Ramblings of an Inquisitive Mind

Discoveries

Well, it is time. Time for me to unzip this impostor’s costume that I have been walking around in for the last few years of my life. I know I have talked before about a snake or a lizard shedding its skin—but that is not what this feels like. I feel like I pulled on a costume after my parents died, and that costume served me well for a long time. It healed me, in a way. But it also distanced me from a lot of things that I hold dear.

I am extremely frightened and also excited, both at the same time. Once this costume is unzipped, only new, tender, fragile skin will be exposed. I have no idea what to expect. Will this exposure be worth it in the end? Or will the costume hang in the closet, always at the ready, if fear overtakes me? I guess only time will tell. I am hopeful that this will allow me to evolve into the soul, the creature, the being that I am destined to be.

It is time for me to tell my story—to let you in—and hopefully it will help me figure out who the hell I am. I hope that sharing some of my life with you will not only free me, but might also encourage you to tell your story and free yourself. Maybe by sharing we can all learn how to get along in this world. The world can be a scary place when you feel like you are alone and the world does not care, or does not even see you.

I am hoping to discover how this 56-year-old, liberal, democratic, recovering alcoholic, lesbian, animal-loving, long-haired, hippie, peace-loving freak came to be. For years I was pretty darn sure I didn’t belong to my family. I thought maybe I was Joni Mitchell’s child!!! But the funny thing is that I look just like my Pops. So for all my differences from them, for all that I am, I am made up of equal parts Chew, Scott, Sikes, and Braswell.

Over the next few weeks I will start sharing some of my stories. Thanks for reading and thank you for all the support.

Drowning

It seems like such a long time since I last sat down to share what I’m thinking and feeling. Over the course of the last year I have tried to sit down and write, but my heart just wasn’t in it. I have struggled so much since mother and dad passed away at the end of 2015. I have hidden myself away for many reasons, one of the biggest being not wanting to deal with my own pain and my own loss.

Another reason was the feeling that most people were tired of hearing about my life, and my inability to cope with the hand I’ve been dealt. Then I went through a phase of feeling that no one was really worthy of knowing me on a deep level, because no one really cares.

So why have I decided to start writing again? Because my survival depends on it. The events that occur in my life occupy space in my head, and I need to share them: for myself and also, I hope, to provide some comfort and some hope for others who relate to my story.

This weekend two events occurred and I have not been able to stop my brain from entangling them. First, my friend Barbara posted an article on Facebook titled, “Drowning Doesn’t Look Like Drowning.” The article, written by Mario Vittone, explains that 10% of drownings happen with adults nearby, but they have no idea that someone is in trouble and is dying. The article describes the “Instinctive Drowning Response,” a physiological response intended to help the person avoid suffocation. The respiratory system shuts down speech as the person is fighting to breathe. The person instinctively puts their arms out to the side or presses down on the water in an effort to elevate their body. The body is trying to conserve energy and to survive – but this means the person is unable to scream, wave, or splash to signal to others their need for help.

If you are like me, I have only seen the Hollywood version of drowning. Someone in the water – bobbing up and down – waves wildly, splashes frantically, and screams for help. Our idea of what drowning should look like clouds our ability to see what is genuinely going on right in front of us. The idea that we could be right beside someone who is actually dying and not even know it is horrifying to me. I read this article and it just stuck in my head.

Later in the weekend, I learned that a high school classmate of mine had taken his own life. You have to understand that I came from a very small school – if we had 30 people in my class I would be surprised. We all knew each other for all 12 years of school and probably even before that. I remember this man well – he always seemed to be smiling and laughing back in the day.

So my brain has tied these two events together. I wonder how many times I walk right by someone who is emotionally, spiritually, or mentally drowning. How many times do I pass someone without taking the time to look them in the eye or say hello? Who knows what just being present in my own life might mean for someone I pass on the street.

I wonder how many times someone near me is dying on the inside and I don’t take the time to notice. How many people are silent, never signaling the pain and torment they’re suffering. How many people appear to be fine but are in reality drowning in their silence, unable to raise a hand to wave for help.

I want to challenge myself, and also challenge you, to actively participate in your life. How much does it cost us to extend the simple kindness of letting others know they matter? How much does it cost us simply to check on each other? Life is so fragile, and our time here so limited. I want to make the most of it, and help others make the most of it, by looking for the true signs of emotional, mental, and spiritual drowning. I want to help someone else keep their head above water.

