My grandma died today.

I've read accounts of people who were with loved ones at the time of death. It's supposed to be this peaceful, quiet last sigh where everyone is sad together but knows their loved one has moved on, guided by family and friends who preceded them to the afterlife. Everyone then continues with their lives, comforted through their grief, knowing that it will all be okay, fine, and dandy and the rest of us will feel that way, too.

I'll tell you what it was like for me.

Terrifying. Sweet. Horrible. Tender, yet gut-wrenching.

Another Thing on Fear

I know. I know, I know, I know that what other people think shouldn't matter.

I am having a hard time with that currently.

Ok, so you know I'm religious. My morals and values include a certain dress code and expectations of modesty.

Not all of my children agree with or live to these values and expectations. I may be a tad disappointed about that, but they are their own selves and perfectly capable of making their own life decisions. I certainly don't hold them to whatever grand expectations are out there. I certainly don't live up to them all the time myself.

My family is also very religious. Now, I love my family. LOVE them. They are generous, loving, and have always been there for me when I've needed help emotionally, financially, physically, or whatever.

So I am having some fear issues.

I do not expect nor want anyone to give me a fix-it for this. I just need to express it.

The first big thing that is causing a bit of a rift is that my daughter is marrying a non-member of our faith. And I will fight to the death against anyone who judges her or gives either her or him crap about it. He is awesome, he is the best for her, and they both bring out the best in each other. Not only that, but they are talking responsibly about their future, practicing compromise already, and just being great together.

A couple of family members have already tried to give her a... guilt trip? lecture? about all the things she'll miss out on. And I totally went mamma bear on them and let them know to leave her alone about her decisions.

Well, now I'm feeling self-conscious because her perfect, wonderful, make-her-feel-like-a-princess wedding dress is sleeveless. It shows off her perfect arms and shoulders from her athleticism, and oh my goodness is she beautiful in it.

My fear is that my family is going to think I am an awful mother and haven't raised my children according to my standards.

I know that's a dumb fear. Of course I have. I have *also* raised my kids with the knowledge that they can make their own choices. I don't want them to make choices I'd make. In fact, half the time I wish that I hadn't made the choices I made at their age.

I know that it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. It's her wedding, it can be however she wants it. Either my family supports her, or they don't. It's just painful. The very thought that they might not support her is painful.

This is me borrowing a jack, of course. But I know without a doubt that I'm going to get an earful from my mother. There's nothing I can do about that. It's just going to happen. I'm prepared to deal with that. I am worried that my daughters and I will have to form a protective barrier for my daughter on her wedding day so no one makes her feel awful about her choices.

Anyway, there's my fear. Perhaps with some guilt mixed in for feeling like a failure. Don't tell me how to fix it. I'll just have to work through it. I have no control over others, I can only control myself. And somehow it will all work out. I dont' know how, but it will.

The Importance of Feedback

I write. I'm an artist. I footzone. I am an unrepentant creative spirit.

I earned a degree in Illustration, and am a couple classes shy of finishing a degree in Graphic Design.

I honestly and truly believe that I do these things well. Oh boy do I have my fears of failure, but it does not mean I believe I suck at the things I love. I can certainly do better and wow is there room for improvement, but I was blessed with talent and it would be disrespectful to my *self* to say otherwise.

One of the reasons that I have the confidence that I can be successful at these endeavors is because of the feedback I receive.

Yes, I know this sounds vain, but let me explain the difference between good feedback and bad feedback. Also, I would like to address how a person handles feedback and constructive criticism.

Firstly, in order to refine and improve, you have to be able to see the flaws and the areas to improve. As a rule, the creator is usually blind to many of these things. While it is true that artists are their worst critic, sometimes it is difficult to step outside of themselves and see the whole.

Due to this, it is vital to hear feedback from an outside source. Preferably from someone who knows what they are talking about.

Constructive criticism is NOT going to be 100% positive. If the writing, the portrait, the design or the artwork is a rough draft, a tight color comp, or something you may have thought finished, that feedback may not even be 50% positive.

In order to take the suggestions, ideas, and bluntness, be emotionally prepared to hear things like, "This doesn't work for me and here's why."  "Do you have any other ideas or layouts that you might want to try because...?" or "This seems completely out of character, why did this person make that choice?" "The pacing here is very slow. I became bored and skimmed to the end of the chapter." Or "I really love how you did this, but it doesn't fit with how you did this."

KNOW you aren't going hear things that will proclaim you as a faultless god in your endeavor.

**Put on your emotional armor, have a notebook handy, and realize that the people you trusted to view this baby are not attacking YOU.

** Write down all of the suggestions and take notes on ideas. Things they say may inspire you while you're listening.

** Ask questions after they are done.

** BE WILLING TO LISTEN.

There will be feedback you feel is completely ludicrous. You'll hear stuff from folks who don't understand what you're trying to say. They'll try to change it to the way 'they'd" have done it or what they think you should be doing. Be polite, listen, and disregard what you don't agree with. Think very consciously about what they are saying before you throw it out, because sometimes it can spark a brilliant idea.

In that same vein, valuable positive feedback will tell you what you did great and WHY it is great. The most important thing is understanding what works and why it works so you can put that in your file of workable techniques.

Bad feedback attacks you personally. Disregard it. Seriously. It sounds a lot like, "What were you thinking??" "This is dumb, what a waste of time." "You kind of suck at this."

Bad feedback is vague. "I don't like it." "Oh, this is great!"

I'm sure it's possible to improve without hearing from outside sources, but it will take a lot longer.

If you are pursuing writing or any kind of artistic field, please, PLEASE, be open to honest feedback. It is the most frustrating thing in the world to tell someone why you feel a, b, or c isn't functioning as well as it could, and have them get defensive, angry, and attack. Don't be that person. Just don't.

