What was supposed to be a cohesive "tips to feel better" post that failed miserably. .

1. Always. Be. Yourself. 

                  Unless....

You can be Brad & Angelina. And I mean both. Like, at the same time. Combined. 

Or.....

Rainbow Brite. 

Or.....

Thor. 

Then totally be them. 

2. Quit worrying about what other people think of you, because GUESS WHAT-they aren't. 

 

             Once again, unless...

You look SO good eating a hamburger, you have to remind people you are not a sex object. [this is a daily struggle for me, as you can see.]

3. Robbie Sherrard for an instant pick-me-up. Here are two of my favorites:

"What Guys' Shoes Say About Them."

http://youtu.be/ukzuKUD_7_Q

Sorry, fellows.... But this is an absolute & unchanging truth. I'm pretty sure Mary had to pick out Jesus's sandals for him. 

"Why Men Hate Being in Pictures."

http://youtu.be/ZQSVa9ZDUDk

I think that pure joy on a man's face, captured in a photograph, is probably the most embarrassing thing that can happen to a man. 

4. Watch the following movies and/or clips. 

The Sister Act movies. 

I make it a point to watch both at least once a month. C'mon, it's got Whoopie in her prime, a young Lauryn Hill & Jennifer Love Hewitt, nuns, awesome rap battles & a soundtrack that I'm horrified it hasn't earned a Grammy for. 

"If you wanna be somebody, if you wanna go somewhere, then you better wake up and pay attention."

I think we can collectively agree that Afro needs a major comeback. 

And don't you DARE tell me one is better than the other!! THEY ARE BOTH EQUALLY AMAZING!! 

One of my favorite clips-the grand finale in Sister Act 2:

http://youtu.be/OaEH1e_DLm0

My eyes water up at the beauty of Lauryn Hill's voice & the high-waisted pants, overalls & 90s dance moves have made it one of the most epic scenes in the history of cinema. 

My second favorite clip. If you didn't get emotional watching this, you have no soul. 

http://youtu.be/dv2HrpWiSKM

The Sound of Music. 

Rolph was ugly, but I so wanted to dance around in the rain in a flowy dress like Liesel. 

Annnnnnd, be at that party!

My cousins & I religiously watched this movie every single time we went to my grandma's as a kid. I loved it then, but now I get all weepy whenever I watch it, which is also at least once a month. The music is so beautiful, and I never realized how romantic the love story between Maria & The Captain is until I got older. Or how incredibly hot Christopher Plummer was.....

Here's one of the most subtle romantic scenes ever, in my option. 

http://youtu.be/qUfWRBGQkz0

While I can't find the best scene-where the Captain walks in on the children singing for the Baroness and asks Maria to stay, this one is also a tearjerker for me. 

http://youtu.be/sYSw02uwzJ4

Interesting but totally disappointing facts about the movie for those who love it as much as I do: First of all, Christopher Plummer found the entire movie to be "dull and tiresome." Secondly, the movie has almost zero truth to it. The real Maria desperately did NOT want to be with  The Captain and begged the head nun (the boss?) to let her stay in the convent. But she loved the children and later said she grew to love the Captain more than she had ever loved anyone. 

Okay, that part is a little romantic....

• 
  
• And now, for the greatest scene in cinematic history, it’s this scene, played by Samuel L Jackson, in the masterpiece, Jurassic Park

Enjoy! 

http://youtu.be/-W6as8oVcuM

"HOLD ON TO YOUR BUTTS!"

I may or may not have drank a few too many at my sister's wedding and gracefully yelled it out after the sappy speeches. Who knows, really. 

Well, I failed at staying on topic, per usual. But it's Friday night and I have super exciting stuff to do. 

My sister is coming over to eat my lettuce wrapped fat-free hamburger patties with my daily allotment of 20 almonds with me. 

We might even go crazy and watch a movie on Netflix!

What are some of your favorite movie scenes?