Over this last year, and over my lifetime, I have had many angels who have held me up to keep me from going under. Thank you for recognizing that I was drowning. Thank you for saving me.

June 9, 2016

Today is my mother’s birthday. Today marks her 80th birthday and the first birthday for us since she passed away six months ago. I am lost, confused, tired, sad, and overwhelmed—but I am still breathing.

Before I got sober, I felt this huge, dark, empty hole deep in my gut. It felt like the wind was blowing right through that hole. I have a similar feeling now. I feel a deep penetrating hole—but this time, not in my gut. It is in my heart. Call me crazy, but I physically feel these things. I feel this right above my left breast. It is empty . . . broken . . . my momma’s place. Since she passed away, I have felt like an orphan, lost in a world I can no longer make sense of. I am sure part of these feelings have some type of deep-seated biological or evolutionary meaning—but I can only look through the eyes of this lost little girl. I miss her more than I can put into words.

I know many of you know my mother, and others of you only know my stories of her. Either way, you know that my mom was not always an easy woman to love. She was opinionated, quick to anger, loved to argue, and said whatever the hell she felt. Not a lot of filters. But to a young child—she was my world. I stood up for her and protected her the best way I knew how, because even as a kid I knew my mom was damaged.

I will never know what happened to her when she was growing up. I will never understand the things that hurt her and made her need to protect her heart with the force that she did. All I know for sure is that I loved her and I am certain that she loved me beyond measure. She wasn’t able to show it in the ways some mothers do, but she was fierce when it came to protecting me. Maybe that’s why I feel abandoned: my backup is no longer there. It’s so hard to walk forward when there is no longer someone to catch you when you fall. No one to ask for guidance, and no one who is always in my corner.

I feel blessed to have had her as my mother. I am so grateful for the things she blessed me with: two beautiful sisters who make my life worth living, an ability to face the world and not take any shit, a great sense of humor, and the ability to laugh at myself. One of the things that truly stands out to me is her sense of humor and the times we spent laughing together. I mean the kind of laughter where tears run out of your eyes, no sound comes out of your mouth, and you’re bent over double because your stomach hurts from laughing so hard. I’m not sure that everyone knew what a great sense of humor she had.

I miss those times. I miss her. I wish I had one more minute just to hug her, thank her, tell her I love her.

Happy Birthday Momma. I love you.

February

I tried my best to stop it from coming. The last day of January I stayed in bed all day with the covers over my head. Wishing it away. Crying when I realized time just does whatever it wants to. It just keeps ticking away, one second at a time, no matter how hard we try to stop it.

You see, February is usually a pretty good month for me. I start on February 1st reminding my friends that it is my birthday month. But not this year. This February will be my first birthday without my mom and dad. For 54 years, there has been at least a card and a phone call but usually more: time spent with my family, a birthday lunch or dinner. I wish I had known last year that it was the last birthday I would spend with them.

I wish I had known I would start my 55th year without them. I would have done something special last year – something memorable. But I cannot even remember what we did last year. I know what I did with my friends, but I can’t call up even the faintest memory of being with my parents. I know that I went to Waynesboro but that is all I know. I’m sure that I got a card and an “I love you” – but I don’t even know where that damn card might be.

I miss them, my mom and dad. My heart is ripped to shreds. I wish I could have just one more second with them. One more second. One more hug. One more “I love you.”

Just one more second. Crazy, isn’t it? How many seconds pass during our lifetimes, and just a very few of those seconds are the ones that change your life forever. Time is a funny thing – it passes by and a second seems so insignificant. But it takes only one second to change your life forever. One breath, one heartbeat. One second, then you look up and your world has changed forever. Some of the changes are amazing and wonderful: a new love, an engagement, a new baby. But some seconds can change your life in ways you could never have imagined.

At some level, we all understand that our lives are finite, that we will all pass on to whatever happens after this life. But it never seems real until it hits close to home. The second I heard that my dad had passed away. The second I watched my mom take her last breath. These seconds redefined and reshaped my life.

I was not ready to let them go. I still need them. I need their guidance, their understanding, their love. I need their touch. I feel like the orphan girl Gillian Welch sings about: “I have no mother, no father . . . I am an orphan girl.” That is how I feel, trying to figure out how to live in a world without them.

