In honor of Mother's Day, I wanted to share a journal entry I wrote a few months ago. Thank you, Mom, for all the laughter, hugs and long nights that turned into some of the most beloved memories. Know that you are loved!

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March 2, 2015

Tonight my mother sang to me. 

Sweet tunes hummed from closed lips, whispering little reassurances into my tired ears. My head laid in the crook of her hip, the safest place I’ve ever known, and she comforted me as if I was her little child again. Days of sun-blonde locks and imaginary friends danced in my head; her in that blue and white dress she always wore, standing at the kitchen sink with dogs barking outside; days when things were simpler and my eyes were wide with wonder at the world around me. Tire swings, tree houses, baby dolls and bike rides were my most beloved pastimes and the future consisted of the next few precious moments and nothing more. There were days without dread; waking up to the sun through my window felt like the morning kissing my cheeks ‘hello.’

Snow was a welcome friend who filled me with joy and hot cocoa. Six little mittens sitting frozen on the heater and rosy cheeks with smiles in between. 

Rain woke me often with its tapping on my roof in the next months, but I payed no mind. The rain held a magic that I couldn’t quite explain, an ability to soothe the deepest corners of my little heart and the worries hidden there.

Summer brought bare feet and freedom; I can still feel the warm grass between my toes. Picking fresh honeysuckle and coming in from the backyard with grass-stained knees were the finest of days. When our favorite things were makeshift slip and slides, flooded sandboxes, and hugs from Mom and Dad, that’s when we knew how to live.

Light jackets, large sweaters, hay bales and pumpkin patches filled the days of fall. There was no greater joy than jumping face-first into a pile of leaves. Occasionally, I catch the smell of spiced cider in the air and it brings me back to those crisp, cool moments when we were surrounded by family and everything was beautiful.

Her tune carries the memories of my childhood and tonight I had the privilege to sit and visit awhile, and all because my mother sang to me.




Lauren

My grandma has dementia. Her once strong arms that held children and grandchildren now find themselves wrapped around mine as she steadies herself to walk. Her once busy feet that ran around the family farm have found a much slower and unsteady pace. Her mind that was strong has gone and left behind a darling little girl who cries with joy when she’s surrounded by those she loves and with sadness when her heart is touched by sappy movies and re-runs of Little House on the Prairie. I count it a privilege to be able to share in these moments with her. 

 
The first time I remember seeing the change in Grandma was several years ago. It was Thanksgiving night and our family was gathering our coats to begin the three hour drive home. While these partings were sometimes difficult, they were often filled with love and a quiet peace that comes from spending time with the people closest to you. But on this day, it seemed more traumatic to her. Tears spilled from her eyes with a certain intensity and her hug felt of loving desperation. It’s hard to explain, really. We left and I spent the car ride home wondering what had changed in Grandma.

 
A few times I remember her telling the adults that her mind was slipping but that the doctors said there was nothing wrong. Looking back, I can hear the fear hidden in her words; how awful it must be to lose something so precious. 

 
The years came and went but each time we visited, Grandma had left us a little more. I remember her always being strong and opinionated, but these days she is much softer and laughs more often. She giggles when I remind her of my cousins and I re-enacting the nativity scene (I as Joseph, my cousin, Abigail, as Mary and a raggedy doll as baby Jesus) and gets this far off look when I ask her about her and Grandpa at sixteen. Somedays I am Lauren, her granddaughter and other days I am just the nice young lady who bathes and dresses her. But I am thankful to be both, because tonight after I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight, I heard my Grandma’s sing-song voice from across the room whisper, “I love you!” and despite the difficulties that the day had held, I whispered back, “I love you, too,” with the biggest smile on my face. Now I know that, “for better or for worse, for in sickness and in health,” not only applies to those who are married, but is found in the very fabric that binds us to family.

So, for the next five months I will be living in Ohio with my grandparents, just a town over from where I grew up. This place is different from what my child’s eyes remember. There used to be magic in the air and all of the fields and trees beckoned me to new adventures, but now I see sleepy buildings in need of new paint and old storefronts all boarded up. That’s okay though, because the magic hasn’t gone, it’s just changed. These streets now hold memories like an old friend who’s opened the door and welcomed me in to stay awhile, and these hills remember me and are eager to learn who I’ve become. It’s strangely wonderful to walk into the homes of my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins with such frequency and to know that I am loved and supported from all sides. It’s something I haven’t experienced since we moved when I was young. Some people dream about having a family like mine, and I know that I have been blessed far beyond what I deserve. Truth be told, I’m already dreading the Fall when I’ll have to say good-bye to these people and this small town life, but I know that these next few months hold treasures that I will hold onto for a lifetime, and I can’t wait to begin this new chapter.