I forgot the kissing scene in Romeo & Juliet and the "Come What May" and "Roxanne" scene in Moulin Rouge!!

Ahhhhhhh!!!!

Love,

MourningGlory

depression: my oldest friend.

"In addition to my other numerous acquaintances, I have one more intimate confidant… My depression is the most faithful mistress I have known — no wonder, then, that I return the love."

Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life

Depression. It can occur at any time and hit any person, regardless of age, sex, wealth, nationality or circumstance. 

Take me, for example: The first time I heard her knock on my door, I was ten years old. I don't know how to explain how I felt at that time-only that I was just so tired. I remember coming home from school every day, curling my body into a tight little ball of gangly limbs and denim shorts, crawling into my pink canopy bed, feeling wave after wave of nothingness crash against the walls, lulling my body to sleep with its soothing rhythm. 

My mother: "You can't sleep away your problems, Beth."

What problems? I had lots of friends, I made good grades, I lived in a big three-story house with upper-middle-class parents who loved me, I never wanted for anything, and quite honestly, had the picture-perfect childhood. I was just exhausted. 

See, that's the thing about depression so many people don't understand. Can it be caused by a certain negative experience or really difficult time in one's life? Of course. But for many of us, it is a never ending battle that pins us down, keeps us up at night or holds us hostage in our beds. We guiltily remind ourselves of everything we need to be doing, everything good in our lives. But she has a romantic way of luring us into the dark cocoon of our head, saying, "It's too much for you to handle, anyway. Quit trying." 

Because more often than not lately, it's been happening after all the good things falling into my lap. I feel the rush of what could be, the glimmer of a life grander than I have ever imagined. But depression's little cousin, fear, offers to come by, stroke my hair softly, sing me a lullaby and give me a place to rest my head-so full of ideas they both remind me I'm not capable of carrying out. 

I know there are things I can and should do. Things that will scare her away. Like, call an old friend, exercise, read, write a poem. But the second she shows her face, I let her crawl inside my salty, yellow lungs, lay her heavy head upon my chest, give her a soft kiss upon her forehead, and together, we hide. 

I love her and I hate her. Out of anyone in the entire world, she knows me best. We have spent so many days & nights entrapped in each other's arms, sharing secrets, clinging together with hands laced tight. She allows me to waste time, reassuring me all of my efforts are in vain-granting me the option to give up. 

I hate her because I do not want to give up. She sucks the marrow of my bones and invites anxiety and self-pity to supper, both of whom are excellent cooks. She is a skilled boxer, and has beat me so many times, I am terrified to even spar. 

But somedays, I fight like hell. I bury myself in projects; I ask my sister if she will please come see me. I dream impossibly big. I put on a pretty dress and lipstick. I tell an old woman she is beautiful-and mean it. I read old love letters. I allow myself to truly receive a compliment. And believe it.  

Depression will never completely abandon me. She has crawled into my ribs and permanently tangled herself in my hair. But I remind myself that she is a fickle visitor, that she has multiple house calls to make, that she will grow weary of me and fly away.

But as for today? I slept most of it away. I worried about money. I worried about writing this, because I know I am capable of expressing this feeling much better than I did. I know my words and the way I use them is a gift. I know I did not make the best use of that gift. 

But, I wrote. Therefore, I win today's battle. And I will try again tomorrow. I will not rest easy, but rest, I will. 

And sometimes, just sometimes, I give her a tired smile and a thank you. Just for listening....

One of my favorite poems that explains how I feel. 

This poet here says it best.....

https://youtu.be/sRrORhWHkOc

Do you struggle with depression? If so, please tell me about your experience with it in the comment box.

Yours Truly,

MourningGlory

beauty: a beginner's guide

Beauty. 

I know I've written briefly about this before, but it was more about my personal journey with feeling undesirable after I became paralyzed. 