I have often wondered how people survive horrible experiences like losing a child or losing multiple family members at once. How do they survive? How can they go on? It is still unbelievable to me that my sisters and I put our mother and father into the ground, then had to turn and walk away. How? How do we do it? Continue to breathe, continue to survive?

One of my all-time favorite books is The Road Less Traveled by M. Scott Peck. The first line in the book says something like, life is difficult and once we accept this truth, we can transcend it. Life is hard. Accepting that fact is also hard. Loss is very, very hard. But a life with loss can still hold many beautiful moments.

That is what I am trying to hold onto. I am waiting for the next beautiful sunset. For the next “I love you.” For the next morning to come.

Mask

I’m wearing it. Can you tell? If you are seeing me then you are seeing not me, but my mask. It covers up all that is me. I can laugh a fake laugh, smile a fake smile, and listen like I care. But I don’t. I am barely breathing, but you don’t know it. You don’t know that I spend my mornings crying—getting ready for work—crying—driving to work—crying. I pull into my parking space at work, adjust my heart, take a swig of coffee and a deep breath, and throw it on: the mask.

Somehow I make it through the workday without quitting my job, screaming at my coworkers, or falling on the ground and refusing to move. I make it through the day and as soon as I open the truck door, the mask melts away and I cry all the way home.

I wake up thinking of them: my mom and dad. We lost both of them three weeks apart. We buried my father on a Saturday, then three Saturdays later we buried my mom. They are my last thought before I finally get some sleep. Not restful sleep—I awaken during the night and the pain is still there. I miss them. I long to hear their voices, long to hear their laughter, long to feel their hugs. But that is not to be. Only in my mind’s eye; a faint remembrance is all I have to cling to, all I have left.

I am constantly remembering the last time I saw my dad alive. It was the Sunday evening before he passed away. He was already in bed and I leaned over and kissed his forehead and told him I loved him. That I would see him in a couple of weeks. Then I went and sat next to my mom’s bed and told her goodbye. My gut kept telling me to stay—mom was in such bad shape I was afraid she might not make it until I could get back to Waynesboro. The whole drive back to Athens, I kept feeling the need to turn around and go back to Waynesboro. But I had already missed so much work and my friends had been taking care of my animals. I told myself that my mind was just playing tricks on me—I just needed to get home. I could never have dreamt that I would never see my dad again.

You never know, do you? When you will see someone or something for the last time. We take it so for granted, saying “I’ll see you soon” or “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.” Cherish every moment with the people (and animals) you love. I had already told my mom goodbye, assuring her that she did not need to keep struggling. But my dad—he was getting better, improving every time I saw him. Then, he was gone. I was not even able to make it home to say goodbye. He died on a Tuesday around 5 p.m. I wish I had been there to comfort him, to let him know that he was loved beyond measure. I am grateful that over the last few years I got to tell my parents how much I loved them, and to thank them for helping make me the person I am.

I have not written in a long time. I have avoided sharing my life with you for several reasons. I tend to let every single feeling and emotion flow forth through my writing. This scares some people and I understand why; I get lots of people telling me I need to trust, to have faith, to believe. I know all those things and yes, I’m sure I do need to be reminded. But all I really want is for someone to finally hear me. To truly hear me: to know what my heart is screaming; to know what my soul is searching for. Not just to listen to or read my words, but to truly know me. I wonder now if that will ever be possible. I have lost the two souls who brought me into and have bound me to this world for 54—almost 55—years.

Another reason I have not written is because of the pain and hurt that I feel. I often wonder, If I share all that is inside of me, will I be able to survive? Will I be able to live through the pain, the hurt, and the sadness, depression, and despair that my mask has been so good at hiding? Can I survive if I am no longer hiding from myself?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. I guess only time will tell. Most days, I think not. But the survivor in me keeps believing—keeps fighting—keeps holding on. It takes enormous courage just to keep getting up every day, to continue facing life on life’s terms. I miss my innocence, the sparkle in my eye, my great laugh, and my love of life. Life is hard and beautiful all at the same time.

One foot in front of the other—head up and just keep breathing. I am trying. I am trying.