Defensiveness makes your critique group walk on egg shells around you, simply supplying your wanted platitudes. That's a waste of your time and theirs. OR, they ostracize you. That sucks, too. Defensiveness will never help you improve. Ever.

If someone says, "That's not something I would ever read/buy/commission," take it for what they mean. It's something THAT PERSON isn't interested in. It doesn't mean it's worthless; it means they are not in your audience. There is no convincing them they will love what you're doing, and no point in getting hurt over it. Simply acknowledge their position and move on.

We all feel defensive about our babies. It's the nature of being a creative. The trick is to recognize the emotion, admit it to yourself, and tell it to shut up until you are alone. Vent it all you want at the wall, at a friend, or in a diary. When you're calm, look at your notes and get to work.

Boom, growth.

That's the importance of feedback.

--
The biggest reason that I believe my story is worth finishing is because of the comments and criticism of my critique group. They are complete strangers - er, they were to begin with. I have pages and pages of constructive criticism that I need to address for the re-write. Yet the positive feedback from strangers and from some very picky readers that I know - who I trust to give me honest and blunt feedback - is extremely encouraging.

Don't get me wrong, I will need a content editor when I feel confident in the draft. I will definitely need a line-editor, since my ability to type a coherent sentence or use correct words is obviously impaired now. Um, also my love of commas and apostraphes.

I have designed my daughters' graduation announcements and their wedding invitations. I've done High School musical programs, designed logos, and portraits. In *EVERY* project I have asked for and expected feedback.

I've worked with printers and professional designers on several of these projects. Their input was invaluable and certainly not always ego boosting.

I do not expect nor wish to be coddled.

I want to grow as much as possible. I expect every artist does. Accepting criticism is imperative to this.

I Wish I Could Protect My Children From The Yuck

I wish that there was some way to protect my children from difficult pregnancies and even more difficult recoveries.

Well, honestly, I wish there were a way to protect them from all things harmful. Of course, that would prevent their own growth and learning. How can they gain strength if they don't learn to climb over, dig under, or move around obstacles, right? But oh it's hard to watch.

My oldest is now struggling with Post-Partum depression. As I am open about my feelings and experiences, so is she. 

I want to link to her post. I didn't know how to share my post-partum experience when I was having it. I made a lot of excuses for it at the time. I didn't honestly know how to cope, and I was unmedicated. My older children had to take on much of the parenting responsibility and my attitude about it was not helpful.

And now my daughter is having that same struggle. It is heartbreaking to share these thoughts and feelings together over the phone. It is comforting to find someone who truly understands, but it is also so very difficult to have to struggle through it.

Here is her post:  Too Honest For Comfort

Some things are worse than mental illness

I am not going to go into a lot of detail here; it wouldn't be right.

But I need to say that things that look happy on the outside are not often happy for real. You know, things like relationships, family, bills, or whatever. Things people don't see.

It is extremely upsetting to me when we have to borrow money from family to survive. And we've had to do that several times. More than once this past year when my husband was laid off.

It's difficult for me to admit when things aren't perfect. When there are things I haven't wanted to see or admit are problems. But now I can see them. Now I have to face them, and now I have to deal with them.

Dealing with issues is hard. It's tearful, it's a mix of anger and frustration, humiliation and fear.

I wish I could vent more here. I wish I could be specific and not have judgments poured out. I wish I could cite my imperfections and others that have impacted my life. Things that make coping with my mental illness even harder.

Things that make reality hard. Today I feel that weight. Today I kind of wish I still had my blinders on. I'm tired of being strong. But so help me, I will be. And I will take necessary steps.

I just hope it's soon enough and worth the effort.

I'm Not Ashamed Of My Mental Illness

Let's be honest, it's not something to be proud of, either. It's not like someone with Diabetes or Muscular Dystrophy goes around saying, "Hey! Look at me! I have an illness! Look at me, look at me, I'm so cool!" I'm not saying that.

What I am saying is that having a mental illness makes me determined to be open, to talk about it, to discuss what I go through.

Well, ok, I process externally so I tend to type up most everything I'm feeling anyway. Once I hit the 'publish' button and send it out into the nether to be read or ignored, the thoughts are no longer bouncing around inside my head.

Talking about the onset of my BiPolar Type 2 / BiPolar Depression, Anxiety, Psyche Ward stay, visits with my psychiatrist, and suicide attempt, are ways for me to cope. So really, this blog and my posts aren't honestly for anyone else; it's to help me process.

So why do I make it public instead of private? Because communicating is sooooo helpful. I'm a little strange that way.

I have found that most others who struggle with the same thing or different variations of these illnesses feel that there isn't anyone who understands.

Do you know why they feel that way? Because people who have never had clinical depression or anxiety have NO IDEA what it is like. I know this, because I'd never, ever, ever had it, nor understood it until I went through post-partum depression after my son was born. Two years of post-partum. That sucked. It was wonderful when that was over!!

The year I turned 40, the mad chemist experimenting inside my brain decided to switch things up on a more permanent basis. This sudden onset was/is not a pleasant one. I say sudden because I was privileged to live most of my life of working and having babies with a normal, healthy, robust amount of energy. I have met and know several people who have struggled with depression their entire lives.

THEIR ENTIRE LIVES!!

I cannot even comprehend living with this, trying to manage this while working - sometimes two jobs - finishing my degrees, and having small children.

These folks do it silently, with few people who understand, listen, or help when needed. They struggle with adulting while dealing with the guilt of not being capable of basic things when it's a really bad day.

They are heroes in my eyes. Do you hear me? HEROES!!!

