all the things you aren't doing right and how far you are from being beautiful in the eyes of some skin salesman. So why do we keep picking them up? There's no easier way to ruin your mood! Bashing your mind or body or even life for pete's sake is a guarantee for the ugly itchy sweater to come out.  Thumb through a mag and you'll see every body part that looks better than yours. Let me introduce you to Photoshop. Keep doing that... you'll be a hateful, miserable troll. You know I'm right. I also know that hearing things like "what's important is what's on the inside" or "you're beautiful inside and out" makes anyone who hears those phrases want to physically harm the other person. Those phrases are so passive- aggressive and so transparent, and even if they are true, they are as helpful as Donald Trump giving advice on hairstyles. The problem isn't that there are beautiful models (HELLO! THEY GET THE TITLE OF MODEL FOR A REASON). The problem is that, as women, we don't see our own beauty and most likely we don't really know what makes us feel beautiful. I've learned to stop waiting for compliments to validate...well anything really, including my looks. It's rare that we a) believe someone else's compliment anyway, because we tell ourselves that our mirror tells the real truth and  b) even if we do believe the compliment we'll tell ourselves it was just because we're having a good hair day or it doesn't count because it was someone we see as less attractive than our self. Wow, we are miserable trolls. Time to knock that shit off. Let's get real for a half second. There is at least one thing about yourself that you know is your best asset. I really like my eyes. They tend to change colors depending on what I wear, and when I've seen them in pictures I've never scolded myself for not holding my eyes in so I didn't look fat. If there isn't one single thing you like about yourself, then stop reading this, sit quietly and say to yourself over and over until the tears flow "I am worthy".
If you have grown up feeling as if you always fell short of someone else's expectations, or maybe they were your own expectations, you won't find peace within yourself until you forgive yourself for letting those feelings hurt you. We all have this sort of monkey on our back. And I can tell you first hand that grabbing that monkey by the tail and swinging it's nappy ass into hell is the best thing you can do for your self-esteem. Sit there and imagine all the nasty, flea infested thoughts that monkey caused and visualize it falling into the flames of hell where all those negative beliefs burn up, right along with the monkey. If you aren't into animal cruelty, then make it a little black back pack.
When you claim your worthiness, you begin to cherish treating yourself well. You start learning what you need and deserve to have, and one day it will hit you. You don't find a thing you love, you'll find a person. She's waiting in the mirror for you to see her.

July 27, 2015- A face of living

There comes a moment in time, for everyone, when they look in the mirror and no longer see the person they are used to seeing. For some reason, the mirror wasn't only used for doing hair, applying make-up and plucking eyebrows that day. It became, in that moment, a thorough and complete image of the person they had been un-seeing for months, maybe years. Being too focused on the details and not the big picture, the whole of us had gone unnoticed. Now, the noticeable was looking back. Little things like the softness the face now had, lines that were once barely perceptible had become carved more deeply, and what I noticed most was the instantaneous love for the woman standing there. Observing the observer, only a millisecond passes, but the recognition of a life being defined settles into the driver's seat of our thoughts and emotions. I felt the honesty in every visible hallmark of growing older. The long forgotten age spot from a trip to Hawaii that tries to blend in on my left cheek bone. One more recently from a few afternoons in the pool with Trey and Teagan.

My eyes are even more revealing than the years of smiles and laughter that took form in the shape of parentheses around my lips. Moving in closer, though still slight, the appearance of the tributaries that my tears use for escape can be seen. I imagine this delicate area is much stronger than even imaginable, it carries some extremely heavy loads. Much more capable to withstand the weight of life's hardest lessons, their existence can go unappreciated. The furrowing of my brows have left two similar sized lines, scars from the spectrum of emotions my life has absorbed. Deep in thought perplexities, anger, frustration and confusion now have a permanent residence between the doorways to my soul.

Bags. The bags under my eyes are cucumber resistant. Which is totally fine with me. I think we as a society have held some pretty negative beliefs about these sirens of fatigue. I see them as a result of a life lived. The glory of living resides under our means for viewing the world. Some view the world with their eyes closed, in a dark bedroom, worrying about scenarios that most likely will never happen, or previous situations that have gone to pass. There are no time traveling capabilities to change the past. We have only the opportunity to choose not to relive it. These humble sacks represent proof that I have spent my years experiencing the world. Night shifts and international flights, jet lag and work that often times leaves no room for rest, while tending to the fragile lives of others; stressful times during the courses of what would soon be realised as unsuccessful relationships. Living life outloud, dancing and carrying on until the wee hours of morning in cities all across America, those times should surely not be forgotten. Nor should the stretches of merely existing, when in the stranglehold of depression. Bags, painless results of working long hours caring for others, traveling to experiences, not just locations (whether a cross country move or for a once in a lifetime vacation), I sought the feeling of bliss that laid in wait at my destination. Bags are reminders of battles, real and imagined, that taught me about gratitude, and ultimately, joy for life. So for me, I'll keep my bags, and recycle them, too.