Historic – June 26, 2015

I am speechless. I never thought it would happen—not in my lifetime, anyway. But today is a historic day. The Supreme Court of the United States, in a 5-4 decision, ruled that same-sex couples have the right to marry in all 50 states.

Many people have taken to social media to express their feelings either in support or in opposition to the ruling. I hold my breath each time I read a Facebook post from a friend. It is hard for others to understand, I am sure. But for the first time, I feel like a whole person, and a true citizen of this great country.

You have to remember that I was growing up and coming into myself during Anita Bryant’s anti-gay movement. It was scary to think you could be fired from a job just for being the person you were born to be. I have always felt that if I want people to accept me for who I am, I have to be willing to accept them for who they are. So it is hard not to be offended when a “friend” seems so negative about this defining event. As you already know, I am not a religious person, but I am a spiritual person – I guess you could say my religion is love, kindness, and acceptance. I may not always agree with you, but I can be kind, loving, and accepting of you for who and what you are.

For me, this Supreme Court decision means so much more than just having the right to marry. Imagine being in a loving, caring relationship for 20 years or more with a person you love beyond measure. You are not legally married, but you have shared everything for the last 20 years. Now imagine your partner is badly injured in an accident. Decisions need to me made; someone has to make these decisions, but legally it is not you. The doctors will talk to your partner’s parents, who will make all the decisions.

Now, what if those parents never accepted your relationship? What if they decide to take your partner home with them? Because you and your partner have no legal relationship, they can forbid you to have any contact with your partner. What if the house you shared for 20 years was in your partner’s name only? By now you see where I am going with this—these are the kinds of possibilities that scare the shit out of so many gay and lesbian couples. I know they have always scared the life out of me. I want the person who shares my life to be able to make decisions for me, because I have already told her my wishes and I can be certain she will follow those wishes.

The one thing in life you can always be sure of is that things change. Sometimes for the better; other times, not so much. My experience of coming out was not a good one and I have traveled a hard road. I am sure many people do not believe me or even understand me when I say, “I was born this way.” This is not a life I chose as a way to be rebellious or hurtful—and no, it is not just a phase. For example, I cannot remember ever dreaming about being with a man unless it has involved violence. I cannot say the same thing about women!!! Another example, I can remember like it happened yesterday. I was 10 or 11 years old and I was sitting in the tub taking a bath. I closed my eyes and prayed to God: God, please do not let me be like Mary (the only lesbian I knew at the time, though this is not her real name). I do not know how or why; I just know this is who I am.

When I finally came out to my parents, it did not go well. In my heart, I truly felt that they had always loved me and I had always been this way, so what could telling them hurt? Right? Wrong! I had gone off to college, very naïve and innocent. I had not even thought about relationships, sex, boys, or girls, for that matter. During my first year in college, this guy seemed very interested in me. I just remember always wanting to be back at the dorm with the girls. I did not enjoy anything about him, really. He was nice, kind, and cute, but I did not have any feelings toward him.

About that same time, I met a woman and all I could think about was being around her, talking to her, laughing with her. I was on the basketball team and she was in the choir. The two groups rarely crossed, but one day I saw her crying and went over and started a conversation. Her boyfriend had just broken up with her—and of course, I was right there to rescue her. The feelings I had for her, I could not remember ever having had for anyone before. I could not recall ever being that happy before. Unfortunately, some horrible things happened during that time. Another student found my journal and read it out loud to many members of the choir. I guess you could say she “outed me” before I even figured things out myself.

My second year in college, I met another woman, who became the first person I had a relationship with. This was a crazy, scary time for me, and I remember that my mom kept asking me if I was gay. I always said no. But then one day she asked the question differently. She wanted to know if I loved my friend the way I loved my sister or the way she loved my daddy. I looked at her and said, “The way you love daddy.”

My dad was sitting there reading the paper; he just looked up over the paper and did not say a word. My mother, however, slapped me and said, “You might not wake up in the morning.” Nice—right????

So this is how I have lived my life, at times not speaking to my family because of their feelings. At that time, I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. The only people I ever truly loved seemed to have turned their backs on me, pulled their love away for something I could not control. But I was going to be “me,” no matter what the cost.

