For Lisa with Love

Planning Failures Planning Pain

I tried once to explain to Number Three Son what happens in my brain before I am able to write (note: think) and while I am able to write/think.  He seemed to get it and liked it that I was finally figuring something out.  What I drew for him so he could understand didn't look like the arrows above but the idea is the same.  There is a disorder and a messiness which just can't be easily untangled, like trying to straighten that line when it has already been put to paper.  I was waiting for him to say something profound like, just turn the page and begin again, but as it turned out his quiet understanding was worth more than 100 hours in therapy.

As always I am sorry that my children, or anyone, see me as I am so often...crying, depressed, silent and reclusive...planning for failures and planning for pain.  It is not that I want to fail or be in pain, but in the darkest of days I look honestly at myself and accept that I have been in this fog for over ten years and I will be as I am ten years from now.  Right?  Is there someone out there who can say, like the former drunk, I AM FREE?  No.  So, at times I embrace the hugeness of my depression and almost drown in the ocean of "planning".  The rest of the time I acknowledge what does help - and I keep my mind on living the present moment.  Here, truth is still truth, life is still life, death is still calling as a friend, but my mind and body can calm down and be at peace, because I take this breath and I can go on.  I am surviving now.

One morning my mother and I woke to find it was the day to bury my dad.  Mom said,  "I hate this day."  I could only say that I agreed.  She then told me, with tears in her eyes that Dad had told her just before he died that she was a "survivor".  She said it made her so angry.  I told her that he had told me the same thing years before when I was suffering - but that it made me so happy.  I wonder if they know how much worse I have gotten in these ten years.  I wonder if they think I truly am surviving.  I do know that when my journey to God is over the planning of failure and pain will finally cease. And the moment of time that heals will never end.

Yesterday in Facebookville

Blogging for Crack

My dear one follower,

It is day 59 of my little blog.  I bet you are wondering why I'm still trying, aren't you?  Well, you know what the real crack is in my life, but writing as a blogger has brought out the addictive personality once again.  It's absolute lunacy!  Every time, for whatever reason, that I re-read a post I cringe and want to delete it then and there! (I have even deleted one.) How much embarrassment should one "enjoy"?  (((and when did I embrace the run-on sentence and ending them with prepositions?)))  But I keep coming back for more and it's not just to advertise my fabulous Andertoons daily cartoons.  The fish was hooked the day I picked up the pipe.  So, although I encourage you to do what clearly seems to you to be (merely) a foolish old lady's rantings, consider the power in the drug.  Listen to this not-so-creepy crack-pusher.  It's free therapy - blogging. (((except when it's not.)))  In any case, you can always delete.

I remain your praying servant and am coveting yours,

DM

Typically and Mysteriously

I would say that my friends know that I can't choose my favorite morning- view- from- my-window photo, but since they no longer know I'm still breathing, I will say the other personalities appreciate it.  We are all in agreement:  my little apartment was indeed a gift from God.  One of us truly believes that Jesus Himself led us here, afterall, the prayers were numerous, the pros and cons list my dad taught me about was made and studied, visits to every Annapolis home option occured,  and in the end this photo is the reason we are here.

We have multitudes of nieces and nephews, all are witty, intelligent, successful, and a very entertaining part of my life thanks to Facebook.  One said:  Where you are doesn't affect who you are.  Well, that was one to ponder.  My dearest critter's "status" could be interpreted many ways but it got me thinking about my last home.  The teeny apartment by the mall, on the ugly street, by the ghetto-grocery store (((sorry))), with the cop upstairs beating his girlfriend.  There, depressed days meant staring out the window watching deliveries and prospective renters enter and leave the office, and watching cars go by.  In 18 months the only excitement on the road was one actual eye-witness crash (it was Fabulous!) and twice the crazylovable bikerboys, babes on back, drove by by the hundreds on their way to the eastern shore.  Numbness prevailed.

So we compromise on some things to have the view.  We must say here, my dearest one "blog follower", that it is not only the view which keeps the soul moving up,  but the movement of the water as well.  A lake would suffice as a pleasant change from a street view, but the tides, the colors and the changes united with the expected faithful sunrise, help the blackened mind see a glimmer of light.

Light and life. There was no life until He said:  Let there be light.  I think one of us will blog about that.