Age is just a number. A sentiment I firmly agree with, for I feel I am no longer growing up, but growing forward towards the inevitable end of an extremely fulfilling life.

June 29,2015- stop being a baby

There are times in my life that I have been tactless, rude, egotistical, arrogant, spiteful, brash and let's be honest- a bitch. I look back and think of these times and I see me as someone who was hell bent on being strong and independent. Being self-sufficient was difficult at times. A lot of times. I'm not sure when it happened, but I forgot how to ask for help. In December, I remember a night that was particularly painful and Mom came in and saw me crying. My first instinct was to bottle it up, dry my tears so she wouldn't worry and then I wouldn't be seen as...weak, broken, vulnerable. My therapist's voice ran through my mind "Being vulnerable around the people closest to you gives them the chance to actively show you that they love you." So I sobbed and let her dry my tears and I let her make it better. 

One very blatant thing stands out to me these days---what if I had been a guy? Men don't cry. We've all heard it.

Well, I think there's a problem with that. My nephew Trey is 4 years old. Like all busy, running boys he gets bumps and bruises and tends to ask if it's bleeding! Which apparently means death will soon follow. A little boy being a little child. He has the right to cry, to be scared, to have hurt feelings, and get confused by the emotions he may be having at any given moment. So- when is it that it becomes unacceptable? I felt all those emotions this month and it's socially acceptable, for me, a grown woman to breakdown.

But for boys, it's a double standard.You hear phrases like:

 -stop being a baby 

-don't be a sissy

-he needs to toughen up

-he's a cry baby

-and the one I HATE the most is when I hear someone say "he's going to end up gay." The ignorance and sheer absurdity of that statement makes me want to spit nails. 

Exhale. Unclench teeth. 

Trying to move away from anger, although anger seems absolutely acceptable for SOOO many reasons, I begin to feel saddened. If I had been Michael instead of Brooke, I'm certain I would be dead now. My depression would have been socially unacceptable, and since the other side of the coin of depression is anger, I would have been eaten alive by vicious, deadly bullying by my own brain. Why aren't more people talking about this? How many innocent people will die before it clicks with the powers that be?

Nine people killed, in a church, by a kid. I know, I know-he isn't really a kid..but when you look back at your 21 year old self, do you see yourself as a responsible upstanding citizen? Or someone just making a life for themselves; trying to discover the minutia of their uniqueness? 

So, yes, I say he was a kid. 

The blanket rationale for such a heinous act is that he is "mentally disturbed" with a history of a psychiatric disorder. 

That's it? That's as far as you think it goes? What moment in time, in this kid's life, did he become so broken? Boys being forced to be "men" because any sign of being less than that is unacceptable by ...by who? Parents? Friends? Teachers? Television? Bullies? Who makes it stop? I think it's time we do.

Our jails are full of kids, kids locked inside the adult minds of rapists, murderers, thieves- what age does the psyche of boys shatter under the pressures of trying to be stronger than they know how to be, fearless in fearful situations, and ashamed of the inner anguish they must go through when their natural desire is to be comforted, accepted and loved, no matter what. 

Do you want to end hate, racism, oppression, and violence in this country? Allow your boys to be vulnerable, and love and comfort them so they don't feel alone. Teach them with kindness and acceptance, not unreachable expectations. Let them have a childhood. Let them play with legos and dinosaurs until whatever age they want to stop playing with them and by all means encourage creativity. Jump, play, dance and laugh with your sons, nephews, and next door neighbors. Be vulnerable too. Show them that life can be really tough sometimes and teach them grace by allowing them to love you.