I think I have spent most of my adult life carrying around guilt and shame. I tried to drink all those things away, but—surprise!—that did not help. It just added another label to my existence: alcoholic. Another thing for my parents to be proud of. I really do not think they ever imagined having an alcoholic lesbian for a daughter. Over the years, we have spent time not speaking but have also spent some wonderful times together, traveling and just being together. In the end—for me, anyway—I want a life with them in it, even if they do not understand. I have decided to accept them for who they are.

So how does all of this fit into the topic of this post? It may sound strange, but I finally feel validated. I finally feel accepted. I finally feel equal.

I know some of you may have different feelings about the Supreme Court decision: that it goes against your beliefs, or that it violates the Constitution. I hear you and I accept you. But for me, it means freedom from guilt, fear, and self-hatred. After the heartache of the murders in Charleston, I heard that we might be in the midst of another mass extinction. I thought, Do I really want to live in a world where things like Charleston happen? Do I really want to live in a world where I watch as some of the animals I love disappear from the planet? The answer was no. But then something like the Supreme Court decision occurs and I am so glad to be alive—so happy to see this day.

It feels so good to be able to see a light shining through all this darkness in my life. I think of the friends I have lost, who do not get to see this day. My hometown friends who felt the same shame and abandonment I did; those who lost their battle with AIDS many years ago. I remember them. I miss them. And I wish they could be here to see this day. I hold them in my heart and I will celebrate for them. We have arrived. We are equal!

Charleston

I do not even know how to begin. I am heartbroken, and sick of this senseless violence. I am angry that a young white man has robbed not only their families and Charleston, but the whole country, of the beautiful people he so ruthlessly murdered. The only reason was hate.

What is hate? Intense dislike, extreme aversion, or hostility. If that is the definition, what causes hate? My mind is flooded with ideas—fear, ignorance, and cowardice—and then I remember that no one is born with a heart full of hate. I am not sure what happens to some people. Do we learn to hate? Are we taught to hate? Is racism just another form of bullying? I wish I had answers but I do not. I feel sad and lost, and I wonder if things will ever improve.

I am a Southerner: born, raised, and have always lived in the beautiful state of Georgia. It is my home and there are times when I feel so blessed to live here. But on days like today, I feel downtrodden. There are so many beautiful examples of positive changes that have occurred over the years, but then something like this happens and it completely knocks the wind out of me. I feel sadness and I fear that the progress we have made is completely destroyed. And I cry. I cry for all the hurt and all the loss.

I am a 54-year-old Southern lesbian white woman. I grew up in a small town where there was a lot of racial tension. I remember being on the playground at my elementary school—maybe second grade—and watching as a group of mostly Black people marched up to the playground. I was a kid, and I had no idea what was happening. I was not afraid; at that point in my childhood, some of the most important people in my life were Black. But we were rushed back into the school. This was the beginning of integration in my small town.

I learned more about love and tolerance—and felt more love—from Daisy, our housekeeper, than I did from my mom. Daisy would hold me in her arms, hug me, comfort me, and protect me. To this day I am so grateful for her and to her. She was my world for many years. I loved her and I still love her. She was bigger than life, and many of my best childhood memories revolve around her. She taught me how to tie my shoes. She taught me how to be kind and also how to treat others. Not colors but souls—that is what matters.

Daisy never married but she would take in needy kids from the community. I was never sure how many she raised, but a few years ago I visited her in the nursing home. I asked her how many children she had raised. She said, “Six, and that includes you.” It still brings me such comfort to know I was hers and that she loved me.

I attended a private school for most of elementary, middle, and high school. The only time I went to public school was in second and part of third grade. My parents started me off in the private school and I created some headaches for them. My first-grade teacher called my mom in and told her I was, in the terminology of the day, “retarded.” Mom took me to Dr. Green, who informed her that I was not retarded—just stubborn as hell. I got caught cheating in first grade. Who cheats in first grade? We were taking a spelling test and of course I had refused to do my homework. So during the test I stood up and looked at my neighbor’s paper. When the teacher asked what I was doing, I informed her that I was pulling my dress down. The teacher sent a note home, and my dad asked me if I had cheated. I said no. He said, “Melissa, I don’t care what else you do, but don’t lie to me.” I remember it like it was yesterday.

So after all this hell raising my parents decided to send me to public school, and they chose to put me in a class taught by the teacher from hell. That teacher spanked me more than once. But the best thing about that class was that I made a new friend. He was the only Black student in my class and I sat right in front of him. He was so smart and so nice. When he saw me struggling with my work, he would poke me in the back and I would slip it to him. He would complete it and slip it back to me. Cheating in elementary school at its finest.