Lonely Neighbor

She is me.  I am her mother hen.  The wolf raps at the door and she keeps asking about the TV Guide.  I bolt out of the laundry room, acting mean, tough, and taller than my 5 feet.  I threaten the law.  She slams the door.  My heart sinks with a thud like a newly soaked sponge.  I plop back down. Streaming tears I just let flow.  My little chick, my lonely neighbor.

Knitting for Happiness

I recently read a blog by the famous and humble Lisa Graas - http://blog.lisagraas.com/2011/09/14/is-there-some-kind-of-purpose-in-bipolar-disorder/ - where the question is:  Is there some kind of purpose in Bipolar Disorder?  I have been thinking of this question ever since I read it.  Is there a purpose in all my depression?  Of course, but what is it?  Does it change daily?  It seems so.

The "keeping the routine" routine is helpful in guiding one toward the "purpose" but is it enough?  I remember hearing the good Father Benedict Groeschel speak about a sure help for people suffering from depression...or just suffering.  He said that if one can, one should do something for others...just get out there and do SOMETHING.  It seemed so obvious, and I knew the personal rewards in giving.  They are, indeed,  incomparable to most other "rewards on the earth".  It was then that I began knitting for the poor.

Lisa said that the cross that we bear - in any disorder suffered - helps us become more the person God has created us to be.  I was thankful for and comforted by her words and began thinking of my "knitting therapy".  I remember years ago sitting in my car knitting a blanket, radio cranked up loud playing Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy so the boys could hear, and watching Number Three Son skate the ramps.  He told his skating buddies that his mom was in the car knitting. He had to bring them over to prove this and I had a great feeling of pride.  Ah, the joy and happiness when your teenager thinks you are worth something...anything.  At that time I was knitting for family, friends and new babies.  I still do, but my focus is on knitting all year for the homeless at Christmas/winter-time.  And what a blessing, joy and source of happiness it is.  Now Number Three Son passes by and with a derisive but teasing tone (as if he is calling me Hitler) says:  Yer just a knitter.  I am proud, still.

Everyone is right, when they speak of "getting out of yourself".  It isn't easy, but it is true that it helps and will most likely provide great joy to the soul.  I am just a little, middle-aged, hidden-knitter, in awe of the others out in the world giving of themselves in BIG WAYS.  But I am proof that anyone can do this wherever they are.  Even silent prayers of the heart when one cannot even move one's fingers will provide a joy which is beyond words.   There IS some reason... My hope is that "we" who suffer will  encourage one another to do these good things which do provide happiness to the sorrowful soul and which give of ourselves to others.  

Depressed to knit? Among other reasons.

Dad - Ten Years - The Name

Kenneth L. Stockdale

September 14. 1928 - March 16, 2001

My Dad adopted me with his wife Shirley almost 50 years ago.  He was a tall man, very big to me in many ways.  He had a large, silent heart.  He was a protector,  a leader, a guide.  My dad was an unconditional lover.  I consider him one of our country's silent heroes.   He was with the first group of grunts (he liked to say) to land in Korea when the war broke out.  He saw a dirty, ugly war and lost many friends right before his eyes.  He didn't like to talk about it and when he did (at the Korean War Veterans Memorial in D.C.),  I saw the only tears come from his eyes that I ever would in the life of this soldier.   He met Shirley only after corresponding by snail mail, and AFTER he had proposed marriage.  He worked three jobs for many years, adopted three children, took his family to Argentina, Kansas, Minnesota and Maryland, as he was promoted and relocated.   My father  retired as the last Chrysler Corporation executive to have reached his level in management without a college degree.  He retired when he planned and lived the live he chose.  I was always very proud of him.  He adored me and the five grandchildren I gave him.  I loved him with a love I will never know again....while I'm here, at least.  It was, in truth, a heavenly love, from this Ken Stockdale....who was born Ervin Russell Youster.

Dad was born in Ohio and adopted by the Wedow-Stockdale family of Detroit.  He was adopted as an infant just as he adopted his three children. His was not a "closed" adoption so my Dad  learned the name of his birth mother after his adoptive parents died and he received the "hidden" papers.  I didn't know this until after the birth of my fifth child.   Dad and I were up sipping wine and talking long after my little family had gone to sleep.  I remember it as "out of the blue" that suddenly I heard my Dad say,  "I wish I had looked for my birth mother after Grandma died."  POW! I was stunned.  Not only was my Dad not one to speak of such "personal" things, but growing up, we learned NOT to talk about being adopted in front of my Dad. (And the SECRET papers were always hidden in a safe. very safe. a very hidden safe.)   Something was just not right in my home growing up regarding the (((shhhh))) adoption subject.  There were stories (and lies),  questions....endless wonderings, but mostly silences unless I was alone with my mom.   At a very early age I knew that in this family you just...don't mention "it".   (This is the topic of a book I have been working on for years, and the reason that I will, eventually,  jump off the Bay Bridge, probably, one day, perhaps.)* 

