I remember when you were so sick that you felt life was hopeless. You thought there was no end to the sadness, the inner anguish, the crying spells, the sleepless nights, and the overpowering emotions. You thought the only way to stop it was to take your life. You planned it and you tried but never succeeded. You thought your family and friends would be better without you, but you were wrong.
I want to thank you for never taking your own life and for your failed plans. If you would have committed suicide, you would have missed out on watching your nieces and nephews grow up. Taking them to do fun things, spoiling them, and sharing memories with them. They would have never gotten to know their favorite aunt if you were gone. They would have only heard stories about you. By living you have instead given them love, courage, and many wonderful memories. Since you lived you have been blessed with two great nieces and a great nephew. On Friday you watched your oldest niece get married. It was a wonderful wedding. Your nieces and nephews have been one of the greatest blessings in your life.
Remember when you wrote out what you wanted to go on your grave, “A lonely soul who couldn’t go on.” Good thing you never had to use it. If you had died, you would have never met the love of your life. On the first date he drew you in with a promise to treat you like a woman, to protect you, and to never hurt you. He swept you away. You couldn’t stop seeing him. He even rode his bike thirty miles to see you. Within just six months of dating, he proposed, and you knew your souls would be one forever.
What a beautiful wedding it was! You could have missed the best day of your life. The day you said “I do” to the most wonderful man you ever met. The day you pledged your heart and soul to him forever with tears in your eyes. Now you have spent fourteen years of marriage creating memories, sharing your love, standing side by side in ups and downs, and falling more in love each day. You can see the love in his eyes, in the things he does, and how he takes care of you. Wouldn’t it have been so sad if you would have missed that?
Remember when you took a bunch of pills and somehow drove to college in a snowstorm and back without remembering how. God took the wheel for a reason. He drove you to class and back because he had plans for you. Because God kept you alive, you have fought hard and reached recovery. In this blog you write about what you learned in therapy and your journey to recovery. Many have told you how much your posts have helped them. You would have never been able to do that if you took your life. You have written a memoir that will help many when it’s published. Because you are alive, you will soon see your first book published.
You touch many lives as a cashier. Customers stand in long lines to see you and pray for you as you face health problems and rise above them. Many call you an inspiration because no matter how far down you fall, you always pull yourself up. You have many friends who you’ve touched in many ways. Friends who you call sis, ones who turn to you in a time of need, friends who support you, friends who stand at your side no matter what, and friends who have helped you grow as a writer. What if you missed out on all this? How sad would that have been?
One time you thought none of this was possible. You thought you would be stuck in your internal hell forever. Look how wrong you were. Your life turned out wonderful because you didn’t succeed at suicide. How could you have ever wanted to miss out on such a wonderful life? You thought you would never feel happiness again and now you are very happy. Yes, you still have bad days, but you have coping techniques and a special support system to get you through. You have struggled with many health problems, but you have a wonderful husband who helped you through them. Your life isn’t perfect, but it is wonderful.
Thank you, Aimee, for being alive and for pushing forward. You’ve had many challenges and rough times, but you have risen above them. If you were gone you would have never gotten a chance to rise above so much and to write about it. If you took your life, you would have never experienced true love, joy, and love of friends and family.
Your life is beautiful. Thank you for living it. Thank you, God, for not letting Sick Aimee succeed at suicide. Suicide was never the right answer. I forgive you for being misguided and rejoice in the life you have lived because you never took your life. You stand in the light of recovery a strong, vibrant, and inspirational woman because you chose life.
When a woman goes through breast cancer, she is often put on hormone therapy for different reasons: to reduce the chance of the cancer returning, to reduce the size of the cancer, or to control breast cancer that has returned. This therapy is given by a pill that the woman must take for five or more years. A major side effect of this type of pill is the weakening of bones and osteoporosis. While on the pill, women are told to take calcium and vitamin D to help prevent osteoporosis, but sometimes that is not enough to stop it. The inevitable happens.
