Tag: writing

  • identity crisis

    I’m grasping for an identity.

    Because you see, it’s always been about work.

    For years, my identity was in my status in my non-profit work.

    Then, I struggled when I became dependent on SSDI.

    Then, I took up photography.

    Then, I opened a photography business.

    And, for eight full years, I basked in my status as a very part-time wedding and portrait photographer. I may have been very part-time, the business may not have been profitable, but by golly, I was an official photographer.

    And then, earlier this year, for a variety of reasons I won’t go into both heath-wise and money-wise, it became the prudent thing to close the business.

    And at the time, I told myself I would still be a hobbyist photographer.

    And then money got tighter– or more to the point, I got more serious about managing our finances more responsibly, and it became the wise thing to part with some of my camera gear.

    And I didn’t take more pictures for myself, my own personal art, like I said I was going to do.

    And life happened, and interpersonal drama happened, and my hormones are still settling from the hysterectomy, and….

    Well, depressed.

    And worse: struggling with a major identity crisis.

    And of late, I’ve felt like the answer was to move us all into Atlanta, away from Carrollton.

    The truth is, I know I can’t run from my depression. It will follow me.

    And, this house that I am sitting in, when we bought it in 2021, was my dream house. It was the house I wanted to grow old in just like the elderly people who lived here (twice) before us did. The primary bathroom is already outfitted for disability access, even.

    *sigh* I don’t know what I am doing.

    I do know that my psych professional says that seasonal affective disorder is on the rise earlier this year, and so I am sitting here just before bed (the wrong time of day, but I give myself points for doing it at all) with my light therapy lamp as she recommended I start now instead of waiting until late October like normal.

    And, it’s time to write more. I let myself get so caught up in analytics, and audiences, and I forget that the most productive, happiest years of my blogging was when I was using my blog primarily as my journal. And yes, I wanted readers, but the readers came because the content was raw. And real.

    So, here I am, telling you I am still depressed. And I don’t know where it’s going.

    And true to form in typical fashion, in an effort to bat away the true identity crisis and deal with it, a crap ton of job applications went out yesterday.

    Because I keep running from what I need to do: process my traumas, figure out who I am apart from being a wife, mother, and any vocation, and remember that I have been a writer since I was eight years old and that is how I deal with my feelings best.

    Stay tuned. I’m going to try to post more regularly.

  • the sun rose a little bit

    The stunning Grinter Farms in Lawrence, Kansas

    It’s no secret that I have been depressed for a while now.

    Apparently I just needed to go see my aunt and uncle, who moved to Kansas a while back, all by myself without the boys or Jared.

    The above picture was taken at Grinter Farms this past Saturday, just after some hot air balloons took off:

    The morning was stunning.

    But while Grinter Farms was nice, it wasn’t the photo op that made the weekend.

    It was spending time with the people I have known who I have loved and who have loved me and treated me as their own my whole life.

    It had probably been since before I married Jared that I had been to see them by myself.

    And while I was there with them, I remembered that life is not so bad.

    I remembered several craft projects I used to do on a regular basis, projects that would probably make pretty good Etsy store items.

    I remembered that consistency is the key to having a tidy house.

    Best of all: I remembered that I am loved. And very, very lucky.

  • nothing is in focus right now

    I took this photo with the X-S20. Apparently I am not so good as the selfie culture at making the camera work in focus with the full articulating selfie screen.

    Yeah. Depressed.

    Feeling my age, my ribs are on the move in a twisty way that isn’t fun feeling. Bored, tired of Carrollton.

    Jared tries. He took me out to the Marina again tonight, after taking me on our weekly outing for Burger King ice cream cones.

    Fun fact, at least in Carrollton, GA: You can get two ice cream cones for $2.12. That’s the main eating out we do during the week.

    And all that was well and good. Until I started in on how I hate Carrollton, how I want Jared to find another job so we can move to Atlanta.

    The same old same old.

    And I don’t know why, when I feel rejected, I go on this whole self-implosion thing.