*Suicidal Ideation/without intent...and really joking  - wishing never to offend anyone* 

So Dad had precious information which I did not.   THE GOLDEN KEY was in his possession, by that time,  for over 20 years! (My generation has no keys.   We are the 'product' of the GREAT and IDIOTIC IDEA [read experiment] OF CLOSED ADOPTION, which is the topic of another book I am writing and which will lead me to commit another crazy crime. most likely.)   He admitted by then it was too late; it was a regret.  (Now I think he still could have tried to look for his mother. She would have been 76 years old.)   I understood his hesitation and delay...and regret.  I have always had that same feeling...rejected once was enough.  No one wants to find someone that doesn't want to be found.  Well, most don't I am guessing.  Now, since my Mom completed her life's journey to God, I am in possession of the Golden Key, but it is my Dad's key.  It is no answer or link to anyone for me...adoptee adopts adoptee, but I still feel compelled to try to open SOMETHING with this key.  Perhaps it is enough to have the document.  I see a NAME. A real human person with a NAME was my father's mother:  Edith Youster,  age 15 in 1928,  Bono, Ohio.  (((wow, a life's question answered)))  It could be enough just to know.  The power of the name.

Through the years since my dad died I have thought often about our one-time adoption talk.  It lasted but a moment and yet it told a long story of a family of sawed off branches grafted onto one lone tree.  This man, Ken Stockdale, made a tree grow where there was only an empty space before.  He brought his family to a place where that very thing was happening around them.  The little city of Overland Park, Kansas was just beginning.  The air was clean, threats minimal, memories good. We watched houses come up where there were cows grazing the day before.  Something where there was nothing.  Dad showed us how to move as the world moved, how to grow as life grew.   He valued hard work and loyalty.  He was a man who could admit his mistakes and not feel anything but joy at anothers' good fortune.  He was fair and loving.  He showed me by his life what God the Father's Love is like.  I know that if God did not give me this good father on the earth,  I would be another orphan grasping desperately to understand unconditional love.  

The story is that it was a big fight, back in the day.  But my dad named me.  The little baby, Laura Mary Florence, became Donna-Marie Stockdale.  And it turned out to be a good thing after all.  And that story is another blog.

1st Cavalry Division

Too Much Heaven

This is my best girlfriend's olive tree all decorated for Christmas.  I think it died because the lights were just too much for it.  I am totally relating today.

Love of Enemies

Love your enemies?  I never really think I have any enemies.  Ok, maybe crack (what Number Three Son and I call those pint-sized cartons of BEN & JERRY'S), and vodkabreakfasts, but no real enemies.  There is no one looking to end my poor life (not that I am aware of. . . eh, perhaps sometimes, The husband). . . so how could I understand, experientially, Jesus' demand to love my enemies?   Through the years I have thought about loving mean people, unjust people, abortionists... or people who have hurt my children, etc.,  and I have thought that I loved them.  I didn't HATE them and did, sometimes, pray for them.  But recently I have learned a little more of what this means having acquired a few new enemies.

The best kind of love, we are told, is the sacrificial kind.  The kind that gives of itself to others freely, imitating Jesus Christ -  loving our enemies and neighbors from the heart.  We are to show our love  with good works fitting a servant and child of God.   Feeling this love physically may be present or not, and if present, will fly in and out of one's sensory radar  as predictably as the wind.  Nevertheless, we are to obey and are richly blessed if we do.  The goal is not to "have feelings of love", but to love.

I can't say that I have had feelings of love for my (so-called) enemies very often (excluding crack and vodka),  but I learned at the very start that love is an act of the will and feelings come last, if at all.  (Thank you good Protestant lovers of Sacred Scripture who "discipled" me when I first believed.)    So, when I was overwhelmed recently with powerful feelings of love and respect for Christians who were calling me names and hurling false accusations my way,  I had to pause.  What a great thing our Merciful God does for His weak children! He comes to our defense in such a personal and mysterious way when He grants such a consolation as this.  The personal touch of God, which no one else sees, is the way He rescues us from the hands of those who hate us!  He grants us the gift of Love when we truly do wish to love.  What a beautiful glimpse at the Heart of Jesus, Who always loves perfectly.

