My Thing

I’ve always been jealous of people who have a “thing” — you know, a hobby they’re incredibly passionate about, or a skill they’ve honed, or some special talent that is deeply associated with their identity. It’s their thing.

Unlike those lucky bastards who are awesome at singing or really into making model trains or whatever, I’ve never had a thing. I like plenty of stuff, but I’ve never been passionate about anything to the point of it being a defining factor in my life (except perhaps fountain Dr Pepper, but that’s more a crippling addiction than a thing). Talent-wise, I’ve proven to be marginally competent at a wide variety of everyday endeavors (slow jogging! Mind-numbingly boring technical writing! Above-average cupcake-decorating!), but none of those are really thing-worthy.

This may sound silly (especially if you do have a thing and can’t understand what life is like for us thing-less losers), but I’ve spent a lot of time over the years lamenting my thinglessness. I felt like I was lacking something fundamental in my life that everyone else seemed to have, like I was incomplete in some way. Unfocused, maybe. Being asked to describe myself (a godawful icebreaker that should be abolished) was downright panic-inducing: “um…I like reading…and…soda? I’m really good at editing other people’s shitty writing, and…OK, CAN WE PLEASE MOVE ON NOW; PERHAPS YOU CAN ASK ME TO DISCUSS WHAT HAPPENED ON BIG BROTHER LAST NIGHT INSTEAD?!”

Worse yet, for the past several years I’ve worried that my past struggles had become my de facto thing, not because I was fixated on them but because my scars are on display for the world to see. Short of wearing a burka or getting my body covered in tattoos (I’m working on the latter but it’s just too hot for the former), it’s simply not possible for me to hide them all. This is incredibly unfortunate for me since the person I am today shares little in common with the disaster-woman who put those stupid scars there (except for our love of Dr Pepper!), and I can tell you with authority that the only thing worse than not having a thing at all is people thinking that your thing is being an unstable mental patient.

And then I had Bubba, and I found my thing.

Is that corny? Sappy? Cliche? A total thing cop-out? Probably, but I don’t care. I’ve never been as good at anything as I am at being his mom. Nothing has ever come so naturally to me or brought me even a fraction of the joy I get just from being around that ridiculous child. Of course parenting has its challenges, but I can honestly say that I have zero complaints about my son or parenting in general. Just watching him be his cute little self fills my heart with such pride and love and joy that I fear it may burst at any moment, even when he’s throwing sand at me (which we all know is the most heinous crime anyone can commit, because sand is seriously the worst).

With Bubba, I feel complete (note to TFW: do not take this as a concession to your “one kid is plenty” stance; my life would be even more complete with two or three kids…ahem). I have purpose and passion and reason. I have a thing, and it feels awesome.

(I do still wish I could draw or something, though. Dammit!)

The Time My Former Teacher Called Me a Disappointment

Ten years ago, when I was in the midst of the first of my two major life crises (you can read up on that here if you enjoy a good trainwreck), I took a job as a waitress at a local restaurant while I tried to sort out my life and my plans for the future. I wasn’t planning on being a waitress forever (not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course), but I certainly wasn’t ashamed of my job. Considering all my other problems, my career path was at the bottom of my list of concerns. Plus, I was an awesome waitress, if I do say so myself (and I totally do).

The restaurant was in my hometown, so naturally I ran into a lot of former classmates, teachers, and neighbors. I know some people cringe at the very thought of having to encounter (and wait on!) past acquaintances after leaving town, but it didn’t bother me. Again, I had more important things to worry about than what some random girl from my high school was wearing or what my sixth grade softball coach was eating for dinner. In fact, I quite enjoyed seeing people from my past — they always seemed happy to see me, and after such a miserable couple of years it was refreshing and reassuring to be reminded that there were people in the world who knew me just as “that nice girl I went to school with” rather than “that poor pathetic chick whose life is a shambles.”

One day, I came out from the kitchen and was delighted to see my beloved second grade teacher being sat at a table in my section. This woman was a true gem: the type of teacher who calls her class a “family” and never loses her patience with oversensitive crybaby little girls (ahem). She was a favorite of everyone who was taught by her, myself included, and I always felt that I had been a favorite of hers, too — she was so very kind to me when I was her student, and whenever I saw her in the years that followed she always expressed genuine interest in how I was doing. Even though I hadn’t seen her in about five years, I was certain she’d remember me when I told her my name.

As it turned out, I didn’t even have to refresh her memory — she recognized me instantly. She smiled broadly when she saw my face, but it faded as she gave me a once-over. I watched her expression change from one of friendly recognition to one of…disgust? I started to panic. Had my shirt come unbuttoned? Did I have something in my teeth, or hanging out of my nose? Was I emitting an offensive odor?