Because I am on the hormone therapy for having breast cancer, I get bone destiny scans every two years. I recently had a scan towards the beginning of this month. Wednesday I went for my six-month checkup at the cancer center. The physician’s assistant came into the exam room and asked if I had seen the results of my bone scan on the mychart app. I never read those because I don’t understand them. I prefer the doctor explain the results of my tests. So, I hadn’t read it.
She looked at me with sympathetic eyes. “I’m sorry to tell you, you have osteoporosis.”
I felt like I was kicked in the stomach. I couldn’t think and tears welled up in my eyes. I fought to control them. I told her I had back surgery in October for a broken bone and asked her if it could be related to the osteoporosis. She told me that it was what caused it, because the bone weakness is worse in my back especially in the lumbar.
I was in shock. I couldn’t process my new diagnosis. I’m only forty-seven years old and I have osteoporosis. This had to be a nightmare. I thought it was a nightmare when they told me I had cancer and it wasn’t. This too was real. The assistant went on to tell me of three options to treat my condition. My husband asked her which one she would suggest. She suggested an infusion I would get every six months. The infusion would take thirty minutes and it would also protect me from bone cancer. We agreed to that.
It wasn’t until I got home it started to sink in and questions began to surface. For almost a year now I figured I had broken the bone in my back and had surgery because I have scoliosis. Now I find out it is because the bones in my back are weak. When I first felt the horrible pain in my back before my surgery, I was doing my job, reaching to clean the belt and lifting heavy items. Does this mean doing my job is dangerous to me? Could I break another bone in my back doing my job? Would I have osteoporosis for the rest of my life? How long will I have to have infusions for? Are there restrictions for work?
After the questions, I started going through the what ifs. What if I’m walking to work and I fall beside the road, break a leg, and no one stops to help me? What if I’m walking downstairs in the morning and I fall down the stairs, breaking several bones, and am unable to reach my phone to call for help? What if at work I lift a twenty-four pack of pop and I break another bone in my back? What if a customer bumps into me, I fall, and break my hip? The what ifs started small and kept growing bigger and bigger. I began to imagine myself in those situations.
This new condition became a life altering tragedy. I’m a very emotional person. I feel emotions strongly and sometimes they lead me back to that hole of depression. Part of my mental illness is feeling things more intensely than others. Finding out I had yet another health problem brought a flood of emotions. I was sad, angry, scared, and frustrated. Once we left the cancer center, all I could do was cry. For several days I went in and out of crying spells.
Cancer stole my breasts from me, because of it I had a hysterectomy, and now I have osteoporosis. This is just not fair. How could I get osteoporosis at the age of forty-seven from a medication I take? Why me? How could I have another health problem? Damn breast cancer has taken so much from me and it doesn’t stop. It keeps kicking me and pushing me down. I’ve been cancer free for three years and now this. I feel like a porcelain doll that could easy break if not taken care of properly.
I asked my friend Kelly if I was magnifying my diagnosis. She told me she felt I was and that many women live full lives with osteoporosis. My friend Cheryl said she knows how emotional I get about things and how I magnify things.
When I think about it both friends are right. I have taken this diagnosis like it’s a life ending condition, but it’s not. With treatment, exercise, and calcium and vitamin D supplements, I can live a full life. I may have to do light duty at work, which is express registers, but I like those registers. No heavy lifting. If I take care of myself, I may never break a bone again. I’m only on the hormone therapy for two more years. I can kick myself through this disease and not let it defeat me.
Breast cancer is an awful disease. The medications for it can takes their toll on our bodies. It also takes a toll on us mentally. It’s easy to feel hopeless and get sad. If you already have mental illness, it can push you backwards into the dark hole of depression. This illness is like a kick in the gut. It keeps kicking you until you’re on your knees, but you can kick yourself back up to your feet. Don’t give up. Fight breast cancer and fight mental illness.
I must get an exam and blood work before I start getting infusions, but I’m no longer going to let this new health problem drag me down. I’m standing in the light kicking at whatever tries to pull me down.