God knows that we are weak and needy and often need the grace of encouragement now and then.  The Saints tell us to put our hope in God and not men.  The "it's ok hug" from man cannot compare to the consolation which God gives when He grants the grace of these feelings of love for one's accuser. He sends each of us just what we need when we need it.  I believe that when He does this He is showing us that what we think is elusive or unattainable is right in front of us all the time.  If we are loving our enemies and doing good toward them, we are loving them!  Feelings or not...love has been there all the time.  The sweet consolation of sensory love only reminds us of the reality of Love.

It was there all along. . . 

Catholic Church the Whore - Facebook Page

Somehow I found myself on a Facebook group page named,  "Whore Catholicism vs. Bride of Christ".  You would think I would be offended by the name, but I knew where the authors were coming from.  I had been there for about 13 years until I entered the Catholic Church.  These Protestant members truly believe they are upholding the glory of God and fighting idolatry.  I did as well and even believed I had won every "debate" with my Catholic friends...back in the day.  There is another group which was formed to try to have this "hate group" removed from FB.  What to do?

I was on the hater's team back in the day.  It was fun, then.  Now I feel compelled, somehow, to engage with those who keep saying the same things I used to say.  I know the argument and I can give the Catholic response.  It is probably all of no consequence (we run around many circles) and that doesn't matter to me, because inevitably, we always come to a dead end...and yet another thread must begin.  Trying to win, judge who won the debate, etc., is not only a waste of time but most certainly a hindrance to humility....something which must be sought every second one is on the page. I also remember what Bl. Teresa of Calcutta reminded us of:  Obedience not success is required.

Pope Benedict XVI encourages us to engage others on social media sites to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ and address the issues of our day.  This is an encouragement to me.  So is the young man I "met" on yet another Facebook Page called:  Catholic Teachings that are unBiblical.  (He was banned from the "Whore page".)  This young man wants to be a priest and I was most impressed watching him take on the big bad boys (and girls) on this page.  Now we are having private exchanges about favorite books (podcasts for him...punk), favorite authors, how to have exchanges with the Catholic-haters while keeping the mind of Christ.....It is truly a joy to have encountered him there.

So the question on the third page I found ("Whore Catholicism vs. Bride of Christ" is a HATE GROUP hiding behind a lie) is, "Should we engage the 'HATE GROUP' or, should we keep petitioning to have the group banned?"  I am there for now.  I have "seen" good things happen. I have seen hearts soften, including my own.   And it hasn't even been depressing. Yet. 

How Can You Wear a Sundress?

I read a story once about a woman who visited her sister in a mental health hospital.  When she arrived her sister greeted her with the words:  How can you wear a sundress as if nothing is wrong?   The woman thought to herself:  At least she is telling me what she is thinking.  I have thought about this exchange many times after trying, myself, to explain to others what I am thinking. 

The "not talking", "no explanations", silent and paralyzing state I find myself in often, could be explained by the sister's greeting to the woman.  She said out loud what I am thinking.  The husband, when I shared this story with him said,  "The woman is thinking, why are you like this when nothing is wrong?"  Indeed.  But everything is wrong and The husband is getting it.

We listened to an interview of a woman suffering with depression who was describing why people who are depressed become "recluse".  She described trying to get out of the house, making the prescribed appointments with friends, attempts to explain the state of her mind, and ultimately, retreating back to her "safe place" where she is in control of her environment.  Here no one is scrupulously watching, here no explanations are necessary.   It is not a "better" place to be, as the woman interviewed said, but it is "easier".  It is true. You could understand it by the tone of the woman's voice....you can't hear it here.

It makes no sense, the sundress story.  But it tells a big story.  Something is very wrong. You don't have to understand,  but if you visit me,  please, no sundresses. 

