Love – in a word

It may have been a hot July afternoon when Wayne stopped by my gray, Dilbert-like cubicle for the sixth time, but it was a cold and lonely summer as far as I was concerned. My high school sweetheart and husband of 17 years had left me and our four children because he needed his space. What I didn’t need, I thought, was Wayne, even though I finally relented and met him for lunch.

How wrong I was. I did need him. We all did.

Wayne relished life and had mastered the art of living large. He was a burly mad who laughed and loved generously. Over the course of our marriage we invented a game that tended to make our growing children nauseated. Wayne would pronounce, “I love you”, and I would declare, “I love you more.” Wayne would then exclaim, “I love you the most,” and I would respond, “I love you plus one.” Next, I would hear, “I love you times three,” and the game would escalate. The first one to say to the other, “I love you googol!” was considered the “winner”. We regularly amused ourselves playing this game, always trying to outmaneuver the other.

This wordplay served as a welcome diversion as we found ourselves navigating the turbulent waters of blending and shaking two family units together. As the children grew older and began to develop lives of their own, we excitedly began to plan for our future. Retirement was a not-so-distant reality, and we spent many an hour plotting a strategy for the upcoming years. The resulting stratagem was christened our “Master Plan.”

In the midst of our expectant planning, and following a routine physical examination, Wayne was referred to the local hospital for precautionary testing. It was another hot July afternoon we found ourselves seated in a cold, windowless physicians office. We were stunned to receive a verdict of incurable and inoperable cancer. The severity of his condition was underscored with the somber prediction of less than fourteen months of life remaining.

With the shock beginning to subside and the significance of the prognosis sinking in, one of Wayne’s first responses was, “Babe, the master plan we designed for our lives apparently is not the Master’s plan for us. So now let’s make the most of the rest of my life and live it like it was meant to be lived.”

Indeed, we were about to embark on a previously untraveled trail in our memorable expedition of life. The ensuing thirteen months were packed with travels, family and friends with the purpose of wringing as many experiences out of life as possible. In the fourteenth month of our emotion-filled pilgrimage, it was again a hot summer day. The passage from an earlth reality to an eternal existence was fast approaching for Wayne. He was no longer communicating and bodily systems were steadily shutting down. I was no longer confident of his ability to hear or to comprehend.

As the day slowly and painfully trudged on, I climbed under the blankets to hold him in my arms. After singing a much-loved childhood Sunday school song to him, I squeezed him tightly and murmured, “Wayne, I love you so much.” With time standing still and as my eyes swelled with tears, the seconds swelled into minutes. I wept for the fact that he may not be aware of me or of what I was telling him. As I struggled with this heartbreaking truth, Wayne began to shift his body and with great effort he uttered in a raspy, guttural voice, “googol.” Soon after, and with a quiet moan, Wayne took his first footstep into eternity.

Written by Kathy Boeve-Zeh

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My dictionary

Depression is the howling wolf on a crisp, clear night – angry at the moon – only when you all wake up happy that it was just a dream, we look into the mirror and see his shadow on our back.

Marriage

Well, this is a heavy topic for this website and I’m angry about it. This particular topic never bothered me until recently – when my 5yo daughter began having reasonable intelligence to ask hard questions and expect easy answers.

As her parent I’m charged with raising a responsible and caring human being who does more good than bad in their life. If we wanted to boil it down to basics – that’s pretty much it. And you can see that through religious eyes or not, we happen to.

My parents are divorced and Jessica already grasps that messy triangle of a family tree. What she doesn’t understand is – if Grandpa and Grandma are like that – why can’t you (Me, Jodi, I) be?

My husbands parents are not divorced, so she sees marriage lasting a lifetime as much as she sees it not – and we, her parents, are married and plan to stay that way … but she still doesn’t get it.

Now, she’s 5. She doesn’t really have to get it yet. But when I get asked questions like “Why can’t daddy have a girlfriend?” then I know she MUST grasp this, whether she wants to or not.

In our house, there are no openings for Others in our marriage. Period. No negotiation or discussion, ever. I married one man, whom in returned married one woman. That’s how we did it. And because Jessica is my child, in my home, in this big wide world – she will see this through my eyes until she knows the difference of decision in her adult life.

I’m not talking about marriage as a whole right now, I do not want to talk about politics. I’m talking about MY marriage. MY family. MY daughter.