I fell apart after a year and needed to be hospitalized. I was trying to claw the skin off my face because the pain was the only thing connecting me to reality. After another year, I really did attempt suicide. Coping with the onset of anxiety along with the depression was simply too much. TWO YEARS.  Two years, and I couldn't handle it. Still am attempting to manage it.

So these folks who've lived with it for their whole lives? HEROES. I'm not even kidding.

Some are absolutely ashamed to talk about their mental health or their hospitalizations. Some simply cannot admit that there is an issue because they feel like they should be able to control it.

--- This one was me. I spent a good six or seven months convinced it was some sort of early menopause. My doctor ran just about every blood test possible, checking my hormone levels, my thyroid, the levels of vitamins and minerals in my system, etc. I was convinced that I could talk myself out of it or fix it with every naturepathic or homeopathic strategy I knew.

Nope. Depression. After three or four months of therapy and some low doses of temporary meds, diagnosed with BiPolar depression. No more temporary meds for me. Mood stabilizers AND anti-depressants with some Xanex on the side became necessary. In spite of every alternative health trick I knew. Wahoo. Boy, that went over well with my family. NOT. ---

I need you to realize that some cannot talk about it openly because of private personal reasons. And others simply don't feel safe discussing it with anyone.

This one right there? This is horrible and awful and sooo lonely. Understandable, though, because of the prevalent attitude. You know, the one saying that people who are depressed are using it as an excuse to be lazy. Should just cheer themselves up and get over it. Or claiming anxiety to get out of doing something they just didn't want to do.

*frustrated sigh*

I am one of the very few willing to talk openly about my experiences, my honest thoughts, or the massive grumpy days I have. Currently I have been in a horrible mood for nearly two weeks. Everyone frustrates me, I feel like they're all jerks and inconsiderate. Most of that is me, I know, but it's how I'm feeling.

Logic part of my brain says "don't interact with people right now. At least not the ones you love. Just hug them tight and keep your mouth shut. You get paid to be nice to people at work, so the pretend happy face works there. Wish you could keep pretending at home."

Illogical part of my brain says, "Who cares. Everyone can just go to hell. I want to move and live by myself out in the boonies where I don't have to see anyone, hear anyone, or have anyone getting into my stuff, move it around, break it, or whatever else is making me feel picked on."

Am I ashamed of these thoughts? Well, if I were, I wouldn't be typing them up here. Do I wish I could turn them off? oh yeah.

What I *can* do about these feelings that I cannot control is try to interrupt the tape. I kiss on of my kids' neck up and down until they giggle like mad. Or hug them tight for several minutes. I read out loud. I do anything I can to distract myself and concentrate on anything BUT the thoughts and feelings.

You who don't know Depression don't have a clue how hard it is to have to continue to interrupt these stupid stupid destructive thoughts that run in a loop.

Depression LIES, but it is oh so believable.

I need you to understand this. Those of us who struggle with Depression have our super awful bad days. It's such a fight to get out of bed. And some days that's the only battle we win. If our sinks are full of dishes, the floors not swept or vacuumed, it doesn't mean we don't care about living in a yucky environment. Oh, trust me, we care very much.

A depressive's messy house means one of two things: 1 - There are a bunch of kids living there and it's laughable to even think of summoning the energy to reinforce daily chores.

2 - Looking at the mess and seeing all that needs to be done is overwhelming. Knowing where to start is simply impossible and makes us cry. Summoning the energy to pick up a pair of socks and carry it to the laundry basket is hopeless.We feel guilty and horrible because any normal human being should be able to do something so simple. So we sit and stare at those socks and wish we could do it, wondering what the hell is wrong with us that we can't even do that simple little thing.

And anxiety? It's the weight of an elephant sitting on your chest, the pain of drawing in a breath, panic caused by ... ?? something?? People? some thought? Noise? What the heck triggered this?? And then can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, curling up, shaking, then sobbing uncontrollably for AN HOUR!!

Ok? YOU PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER EVER EVER IN YOUR LIFE EXPERIENCED THIS?? Shut up about us folks with these types of mental illness being lazy. Just stop it. Right now.

This is real. I struggle with this.

I am not ashamed of the symptoms of this illness because they're real. Are you ashamed for having a runny nose when you have a cold? Or a raspy voice when you have a bronchial infection? I'm not proud of my symptoms; oh, they are so very frustrating.

Trust me, I'll tell you up front if I'm being lazy about cleaning, or just can't do it. Believe it or not, I DO recognize the difference. One involves the inability to summon motivation and energy. The other is simply not wanting to do it.

When I don't want to do work I hear my grandmother's or my mother's voice telling me "Sometimes you just have to do what you don't want to do."

Being incapable of doing the work means having to tell those voices to shut the hell up, because ranting at myself won't help me feel any better. It certainly won't make the weight of the world go away or prevent the fog of darkness from jumbling my thoughts so I can't concentrate.

Do you understand? This is my reality.

I have received so many messages, emails, phone calls, and visits from people who just wanted to talk about their struggles. Who couldn't believe that I'd talk openly - in church, for crying out loud, or on Facebook - about my constant fight. One woman was having such issues with anxiety that going to church was hard for her. Her husband didn't understand at all, and she was so worried that she was the only one suffering. She cried on the phone as we talked about it because she was so relieved that someone understood.

You guys. It is sad and heartbreaking that people don't feel safe discussing this issue. That we are considered weak. Trust me, we're not. As often as I've complained that I *feel* weak, I'm smart enough to know that because I'm still here, still fighting, and still attempting to be the best mom I can be, that I'm NOT weak.