Paul Jennings Hill - February 6, 1954- September 3, 2003

Rest in peace, dear friend and voice of the unborn.

old friends new enemies

on the Catholic hating group FB page
i hate
confrontation
but this time i see my old self in them
i get it

suddenly it just happens
the engagement
and all is well
peace love 
patience


glimpses of rocks being thrown
cloaks on the dirt
silent agreements being made
but this time i see my new self
in me

it is not just a fairytale
diversions for old saggy women
and idiots
and all is well
love joy kindness goodness   self-control


it is not truly hatred the motive behind
the words
the love of God compels
the love of God reigns free
the love of God the Blessed Trinity the Holy Spirit

Immaculate Mary and Breath of God
Come, Holy Spirit to the hearts of the faithful
Enkindle in us the Fire of Your Love
Pour forth Your Spirit
and we shall be created
and You
shall renew the face of the earth

                     +

Clouds in My Coffee

This mid-life crisis has been hanging over my head for close to ten years  now, easing up one day and rolling in hard the next,  just to remind me that I am not my own.  To remind me that dreams and hopes don't always come true.   The mid-life crisis  reminds me why I like to be alone and don't mind atall being labeled a "recluse".  It also, unhappily,  reminds me that mid-life does happen at 40...who are we kidding?  The "crisis" is another story...it procrastinates...it teases and taunts.  The crisis looms here and there and each time I see it I can't see it.  Like clouds in my coffee, as Carly used to sing, sometimes I can't see through all the confusion of life....and love.

MY mid-life crisis can't be different than yours (and I know we don't like the subject unless the subject is someone else) but it feels like it is.  It feels like I am the only one who can't get the record to stop skipping.  (I know where I've been, I know where I'm going...is this it?)  I want it to be over... and then, again, I don't.  What does it mean when "it" is over?  It means one has comfortably and finally reached old age.  It means you ARE what you say you are (grandma/grandpa, 50!, etc.) and you accept it.  It means we really should start living like today is the day of all days and perhaps our last.  Enjoy, right?  I'm not so sure, but then I'm the one with MDD.

Confusion. That's the name of the game.  Does it mean anything to you?

September Our Lady of Sorrows

Today is the beginning of my favorite time of year, fall.  And it is the month of Our Lady of Sorrows.  The apologetics for all the beautiful teachings about the Blessed Virgin Mary will wait, but even my Protestant friends may benefit, if they please, by meditating on the sorrows of this good Mother.  It is only in recent years that I have come to understand her:  a Mother of Sorrows.  Millions of mothers before me have united their sorrows to hers (and have lived to tell about it).  But what does it all mean? We have twelve months of the year, feasts and seasons and holy days.   This must be an important subject for our minds' time for the Church to ask us to at least "think on these things" during the month of September.

For depressed mothers, relating to and meditating upon the sorrowful life and heart of Mary is a no-brainer.  We spend countless hours feeling sorrowful over one thing or another. Tears.  Regret:  The Mother of All.....of all something.   But for the average mother and Joe Blow, Jane Blow and Child Blow out there, what does this matter, and why should we waste our time on such things which may even depress us?  Isn't daily life about ridding ourselves of misery and unhappiness and finding peace, love and happiness?  Why bother?

As a convert, in the beginning of my Catholic journey, Mary was a mystery to me and somewhat of a stumbling block.  Well, I never stumbled over her but I did have a good "block" regarding her and the teachings surrounding her.  No matter now, except,  if my poor brain develops anymore at all I may be able to share what I have learned someday. (I am not holding out for this.)   I do know that spending time quietly meditating/pondering/thinking about Mary's life is a very profitable endeavor and the benefits increase each time! (There IS a secret with Mary.)  And I do know, as a mother who suffers with depression, that "knowing" such extreme sufferings as those of Mary,  not only softens the blows of one's own sufferings, but infuses such unspeakable graces into the soul that a true union of hearts does occur (and a peace beyond understanding as with Jesus).  In reality the Two Hearts are inseparable.

This union of hearts is not butterfly and marshmellow talk...listen up, Adam.  The teachings on Mary are not girlish fantasies.  Saints and sinners have written on the subject for thousands of years.  Godly men (and women) are still writing...so complete and yet so lacking.  So revealed and yet so hidden.   I don't know if enough could ever be written on the union of one's heart with the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Sorrowful Heart of Mary.  But men (and women) are writing and have for thousands of years.  (Even Martin Luther and John Calvin believed in the Immaculate Conception and wrote about the glories of Mary.)   It indeed, is a union of bliss.  A truth of the Faith.  A part of the Journey.
It is not a silly devotion (only) for blue-haired grandmas and unstable women (I said only).

So I wish you all a month of sweet, quiet time with the Lord Jesus and His Sorrowful Mother.  Whether you are suffering or not, someone you know is suffering or in need.  Open your own heart and see what happens.  And say a prayer for me, please.

This Happened