I addressed her tentatively, bewildered by her very apparent unpleasant reaction. “Um, hi!” I stammered. “It’s me, Mo.”

Her response was more an attack than a greeting. “What are you doing here?!” She sounded truly appalled, and my confusion mounted. “You’re supposed to be DOING something with yourself!”

Her disappointment was palpable. I almost vomited. My heart literally ached. I knew that my life was off track, but to hear it from someone else — someone who had once complimented my super-fast multiplication skills and given me stickers to cheer me up when I cried at recess — was crushing.

I don’t recall what I said in response (I probably apologized or something, knowing me!), but I remember escaping to the bathroom as soon as I could break away. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw what she saw: a sad-looking girl with haphazardly-dyed red hair and entirely too much eyeliner. The scars on my arms suddenly looked alarmingly visible — they might as well have been outlined with highlighter to emphasize their presence. (As a sidenote, can you believe the jerkface owners of the restaurant wouldn’t let me wear a long sleeve shirt under my uniform t-shirt?! I tried and they said it wasn’t part of the uniform.)

I looked like I had given up on life.

I was a far cry from the little girl who posed outside this woman’s classroom in 1991:

(Although I do look a teensy bit sad there…I had probably missed a word on a spelling test or something; have I mentioned that I was the biggest stress-case crybaby on the planet as a child?)

To say that this incident shook me up would be an understatement. I wasn’t angry with her, although I probably should have been (I was 19 years old and doing the very best that I could; at least I had a freakin’ job! What a judgmental old bag!). I was just embarrassed and deeply ashamed. People had expected me to be “something,” and I had failed to deliver. I wondered who else had been harboring similar thoughts about me but just hadn’t had the effrontery to tell me. I felt like I owed the entire world an apology for not being…more.

Even now, nearly a decade later and with miles of emotional distance between myself and my past struggles, thinking about that conversation makes my heart skip a beat. I have come a long, long way, but there are still moments in which I mourn all the wasted time (I could have gone to medical school or penned a book or built a damn house!) or worry that I haven’t utilized my intellect or talents (I swear I have some; did you know that I am an above-average cake decorator?!) to their fullest potential. And if we’re being honest, those feelings are completely valid: I did waste a lot of time sitting around crying when I could have been doing something productive, and I don’t really do anything that requires any particular talent or skill.

But so what?

I have a wonderful life — better than I ever would have imagined possible. Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude that my heart feels like it might burst under the strain of joy. I am not a doctor or a lawyer or a second-grade teacher, but I am happy and healthy I have a husband who thinks I’m funny and a son who smiles non-stop and gets really excited when airplanes fly overhead:

So I consider myself an unqualified success.

And I hope I see my former teacher again someday, so she can see what I see.

Then and Now: An Uplifting Tale About Depression (Seriously)

Last night while catching up on the season premier of The Biggest Loser, I experienced a surreal moment of self-reflection. One of the young women on the show was struggling mightily, not with the workouts or the diet but with the emotional aspect of the process. She was crying and distressed, and while the show didn’t give us much background on her life or mental health, it was painfully obvious that she was very depressed. After toughing it out for a day or two she tearfully decided she simply could not proceed with the show and headed home (and hopefully to a therapist).

Her sadness struck a chord with me. “That poor girl,” I thought. “She’s so sad, she can’t even function! How awful that must be.”

And then a few moments later, I remembered: I used to be like that.

Ten years ago, my life was an unmitigated disaster. More specifically, my brain was a disaster. I was 19 years old and living in San Diego, ostensibly in the middle of my sophomore year at SDSU (but rarely being productive in that arena), and I was very, very depressed. I was living under a dense fog of despondency that enveloped my every thought and left me effectively paralyzed. Seemingly simple things like attending even one class or being sociable with my roommates felt preposterously out of reach (“surely everyone can see that I’m a terrible person just by looking at me and will hate me if I so much as speak!”). Ill-equipped to deal with my emotions and clouded by shame and self-loathing, I obsessed over food (or lack thereof) in an attempt to distract myself from my misery and used self-injury to punish myself for all manner of perceived inadequacies.

This pathetic routine wasn’t new to me — I’d been dealing with these issues for several years (and to some degree, for my whole life) — but never had I felt so utterly helpless. I hated myself and knew that I was wasting my life away but felt powerless to change; I truly believed that there was just something inherently “wrong” with me and I would never have a normal, happy life. I eventually had to drop out of school and move back home, which, as you can imagine, felt like hitting rock bottom.