My Brown Eyed Girl

She is tall, super thin, but beautiful. Her skin is the color of creamy mocha coffee. She wears her black hair short and glossy. Her glasses are modern and big for her fine features. The left lens is cracked from a fight. She refuses to get it replaced. She has on skinny jeans and a tight t-shirt. She walks slowly in her high top tennis shoes. She is not in a hurry to go anywhere.

But when she speaks, she is thoughtful, witty and sharp. She listens to everything I say, taking it in and turning it over in her mind. She responds confidently to my questions. She does not hide any piece of herself.

She believes in the rapture.

She is in a gang. They are her family.

She could do anything she wants with her life. She could go to college. She would excel in law school. She would be a wonderful, wise mother.

When she walks into the room, I pray for her. Open your eyes, I say. When she leaves, I pray again. Don’t go, I say.

Certifiable

Depression. It’s what my doctor calls it. Weakness. Lies. Laziness. Others have called it these things. I have been depressed since I can remember. Each day I am sad, impulsive, tired and weak. I am trapped in a body with limitations. My better judgment arrested. My heart vulnerable.

My mind is convinced that these limitations are of my own doing. I can overcome them if I try hard enough, it says. Do more, act happier; be more dedicated, it commands. I try and try.
My body laughs at my mind for thinking such foolishness. There is nothing I can do to overcome the depression. It weighs me down like a two ton anchor. It lassos my brain and chokes it. I cannot reason the depression away. I cannot will it to end.

I see doctors. More doctors than I care to admit. I pray that the next one will know what to do. They are kind, honest people, who cannot help me. I hope for a magic drug that will restore me to a proper and functioning adult. I hope and hope.

No one believes me. Not my husband. Certainly not my bosses. Not my friends. Sometimes not even myself. No one knows how desperate I am to be believed. To be cared for instead of criticized.

I have children. Beautiful, lively, innocent children. I want to be more for them. I want to offer them all I had as a child. But, at times I am trapped, too burdened, even for them. My body is gelatin. My energy drained. So, I watch them play. I hire help. It is not enough.

I am left to wonder: will they know this illness, too? I pray not. The thought haunts me. Do these genes course through their veins? I pray and pray.

power of positive thinking

I am strong. I am confident. I am talented. I am popular. I am content. I am beautiful. I am successful. I am alluring. I am bold. I am wealthy. I am satisfied. I am a magnet for good things. I am lucky. I am jovial. I am creative. I am rich. I am blessed. I am admired. I am resourceful. I am trendy. I am stunning. I am fortunate. I am tough. I am positive. I am at ease. I am triumphant. I am free. I am interesting. I am outgoing. I am adventurous. I am chic. I am capable. I am powerful. I am witty. I am well-traveled. I am intelligent. I am crafty. I am smooth. I am worldly. I am mysterious. I am conscientious. I am brave. I am accomplished. I am loved. I am loving. I am generous. I am faithful. I am kind. I am sweet. I am saucy. I am exotic. I am…