And hey, dr. laura? I am so very, very angry at you for convincing my mother that my illness is made-up by big pharma to sell more drugs. Thanks for that. Means a lot. (Nope, not capitalizing your name.)

Feeling Vulnerable

Ok. I *think* I have our insurance premium fiasco figured out after talking from person to person to person. Now, I just have to get Rob's HR to cooperate. Then maybe we can pay rent ON TIME and catch up on all the other bills. Like all y'all wanted to know our financial woes. Everyone has them, we aren't any different from anyone else.

I don't even know why I'm sharing this. It's been so frustrating having half the amount we thought we'd have every two weeks. It's not like I expect insurance to be handed to us for free. I am all for working for and earning what we have. The cost is so overwhelming, though.

My faith encourages us to have 3 months of savings on hand for emergencies. And we DID. That's the most frustrating thing. We used it all over the summer for *that* emergency. And we had this complete miracle happen in August and September to help us stay on our feet. So it's not like I don't see the miracles happening in our lives every day. I am extremely grateful that we are taken care of even when we don't know how things are going to work out.

I know we'll make it through this, but wow this particular trial is hard. However, Rob has his meds and they are affordable. The kids have insurance in case they are sick. Our homeowners are FABULOUS about working with our situation, but after our fiasco five years ago, keeping a roof over our heads is my biggest priority and biggest fear. It's not like we're *behind* on rent, because we're not. I just hate paying it in installments during the month instead of one lump some as agreed.

Somehow I'll get *my* medical bills taken care of from that ER visit when we were sure I was having a stroke. My meds are affordable. I have an awesome psychiatrist who I love and who checks in with me to make sure I'm stable and doing ok. We have a fabulous pediatrician for the kids and a wonderful GP for the rest of us.

I have great friends. Some days it's really hard not to worry, though. It's hard to acknowledge that some bills are behind. I hate playing catch-up with electricity, phone, gas, cable. Yes, cable. Since Jada does online school for her core classes, internet IS a necessity, not just a luxury.

I don't know why I feel like I have to justify our choices. I feel extremely vulnerable today. Probably because of yesterday's missed meds. I'm also feeling extremely grateful for the people willing to help us. The folks who said they'd call Rob's HR on our behalf for the insurance stuff. The people who let me cry because I'm stressed over things I cannot control but affect my life.

The good people who love us no matter what.

A Child's Wish List

Some things in life hurt. It's especially hard for me when things that hurt me when I was young are amplified ten times or more for other children. This list makes my heart break.

A friend of mine posted this on facebook yesterday, a copy of a wish list from a foster child in Oklahoma.

I read this and was amazed that with a few exceptions, this list could have been mine from childhood. While inducing tears, it also made me extremely grateful for the good things I did have as a child.

* Love. My mother loved us unconditionally

* A Drug/Alcohol free home
* We had soap, and I remember having a toothbrush--sometimes?

* I don't recall ever getting head lice or having cockroaches. 

Everything else, well... yeah. Food and water -- I could tell you stories about my mother hauling 5-gallon buckets of water from neighbors houses to use for cooking/drinking when ours was shut off. Or the heat being shut off in the middle of a Wyoming Winter. 

I don't want to talk about my toys and our (my brothers and my) games being sold. Those memories kind of suck.

Nice shoes and nice clothes were a fantasy. Especially nice shoes. My brothers all needed shoes sooooo badly. I had better luck with the hand-me-downs because other girls' things tended to last longer than my girl things (because I wore my stuff out just as fast as my brothers.) Boys are harder on clothes, period, though, so even their hand-me-downs were already worn through. It's not like we were picky, though. We'd wear what we had, because it's what we had, even if the soles of our shoes flapped around like we were our own drum line.

By the time I was 12, I gave up on the idea of trying to be feminine. I didn't own any church shoes, so I became very vocal about refusing to be girlie or attempting to be feminine - you know, by NOT wearing things like nylons or pumps or whatever cute things the girls were wearing in the mid-80's. My grandmother had made some nice dresses, but I paired them with the first socks I could find (mated or not) and the pair of  shoes I owned - usually a pair of ugly black sneakers.  -- I mean UUUUUGGGLY.

It's an interesting thing, what we come up with as coping mechanisms to deal with the perceived judgments of others.

-- You're gonna look at me and sniff because of my shoes? yeah, well, I don't *want* to look like wimpy girly you and your sore feet and uncomfortable nylons. If I'm gonna sit here for three hours, I'm at least going to be comfortable. So there.--

I wasn't in the foster system. I know for a fact that I have not had a life as hard as most of theirs has been. But my childhood had it's own special brand of hellish that instilled empathy for anyone who writes a list like this.

Here I am, thirty years later, sitting in front of a nice computer in a clean home with sheets on the beds, paid utilitites, and a healthy mix of new and hand-me-down clothes in everyone's closet. 

I am extremely proud of my brothers and who they have grown up to be. One has a Ph.D. in Engineering, One owns his own business. One works hard at a good job that is an hour's drive from his home and family. They each grew up to be good and caring men. They each served honorable missions. They are each wonderful, fun, and just as imperfect as the rest of us. But they grew from where they came from. I wish everyone could see it. Not everyone does, nor does everyone give them credit for being who they are when things could have turned out so much worse.

I am somewhat biased when it comes to my brothers, yes. We survived. We more than survived, we grew from what we endured. And we all respect and love our mother for everything she sacrificed and endured for and with us. She went without food more than we did. She... was amazing.

I cannot say that I am as accomplished as my brothers. I do have my degree, and I maintained a 3.86 gpa (with kids and while pregnant with kids). I climbed my way up the corporate ladder and could be working in a much higher position in the hotel industry if I had chosen to stay in that field. I chose mommyhood instead.