And why the hell she seems to think that Daddy needs to be allowed to love someone else?

Here’s where I talk about my marriage.

As said in the video our last calendar year was a total piece of shit. There are reasons we’re in counseling – most of them proactive to the very fact that we plan to stay married for our life time together. Some of them reactive to a horribly difficult year – one of growth in some manners, others of clear stunts and backward pedaling in other manners. Out of the 12 months of 2009 there was a total of 4 months that we did not have someone staying in our home, either on our couch, in a tent or for an extended period of time.

Having someone in my home has never been more stressful. Helping and having guests over is one of the things I love about being home, but last year it felt like I was constantly having something invade what little separation I had from the reminder that I am mostly alone.

Owning our own business is not a 9-5 situation. It’s a 24 hour a day job in this house, and even when it’s “my” time, it’s always Work’s time. And I am bitter and resentful. I know I sound like a brat and I will take it. Fuck, I’ll take “Princess” and then I’ll hand you a wonderful little reality check that is life as a married woman with small children inside 4 walls all day long.

No one tells me I’m valuable. I’m always hearing from my children how I’m doing it wrong, not doing it enough, making them angry or cry. When my husband comes home it’s my job to make him feel respected and I love making him feel important because I know he needs to feel that way. He needs it. It’s how he’s wired.

And then I get to listen to the bad days, the hard days – the big decisions and all the stress. I get the leftovers. And then I get asked why I didn’t have time to clean the house, or do the laundry. Why haven’t I called this person? Aren’t I organized? Can’t I do it?

What do you do? I get asked.

Honey, you might kiss ass all day long, but I wipe ‘em. And our children are happy and bathed and in clean beds. I made them breakfast, lunch and dinner, I cleaned the house 7 times in the span of 8 hours – all while listening to bickering and sometimes laughter. I daydream about affording help, a house cleaner … someone to keep things organized and tidy. Someone to give me a hand. I made your bed and folded your socks. I got the groceries you asked about.

I, I, I for You, You, You.

I feel out of balance in this life. Somewhere along the line I let myself say yes too many times and while I was saying yes, you were saying I’ll take it. All the while planning to give it back 110% but the ROI for the amount of time I’ve invested is emotional bankruptcy.

Problem is I was the teller who approved the transaction.

———————————————-

Alright, so everyone take a couple deep breaths. I have. It feels so much better. This is a very one-sided post today about how I’m personally struggling right now. So I’d like to give you some perspective as to how this is not a one-person fail. As in, my husbands job does suck time like a rabid vampire on the loose, but it does so much more than that.

It makes him happy. It provides for our family. It allows us to travel. It even excites me. I honestly think the real problem is that I am not working outside of the home – and where I thought that was what I wanted 5 years ago, my mind has changed. But I’m dealing with all kinds of guilt and hurt feelings (on my own) for changing my mind.

I have some SERIOUS hang ups, personally, about being allowed to change my mind this far into the game, but I know that if I do not gain clarity and ultimately conquer those hang ups it will be detrimental to them and myself. And I feel like a total failure for just admitting that.

I have some demons to fight and it feels like I’m fighting them alone, which breeds resentment. The current affairs of my life are in no way my husbands fault … but he’s offly easy to blame for them. Don’t let me do that.

(via jodimichelle)

Can we make this worse?

I’m cross-posting this one because, well. Read it. Sometimes I write things down and then bite my finger nails all day in horrid response to not shutting my mouth sooner.

This past summer I confessed to some serious household shortcomings in respect to having a paid sitter come into the house and have to deal with my lack of organization.

It has not gotten better.

In case you were wondering.

Although – I do now have toilet paper in the house and there are no longer lottery tickets sitting on my counter … and we haven’t bounced any more checks. There are new problems with my brain.

I remember hearing a story once about a babysitter who wanted job security so she would find the people’s birth control and tamper with it. As in, if it were condoms, she’d poke holes and if it were pills she’d … I don’t know, mess with them. I don’t know how.

This scared the crap out of me because who the heck knows what someone is looking through when they’re at your house and you’re not there?

Now. Step aside. I fully and completely trust the ladies we employ not to sabotage my ovaries. And I trust that if they’re nosey … soon they will not be because I’m sure they’ve found stuff by accident and then decided to shield their eyes for ever and ever, amen.

I’m making it sound like we’re freaks aren’t I?

Meh. Deal with it.