June 24, 2015- Welfare

So there I was, walking up and down the country hillside trying to improve my endurance and stamina after all the Dengue nonsense. Country roads are very cathartic for someone like me, who needs the peaceful sounds of birds instead of traffic, beautiful shades of green in every direction. Out here in the "sticks" of Martin County, it truly feels like God's country. Until one looks down and sees broken beer bottles and beer cans in the grassy ditches, and random remains of styrofoam. The Walmart shopping bags weighed down by nature's trash; things like old limbs, rocks from the road, and unfortunately the carcass of what appeared to be a large turtle. With the passing of years, these country roads have gone through their own facelift of sorts. The term is "chip and seal"- instead of old gravel roads, they are covered in such a way that it appears to be asphalt, but it isn't. I'm not into road maintenance so I can't tell you what it's made out of. Of course, like most plastic surgery, botox and other ways to keep up with beauty, the chip and seal wears out slowly over time. So, that time is now for Love Cemetery Road. The rains have etched vains of worn paths in the road, that is now mostly rock. The underground springs have helped to soften the Earth and the forces of humanity have not been able to correct the uneven, lowered sections of road. If two cars meet, one will likely bottom out on the side with the large crater shaped divot.
When I looked at the various items that fill the ditches of my road home, I got to thinking that I should come and pick up the trash, remove the old, long dead limbs. It's unsettling to see my country side so poorly cared for and I wandered who's job it was to keep up with situations like this.
Like a smack to the forehead that you might give the poor soul in your passenger seat when you see a "Stop Ahead" sign- I realized that it is my job. And yours, and his and hers. Any able bodied person should do their part to take care of the small slice of Earth that they inhabit. Saying to yourself "someone will do it" or "they should pay someone to ..." sounds a lot like "it's not my job". No, I didn't throw out the cans or the 44oz soda cup from the Marathon station.
So why is it my job? Well, with social media or unsocial media, depending how you look at it, there have been many discussions about the Welfare system here in the US. There are some that argue that the Welfare system makes those who need the services, dependent on the very system that is trying to give them a hand up during hard times. The nature of "giving" with no requirement for a return of goods or services sounds like a sure fire way to keep people eternally under your thumb. The paradox is that receiving unearned benefits and continuing to exploit the system that provides them, the benefactors of this "welfare" have actually given up their chance, their freedom, to enjoy life to the fullest. Which doesn't sound like a good deal to me and it certainly doesn't sound like a free handout. More like a free hand-down.
Are Welfare recipients the only ones involved in this unending merry-go-round? How am I any different? I have similar expectations of the government and businesses- maintain my roads AND their ditches, ensure that my drinking water is clean, my power is on, and for Pete's sake that I have a cell phone signal out here in the sticks. Of course, there are many things paid for with the taxpayers money. My question is, what am I exploiting at the expense of myself and other taxpayers?
I'm paying taxes that fund many programs. In reality, I'm paying to go through life without any real social responsibilities, because since I pay taxes, it's not my job. It's not my job to clean ditches, to sweep streets, or to do my part to keep my community, a community worth keeping. Is that the progress we've made? Instead of living in a community, we live in a cocoon; dependent on someone else to take care of "it". Needing more and more, demanding programs to be funded to take care of "it". Children go hungry. Not on other continents, just down the street. Contaminated water, not in the local lake but in the faucets in our kitchens and bathrooms. Outrageous tax bills to take care of "it", because none of us realized that our blind acceptance of having someone else do "it", when "it" should have been us all along.
Aren't we exploiting resources? Aren't we going to see the large thumb we are about to be put under?
Ever wonder how it became someone else's job? Imagine a few generations from now. Will social responsibility even exist?

June 7, 2015

It's been quite awhile since I've blogged. A lot has happened and I must admit it's been a bit of a game changer for me.

Isn't that what a lot of us want- an experience, or an encounter, that somehow clears the fog of our busy minds, uncovering the hidden truth that we've known was there all along? Somehow miraculously unlocking the secret to our best life ever.

A wonderful woman that I knew when I lived in Las Vegas, has made it her mission to help women learn radiant self care. She put together a retreat and in April I boarded a plane bound for Bali, Indonesia- perfectly a half a world away. On a phone call before making the decision, the investment in myself, I straight up admitted I had no idea what qualified as self care. It was always kind of a vague, sentimental idea for people who had time to do yoga, meditate and straighten out their chakras, whatever that means. 

Regardless of what my misconceptions were of self-care, I knew that after my severe depressive episode in November, there was nothing to lose.

