Another Winter Sign

So, last week in the 20-ish temps, after arriving home from work at 9:30 PM, I decided to take the trash out in the snow to the road.  I fell into the front yard snow, and could not get up.  I normally cannot get up from falling, but I tried, and tried more.  I pushed up from the garbage can, but could not stand. My feet in my canvas slip-ons slid.

No, I did not have my cell phone.  I yelled, “Help!”  No one in my neighborhood seemed to be awake at that time of the evening. I continued to yell.   No cars came down the road.  I realized my fingers hurting meant I could get frostbite, but I had gloves in my pockets.

After trying to stand up more, I thought going to sleep would feel good, but I knew that was a bad sign.  I didn’t actually feel cold.  I decided to roll, like a snow whale, through the snow to the front porch.  I still could not get up using the slippery surface.  I tried.  I knew the school bus passing in the morning would not pick me up.

Finally, after an hour in the snow, the neighbor came home at 10:30 PM from the airport.  He heard me, came over, and dead-lifted me so I could stand.  I am fortunate he heard me and had such strength. I feel blessed. I didn’t want to be garbage, or in the snow. I don't like Winter.  This must have been another sign of a bad winter … or a klutzy me … or both.

 

For Twitter's DRoad1's Group

 

For Twitter’s DRoad1 group:

DRoad1’s group may be interested to know that 20 years ago I was diagnosed with depression.  If anyone knows how serious a verbally abusive partner can affect a relationship, then you will understand my bad, second marriage resulted in depression for me.  Depression was my mind’s way to handle everything bad.

I saw my family doctor and he referred me to a therapist.  I was put on sick leave at work.  I didn’t know what to do as I had two children and I wanted what was best for them.  The first visit with the therapist made much clear.  I needed a divorce.

Worried about telling my children, I discovered they both wonderfully understood.  They said, “Mom, you should have done this a long time ago.”  They were right.

Once the black clouds descended closer, I discovered writing, indeed, is therapeutic.  I took my son to his marching band performance at a Memorial Day parade, and took writing materials.  While I waited, I started a poem.  I worked on it all weekend. It felt good to write about the depression filling me.

When I gave this poem to a close colleague to read, she said, “Oh, Cindy, it’s wonderful, but this isn’t how you feel, is it?”  I said, “Yes, Dale, it is.”  She stared at me, and then repeated the same comment, “This isn’t how you really feel, is it?”  I had the same answer as before.  Much hides inside, so here’s my first poem I gave my friend to read.

Depression

                                                                                                Cindy Sterling

                                   

The Dark Knight --

Intensely Male,

Exuding strength and power,

Character and charm beyond compare,

Entices me with his inviting smile,

A smile radiating all the magic of romance.

 

The Knight extends his arm

Up through the inky, bottomless pit of depression,

Reaching toward me,

Seeking me out,

Beckoning me,

Drawing me closer and closer to his waiting hand,

His arms ready to enfold me,

 

Slipping into mindless oblivion in the black abyss

With the Dark Knight welcoming me

Would be so simple, ever so easy,

Painless, comforting,

And, above all, peaceful.

 

With confidence glowing in his eyes,

And gentleness and strength inherent in his touch,

His hand and mine join together

In ageless, unspoken harmony.

I step into the dusky mist,

Which swirls about my ankles

And rises to caress me.

 

My whispered name on his lips is seduction itself,

Drawn ever nearer by the sweet murmurings,

The melody enthralls me,

And I go willingly into the safety of his arms

Which promise protection from the outside world --

I only want to belong to him.

 

I feel his muscular hardness pressing against me,

The tenderness in his kiss;

Captivated by his mouth

And by him.

I open my mind to him,

Accepting and trusting him,

The darkness and the warmth envelop me

And I no longer have to think.

Fly Away!

 

How do flies get inside? Do they hang out beside door frames in the heat? Why? Isn't there some place more pleasant for them to be?

 

Are they waiting for A/C? Do the dirty deviants want food? Or are they waiting for people to fall asleep so they can walk on folks' faces with their germ-infested feet? Do they infiltrate to spread cow pies in someone's house so they can laugh? What??? 

 

How did four flies get in my house???

 

 

Parent Practicals

 A few weeks ago when the podiatrist placed a death grip on my sore toe, I gritted my teeth.  I wanted to jerk my toe away.  As soon as he felt me tense, the doc calmly said, "I'm just going to look at it."  I snorted.