ANY WAY. It has happened before when I come home and start picking a few things up or walk into our bedroom to change or something only to notice the discarded birth control wrapper. I am not spelling this out for you. And I immediately shrink to about 2 inches tall inside and gasp at my total disregard for modesty.

I am married so 2+2=we’re doin’ it. But I don’t really want you to KNOW that. I don’t want you to see the evidence.

There have been countless times when I’m taking out the trash and see toiletries that are less than pleasant resting right on top and I’ve had to wonder to myself … OH MY GOSH! Why haven’t these girls up and quit on us?

Because when I was babysitting, none of this stuff was ever shoved in my face over and over again. I didn’t even go into the parents bedroom. And I’m not saying our sitters do – but our kids do! They love to play in there, be on the bed, wear my clothes. To be completely honest I don’t really care if our sitters do, either.

One thing I’ve learned since becoming a parent is that modesty, in all realms, is really just security for less embarrassment in a crowd. And once you’ve been projectile pooped on in your church bathroom during a service and had to walk right back out and sit down next to the wonderfully put together mom of 4 while you struggle with your ONE … modesty just has no place in that business. At all.

So, I do a mental check now before a sitter comes over. Toilet paper? DIAPERS?! (which I have forgotten many-a-times) Trash cans – clear? Diaper pail – fresh? (I’m bad at that one) Birth control evidence? Clean clothes?

Oh. Laundry. What a waste of time. I always have clean laundry piled high in our basement waiting to be folded and put away. Does it ever happen? Oh yes, about twice a month. And I feel amazing and on top of the world, until the next morning when half of my daughters closet is on her floor and in her hamper once again and it begins all over.

So you will totally be accosted with laundry upon entering our basement and I’ve just stopped apologizing for it. I’ve also stopped making sure that my nitty-grittys are somewhere underneath the entire pile of laundry because I’m sure I’m the butt of many jokes … literally … about how terrible my granny panties look.

That is correct I have not actually thrown them away yet.

But now I must.

Also? I’ll be crawling in a hole today and staying there for eternity.

I leave my camera to Jessica. Good bye.

(Via jodimichelle)

S.O.S

I’m writing this from my bed tonight and before I could sit down, get comfortable and start writing I had to move piles of folded laundry from the bed to the floor. I have my alarm set for the morning and the automatic start programed on the coffee maker. I plan to wake up before my children and shower and have a plan for the day before they even start to stir in the morning.

When did this happen?

naked on paper (.com)

I have struggled since before I became a mother with waking up in the morning and I knew that once I became one I would have to figure it out. But that was the least of my worries. For the longest time all I was worried about was becoming a mother. Oh my god, how I couldn’t have it fast enough. We’re MARRIED!!! GET ME PREGNANT!

And we did just that. I was blurry eyed with happiness and naiveté. My (step)dad was dying and I was creating new life. I was becoming the one thing I always thought I wanted to be. My mom.

A mom.

I thought the other day as I was driving around how if I had to describe myself to someone I would finally admit that I’m a struggling stay at home mom.

I just didn’t know. No one told me. I didn’t have it figured out and truth is, you can’t figure it out before hand. But wow.

I’m 26 and have two kids. I feel like if we had waited to have children I would have WAY different feelings about becoming a parent now than I did then, but possibly I would have no idea still and the fire underneath me to get pregnant would be even hotter than it was. I just don’t know. But I like to think that I would have more of a head on shoulders about the decision.

It’s no secret that I was a baby, a spoiled child and adolescent. I admit that readily and am just now learning hard lessons and figuring things out that most people probably learn earlier. I get that, I know. I’m aware that my naiveté is still a very real part of my make-up. It’s just fading away.

I always knew what I COULD do, I never knew what I HAD to do. Which, yes, I am going to say right now that that was a huge disservice to me as a young woman, but I can’t go backwards and my parents did the best they could. I’m not a sob story of things gone wrong. Most things in my life have gone just fine, better than fine. I’m lucky. I’m still spoiled. I just know where it comes from now and how much it takes to be that way. I get it. I’m thankful. I understand the work that goes into spoiling someone. I appreciate it.

My children don’t. Someone else isn’t going to teach them this stuff. Someone else isn’t going to wake up before them and make them breakfast. There’s not a fairy waiting to make my job easier. In fact, at this point, there’s a child who’s waiting for me to figure this the fuck out already.