Everything is quiet. The house has found sleep, say for its subtle creeks and groans as it tosses in its dreams. The furnace hums softly and fills this home with warmth and I can hear the quiet footsteps of my parents above. The room I find myself in is dimly lit by the light of a single lamp and while the world outside does its dance with darkness, I am altogether restless.

This past week was a waste. I neither moved forward nor backward, but instead remained stagnant. What a fate, to grow old and stale because I refused to move. I keep telling myself to get it together and make promises that tomorrow will be different. But I’ve found myself in countless tomorrows.

It’s time to shake off the weight of all I’ve been holding and find a new normal.

This morning, I woke up at 6:30am and did yoga. Afterwards, I cut up fresh fruit, sat down and read my favorite book with a pen in one hand and a French pressed coffee in the other. The rest of my day was filled with writing letters to old friends, answering emails and finishing the first chapter of my book.

Just kidding.

This morning, I actually rolled out of bed at 10am, already overwhelmed by life, and found my way to the couch. Netflix informed me six hours later that I had finally completed my goal of watching every episode of Dance Moms (quite an accomplishment.) Throw in some bathroom breaks, a snack run, a little self-loathing and you’ve got a pretty good picture of what my life looks like on “bad days.”

Some of you know why I decided to take a semester off of school and others of you are now just realizing why I’ve been missing from class for the past two weeks.

Sorry about that.

It’s no secret that I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression in the past, but until recently I thought that I had put these issues to rest. Surprise! I relapsed. It started in the beginning of Summer 2014, but I didn’t reach out for help until this past month.

There were a few misguided reasons behind my unwillingness to ask for help:

           

1)   If I asked for help from my school I could have potentially been kicked out because many of the coping mechanisms I used were against school policy;

2)   I didn’t ask my parents for help because I’m an adult and should be able to handle my own problems; and

3)   I didn’t ask my friends because I didn’t want to burden them.

Really, it all came down to pride and the deep sense of shame that I carried with me. The stigma of mental illness is a very real thing. It’s scary to those who experience it and confusing for those who witness it. For me, though, it was nothing new.

In those months, I slept a lot, cried a lot, and lacked motivation to do anything.  Unable to stop time, Spring rolled around and I halfheartedly convinced myself it would be better.  But I knew I needed to ask for help when I found myself unable to leave my room because of debilitating anxiety after only the first day of classes. The thought of being in a room full of people paralyzed me.

This once small problem had grown into a monster of its own, one that I could no longer control. So that same day, I sat down, wrote out a pro/con list and ultimately decided that it was time to take a break.

It was the best decision I could have made for myself.

Now, I’m a walking cliché: 24 and living in my parent’s basement. But that’s not going to get me down. When I finally got the courage to talk with my parents about everything that had been going on and my plans for the future, I was blown away by their love and support. Likewise, my friends have brought me to tears with their kindness.

In fact, this past week I ran away from home (can adults still do that?)  My best friend and I decided to take a road trip down to her place in Kansas. So here I am, indulging myself with frivolous reading, sweatpant wearing and long talks with the dog of the house. It’s been great.

And did I mention that they live in an eternal Fall here in Wichita? Seriously, these people don’t know how good they have it. While everyone in Chicago is trudging around, waist-deep in snow, I’ve been sporting a t-shirt and sneakers and have had the privilege of sleeping with my window open at night.

I don’t know what life will hold for me when I step off that bus back in Chicago, but I do know that I’ve already found some healing in the quiet moments of life.

While I initially wrote this post to inform friends and family where I disappeared to and why, I also wanted to take time to encourage those who sympathize with my story. Asking for help was one of the hardest and most humbling things I’ve ever had to do, but it was absolutely worth it. For those of you who are struggling, please reach out until someone listens. There is hope and healing even if it looks like moving back into your parent’s basement.