This is for ALL women-something I know we all struggle with. How can we not? We've been fed a visual meal of what a woman is supposed to look like & even be. We swallow it, choking on self-hatred. Throwing it up-the bitter aftertaste lingering in our throats. We first encounter it as teenagers. Glossy spreads in 17 & Teen Magazine. Lips parted like an open purse for a manboy to enter.  Perfect hair. Teeth pearls. Skin porcelain. Later, we compare ourselves to Victoria's Secret models, sashaying down the cat walks. Abs tight, hair flowing spirals, legs granddaddy long.

I first remember feeling inadequate at the age of ten. I was smart. I was creative. I was funny. But, I was too skinny. I had glasses. I read too much. I was too tall. And confused: On the playground-the first time I was embarrassed about my body: What are those things sticking out of your shirt, Bethany?" Laughter. Pointing. Covering my chest in my new t-shirt dress, with my arms crossed, fists clenched tight. I never wore it again. 

 Boys liked my best friends, not me. I quickly learned that getting a man's attention was paramount. Without a boy wanting me, how could I complete myself?

Age 12: I didn't have glasses anymore. I  knew breasts were good. I made sure to wear shirts that showed them off. I learned that being skinny was to be appreciated. I got my first boyfriend. I was finally okay. 

The years went on, and I licked the sweet taste of envy from other girls & the stares and catcalls from men like the outsides of the cigars my daddy used to let me taste. The tanning bed in high school. "Wow, Beth. You were pretty before.... But now, you're hot."

Nourishment. 

Nutrition. 

I have known girls who shoved even fingers they found too stubby deep in their mouths, gagging on triump. Women who refuse to let their husbands see them naked. Women who punish themselves with cuts etched deep into their skin, teardrops spilling out mixing with the blood. Women who bury themselves in piles of paper and laundry and children, afraid to be found, to be seen. We paint and polish ourselves to be an object-a pretty picture on the wall. Then we hide it, afraid to love ourselves, because even that is a sin.

But our bodies are not a landscape to be painted on. We are not the sum of our hips, lips, weight, skin, breasts or bellys. We have wisdom to impart, mouths we feed, faces that tell a story. 

Desirability is a clever thief. It casts subject as object if it means we are wanted. But you, woman reading this, are a skyline, a galaxy of a woman, of palatable vastness. You are a ray of sun, streaking someone else's sky awake. You are a jar full of fireflies on a hot Southern night. Glow. Burn bright. 

Take your body back from the only way people allow themselves to find it beautiful. Take back the title. Own it.

I'm still a long ways away from learning to truly love myself outside of my physical appearance. I am trying to learn that my beauty lies in the way my eyes light up when I smile. The way my laugh can fill a room. The way my words are a gift, a present to be unwrapped, a present to be shared. The way my tired voice drips with honey when I say, "I love you" and mean it. 

But my body is strong. My body fights. My body survived. And I will learn to love my body, my face. I will carry myself like a queen, like a lover, like a song. 

I wish I had the time to word this better, but for now.... I will show you someone who says it best.

http://youtu.be/YSHnnPunShg

Yours Truly,

Mourning Glory 

I Am Just a Head

    after they put the right side of my skull back on. worst pain i've ever felt.


If you are Facebook friends with me, you have probably read this poem already. It still needs a lot of work, but it was the first thing I wrote when I started writing. It is about my first memories upon waking up from my coma.

I am just a head  

Colors hazy. 

Lights brighter. 

I can only make out family members by their voices.

Muffled.

Recognized from a place as far away

as home. 

Complete darkness never comes.  

Sounds louder.

the swoossh of the ventilator

The beeps on my leads.

Doors opening and closing.

The every fifteen-minute-motorized-mechanical vibe of the blood pressure cuff.

Smells the most potent of all. 

When one nurse leans over me, 

I greedily breath her in.

cinnamon chewing gum,

cigarette smoke, 

the inside of a purse. 