All of that aside, I will only feel like I have truly accomplished something with my life when none of my children ever, ever, ever have to write a list like the one above.

Even better, if I can help another child remove something from that list.

I have limitations with service, yes. More now than ever before, but still there are things I *can* do:

* Love people. Truly. So they see it in my eyes when I smile at them.
* drop a surprise box of groceries on someone's porch. (This one is my favorite. My husband and I love this particular act of service)

I know this is a wandering kind of post with no real thesis or aim, just rambling thoughts. So I may as well end here.

I feel hopeful.

I feel sad for those poor children out there that I can't bring into my home because I am not mentally capable of handling them right now.

I want to be able to mother them all. I am so very proud and supportive of a friend of mine who is a foster parent.

I want to ask everyone to please share the love. Just feel it, share it, and don't overlook those poor kids out there who need someone to love them.

Vulnerability and Refusing to be Disabled

Another TMI post...

Have you seen Brenee Brown's Ted Talk on being Vulnerable? Well, this is me doing that.

 A family member suggested the other day that I look into Social Security Disability because of my mental illness and the instability that I experience.

So I did.

Turns out I don't qualify because I have been a stay at home mother for the past 14 years, regardless of how much I worked prior to that. Ok, fair enough.

 The SSD guy suggested I apply for SSI. After I did that I thought, Do I really want someone to pay me to stay home and sit on my butt all day? Because that can only lead to my depression getting worse. AND an excuse to *not* try to get better at social interactions. 

While yes, these are hard for me, I feel like I can make progress there if I try. Trust me, if it felt impossible, I wouldn't do this. 

So, I am trying an experiment. It may not work - let's be real here, I do have some very real limitations now. However, in spite of limitations, I applied for a part time job (hopefully *very* part time) at Ross. It's close enough that I can walk if I feel up to it. Also, I think I can handle stocking shelves, helping customers find things, and working the dressing room with a smile. At least, I hope so.

IF I get the job, I *reaaaallly* hope they don't make me a cashier though. That would be bad. My math skills have gone completely berzerk. I can report that I made it through their computer filter. the rest is just waiting for an interview with a real human.

 Rob wants to know what I'll do if a woman has a screaming baby in her cart. That's why I have xanex? I honestly don't know what I'll do, but hopefully I'll be able to come up with a workable coping strategy.

 It's been a few years since I've felt like I can try this. I don't know why now, but I'm following my feelings. If I get hired, I'll find out if responsibilities help me get out of bed on bad days, if I can love people enough to help them with a smile when I am feeling crazy grumpy, and - even more important - when they are crazy grumpy at me. --After 11 years in Customer Service, one of those being yelled at by upset Marriott customers who had issues bad enough to get to Mr. Marriott's office, and 5 of them being yelled at or worse by angry cable customers, I *should* be able to handle grumpy people when they happen. I guess we'll see. --- I honestly have NO idea how this is going to work out. But since I like experiments, here I go.

 Wish me luck?

 And, honestly, no matter how this turns out, at least I can say I tried, right? This in and of itself feels like a humongous step.

Art and Obstacles

When I started this second art project, I had envisioned the body at the bottom as the left over char with some flames coming through, or perhaps just the hint of embers. Then smoke rising from it to become a flaming beauty rising from the ash, having overcome ... I don't know, whatever it was that caused her to burn to begin with. I can see it in my mind, beautiful and shining, with a dark background.

However, not being experienced with producing flames by hand, I had to do some trials. I don't know *why* I am showing you my process of thinking out loud, but here it is.

First thing I did was play with the shape of flames. And whether or not I should give her wings.

In the end, she just looked furry, but I figured that's what sketched flames look like, since I wasn't coloring anything, just messing with shapes.

Being an Art Student

I have a degree in Illustration. That means I went to school and took all kinds of art classes, including  *gasp* figure drawing classes. Yes, most of the models were *louder gasp* nude.

There are several members of my family who consider all of those drawings porn.

I have never understood why. Seriously, Porn? Because I'm learning how to draw the human figure accurately? I'll be honest, while in those drawing classes, I was barely aware that it was a nude person up there while I was drawing.

I was focused on 'how does this muscle shape and curl around that bone?' 'what is the proportion of that leg to the torso?' 'if that's the shape they'er making, how exactly is the spine curving and what do I do to draw the pelvis correctly?'

It is/was all about accuracy, shadows, light, form, proportion, and how to blend charcoal and oils into accurate renderings.

Porn...pbbbth.  Instead, I have a reverence for the beauty of the human body. It's nothing to be ashamed of.

Now... if I were drawing something specifically to evoke a sexual response in someone, then sure, you could call it erotica or porn. Otherwise, TALK TO THE QUACKING HAND.

This is all in preface to my new art project. Because OMG nudity. *sigh*

So I'm a little annoyed, grumpy, and irritated at having to self-censor my artwork on FB so I don't have to hear the lectures from well-meaning helpers. I'm well aware that I could post it anyway, but that's more of a headache and I'm under orders from my psychiatrist to avoid stress.

Therefore, I am going to post pictures here of my project as I go. It's therapeutic for me to not only pour emotion into my drawings, but to put all of that out into the nether. (As evidenced by all my previous soul-baring blog posts.)

Today, I'm sharing the initial sketch. It's very rough and very not perfect. It's going to be some kind of phoenixish/fire something. Don't ask me what those ribbons are all about, I have no idea. Maybe I was playing with partial modesty? They may stay, they may go. It's again related to emotions I can't really explain.

BLUE??  yep. I forgot to change my camera's white balance. Ooops

I'm not thrilled with the arms right now, and am doing more roughs in my sketchbook to play with form. Also: it looks like she's wearing underwear, I know, but that's how the hips attach to the pelvic area. It won't look like that when done.