Teenage years are a difficult time. We are trying to fit in, we are trying to figure out ourselves, and we face our peers who try to sway us and sometimes ones who abuse us. My childhood into teenage years were extremely difficult. I so much wanted my classmates to like and accept me, but instead they rebuked me and bullied me.
In high school I went on a search to find my self-worth. It was a rough and lonely journey. I built walls around me to protect myself from bullies, but the walls left me feeling lonely. Not talking unless spoken to was part of the wall I built. If I didn’t speak, then my peers could not use what I said to ssmake fun of me. Inside my world of silence, I felt some sort of safety. It didn’t stop the teasing, but it kept me from making new friends who would have either turned on me or left me, and it was one more thing my bullies couldn’t use against me. The problem was it also took away my chances of making friends who might have accepted me as I was.
In school a red-haired girl tried very hard to get me to talk. She always passed me in the halls and told me to smile. She sat with me when no one else would. She talked to me, but I couldn’t force myself to talk to her. She tried, but I built my wall with bricks so thick that she couldn’t tear them down. I wanted to break through and give her a chance. I was just too afraid.
I struggled with my inner demons. I was barely holding myself together. I was falling into the black hole of mental illness. At the time I didn’t know what was happening to me. I just knew something was wrong. Every day I saw this girl I fought with my thoughts and overwhelming emotions. There was a war inside me, and I felt like I was on the losing side.
Talk to her. Give her a chance.
No don’t give in. She’ll just hurt you like everyone else.
I’m all alone. I need a friend. All I must do is talk.
Don’t be crazy. If you let in, she’ll turn on you or break your heart. You’re better off alone.
The internal fight went on at school, at home, and while I attempted to sleep at night. If I had a switch to turn it off, I would have. It tormented me and made my emotions go out of control. Mental illness is a sickness of the mind that can put you at war with your inner self. I was stuck inside my mind with awful thoughts, and the wall I built made that war even worse.
Later the girl moved away, and I berated myself for never talking to her and never letting her in. Yes, if I had talked to her and had become friends with her, I would have been heart broken when she moved away. If I had talked to her, I might have had good memories that would have made her leaveing easier. She may have been the one friend who would have kept in contact. For years later I was left wondering what I deprived myself of because I built a wall and went silent.
In my adult years when I started working at a grocery store, she started coming in my line. I was finally able to talk to her. Each time she came in my line we talked about casual stuff. Through nearly twenty some years of her coming in my line I still couldn’t bring myself to ask for her phone number and if she wanted to get together. I had torn down the wall that I built in school. I had friends and co-workers who accepted me for who I am, and yet I still couldn’t take the steps to build a friendship.
A week or two ago my husband and I went to a local fair. We stopped at a tent for food. The girl, now a woman, was running the tent with her daughter. We stood and talked for several minutes. Then she wrote her phone number down for me. She even said she’d have me and my husband over for supper sometime. Maybe this was God saying, “Now is the time to build that friendship. You’re strong now, go for it.”
I put her number in my phone that night and texted her so she would have my number. We have texted each other a few times. I learned she too was bullied. Now is my chance to build a friendship I couldn’t allow myself to build in my younger years. Maybe God has given me a second chance.
Sometimes when we are going through rough times and we have been hurt, we put up walls to protect ourselves. The problem with walls is they block out people who could make a big impact in our lives. Those walls can leave you lonely and can block out the people who can help you in your struggles. Don’t live in regret. Take that step and start tearing the bricks down. Take a chance on someone and take a chance on yourself.
I’m not sure where we will go from here, but I’m excited to find out. I now stand in the light of recovery discovering a second chance at a friendship.
No post this week. My husband and I are on vacation. We needed time away where I wasn’t recovering from surgery. There will be a post next week.
Remember you can reach the light of recovery. Put all of you into the fight towards recovery. Take care of yourself and next week I’ll be back with a new post.