    Something happened last week that made me change some plans in the next couple of weeks. And as it happens, I am going to see my aunt and uncle instead of doing the thing that I was going to do, and I will likely have a far superior time seeing them and being loved on and all that than I would have had doing the other thing, which was probably riskier than I really want to admit it likely was, to begin with.

    And I’m still mad about last December. Mostly because I’m mad at myself for thinking that inviting drama back into my life was a good idea at all.

    I’ve spent the last nine months pretty darn unhappy because of it. And had an arguably necessary-anyway hysterectomy because I got all freaked out about cancer risks because of that encounter.

    I guess in that respect, I should be grateful for last December. It probably wouldn’t have occurred to me to worry about cancer risks if I hadn’t had that encounter last December.

    And mostly I go around mad all the time because it feels, to me, like just about everybody in my life has some sort of purpose, has their shit together, and I’m just sitting at home.

    And I guess it’s accurate to say that some of the people I have in mind do actually have their shit together.

    But none of them are married to Jared Price. I’m the only one who got to do that.

    And probably not many of them are told on a daily basis the things he tells only me.

    It’s about now in the depression cycle that I realize that it’s been about a week since I’ve done a gratitude list.

    The truth is, not much about my life has turned out the way I thought it would, or honestly, the way that I wanted it to.

    And I mostly walk around mad, angry at the world, and despondent because of it.

    And I think back to that 18 year old and I would tell her to ditch all the preconceived notions about how life should go. That it’s all about to change, like, tomorrow.

    But probably, she’d already known that for a good couple of years or so.

    Tomorrow is a new day. I’ll go volunteer in the city with “my ladies,” as Jared calls them.

    And then I’ll go see my aunt and uncle for the weekend, and probably have some yummy Costco mac and cheese, which I haven’t actually had since the last time I saw them, in February.

    And, I do actually realized how privileged it is that I was born into the family that I was born into, and that we can afford to feed ourselves despite the fact that I do not work.

    It does not negate the fact that I feel somehow that I am not living up to my potential, and there have been missed opportunities. And squandered opportunities. And lost time. and lost relationships.

    But tomorrow, I can try again.

  • i should have told somebody

    **Trigger Warning:** This post contains sensitive material regarding domestic abuse, psychological torture, and suicidal ideation.

    What follows is a sample of the types of writing you can find at my blog, as well as my Substack.

    ________

    When I was 15, I didn’t think much about giving the boy sitting behind me in the lunch room my phone number.

    I mean, I was elated that he asked for it. But I didn’t think about the implications.

    He called me that afternoon, and we chatted for about 45 minutes.

    And he told me about his life, and his mom, and his plans for graduation— he was going to art school, thinking about a school in California or Florida.

    And when he asked me if I’d like to see a movie, I didn’t think much about it either. I was excited that a boy was asking me to go out with him for the first time ever.

    My friends were sort of conspiring to push us together. I knew it, too.

    He bought two tickets for ”Legends of the Fall” because he was 17. But I was 15, and the girlfriend going with us and his friend was 14, and we couldn’t buy the R-rated tickets. So even though he’d already bought two tickets, he turned around and bought another for himself to match the one I had for “Dumb and Dumber.” I found out about the other tickets later.

    He didn’t talk much, but when he did I adored the soft depth of his voice.

    But then, that soft, deep voice started telling me his dark secrets.

    And, for years upon years, I kept those dark secrets.

    He didn’t go to art school when he graduated. He waited for me to graduate, two years later. He went to art school, I went to GSU.

    He went to art school for a quarter, I should say.

    He hadn’t consulted me as to whether he should wait for me, for us to go to school together.

    So when I met someone else the night before classes started, and decided about a week later I wanted to go out with that person, I broke up with the first boy I’d kissed.

    I broke his heart.

    I can still see him standing outside the gate to my dorm complex, from the view from my floor.

    But maybe I should have told his dark secrets to somebody when I was 15.

    Because that boy could have had a free ride due to his mother’s employment, to a prestigious private university.