Her hair-black coils 

rough against my face,

my neck 

striped, scabbed,

Surrendered. 

The Milky vomit of the feed that 

            D

               R

                   I

                      P

                         S

Down my nose

Baby powder-latex gloves-urine. 

The food eaten in front of me that I cannot eat.

I ask to watch the Kardashians because that was my favorite guilty pleasure before I was here in this place. A nurse says, "I can't imagine any of them having to go through something like this. They couldn't."

In this particular episode, they are discussing rumors of Kim having butt implants. 

Glossy hair extensions. 

Tan skin. 

Perfectly arched brows.

Plush couches. 

Designer clothes

Health

A study in contrast:. 

Feeding tubes. 

Hospital gowns.

Catheter bags. 

Sisters crying in the hallway. 

Shaved baby bird heads 

with spinal fluid seeping

slow, seeping metal.  

I ask my mother when I can go back to school and work. She tells me she withdrew me from school and put me on leave from work.

There was a time when anger was closed door sullen.

New this gagged- hog-tied-frustration. 

She doesn't have the heart to tell me the doctor tells her I'll never 

breath on my own

move 

feel

talk 

or 

eat again.  

But, she lies as mothers do and says, "You were in a really bad wreck, honey. It will probably take a few months, then you can go back."

I cry for the first time. I ask her to kill me.

Every time I wake, I ask where my boyfriend is.  I need him there. We haven't  spent a day apart in two years. Off in rehabilitation in another state, I am lonely in a way I've  never felt. I can't understand what is more important than being with me.

We are In love.

So Mama lets me call him.

I have no voice.

I mouth words to her to tell him. All I can say is, "I love you" over and over again. When I finally hear his voice call me our favorite pet name "pup,"  I sleep easy through the night.  

Neurons firing 

memories deleted from my hard drive 

My spinal cord a dead whale, 

belly-up,

swelling. 

nerves scrambling 

lost in roads it has never travelled. 

Disorientation. 

I am unable to tell where my body is in space. 

I am sterile. 

White. 

Cleansed. 

Purer than I've ever been. 

The Virgin Mary. 

Two things happened next: I am able to wiggle my toes and wake up out of a dead sleep when I feel my nurse touch my arm.

Still mainly a head. But a little bit of an arm and some toes leaves and invisible smirk.

                       the car....

 me at about 100 pounds, still with a feeding tube and tracheotomy and half my skull still missing. hence that sexy helmet...

Editor's note: I'm planning on writing a memoir, and this will probably be a part of it. I already have a very kind man that has offered to help me with a publisher! I just need that motivation…:)

Worth

 

Feeling desired, wanted, beautiful, treasured, precious, special, unique. Pursued....

These are feelings I think every woman longs for. Even the most independent, self-reliant of women. Even the woman who doesn't even know she wants it.

You see, I believe that God created women with that desire innately in their heart. In fact, since we are created in His image, it only makes sense.  I'm sure a lot of you have read the book, Captivating, which goes into all of that. But I'm not here to discuss that right now; I'm only going to tell my story and how I feel because that is the way I operate-who I am. I tell my story through the lens of my experience with my feeble words. 

The homeostatious of Men's attention. I've had it my entire life in a way so tangible, it feels as natural as breathing, my heart beating, a blush. 

Their eyes-greedy, unfolding me like tissue paper, holding my flesh, my breasts, my skin in-between fingers making of me a gift I never offered. 

My body has never belonged solely to me. I gave it away in small doses in exchange for love. A piece of my thighs, a forged grin, my belly, painting my face, uncovering my body and sharing bits & pieces in tight white dresses, jean shorts & low-cut blouses. 

I learned how a laugh could invite a man to think he could come into the cocoon of my skin, how to hide myself in the floorboards & sink into the walls wherever I went to feel safe from their stares. I kept my legs crossed and my arms folded in the hopes I could be safe and alone within myself. 