When I tell people I have written a book and I’m preparing it for publication, they ask, “When can I get a copy?” Many people don’t know there is a long process to getting a manuscript (the book unpublished) to the point when it is ready to be sent to a publisher. Then once it’s ready to be sent out, there is a waiting period and a possibility of several rejection letters before an acceptance letter arrives. Then sometimes it takes the publisher a year or so before the book is printed and ready to be sold.
The first step is to write the book. The second step is to self-edit your manuscript. Thirdly, send the manuscript to a professional editor. Sometimes the author sends it to more then one editor. Fourthly the author makes the edits suggested by the editor. Fifth the author picks out two or three beta readers to read the whole manuscript, looking for any major problems. The sixth step is to make any changes necessary and format it to go to a publisher or agent.
You must research publishing companies and agents for ones who accept the genre of your work. Then you must study their guidelines. Some require a query letter, a synopsis, or a book proposal. The seventh is to follow the publisher’s guidelines by formatting your manuscript accordingly and you write any query letters, synopses, or book proposals required. Then you send what is required to the publisher; sometimes you only send a couple of chapters. The eighth step is waiting you wait for a reply which asks you to send the whole manuscript. After maybe weeks or more of waiting you may get several rejection letters before you get an acceptance.
I just received my manuscript back from my editor on Wednesday. I have already started making the edits she has suggested. I have made corrections in elven chapters so far. Probably by the time this post goes out, I will have edited even more chapters. I still have a lot of steps to go through to get to publication, but I consider finishing my manuscript and sending it to an editor a big accomplishment. Once I sent my manuscript to my editor, I checked my email each day, waiting for her to return it.
It took me four years to write my memoir. A memoir is about a certain time in a person’s life when something significant happened. Mine is nine years of my life when I was bullied and when I went to the family garage for love and acceptance. Writing about what I went through in school was like reliving a part of my childhood I wish I could erase from my memory. I had to relive the pain, anguish, and sadness. All those awful feelings rushing back in at times became too difficult to face. I had to take a day or more away from my manuscript so I could process what I have tried so hard to bury in the back of my mind. Sometimes I had to step away from my writing for a week or two. I was opening old wounds I didn’t realize had never healed.
Writing my memoir became like a therapy session. I opened a wound and had to work through it emotionally so it could heal. As I wrote I was able to trace how far back I began to slip into mental illness and the dangerous path it took in my life. I spent four years rehashing heartache and finding ways to bandage tears in my soul. It wasn’t all pain. I enjoyed writing about the time I spent at our family garage and the things I did with my cousin that my parents may not be aware of.
While I worked on my manuscript I struggled with self-doubt. How could I write a piece of work that would be long enough to be a book? I had attempted to write book length material before and failed. What made me think I could do it now? Maybe I was only meant to write short stories. Maybe I don’t have the talent to write long pieces. What if my dream to have a book published was hopeless? This is when my friends and husband encouraged me and gave me a little extra shove. Each night my husband would ask how many pages I wrote.
Then I worked around my learning disability to self-edit and rewrite parts of my memoir. The more I worked on my memoir, the better my writing got. So, I had to go back and rewrite parts of pervious chapters. I took my chapters to Penwriters (a national writer’s group) for critiques. I struggled to figure out how to eliminate too many “I’s” and redundant words. Sometimes I got frustrated and found myself ready to scream and give up. What may be easier for others is much harder for me with my learning disability. The members of the group told me I could eliminate too many “I’s” by reworking the sentences. This was like a foreign language to me. I fought to try to find ways to turn my sentences around.
Editing is very difficult to me. I didn’t go into regular English classes until I was in ninth grade. From elementary to nineth grade, I spent my time doing English classes in a Special Education classroom. I know what a verb and noun is, but adverbs and adjectives are another story. I get confused with grammar terms. So, getting to the point where I could send my manuscript to an editor is a huge accomplishment. Especially when I go through the edited manuscript to find that my editor didn’t have to make an enormous number of corrections. I’m proud of myself for making it this far.