I still remember his beautiful round face and gorgeous smile. I did not see him as different; he was just my friend. One day my mom came to pick me up from school and I was on the playground, holding hands with my new friend. When I got in the car, she told me not to do that. “It doesn’t look good,” she said. “That is not something you should do right out there in public. What will people think?” I did not care. I did not listen – remember, I am stubborn as hell. Soon I was put back in private school, where I stayed until I graduated.

In high school, I played basketball and got a scholarship to a small Baptist college in South Georgia. I had never played on a team with Black women before, but I made many new, wonderful friends at college. I was from Waynesboro and my teammate Nona was from Augusta, so on occasion we rode home from school together. On one of these trips I remember asking her to come in and say hi to my parents. Not long after that my mom and I were in the car headed home from a trip into town. She looked at me and said, “You are going to have to choose between your family and your friends.” I knew she was referring to my new teammates. I turned to look at her and said, “I am not choosing. These are my friends. It was not my generation that created this problem, and I am not choosing.” She said, “Your Pa Scott must be turning over in his grave to hear you talk that way.” I did not care what she thought. In my mind and heart, people are people. Each of us was created to be unique and to offer this world something special.

So when events like the racist murders in Charleston occur, I am flooded with emotions. Understanding racism has always been a struggle for me. My favorite verse in the Bible is one of the simplest: God is love. What else do you need? This says it in black and white: God is love. Somehow, someday, love will conquer all. People who use the Bible to foster hate need to understand that in the end, love will win. We must continue the work, we must continue to join together to end racism and hatred. We must continue to love our fellow human beings. We do not all have to look the same on the outside, because on the inside we are all the same: same bones, same blood, same heart, same brain. It is time for all of us to help make this world a better place. I am tired of the hate and I hope you are also. We can make a difference – it is up to us.

I Am Tired

Lately I have realized how tired I am – physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I am exhausted. My wicked brain tempts me during these times with horrible thoughts, under the guise of seeking peace. I want to rest. I want to hide. I don’t want to battle anymore. Sleep – sweet sleep – no more pain – no more suffering.

I have battled almost all my life. Battled my sexuality, battled my alcoholism, battled to be me in a world that does not accept me. Battled cancer, battled alongside friends facing illness, and now I continue to battle as I watch my mother slip away from us slowly, day by day. Last year, my mother was in the hospital and the doctor gave her a 20% chance of making it home. I was not ready to hear that – I never will be, but now this awful disease is taking her from us a little at a time. It hurts to see her in this condition and my heart breaks each time I visit and see the progression of her Alzheimer’s disease.

I am tired of battling, tired of fighting to be alive, and tired of fighting for love. I am not going to lie to you – my mother is a hard woman. She can say things that cut my heart right out of me, then stand there holding it in her hand and showing it to me. So I cannot explain this next statement: I love her beyond belief. She carried me and brought me into this world and my love for her is beyond measure. I cannot imagine a world in which, when I call, she will no longer answer the phone. I cannot imagine a world where I cannot look into her eyes and see the devilish sparkle that has always been there. Will I be able to breathe? To move? To survive? I am not sure.

My head is full – my brain hurts. I feel the pressure inside pushing against my skull. All I want is for it to stop. Stop the grinding wheels, the constant stream of thoughts, the screaming in my head. The exhaustion – the depression – the sadness – I just want them all to stop. Today as I was driving to work, I thought I could slit my throat and find comfort by feeling the warm blood flow over me; find relief as I watched the sadness, darkness, and sorrow drain from my body. And that is when it hit me: That is exactly why I must write. Writing does just that for me. It allows me to cut myself open, pour my darkness out into the open, and then begin to heal.

Writing is important to me. It is my way of being in this world. My way of finally being heard, of feeling worthwhile and worthy. There is a funny thing that happens to me when I am with my family: Sometimes I ask a question and no one will answer me. It is like I am not there. I know that is why I long to be heard and to be understood.

I remember coming home from college one weekend and attempting to have a conversation with my mother. I remember sitting in the Bi-Lo parking lot in Waynesboro when I got the courage to finally speak to her. I was trying to be honest and, I guess, seeking comfort, warmth, and love. I told her I had thought of killing myself.