Why then did I put in on the huge drawing board already?  Because I needed to. It makes me itch to complete it when I see it there. And I have wonderful gummy erasers that fix anything needing fixing. haha :)

Arting Harder

As most of you know, I've found the lack of creativity and/or imagination very frustrating.

In the last two weeks since my attempted Walk of Doom, my meds have been changed, I've been on an emotional rollercoaster, and I've had plenty of time to think. And sleep. And think.

I think the new meds have started to work. I know this because this happened in my sketchbook a couple of days ago:

I was so excited I had to text the image to several of my friends. Because ART!!  I ARTED!!!

And then the next day, this happened in my 18x24" Drawing pad:

And for reasons unknown to me, I pulled out my ink set and began inking, not quite sure where I was going, or what the outcome would be.

1: I was ecstatic that I had an image in my head to begin with
2: It came out on paper nearly exactly as I'd imagined it.
3: When I made it much bigger for my giant art pad, it STILL came out like I imagined it.
4: And for the love of Pthalo Blue, I was playing with color! Holy milestones!

SO COOL!!!

Now, just because my creativity has started to kick in, doesn't mean it's all the way back yet. I find myself going slower than I used to. I'm putting more emotion into this piece because there are some difficult things I feel, want, and dream that I cannot articulate. And as my brain connects or reconnects synapses and feelings and fingers, I find that I get emotionally exhausted as I work.

So this one is taking a lot longer for me to finish than normal, but I am ok with that.

I made a flub with the ink - my hand was a little wet, and the ink smudged on part of the... hair? wavy whatsits on the back? The next day I decided it looked cool and incorporated it into the picture with a damp paper towel, then inked over it.

Yesterday I bought colored ink for the butterfly. Today I woke up with an idea for texturing the scales of the dragon.

The important thing to me isn't how perfect it is, (because it isn't,) it's that I've made progress. Check it out:

The good student in me is screaming "AAACK!!  Off Balance!! Fix it!!!"  But the artist in me is insisting on patience. It'll get there. I know where and how the balance with the tail will be. I know where I need to adjust the inking on the tail. And Oh Holy Crap I hate that I inked the butterfly green. Ick. Double-ick. After I experiment with the scales on the dragon, I'll un-mask the butterfly and fix it, fix it, fix it. Because ew. And it's too close to the blue/black of the dragon ink. And it's just wrong. If I'm the butterfly in this pic --which I am I think-- I am NOT green. That is not my current color.

I'm not used to forcing myself to exercise patience in art. This is a new thing for me. But I kind of have to. After a few hours with ink and nibs, my brain says "Ok, done." And that's that. No more images, no more inspiration, no more ability to guide the pen in a coherent line or shape.

Part of my artistic self is still in hiding. I still can't envision someone else's dream or idea. I don't know if I could work on a timetable yet for the simple reason that I have no idea how long it will take me to finish my current project. I'm not even confident that I could draw something not related to my emotional state right now.

And that's ok. Healing, growing, and re-learning can't be forced. It comes when it comes. I think what's important here is that I'm trying. I haven't given up --on my creativity-- just because it got hard.

I still scribble in my sketchbook. I still attempt to work on my story, although no creative juices have started flowing in the fantasy/sci-fi direction yet. Which is ok. One project is good right now. I have hope that eventually I'll be able to regain all that I've lost.

On Faith

Wow are there days when my faith is tested. Let me just say here at the beginning that my scriptures are a set of my best friends. They are well worn, marked, cross referenced, wrinkled, full of various bookmarks, and filled with things I love that make me feel enlightened, peaceful, and full of hope. Ok. So you get where I am starting from.

--If you're not religious or don't believe in God or a higher power or whatever, that's cool. You may or may not want to continue reading my rambling thoughts.--

The last 30 days have been difficult for me. The last week has been a sob fest in more ways than one.

I get snippets of happiness now and then, but they are fleeting. My mind is an emotional beach, the wet sand under my toes a source of peace and joy. Then the surf rolls in and pulls the sand out from under my feet and I am helpless to stop it.

When it comes to dealing with the emotional ups, downs, ins and outs, I go through various stages:

* I can feel God with me, loving me and helping me through.
* I don't understand what I'm supposed to be learning from this, but plead for help anyway.
* I try to be patient and get through the days, looking for things to be grateful for and laugh about in a world that seems gray and dreary.
* I get angry and frustrated, and instead of just talking to God, I yell and cry and demand that He fix me. I know He can, I just don't understand why He won't. What more does He want from me???

There are days when I can feel the Spirit walking me through life because I can't do it myself. And then there are days I am so angry that I couldn't hear God if he was in the same room with me and yelling back. On days like those, I find myself thinking, "Well, I'm in hell now, I might as well be prepared to be there when I die, because this is too hard."

My mother would be so ashamed to hear me admit this. It's hard to admit this out loud, but it's the truth. And on those days when I just don't want to hear Him, when I curl up and sleep or stare at the wall because I just can't make myself read my scriptures or get on my knees to pray, those are the days I get small miracles.

There is a sweet Jehovah's Witness woman who comes around once a month. She has the best smile. I swear this woman is an angel in the guise of a woman. She stops at the door, checks on how I'm feeling, apologizes if she's woken me up, and then says she'll come back at a different time if that's better for me. But she's already there, and I always ask her what her message for the day is. She gives me this sweet, loving smile, and shares a scripture and thought with me. Her bible is different than mine in its verbiage, but the message and the spirit are the same.  It doesn't matter what scripture she chooses or which thought she shares, it's always what I need to hear.