Whether you have a disability or an illness, if you work hard enough, you can make your dreams come true. You may have to work harder to make it possible, but you can do it. Don’t let anything stand in your way. If someone says you can’t do something, show them you can. Believe in yourself, and if your confidence begins to fail, then make sure you have people in your life to encourage you and give you a little push forward. A kick in the bottom might be what you need to move ahead. Dreams can come true, recovery is possible, you can heal from abuse, and you can rise above bullying.
I still have several steps ahead of me until I reach publication, but I am positive one day I will be standing in the light holding my published book.
The word “retard” is unacceptable in society, but that doesn’t mean bullies don’t still use it to torment their victims. “Retard” used to be used to define people with intellectual disabilities, but the word was even an insult to them. People over the years have used the word to label people as having no intelligence. It has been used demonize and degrade individuals who are different.
When I was a child, the word “retard” might as well have been branded across my forehead for everyone to see. It was a label given to me by my first-grade teacher and became a name I could not escape. I have a learning disability that made learning a struggle for me. To my teachers and classmates my learning disability meant I had no intelligence. I wasn’t smart enough to even do my own classwork. I quickly became the retard who would never make it through school on her own. My classmates called me a “retard” daily. No matter how hard I tried to ignore it I couldn’t.
Being called such a name caused emotional damage. After being called a “retard” throughout elementary, I began to believe it was true. I gave up trying to succeed in school. I allowed teachers to assign students to give me answers on test. I was defeated and left with no strength to fight back. The word “retard” cut into my very being and left wounds no eye could see.
That word hurt me so badly I found it nearly impossible to believe I was anything but stupid. What else could I be? I didn’t learn like anyone else. Just learning to read was a struggle when my classmates seemed to excel at it. I wasn’t like them. I felt like I wasn’t normal. My mom told me I was smart, and I just learned differently, but how could I believe her when everyone at school treated me like a dummy and called me a “retard”? I began to hate myself and sink into sadness and hopelessness.
That name was vile and evil in every sense. It ripped at my insides like a vicious animal. I craved to be accepted and to be like everyone else. Each time that name filled my ears a piece of me died. After school I cried in my mother’s arms and at night I struggled to sleep. I had nightmares of my classmates and teachers teasing me. I became afraid to go to bed. Sometimes I lay in my bed looking up at my ceiling as the word sang through my head. I asked God, “Am I a mistake?” I had to be one. Why would he make someone to be so stupid that she had to be pushed through elementary?
I went to a special classroom for extra help. My classmates called it the “Class for Retards.” I wanted to learn as easily as my classmates. I didn’t want to struggle with reading and math. Why did I have to be different? It wasn’t fair. Everyone hated me and I even hated myself. My insides were twisted into knots each day I went to school. I used my imagination to escape. I daydreamed of getting hurt so I wouldn’t be able to go to school. I even wanted the dreams to come true, but they never did. I was stuck in a prison of anguish and hopelessness.
In elementary school I wrote down what I was told to on tests even if I knew it was the wrong answer. I didn’t study, and I didn’t try to do classwork. I didn’t try to show them I could do things on my own, because I began to believe I was stupid. I couldn’t fight back. I depended on a girl who put me down every chance she could to pave my way through grade school. According to all my teachers she was a good friend and much smarter than me. How could I argue? Things came easier to her, and I did pass my tests when she gave me answers. This only confirmed to me that I was indeed a “retard,” a dummy, and that I lacked the intelligence to push forward on my own.
It wasn’t until sixth grade that I could ever accept I could do anything on my own. In sixth grade my teacher told me I had to take my tests by myself. No one would give me answers. I fought with my thoughts. How could I pass if I was dumb? There was no way I could pass a test. I was the “retard.” I did the test on my own and just barely passed.