She lost it. She yelled. She screamed. How dare I have such thoughts! She was livid. When we got home, she made me tell my dad what I had said. He just looked at me and said, “I am sure everyone has had those kind of thoughts.”

So writing is my comfort. It is what I must do to survive this crazy world in which I live. I am sure my darkness is frightening for some, like my mother. But for me it is what makes me real. All my life I have battled and longed to be loved and comforted. A lifetime of battling can make a person very weary. But the only thing to do is just keep putting one foot in front of the other – just keep trying to survive.

Writing has given me the strength to keep breathing, keep healing, keep moving forward even through the darkness. Writing is the only way I know to keep the walls of this deep, dark pit from collapsing on top of me. I worry that by not censoring these stories, I may cause some of you to turn away from me. But I must pour them out because I can feel the soil begin to break free from the walls as I am trying to claw my way out of this pit. I can feel the darkness closing in around me, and the only light I can see is to speak my truth. The only way to claw my way out of this pit – my only chance at survival – is to write, and in doing so free myself from this eternal darkness.

Me and My Hobo Heart

I have always had a hobo heart. Always longing – always searching – always seeking. Always striving to become the person I was born to be. Many people who know me might disagree; they might point out that I never travel, never go anywhere, so how can I be a hobo? Well, I think there is a huge difference – I said I have a hobo heart.

In the song, “Mama Was Always Tellin’ Her Truth,” Iris Dement writes,

If she was glad she took you with her
If she was sad she took you too
There wasn’t a lot of travellin’ she didn’t do
Right there in that little house was a bigger world than I may ever see.

This is what I mean by a hobo heart. There is a lot of traveling the heart and soul can do without ever leaving the house: a spiritual journey of discovery. I am a person who lives in the here and now. I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I am just who I am. I am not good at delaying gratification; if I buy you a birthday or Christmas present, I will probably give it to you the day I buy it. I’m terrible at looking into the future and trying to set goals and make plans. Today is what I have, and I live it with all the ups and downs life throws at me.

I suffer from deep depressions but I am so grateful that I do. I live through the dark times – learning, searching, hurting, surviving – living. During those times I can’t act like I’m fine. I can’t pretend that everything is rosy and perfect if it feels like my soul is dying, so I sink into the darkness and experience it fully. At other times I experience extreme peace and happiness, and I am equally grateful for those experiences. This is the give and take of life, the ebb and flow of my soul’s tides.

There is a difference between a hobo and a bum or a tramp. Hobos move from place to place, usually looking for work, whereas bums and tramps do not look for work. That is another reason I know I have a hobo heart. Spiritual discovery is work. It isn’t experiencing a single, burning bush moment when everything changes. It is a journey of hard work, questioning, persistence, and change. A journey that my soul pursues like a hobo longs to ride the rails.

There are so many times when I am driving in the country where I reach a crossroads and I just stop and sit. My brain tells me to turn in the opposite direction – to keep driving – to go someplace where no one knows me – start over – hide. But then my heart and soul kick in and I realize that wherever I go, I take myself with me. My soul knows that I need to grow and change right where I am planted. Following my soul’s journey means I will continue to hop on my boxcar of emotions and struggles, and keep riding the rails until the day I take my last breath. Because that is who I am.

Johnny and Cheeseburger

The first time I remember seeing Johnny, he was sitting on his duffle bag outside a convenience store on the east side of Athens. Sitting right beside him was a dog. I noticed both of them as I ran into the store to use the ATM.

On the way out of the store, I reached into my pocket and handed him five dollars. I don’t know why – I usually don’t do that sort of thing. He thanked me and started talking. “My name is Johnny and this here is Cheeseburger – I have had him since he was a puppy.” I looked at Cheeseburger. He had the sweetest eyes, one of which was blue. Johnny told me that he and Cheeseburger left New Orleans after Katrina and ended up here in Athens. He also said he never imagined he would be living this way.

I see Johnny and Cheeseburger often and I always stop and give him a few bucks and chat. I like Johnny; I never see him asking anyone for money. I just see him walking around the Eastside with Cheeseburger faithfully by his side. He always seems genuinely grateful and amazed when I stop, talk, ask about Cheeseburger, and give them a little money. One Christmas, I saw the two of them in the parking lot of my favorite grocery store. I got out a little money and handed it to him. “Are you kidding me?” he asked. “Thank you and God bless you.” Cheeseburger stood right there beside his dad, looking up at the two of us as we chatted.