I arrived in Bali 2 days before the rest of the group. I like experiencing things on my own for the sole purpose of having my own inner dialogue regarding a whole new world. It was so crowded. I mean... the first idea I ever had of Bali was the first thing proven wrong. It is not a quiet, vacation paced island catering to travelers searching for quiet bliss. Although, I was shocked to find our gorgeous villas only 1/2 a block off the main road and tranquil, beautiful bliss was everywhere inside the walls of our home away from home. I imagine that a lot of the resorts were similar. 

I took it upon myself to go to the Bali Zoo and ride an elephant. I don't know why this was so important to me, but it was and I am thankful I did it. These creatures are amazing. I hate that I used them for my entertainment. Tokunga was my 13 year old elephant. I did get to feed her, but knowing they secured all the elephants with chains, and some had wounds on them, who knows what from, I felt as if I had taken advantage of and continued to encourage a practice that is ultimately against the right of the animal. I now feel a responsibility towards elephants, even if I don't know quite how that is going to pan out or what that "responsibility" looks like.

Our time in Bali was phenomenal. To be blatantly honest. It was a time to get real. To dive deep into the broken parts of ourselves, call bullshit on the things we used as excuses, and to forgive, accept, release, anything and everything that was blocking us from our authentic, true self. To finally find worth and value in our very own existence, just as we are. Faults and all.

Maybe you are wondering what kind of things does someone "get real" about. 

My "stuff" was really your garden variety shamefulness. (too many anti-depressants and hospitalizations; two failed marriages; never enough willpower; not enough 'having it all together'). Sometimes confronting these thoughts out loud and head on- gives them the light that is needed to fully realize that they aren't useful, that they are only destructive. And it gives you the strength to silence your inner negative voice and replace it with the loving patience of your very own kind hearted soul. By getting rid of your negative Nancy you can actually start feeling capable to chase down, not only the things you need, but also the things you want and the things you desire. And that my friends is some pretty powerful stuff. 

My first few steps on Indiana soil were filled with nausea and seering head pain. I just wanted to get home. Well...after a few trips to the ER and a week long hospitalization, I apparently got Dengue Fever. Damn Mosquitos. It has been a month since I returned to Indiana, when I first started showing symptoms and high fevers (103.9!!). Ask me how I feel today? I don't have a lot of energy. I feel like I just worked a week of 12 hour night shifts in a row. My joints hurt, my head hurts, and the only symptom that really doesn't bother me is the skin peeling off my feet. (It's totally gnarly.)

So, the moral of the story is, wear mosquito repellant.

A month home.

I look at the clock now- 12:52 pm. By this time tomorrow I will have said my goodbyes and shed a million tears for the love of my life, Beetle. A dog who has spent a decade as my constant companion. Living in apartments, spending 13 and 14 hours alone while I worked, and never failing to greet me with an excited and adorable butt wiggle with her helicopter tail. She has protected me her entire life. Barking at the slightest hint of danger, and sometimes that was a plastic grocery bag. Now, as she lays next to my bed at night with her labored breathing that only stops when she hears me move and she wants to know what I'm doing. Then after the brief holding of breath, her rapid, noisy panting continues. I hear her up at night and we sometimes go outside so she can do her business. I have to go with her. It's the hardest thing to watch. The arthritis in her hips makes her gait uneven. Her shortness of breath makes the distance she can walk without stopping, shorter and shorter. She can not lift her head up, maybe the arthritis has also affected her neck, or maybe she doesn't have the energy to pant for so long and lift her head at the same time. She no longer sits. She lays down, or she stands. If she stands she makes sure she can move without needing to back away from anything. 

I have cried every night listening to her ceaseless panting. Looking in her eyes, seeing the fatigue, and what I can only call defeat. She doesn't get to spring up and chase the cat. She doesn't get to run out to the driveway and greet the newest arrival. She doesn't even bark anymore when a car drives by. My beautiful Beetle who would ride in the back seat, resting her head on my shoulder or barking out the windows. My funny Beetle who always wanted to go through peoples' legs so they would rub her back. My precocious and strong Beetle that used to require the "Gentle Leader" in order to be walked, is now going to require someone to carry her and lift her into the car. If I were going to do the last day of her life that way. But, no...there will be no more car rides, or barking to defend my honor. There will be no more snow dogs, making snow angels in long forgotten tennis courts. She will rest in my arms for her very last breath, here beside the bed that I sleep in, in the spot that she has taken up as her guard post for all these years. I will pray that she forgives me for not noticing sooner that she was sick. I will tell her that she's my best girl and that I love her. And then, I'll never be the same again.