In high school I dedicated my time to finding ways to work around my disability to succeed at my classes. I made the merit roll and honor roll and I was inducted into the Honors Society, but the wounds on my heart still bled. Depression settled in and slowly ate at me. I burst out in angry fits at home, breaking things and fighting my siblings. It took into my adult years to heal the wounds the word “retard” caused me. I spent years in therapy for mental illness caused by the bullying and a chemical imbalance in my brain.
Words hurt. Abuse isn’t just physical; it is also mental. Cuts and bruises heal, but the wounds on the soul never completely go away. They scab over causing scars that open from time to time when something triggers a memory you can’t erase. You learn to push those memories back and create new and happy ones. The pain of being called a “retard” still hurts me to this day, but I have reached past it and pushed forward. When I hear people use the word, I cringe.
No person deserves to be called a “retard.” It’s a word that should be banished from the tongues of all humans. Even though you may not hear that word as often nowadays, it doesn’t mean it is not still used. Bullies use any reprehensible word they can find to abuse a person who is different. Even words that are no longer acceptable. If you hear someone using the word “retard,” tell someone. Don’t stand by and watch an innocent person being torn apart. Stand up against bullies.
I have risen above all expectations my elementary teachers had for me. I’m a published author, and I have been a cashier for 26 years. I have a college degree and a loving husband. I stand in the light as an intelligent woman.
Part of staying in recovery is learning how to cope with life’s challenges and health issues. I sure have had my share of health issues. Within the last several years it’s been surgery after surgery. It’s very easy to slip into depression when you face things like this. Even people without mental health problems can get down when their health is not good. It’s even worse when you have mental illness. If you don’t cope with your situation, it becomes easy to fall down the dark hole of your illness.
I made it through my surgeries using different coping techniques to keep my mind busy. When I had breast cancer, I colored in adult coloring books and journaled. With my other surgeries I wooudburned, journaled, and worked on my memoir. These activities kept me busy, so I didn’t have time to worry, fight racing thoughts, and slip into depression. When I had my back surgery I woodburned Christmas ornaments and began selling them. I started up a small business selling my pyrography. When I had a tendon repaired in my ankle, I sat on the couch and worked on writing chapters of my memoir. With each surgery I journaled out my feelings.
Using these coping techniques kept me busy and focused on something else other than my situation. It kept me from getting bored and feeling sad that I couldn’t do my regular activities. When I don’t have something to keep me occupied, my mind goes on overload. My worries bombard me causing anxiety attacks, depression takes over, and my mind goes on a mad rampage, flooding me with negative thoughts. I go into a depression.
With carpal tunnel surgery, I couldn’t do my usual coping techniques. My right hand was wrapped in a bandage for 48 hours and for a week the only thing I could do was flex my fingers. Once the stitches were out, my hand was still very sore and I could slowly use it. Everything I usually do to cope involves using the hand that I had the surgery on. I felt lost. I couldn’t even journal out my feelings. I had to find new ways to cope. I couldn’t allow myself to just lie around and slip into depression. I had to find a way to deal with my situation.
I couldn’t put a harness on my dog, and I couldn’t risk her pulling on me when I walked. So, I left her home and went on walks by myself with my ear buds in and my phone playing music on iheart radio. This got me out of the house and into the sun which brightened my soul. Since I couldn’t write, I recorded my thoughts in the notebook app on my phone or on an old tape recorder. That way I was getting my feelings out and they weren’t trapped inside me. I walked down the street to my friend Stacy’s house who was recovering from eye surgery. We talked about our frustrations with our recovery process and many other things.
One day I was feeling lonely and sick of being stuck at home. My friend Amy was preparing for a yard sale. I offered to help if her brother could pick me up. Unfortunately, her brother was busy. She lives forty minutes away from me. My husband insisted I ask her to let Lou drop me at her house after he finished work and spend the night, and he would pick me up the next day after work. Amy was more than happy to have me over. She is an author also. She wrote a guest post a couple weeks ago for my blog. We had a great time. I helped her with some of her yard sale items. I put tape on them, and she wrote the price. We talked about writing and brainstormed on how to improve her newsletter and shopped for a basket she was giving away at her book launch.