I put her to bed and she says – Mom, tomorrow can you wake up when I wake up? Can you get out of bed with me? Can you?

When did I stop thinking through this? When did I forget that I had someone on the other end of this relationship? Someone who was counting on me to be better than myself? To give 110%, to get over it and just do it. Who cares if it’s not what I want to do, if it’s not interesting to me. I DON’T GET TO DO THIS OVER. Why am I so afraid to do it now?

Being a parent is different for everyone. Do not underestimate that statement. My story will never be what your story is. Maybe we share the same struggle and same ideals, on a few things, but raising the next generation is a personal thesis of life that is as different as each and every snow flake that falls from the sky. It’s unexplainable. No two stories align. Nor should they.

And the BIG question right now is whether or not we’re done having children. Family is wondering, asking. We’re talking about it, wondering and thinking. I’m seeking medical help in order to ensure that if we aren’t done, it’s possible to have a pregnancy again. We’re on the track of building our family but neither one of us is willing to say that it’s what we’re doing.

I’m scared shitless to have more kids. It only adds to the insanity of what my life already is. It only adds time to the deadline of what we already have. I want to enjoy my husband and travel – having more children makes that harder, and delays plans. But when we look to the future we see more for our family than what is currently sitting at our dinner table.

Something’s missing. Some One is missing, but I won’t say that out loud. I can’t.

naked on paper (.com)

Truth is that I may not be able to have more children. I may not get any more chances to hold and cuddle and smell newborn skin right from birth. I may not get to breast feed or go through transition labor feeling every single cell in my body scream with life ever again.

I can get pregnant, that has never been the issue, but being pregnant has not proved to be a healthy option for me. For my life – for my future. If I don’t figure out these blood sugar issues, if we don’t get some closure here and heal from this, I won’t be having more babies.

Believe me, I know there’s medicine that will help me. I was on it with my last pregnancy. And I’m not crying out for help, I’m aware of the growing up I need to do to get this resolved, which is what I’m currently working towards, but the risks aren’t about me anymore.

It just isn’t about me anymore. And oh my word, that’s hard to admit. Faking it isn’t an option for me, either. I know that plenty of adults get through their days (jobs or not) by going through the motions and faking it til they make it. FUCK THAT. I’m not about to build a family and memories on something that never really made me happy.

But I am happy. When I step away from the day to day picture of drawing and cooking and playing games. When I get a second to be the one who looks in from the outside, I see the happiness and the love. I get it. I know why I do this. But being inside of it every day, being the one creating the happiness and doing the cooking, cleaning and drawing – being that person is hard for me. It’s an uphill battle for me to wake up and do that every day. To be aware that this is just what life means right now. It’ll change, it always does and when it does I’ll miss it. But right now, today and tomorrow and last week … I’m drowning.

I think this hits a chord with me right now because I’m in the middle of so much drama. Judgmental drama on mothers, on women. On being a woman, on becoming a mother.

I’m pretty sensitive to the plight of a mother right now. No matter their story. I used to be the one who was so very judgmental. I have friends, now, who are where I was. Judging their family members or other friends for the shortcomings as mothers, as women.

Please, God please, stop judging us. I have walked miles in shoes that I never understood and now I live in them every single day and I completely understand why a mother yells at her children when they do nothing wrong. When breathing is what the problem is.

I get it now, when neglect is what you think you’re watching, what you’re really seeing is a struggle to survive. To find the next branch that’s going to get you to the other side of the creek. Stop watching me flail and gasp for air. Either look away or be the one to throw me the rope. But stop talking about my shortcomings, or her shortcomings, in your superior know-it-all coffee date with other women who are also so willing to buy a ticket to the show.

Just stop.

(jodimichelle)

Consuming

I am currently doing a very awful thing.
I cannot make myself stop doing it.
I know it is wrong and hurtful not only to myself but to people I love.
I know it is wrong and bad but I am allowing myself to not think about its unhealthiness.
If I chose not to think about how bad it is then it isn’t a big deal, right?
Better yet, I’ll just chose not to think about it all together.
But here’s the thing: I think about it constantly and have no intention of stopping.
I mean, I’ll stop someday. I’ll have to. I think it will sort of end on its own.
I thought it would have ended by now, the desire to keep doing it, but it hasn’t.
I thought it would have stopped consuming me but it seems to only be getting worse.
Any by worse I mean better.
It only gets better every time I think about it or do it.
I know that’s going to make stopping harder but I don’t seem to be worried about that now.
I know I am not the only one out there who has done what I am doing.
Maybe the struggle, the secret and the difficulty will overcome the unbelievable passion I have towards it.
If it does, good for it. If it doesn’t, good for me.