Now I am an inanimate object. A sexless machine. A piece of cutlery in the kitchen that no one uses. I do not know if I will ever be used to the glances that pass over me, the glances that do not exist for me anymore. 

I have dated since this ordeal. I have dated a lot. With various men. Smart men. Funny men. Handsome men. Abusive men whose palm of the hand was the closest I ever truly got to them. Men who cheated, who told me I wasn't enough. Men who made me hate my sheath-skin. 

In some ways, my body betraying itself has given me the opportunity to find the ones who are better than what I would've gone for before, because they aren't bothered by my tired hands-dark bruised, purple. My dangling feet, my broken smile. They see me oak tree strong. My brokenness as beauty. 

I love my heart. 

My courage. 

My strength. 

My fight. 

But I am lonely. 

I am afraid. 

I want to be the missing piece to someone's puzzle. 

Will I ever be anything to someone but a careless tourist in my own body?

I try to remember this. 

I Am Just A Head

[I suppose I should "introduce" myself in a way. While I'd rather you find out with me, as I really have no clue sometimes myself-how does one label oneself?-I will allow you a small glimpse into the beginning of (one) of my stories. 

 I am just a head  

Colors hazy. Lights brighter. I can only make out family members by their voices.

 Muffled.

Recognized from some far away place a

long time ago. 

The  echoes remind me I am not at home.

 Complete darkness never comes.  

Sounds louder.

 the swoossh of the ventilator

The beeps on my leads.

Doors opening and closing.

The every 15 minute motorized mechanical vibe of the blood pressure cuff.

 Smells the most potent of all. 

Acidic lysol. Bleach. 

The Milky vomit of the feed that 

            D

               R

                   I

                      P

                         S

Down my nose

Baby powder-latex gloves-urine

When one nurse leans over me,

 I greedily breath her in.

cinnamon chewing gum,

 cigarette smoke,

 the inside of a purse

The food eaten in front of me that I cannot eat.

 I ask to watch the Kardashians because that was my favorite guilty pleasure before I was here in this place.

A nurse says, " I can't imagine any of them having to go through something like this. They couldn't."

In this particular episode, they are discussing rumors of Kim having butt implants

Glossy hair extensions. 

Tan skin. 

Perfectly arched brows.

Plush couches. 

Designer clothes

Health

 A study in contrast:. 

Feeding tubes. 

Hospital gowns.

Catheter bags. 

Sister crying in the hallway. 

Shaved baby bird heads with spinal fluid seeping out.

I ask my mother when I can go back to school and work. She tells me she withdrew me from school and put me on leave from work.

There was a time when anger was closed door sullen.

New this gagged- hog-tied-frustration. 

She doesn't have the heart to tell me the doctor tells her I'll never 

breath on my own

move 

feel

talk 

or 

eat again.  

But, she lies as mothers do and says, "You were in a really bad wreck, honey. It will probably take a few months, then you can go back."

I cry for the first time. I ask her to kill me.

Every time I wake, I ask where my boyfriend is.  I need him there. We haven't  spent a day apart in two years. Off in rehabilitation in another state, I am lonely in a way I've  never felt. I can't understand what is more important than being with me.

 We are In love.

So Momma lets me call him.

I have no voice.

 I mouth words to her to tell him. All I can say is, "I love you" over and over again. When I finally hear his voice call me our favorite pet name "pup,"  I sleep easy through the night.  

Neurons firing memories deleted from my hard drive. 

My spinal cord a dead whale, 

belly-up 

swelling. 

nerves scrambling in

my confused body, 

lost in roads it has never travelled. 

Disorientation.

 

I am unable to tell where my body is in space. 

I am sterile. White. Cleansed. Purer than I've ever been. A nun. 

Two things happen next: I am able to wiggle my toes, and wake up out of a dead sleep when I feel my nurse touch my arm. 

Still mainly a head. 

But a little bit of an arm and some toes leaves an invisible smirk.