During one of our conversations, Johnny started talking to me about Cheeseburger. Cheeseburger is getting older, and Johnny knows it. There is a vet on the east side of Athens who helps Johnny out with Cheeseburger. Johnny tells me about getting Cheeseburger as a puppy and how they have been together for years. He doesn’t know what he will do when something happens to Cheeseburger. Then he looks at me and says, “Who knows? I might die before he does.”

My heart was breaking just thinking about this man and his dog. The only thing that has been a constant in Johnny’s life for all these years has been Cheeseburger, so I too wonder what will happen to Johnny without him.

I have seen these two many times since that conversation. Johnny has aged a good bit and so has Cheeseburger. I saw them this summer and asked how things were going. Johnny said the heat was getting to him but that it was even harder for Cheeseburger. I could tell Cheeseburger was slowing down; he still had the same sweet eyes, but they weren’t moving nearly as fast. I worry about them: where they sleep, whether they’re safe. I see other people talking to Johnny on occasion and he always seems so kind and thankful when people stop and talk to him.

Tonight I met some friends in Athens for dinner, then had to run into the grocery store before heading home. When I get there, guess who I see? Johnny and Cheeseburger. This time Cheeseburger is in a wagon and Johnny is pulling him around. I sit down and talk to Johnny and give Cheeseburger several pats on the head. Johnny tells me Cheeseburger doesn’t like riding in the wagon but he really has to now. Johnny also says he feels like Cheeseburger just looks up at him as if to say, “Do something to help me.” He says when Cheeseburger dies he will have him buried. Then Johnny says when he dies, he will have his ashes sprinkled on top of Cheeseburger.

If Cheeseburger lives to May of this year, he will be 15 years old. He has been Johnny’s constant companion for all these years. I worry about what will happen to Johnny when the time comes to let Cheeseburger go. It is raining tonight and Johnny tells me he doesn’t want to go hang out in his tent. It is nice to hear the rain on the tent, he says, and it is waterproof, but he just doesn’t want to hang out in it all night. He thinks he will pull Cheeseburger down the street to a little pizza place and watch some of the Super Bowl. I give him a little money and head toward my truck. He thanks me and tells me, “You made my night.”

What Johnny doesn’t know is that he also made my night. I feel very blessed to be able to spend time talking to Johnny. He has had a hard life. He is addicted to drugs – that is his thing, he tells me. I know some people might look at Johnny and think he is useless, while others might just look away and ignore him. It is hard for many people to imagine living a life like he does. But I see Johnny differently. Here is a man who has cared for and loved another living being for 15 years. He has made a difference in Cheeseburger’s life and without even knowing it, he has also made a difference in my life.

Since I have been in recovery, I have often heard the phrase, “There but for the grace of God go I.” That may sound overly dramatic for a woman with a job, house, car, friends, and family – but it is not dramatic. I could be Johnny. I have watched people like Johnny come into recovery and I have seen the miracle that takes place in their lives. I have watched as these people have changed and started living life to the fullest. You might think I should not give Johnny money, that he will just spend it on drugs. But I once heard a former user say that he always gives people money in the hope that they will make it through the day, and maybe tomorrow find recovery.

I have also seen people become Johnny. I have watched as friends have been unable to stay clean and sober. I remember one woman who was so important to me in my early recovery. One of the things she said at my first meeting I still remember today. I think that kept me going to meetings for some time in my early recovery. She was a beautiful woman but even though she helped many people, she was unable to stay clean and sober. I saw her several years ago and did not even recognize her. She died this past year – addicted and alone. So yes: There but for the grace of God go I.

I watch as people walk by, laughing and making snide remarks about Johnny and other people like him. Maybe those people have never suffered with addiction or mental illness. I wonder sometimes, Where is your empathy, your humanity – your soul? We are all the same; some of us are just more fortunate than others. I hate to think about the day I run into Johnny, and Cheeseburger is not with him. I wonder if they have stayed alive so long just to take care of each other.

When you turn off your lights tonight, before you go to sleep in your nice warm bed, please say a prayer for my friends Johnny and Cheeseburger. It is the least you can do.