(via Anonymous)

This one’s for the books.

The Holidays are coming!!!!

(Say that like you’re ringing a bell from the Town Square – not unlike announcing an invasion)

I know that Holidays are hard and emotional and hectic for a lot of people, and I think at one time they were for me too. Before I was married – before I was old enough to have my voice count for something in the decision making.

Don’t get me wrong there are definitely some family members we only really see around the Holidays and that is just more than enough for me. I haven’t matured too much in that area and I’m ok with that. I’m petty and I live at their bitchy level when appropriate, which is often. But as this season of Merriment comes creeping up on us, I’m just excited.

Like the blond cheerleader getting the pyramid perfect for the first time and doing a high kick that ends in splits, excited. Oh yea, you’re gonna want to punch me.

There typically isn’t too much drama surrounding our holidays – I think we take care of all the drama in the planning process and trying to negotiate schedules and parties – and now that all that ass-picking work is done, we can just enjoy the coming weekends and parties.

To leave you laughing for the endurance of your own Holiday gatherings this week – let me leave you with a few moments of past Holidays from my book of “Oh God, that did not just happen.”

Happy Thanksgiving! Just remember, you’re not alone.

Having divorced parents can make the Holidays a time of estrangement when it comes to extended families – unfortunately when you do finally get together with the other side of gene pool – time has passed, stories have been exchanged and you, being the preteen that you are and going through puberty, have probably changed in your appearance as well. A few pounds have been added as your body figures out this new magical thing called “A Gift” and when your Grandma greets you she makes sure to point on how fat and terribly cute you are with all that extra weight, you fat little piggy, you. AND YOU HAVE BOOBIES!

Mor-ti-fied.

Skip ahead a few years and join me in remembering that one time I made dinner conversation out of male anatomy with my Grandma in attendance. My Grandma who was born in the beginning of the 20th century, which obviously translates to – does not have private parts because they do not exist. Meanwhile I’m throwing around jargon like “boner” and “chode” and “hey mom, what’s a foreskin?” Good thing we weren’t eating meat on the bone, I’m pretty sure she would have choked. But not swallowed because good girls don’t swallow. (I’ll be asking for forgiveness and lighting candles for that one later.)

Go get another glass of wine! You already need one, don’t you?

Oh make it scotch, it’s Thanksgiving!

If you haven’t figured this out yet, which I’m sure I’m doing a terrible job of actually proving, I was pretty naive and had complete trust and confidence in my parents to answer all my questions, no matter the subject. They’re a very special breed.

Which brings me to that one time I came upstairs on Christmas morning all ready to jump in my parents bed and squeal in delight over the snow and the tree and IT’S CHRISTMAS!!! When I was stopped dead in my tracks from the already harmonious (yuck yuck yuck, skin crawling) squealing taking place – the cherry on top was the awful awful murmur I heard “Merry Christmas!” and then I leapt out of my skin and ran away as fast as I could. Took 14 hot hot showers to get all the gross yucky gross off my skin and found the biggest ear plugs I could to stop the insanity of playback over and over again while I hid under my blankets sucking my thumb.

A dream died that day for me. I would never have Christmas sex of my own because the only thing I can think about is that awful sound bite that is, so unfortunately, engraved in my brain forever and ever, dear Jesus.

Now go deal with your own awful Aunts and Uncles who make the turkey taste like charcoal with their shrill laughter and oh-so-happy but so-unhelpful parenting tips. Throw a poopy diaper at them while you’re at it.

We’ll survive this season together! Do tell your own stories of Holidays past – let’s commiserate in each others bad fortune.

(via jodimichelle)

Casting your cares

“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” I know that. I’ve read it. He cares for me. He cares about what I care about. I should cast my anxiety upon Him.

Too often, though, I subconsciously take the word cast to mean the same as it does in fishing, how my dad taught me. I give it to God, I throw it out there, but I’m still holding onto the other end. As far as I throw it, as much as I give it over, it’s still attached to me. Because I’m holding on tight. To the guy I was in love with, to the dream of a fairytale life, to the money I was making, to the image I was trying to portray.