Then I invited my mom and family friend to go to mile long yard sales on the road Amy lives on. We went to several yard sales including Amy’s. We found some treasures and had lunch at a church. It was fun. This got me out of the house and away from the TV. When I have nothing to keep me busy it’s easy to sleep until one-thirty p.m., lie on the couch in front of the TV and give in to my illness. Going yard sailing and staying at my friends kept me from doing that. I was able to get out of the house and keep active.
Combatting mental illness is a daily battle even in recovery. Health issues had threatened to send me into the dark hole again, but each time I found ways to fight it off by using coping techniques. Even when I couldn’t use my hand to do my normal coping methods, I found new ways to cope.
When life challenges your mental health with heart ache, health issues, and trials, you must find ways to cope and fight your illness. When you’re unable to use your normal coping techniques, get creative and find new ways to deal with your situation. Don’t let your illness take charge. There is always a way to cope, even if it means finding new techniques. Life will always challenge us and threaten to throw us back into the pits of darkness. It’s how we deal with it that helps us reach and stay in the light of recovery.
I have one more week until I return to work. I am finally strong enough to write and woodburn. My hand will still have soreness for a while, but at least I can do stuff. Finding new ways to cope when I couldn’t use my usual techniques kept me in the light of recovery.
I’ve been recovering from carpal tunnel surgery. I need the surgery in both hands but decided to do my right hand, my dominant hand first. I use my right hand to do all my writing, woodburning, eating and texting. It’s important to me to keep in contact with my support team, and many of them I connect with by texting and instant messenger. This is the first time I’ve felt brave enough to type this post. So, it may be short.
After surgery my hand was wrapped in gauze and a ace bandage for 48 hours. After I took the bandage off, I was only able to move my fingers so they wouldn’t get stiff. I had to do everything one-handed with my left hand. I had to find a new way to keep in contact with my support team. I decided to use dictation. That little microphone on your keypad can be a bit of a pain. My friend Cheryl found it fun to translate my messages.
Here are a few messages that were mistranslated and got a good laugh from my friends.
“It sucks,” came out, “It’s sex.”
“I found my glasses,” came out, “I found my foot.”
“I miss my writing,” came out, “You’re annoying.”
“Trying to cope the best I can,” came up, “I’m trying to poop the best I can.”
And a few swear words randomly appeared in my messages.
I never understood why my husband always cussed at his phone when he uses the microphone until now. It is frustrating, but it gave my friends a good laugh and me, too. Most importantly I was able to keep a connection with my support team.
Part of healing from surgery and keeping in the light of recovery is being able to connect with the people who listen to me, support me, and encourage me. Having a support team keeps me going.
Choose your support team carefully and always make sure you have a way to contact them when you need to. Pick people you trust the most like family, friends, a teacher, or therapist. My support team is my husband, my parents, and several friends. When things make it hard for you to contact your support tea,m find a way to stay connected even if it’s through dictation into a microphone on your cell phone.
Now I am finally able to use my right hand and my texts are not as funny. Keeping connected with my support team keeps me in the light of recovery.
Bullying, especially chronic and severe bullying, is traumatic for targets and can have long-lasting effects. Most people who’ve been traumatized by bullying have lives that don’t run smoothly. They experience many stops and starts in life- many interruptions and setbacks.
They suffer a long string of broken relationships and friendships due to their shattered trust in humanity. When you’ve been bullied severely as I have, you will come to believe the lie, that human beings are inherently evil and enjoy seeing others suffer, if you aren’t careful and you don’t get professional help. And naturally, this destructive belief will affect your personal relationships.
In order to succeed at anything- your job, academics, finances, projects, anything–you must know how to form and nurture successful relationships. The hard truth is that it really is who you are connected with that determines your success in life. How to form relationships and confidently maintain them is the most important life skill you can ever learn and master. It’s sad that traditional schools don’t teach this.