    But that boy was depressed and didn’t understand the value of a liberal arts education. He only saw the pressure: that his mom wanted him to go to that prestigious private university so that he could become a rich doctor, so he could support her.

    And maybe I should have told somebody that the stories that boy told me scared me.

    That it scared me when he told me about carving words in his chest.

    That it scared me when he told me about holding his mother’s gun in his mouth. That it petrified me when he told me the only reason he didn’t pull the trigger was that he couldn’t stand the idea of me standing over his coffin, crying.

    Maybe, if I’d told somebody, anybody, about some of that when I was 17, I wouldn’t have felt trapped when I was living with that boy when I was a 21-year old college student.

    Maybe I could have prevented him assaulting another boy, threatening him with a knife.

    Maybe I could have prevented the sneer in the police officer’s expression when he checked on me that night, telling that boy that no judge would take my word over his if the other boy decided to press charges.

    Maybe, just maybe, I could have prevented the psychological torture I went through myself when that boy figured out I was planning to leave.

    Because when I really started getting serious about leaving, that boy trapped me in the dark. He knew I was afraid of the dark. He inverted the locks to a section of our apartment, tripped the breaker. One night after I arrived home, finding the apartment dark, I found myself trapped in the locked portion of that apartment.

    I can still hear the sound of the door slamming behind me.

    I was pretty sure I was going to die that night.

    And I managed to save my own life by telling that boy I would stay. I knew there was no point in telling the police what had happened; it had been made clear the week before that I was trash for the boy to do with as he would.

    But the next day, I called my parents, telling them I needed rent money.

    __________

    This story is one piece of a much longer journey. If you’re ready to read more about the truth behind these moments and what I’ve learned about being a survivor, you can find the rest of the story at my Substack.

    Follow my journey at Tickle the Sun— https://www.ticklethesun.com.

  • the turnaround

    Last December, I had a series of experiences that shook my world.  

    While the details are juicy, what happened doesn’t matter much anymore.  

    I came away from that time in December confused. And hurt. And angry  

    And maybe as I continue to write I will better be able to articulate why I was hurt and angry.  

    Suffice it to say, I found out in December that someone a very long time ago, decades ago, chose greed over spending a lifetime with me.  

    I got confirmation that a mindset shift I’d had with regard to that person in 2010 was accurate.  

    And, in the aftermath of December, I experienced heartbreak all over again.  

    I remembered that prior to marriage and creating a family with my husband, I had thrived on participating in interpersonal romantic drama.  

    I remembered that while I have been a victim of trauma, I am a survivor.  

    And, for six months, I mourned.  

    I mourned for the version of my self that was too trusting in December.  

    I mourned for the version of myself that was too trusting over two and a half decades ago.  

    I got angry at my whole world– for some reasons justified.  

    I have spent the last three months in the aftermath of my hysterectomy trying to pick up the pieces of myself and my world.  

    I’ve faltered. I’ve fallen back into old patterns of doubting myself.  

    And, I’ve felt sorry for myself an awful lot.  

    I’ve learned some things about myself though:  

    One of my best friends called me the most industrious person she knows not long ago.  

    She’s right; I am industrious.  

    I’m a survivor.  

    I’m a talented writer and photographer, if I do say so myself.  

    I have few friends, but I am a good friend.  

    Jared says I can be funny.  

    I have a near-indestructible marriage.  

    I’m a good wife. I’m a good mom.  

    There are still things to work on.  

    Finding contentment where and as I am is a challenge. Probably the biggest challenge of my life.  

    I am up to the task.

    I’ve only just begun to pick up the pieces, and I’ll be sharing the complete story of this journey in my Substack newsletter, “Tickle the Sun.”

    My public posts will continue to be about the messy reality of my life, but in my paid Substack, I’ll be sharing the journal entries, the full stories, and the hard-won truths that come with living in the light.

    You can join my free list for updates, or you can become a paid subscriber to get the gritty, behind-the-scenes stories I am ready to share now.