“But I gave it to God…” I try to convince myself. Meanwhile I’m poised and ready to reel it back in whenever I want. And reel I do. I decide to take it back from God’s hands. Which means I think it’s better off in my capable hands than in His.

To be so smug.

I found the definition of the word cast. When it’s not referring to fishing, it means to get rid of, to discard, to throw off or throw away; to hurl or fling.

I need to let that sink in a bit. I need to let it sink in a lot.

When I give something to God, I need to hurl it at Him (He can handle the blow), get rid of it (forever), throw it off me. And then I need to leave it there. For good.

“Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you…”

I’m trying…

(rinndesign)

Your choices. My Pain.

I grew up in a divorced family. Well, my parents didn’t actually get divorced until I was a freshmen in high school, but I knew there were problems beginning in my third grade year. Fighting, cheating, drinking, yelling, separation, reconciliation, a second separation, divorce.

In the past ten years, the amount of time I’ve been with my husband, we’ve seen friends of ours go through infidelity, separation, and divorce. The three times that it has happened we talk about it and we work through how it affects us. We try to help our friends and understand what they are going through. And then, often weeks or months later, we work through underlying affects it has on our marriage.

See, I’m the type of person that sees someone else’s situation and let’s my imagination get the best of me. I see someone else’s infidelity and question why my husband is coming home late from work. It’s a weakness. An insecurity that, while I work hard to fight back, often gets the best of me.

Today I found out that one of my oldest and dearest friends is getting a divorce. Her husband has been cheating on her. They have been together for 16 years. They celebrated their sixth wedding anniversary this fall. They have three small kids.

In many ways they are my husband and me, give or take a few years of dating and a kid. And worse yet, I wouldn’t have pictured him as one to cheat. I know we all have our skeletons hiding in the closet, our weakness, the rocks we stumble over, and this may have been his.

My heart breaks for my friend, for her kids. This will be a long road for them. I know. And, selfishly, I begin to wonder how this will affect the road of my own marriage. The news is still so fresh and I can already feel the insecurities seeping to the surface. The ones that make me wonder why my husband couldn’t take my phone call or what he’s doing while he is away on business. They are insecurities seeping from wounds I’ve received over the past thirty years. They are irrational but those wounds run deep.

One mistake, one choice, one moment. It’s amazing how far the arms of divorce can reach. How they can affect so many people. How they can create wounds that ignore all common-sense and rationality. Wounds that open in times of crisis and heartbreak and doubt. But, thankfully, wounds that, even though they are always there, close from time to time.

(Anonymous)

eeking it out

I need to be naked on paper. I need it so that I can breathe.

I have written, re-written and deleted multiple stories since Naked on Paper was started. I’ve lost faith in every feeling and event I was writing about. I quit being angry half way through, or it sounded whiny and I stopped. I couldn’t commit to one story about how I was feeling. Not one. But today I am committing whether it is good or not. It has to come out.

I have never been more confused about myself and my life and what I am supposed to be doing. I have always done exactly what I have been expected to do. I graduated high school, went to college, got married, got a job, waited to have children. And now what? Where am I? What have I done? What or where is it going to get me?!

I have been working at a fabulous job for a year and a half and I hate it. I want nothing more than to quit my job and to spend my life at home. I want to make babies (which seems to be like rocket science for me). Why the hell does it have to be so hard for some people?

I feel like I am constantly having heart attacks and I often hate getting out of bed in the morning. I don’t like being depressed and having my heart jump through my ribs and skin. I want to be a happy person. Am I setting myself up for failure? Maybe I am making myself unhappy.

BUT I WANT TO BE SUCCESSFUL. I want to be good at life (and in some comparisons, I am) but I feel like I am failing miserably. I also don’t feel like anybody has any clue how I feel. It’s not that I lie about it but I keep all of this dirty laundry inside. I bet if I was to loose it one day, everyone (except for my husband) would be shocked. Maybe I should cry out for help now instead of later. I’ve been crying out to God. So far, I haven’t heard a lot back. I get that He’s listening but offering a bit of something in return would be greatly appreciated. I’m the kind of person that quits things easily. I’ll quit asking Him for help, I know I will.

I also can’t get my weight under control. I have a lack of control apparently. I am obviously more depressed than I thought because all I feel like doing lately is eating and shopping. I’ll be fat and broke in a few weeks if I let this overcome me. I don’t want to be overcome.

(Christa R. Ryckbost)

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