My dad always made that exact comment during my childhood.  I knew that meant my dad, and now the doc, planned to 'look' at the toe, first, of course, but that they each planned to proceed 'operating' without telling me. I've had numerous splinters removed with a needle by the art of looking.  The thought of my childhood and my dad made me smile.  I knew this trick.

Traveling down Memory Lane, I remembered my favorite expression Dad used to say during children's arguments -- "I don't care who started it; I'm going to end it."  The arguments presented to Dad by each kid who blamed another sibling for causing a problem, always ended quickly.  I smile now realizing how well Dad ended any commotion.  He didn't have to be a judge listening to cases.  He simply banged the gavel, ending each case with his saying.

Sure, all of us siblings knew the occasional reminders we received during childhood -- "Don't bang the screen door," and "Turn off the basement light," but we also heard, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."  If any of us pouted, a parent or even grandparent, would say, "Go to the garden and eat worms.  Big, fat  juicy ones, and little, squirmy, skinny ones.  Oh, how they wiggle when they squirm." 

Mom's warning which came to us during serious times, "Wait till your dad gets home," always struck fear into my heart if my crime seemed that severe.  I knew if Mom directed that comment to me, I faced big trouble, and I probably needed to do what my middle brother used to do -- put on all my underwear as padding in case my dad would find it necessary to take his belt off and beat my butt. 

Maybe comments from your parents have stuck in your minds, too.

Baby Toad Gallivants!

(*The first three snippets about Baby Toad are on my FB May, 3, 20, and 21 if you need to catch up.)

 

 Pulling "Zombie," my car, to the garage door last week, I discovered Wart, the baby toad, catching early evening air.  Yep, he had sneaked out the hole under the garage door and must have decided to party with the wild, yard rabbits, and catch a few bugs for his bedtime snack.

 

Wart did not hop to get through the opened garage door to safety when he saw me, so I directed my conversation to him, and snapped.

 

"Look, Buddy!  You are on your own.  I've tried putting you outside several times after you showed up in the garage in the late Spring, but you refuse to go hang out with your family.  I won't be looking for you every time I come in or out.  I have things to do.  Do you understand?"  

 

No ribbit response from Wart.  

 

I continued.  "Just so you know, two summers ago, I backed over one of the four toads in my garage.  Hop, Skip, and Jump's cousin croaked.  I left his body on the garage floor for a week to make sure Cousin was dead.  Don't let this be you!  You're safer outside!"

 

Wart smiled and ignored me as I slammed the garage door shut.  Evidently, he decided to pull an all-nighter.  Toads must have guts.

 

 

To: Uncontrollably-crazed Huggers

I am not a hugger. Never have been. Don’t need to hug. Don’t really want to hug. Find hugging gross. Yes, gross. 

 Bandwagon masses advocate hugging as a way to communicate. Even though I did not grow up hugging, I do like touching by cuddling, hand holding, patting on a shoulder, touching an arm, flirting, and intimacy. Hugging is a different story. 

 I do not want huggers pressing their hot, sweaty, oily, and stinky bodies on me. I do not want anyone to rub their deodorant, perfume, or cologne on me. I do not want someone unleashing their bad breath on me. I also do not want to smell a hugger’s personal, lingering body odors. Farts and vaginal odors are not welcome. Please do not, as a bear hugger, engulf and implant my face into a shoulder while cutting off my breath. I also do not need a hugger to imprint their saliva kisses or bed bugs on me. I do not like hugging.

Talk to me instead, Hugger. Use your words to communicate.  Words are beautiful. Write to me if you need to do so. Hugging does not increase your communication of care and support for me, so please do not hug me ... unless you're Javier Bardem, Tom Selleck, Harrison Ford, someone intelligent in my age group ... which is another story.

Dinosaur Ages

 

As I've entered the Dinosaur Ages, I notice medical/health people are nipping at my heels and barking.

What? I need a bone density test every two years? Oh? My colonoscopy is every five years instead of 10 because the doc removed a few, non-problematic polyps? My dentist wants my teeth cleaned and checked every six months? Crap. I need a mammogram every six months because I have calcium deposits? The endo doc wants to talk to me about parathyroid surgery? Again? More x-rays and ulta-sounds? Checking again on kidney stones? A pap test again? Labs? Lots of Labs? Eek!

I know these medical professionals are protecting me and keeping me safe. But all this biting and barking makes me want to turn into a cheetah instead of a dinosaur so I can run ... fast!