On days that I just don't believe that I'm loved anymore, an angel shows up in one form or another and says, "Yes you are. Don't give up yet."

Even though I get angry, petulant, pouty, grumpy, and throw tantrums, somehow it's still ok. Even though it's not, it is.

What does all this have to do with faith? I think it boils down to: Faith doesn't mean God will fix me. It means that I understand He's there, no matter how bad it gets. And He understands. I absolutely, totally, firmly believe that He understands my illness. That if it gets so bad that the illness wins and takes me, that He understands that, too.

I may not always be able to feel Him with me, but that doesn't mean He's not there.  That is my definition of faith.

-- Let me just add... this doesn't mean I don't 'kick against the pricks' or struggle with basic commandments. Oh I'm so far from perfect... There are days when I'm so angry that I want to go break every covenant I've ever made, just because I can. Just to say, "So there!" Not that it would accomplish anything but cause me pain, but honestly there are days that I believe that's all I deserve. So please don't come away from reading this post thinking that I feel like I'm somehow... I dunno... perfect, or above, or more blessed, or 'better than' or whatever. I'm just me, struggling through life as best I know how, given the tools I have at hand. And one of those tools is the belief that I am not alone in this fight. --

December

It's been a while since I've written here. It's been a while since I've felt like doing much.

This addition of anxiety to everything has not helped my mindset at all. Things I have done my whole life now seem monumentally hard.

* going to church
* going to a restaurant
* going to my husband's work parties
* family gatherings
* letting my children be loud when they play

I have turned down several opportunities for graphic design work because just the thought of a deadline or working and failing to meet someone's expectations made it hard to breathe. Sometimes it's not even the thought of failure, it's simply the idea of being creative that makes me feel completely overwhelmed.

I am barely able to be a human mommy. I am tired and annoyed at being an animal mommy. That makes me so sad. I have raised these cats since we found them abandoned at 4 weeks old. And now having to care for them and clean up and vacuum after them is too much. I just can't do it anymore.

This whole last few weeks has felt like that. Like 'I just can't do it.'

I *have* done laundry. I *have* made myself go to church except the last two weeks. I *have* attended my daughter's school play, although it terrified me and I was shaking so bad by the time I got home. I *have* gone to my husband's work Christmas party, although he had to hold my hand a LOT while we were there, and by the time it was over, I was sure he owed me big time for making the effort and surviving.

So, obviously I *can* do it, I just have to force myself to try. And it is so hard.

And this year my three oldest daughters have volunteered to help me do Christmas. We came up with a theme and a way to make it full of games, and planned it out... and it feels overwhelming and hard now. Not fun. The idea of having to get out of bed, tolerate the sounds of the laughter and squeals hitting my eardrums and reverberating through my head, and deal with the mess of wrapping paper and packaging... See, those are all things that usually make Christmas worth it. The smiles, the laughter, the silly games and things we do to find presents. The ability to play.

And the especially sad thing right now, is that the idea of playing is hard. Once I get into it, it's fun and I enjoy myself, but it's work. And I'm so tired afterwards.

I often wonder if the phrase, "I never said it would be easy, I said it would be worth it" was coined just for me.

Because I *know* what I do is worth it. I know my friendships and family relationships are worth the extra effort it takes to keep at them. I know it's worth the effort of reading and doing homework with my kids. I know that time and effort pays off.

I just wish it wasn't so exhausting. I wish my brain worked. I miss it. I miss being able to do things that shouldn't be hard.

Too much is too much

Apparently there is a "Nope, too much" setting in my brain.

March was Girl Scout cookie month, and with that came a lot of stress and a lot of time out of doors in cold weather. With stress comes a lowering of my inner defenses, and so the inevitable thing that followed was getting sick. Which got worse because I refused to believe I was sick.

And I had a deadline for an art commission. And as per my previous post, was dealing with lots of fear.

So April started, and with it CampNaNo, which I had signed up for because I can do anything, right? Why not be able to write, edit, and draw, as well as try to maintain the house and track my kids and do Girl Scouts and everything else? My brain, on the other hand, said, "Oh, you want to write, too?? Yeah... no. Let's work through this fear and finish these drawings before we do much of anything else. And hey, how about getting over this cough?"

I am happy to report the drawings are done as of yesterday. Looking at the pictures I see soooo many things I'd fix or change, but there comes a point when when I have to say, "It's as done as I can get it done, and I can accept this level of doneness."  Re-working a picture too much just ruins it.

My head is finally clear, the cough is an afterthought now instead of all-consuming. And hey, my characters are now talking to me again and I have enough energy to go pick up the house.

It's two weeks in, Camp Nano is well on its way and a couple of my bunk-mates are over half done with their monthly goals, which is awesome!! Yay for them!! Today is April 16th, I'm starting today!! Better late than never, right? I'll get written what I get written. It may not be my original goal, but I will make progress.

I may not be able to do as much as I think I can, especially when sick. But it seems I'm happier when I listen to my body and do what I CAN do. And happy is good. :)

Here are pics of the 18x24 charcoal portraits I've been working so hard on the last month. No, it doesn't take me that long to finish a piece, it takes me about 2-4 hours per face. It's been an interesting thing, this project, because it's a church thing. And I really didn't want to mess it up, so I had to talk myself into drawing, and convince myself to sit down and do it, and I had to have faith that I *could* do it, because I really was that nervous about failing. And that was what took up most of the time: convincing myself to do it. That being said, I'm glad I did it.

I'm extremely nervous about putting these up, but here they are anyway. Women of the Book of Mormon.

Mothers of the Stripling Warriors

Daughters of the Lamanites

Queen "Lamoni" (because she doesn't have a name)

Abish (Queen Lamoni's servant) - this pic was taken before it was finished.

