Posts tagged Mental Health
Eight Fascinating Facts About the Heart

In the pre-dawn silence, before the sun wrests the veils of frost from our windows, I hear someone running down the hall—small, naked feet sprinting toward my bed. I’m only half awake, half expectant, but when I feel the mattress dip under the pressure of new weight and a warm body pressed against my back, I know it’s my son and I know he’s had another bad dream. Maybe it’s Captain Hook again or Shredder, the knife-toting villain from the Ninja Turtles.

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Despair and a Desk

The despair is back. It’s so familiar that its return is almost comforting like seeing an old friend until you remember that friend is misery. I am miserable.

It is mid-February. I have made it through the big three without incident: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve. My sober family had a party on January 2 to celebrate getting through the holidays without a drink and hopefully a minimal amount of amends. I proudly celebrated one year of sobriety on January 8.

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Clusterhead

I spent the morning weed whacking the pathways between my farm vegetable rows. Even in the slightly cooler morning hours, the heat was stifling, so I opted for shorts. Weed whacking done, I looked at myself, covered in dirt and grass clippings, dripping in sweat. I could hardly see my legs. Best not to head back to the house until lunchtime when I could hop in the shower. The tomatoes needed weeding, so I set to work pulling the lamb’s quarters and nutsedge from around the growing tomato vines.

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Sky Burial

At first, I thought I’d killed you. The Friday before, you texted to tell me you were going to drown yourself in the Monongahela River. It was late Spring. You were drinking again.

“Go to the ER,” I told you. “Please don’t give up.” But, I didn’t offer to sit with you or hold your hand till the pain stopped. Instead, I just imagined you wandering along the trail by the river’s edge, staring into the murky rush.

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Grief and the Absence of Love

Is grief supposed to feel so much like shame? Mine does. Telling my story seems dangerous. It is something I hold close to my chest; I hesitate to reveal even the smallest details unless I have to. To speak of loss and pain out loud makes me vulnerable. It shakes a carefully crafted persona. It could mean people will think less of me, people will not like me. It could mean I get fired from my job, because I am someone who can’t cope. It could mean I will be left, once again, utterly, unbearably alone. That is too high a price to pay.

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