It’s me.

Okay, I’m not Adele (I WISH!), but I’m me. And hello. It’s been a while. I’ve gotten the urge to write a few times in recent weeks, but all the thoughts start screaming all at once, trying to be heard, and consequently, becomes the white noise of my head. Static? Fuzz? I’d lose focus and then be exhausted from trying to

Where do I begin? All this noise in my head leaves me worn out, struggling to catch my breath, and worst of all, depressed and anxious because I can’t seem to catch my footing and move ahead with my life. I keep spinning my wheels and am exhausted from the effort. I take steps back, and the frustrates me. Old habits creep back in, like bottling things up or trying to do everything myself. I’m hard on myself, and people keep telling me that, but for some reason, it’s having a hard time getting through. Too packed full of useless worries that are just dragging me down. I need a lifeline.

I miss my mom, so much. Especially this time of year. Everything reminds me of her because she worked so hard to make Christmas a magical time for our family. I cry a lot. I’m confused and forgetful about things that are happening today, it almost feels like I’m trying so hard to hold onto the memories, that I’m not making room for new ones. And it drives me crazy.

Crazy. That’s probably a word I shouldn’t use to describe myself. It’s not politically correct. But it’s accurate. Crazy, by Merriam-Webster definition, means:

  1. a:  full of cracks or flaws:  unsound <they were very crazy, wretched cabins — Charles Dickens>b:  crooked, askew

  2. 2a :  mad, insane <yelling like a crazy man>b (1) :  impractical <a crazy plan> (2) :  erratic <crazy drivers>c :  being out of the ordinary :  unusual <a taste for crazy hats>

  3. 3a:  distracted with desire or excitement <a thrill-crazy mob>b:  absurdly fond:  infatuated <he’s crazy about the girl>c:  passionately preoccupied:  obsessed <crazy about boats>

Check, check and check. So, fuck it, I’m gonna call myself crazy. It’s a cool word. I mean, it’s got a “z” in it. That makes it quirky and unique. Stuff like that.

Full of cracks or flaws. Well, I certainly have flaws. And my butt has a big old crack in it. Sometimes I feel the list of flaws is longer than the list of flawlessness, but I guess that’s what always makes me a work in progress, right?

Mad, insane, erratic. Yup. I certainly feel that way. Out of the ordinary and unusual? Well, maybe not. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who feels this way, and can’t make it through the day without the pain and the panic. But I’m not. I’m reminded all the time that I’m not alone in my struggle, there are so many of my friends who struggle to feel normal, balanced, and safe. They’re determined not to let it crush them, and they’re so graciously letting me into this delicate and vulnerable part of their lives, it inspires me to do the same with them, and we help each other carry the burdens. That way we’re stronger. And go farther.

Distracted with desire or excitement, absurdly fond, passionately preoccupied? Absolutely. But I don’t consider this a bad thing at all. I’m lucky to have an outlet when I’m stressed and worried that I’m not enough. I bake. I know, you’re thinking “no shit Sherlock”.

Christmas is so close. It’s hard to believe this is my second Christmas with my mother. Last year, at this point, I was on the verge of a breakdown, therefore, Christmas kind of fell by the wayside. I hardly noticed it passing. I miss her at Christmastime, my Christmases used to be about cooking with her, showering her with gifts that made her smile and light up, and of course, just having her around. Sometimes I think about how much I miss her and for a fleeting moment, I feel like I might crumble again. I don’t ever want to go back there, so I’m forcing myself to think about something else. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn’t. I don’t want to push memories of her away, in case they make me cry. I can’t seem to grasp that it’s okay to cry. And it’s okay to cry as often as I do. I’m sensitive dammit.

If I could give myself a Christmas gift, it would be the ability to really not give a fuck what people think of me. Or think about me in a given situation. They don’t know my life. That sounds bitchy. HA! But they don’t. And I don’t know theirs. I’ve got shit going on, others have shit going on, and we’re all dealing with our shit together. And Christmas shit is the worst. Anybody who’s lost anybody ever is feeling overwhelmed with memories of their loved ones. At some moment, nearly everyone’s heart feels a twinge when you think about with whom you can’t spend Christmas. But I’ve learned something. It’s true what they say, so long as they are with you, they’re never really gone.

Deck the halls. I have very few Christmas decorations. But I have a plastic canvas NOEL sign that is hanging on my front door to welcome anyone crazy enough to visit. Mom made it. I see Mom every day when I get home from work, and that’s kind of like old times. And that makes me feel good. It sometimes makes me cry, but it still makes me feel good. She’s everywhere. And I’m crying… BRB

That’s all I’ve got in me today… I’m on the verge of some kind of revelation, but I’m not there yet.