Sariah

Not letting fear conquer all

So a while back I wrote a big long post all about fear and facing fear and not letting it conquer. Turns out I'm a humungous hypocrite.

Fear is something that took hold of the reigns in my brain and halted the horse, cart, and tackled my willpower. It's still sitting here like a toad on my chest. (Seriously, I'm honestly fearing I might have pneumonia despite all my essential oils and self-foot-zoning. I am SICK.) Oh looky, there's that stupid fear word again.

Back in January, I volunteered to do some artwork for a couple of different friends. One was to do caricatures for the cub scouts for their Blue & Gold Banquet. The other was to do five or six drawings of women from the Book of Mormon for a banquet. In addition to that I was madly trying to finish a novel.

I did the caricatures, no problem. I enjoy doing them, but I don't really consider them *real* art because they aren't hard for me. Well... ok, to be honest, sometimes I do struggle to get them to look right, but more often than not, I am pleased with how they turn out. They're cartoons.

But the charcoal drawings... those I've put off and put off and come up with every excuse to not do them YET, and now I'm down to the wire and HAVE to get them done. And I will, don't worry. But they scare me.

Why? Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid that my drawings, the charcoal portraits that mean so much to me, will suck. That people will laugh, will hate them, will think I'm crazy for thinking I'm an artist, and that all that time I spent in art school getting my degree was a waste of time.

Yeah, yeah, I know. But hey, it's how I feel. Same thing with this novel I'm writing. I love it. I love the characters. I love the story. I honestly think it's a good story. But I'm afraid to finish it. I think I'm a fraud, a poser, a nobody in a world surrounded by awesomeness.

Yep.

Ok, so everyone feels this way once in a while. And it's true, you can't please everyone. And there will always be someone to look at something I've done to tell me ways to improve it or what they'd have done differently. Art is subjective like that. Hey, on my good days, I'm all about hearing those thoughts so I can improve what I do or see things from a different perspective. Feedback is good for that.

It's stupid to sit here and think everyone will hate something I HAVEN'T FINISHED YET.

So coughing up a lung and having no energy at all, I sat down and faced my fear. Because if people are going to judge something, I should actually produce something for them to judge, right? So. I loaded up on drugs. I prayed. I prayed a LOT. I got a priesthood blessing from my neighbor on his lunch break. I kept a vial of essential oil nearby to rub on my lungs and nose and sinuses to keep the air passages open. And I set up my easel and got to work anyway.

And lo, this was born:

And now after looking at it, I need to re-think the sizes and layout. I'm not sure the journey of the mother is clear from baby to sending him off to war.

Normally it doesn't take me all day to do a drawing, but I'm sick. And I have kids. So. Take that for what you will, but dammit, I persisted. And I had a small miracle. While I drew, I rarely coughed so hard it hurt. My arm didn't hurt to work. I felt energized. And I had the same experience drawing today's picture that I have when I draw portraits. I felt a communication open up, and I felt the emotion and the love that these mothers have for their babies, and I cried while working. Not from frustration, but from pure emotion.

Designer in me is screaming that the bottom pic should be the largest, that top left should be smallest, that the spear stands out too much, fix the hand/arm, etc. The artist in me is jumping up and down in joy for DOING SOMETHING!! So, I'll be re-drawing this to correct it and make it right. BUT, yo, throw a parade for me. I faced a fear today. And that's a big deal.

Why do I call that a miracle? Because as soon as I'd get up to get a drink or move around, the 'blech' feeling would take over again. As soon as I'd pick up the charcoal and start working, it was gone. Miracle in my book. Which says to me that God knows who I am, and what's important to me, and that He believes in me, even when I don't.

And here it is, 11:30pm, I've been at this since 1pm today, and picture one is done.  Well.  No. It's done enough that I can look at it and figure out what I need to do differently to make it *right*. Nothing like posting something on the internet to make you look at it critically and say, "hmm... how could I make it better?"  But that's what roughs are for.

Am I feeling better overall? Only when drawing. I have a suspicious feeling that if I decided to spend the next hour working on my novel, I'd probably feel just fine for that, as well.  I should... that novel needs some love. And I should take Chuck Wendig's advice and finish what I start. (I should note: Content Warning for Chuck Wendig. If you're going to read his entire post and you dislike swearing, don't. If you're just going to read the initial graphic, you'll be fine.)

So now I just need to kick this fear in the tuckuss and send it on it's way. I'm so very grateful for friends and family who love me and believe in me and help me have the courage to continue trying even when I'm afraid to.

Fear

Fear is a funny thing. It’s just an emotion. It’s that voice inside our heads, sometimes not even a voice. It’s a whisper. A niggling doubt. But sometimes it is claws twisting our insides into knots until we stop functioning. It can be paralyzing and completely destructive.

Uncle

(I don't know who designed this, or I'd give props. It links to the tumblr site)

Viewpoints

The way we see ourselves affects how we see the world. When in the depths of depression, it is very hard to find or see anything joyful or bright, while contrastingly, those who are filled with the deepest happiness feel no need to focus on shadows or gloom.

The Budding Years

No fun graphic today, I can't find the humor currently. When I see it tomorrow, I'll come back and edit.

But for now, I would just like to shout out my hoorah's, hugs, and much love for all the mom's out there who give up time, effort, and things on their own wish-lists to provide for the needs of their kids. I know for a fact that I am not the only mom who does this. I remember my mother doing it when I was young and stupid and selfish (and clueless.) And now I find I am doing it myself. Only normally I do it and don't realize I do it. I love my family, and serving them is what I do. I have these children because I love them and want them, therefore it makes no sense to resent them for needing things as they grow.