Many people who have been chronically and severely bullied have been stunted in their emotional development and their development of people-skills. Many targets and survivors of bullying are afraid of meeting new people and of relationships. They’re fearful of social engagements and situations because they see themselves through the eyes of their bullies- that they’re somehow defective and inferior to everyone. Therefore, they don’t trust themselves or other people anymore.
Targets and survivors of bullying may desire friends and relationships but don’t want to take the risks required to get what they want. They decide that it’s much safer to stay alone and avoid even the remotest chance of conflict, being ridiculed, and possibly being targeted again in the future.
What these traumatized people don’t realize is that this doesn’t decrease their chances of being targeted. It actually increases that chance because bullies actively search for people like them- easy marks who are fearful and easily intimidated. Also, it lessens their chances of success at all other aspects of their lives.
Many targets and survivors of bullying are ashamed of what they had to do to survive and keep from getting hurt and bullied worse than they already were. They have much shame about the many times they had to submit to the bullies’ demands to keep from getting their brains beat out or save themselves from being shot or stabbed.
They often look back and wish they’d spoken up or defended themselves and just took whatever consequences they’d have had to face afterward. Sadly, they haven’t thought about the fact that the brain’s and body’s natural reaction is to do whatever they must do to keep one from harm- it’s part of our survival instinct.
If you are or have been a target of bullying, how can you change your life for the better?
You start by getting therapy and by reading self-help and personal development books that deal with the type of problems you’re having. You also relearn the social arts and do the inner work to reprogram yourself. Realize that this will take a lot of time to internalize.
You replace negative thoughts with positive ones.
You count your blessings and make a list of your good qualities and talents.
You think of the good people in your life, even if you only know a few, and realize that there are more of them in the world- realize that, out of almost eight billion people in the world, there must be more good people besides the few you already know.
You spend time with the people who love you and who uplift you. These positive connections will balance out all the bad experiences you’ve had with bullies and your confidence will grow. Soon, you won’t be as fearful because you’ll feel better about yourself.
You take risks by meeting new people and making new connections. This will be uncomfortable at first but continue to push yourself and it will eventually feel natural.
These thing above are what I did to regain my confidence and become outgoing. It wasn’t easy and it took time and a lot of practice for it to sink in and become like second nature. But I look back now and I’m so glad I put in the work because my life is so much better now. I’m at peace with myself and with others. Words cannot explain the freedom that comes with it. You would have to experience it to know. But I promise that if you do the same things, I did and put in the time and work, the payoff will be exponential, and you’ll get the return on your investment you’ve never thought you would!
Invest in yourself. Don’t you think you’re worth the time and effort? I do.
Let me introduce myself! Hi, I’m Amy Bovaird. Aimee and I share several common threads—we’re both authors, bloggers, and speakers. We both belong to Pennwriters, a professional writing organization dedicated to improving the skills of writers at all levels. Both are names are Amy, spelled differently, of course!
We also share another common attribute—the belief that our stories will encourage others struggling with disabilities. While Aimee writes honestly to educate others about mental illness and break through the stigma and misinformation, I write to educate others on sight and hearing loss.
What Causes my Disabilities? I have a hereditary condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa. My sight has progressively deteriorated over the years, starting with my peripheral (side) vision and it moving to tunnel vision. Finally, my central vision will be affected. Most lost most or all of their vision. We don’t know the cause of my hearing loss, only that it continues to weaken.
Thank goodness, I have come to learn I can live a happy, fulfilled life in spite of these disabilities!
Overcoming Obstacles Requires Determination
But things aren’t always rosy. We have to push forward and overcome our own obstacles. The pastimes I enjoyed most had to do with staying mobile – traveling, driving, hiking, climbing mountains. I often traveled alone internationally, so that was my happy place. My identity was wrapped up in the adventurer I became.
Giving Up Driving
As I gradually lost more sight, one aspect of getting around challenged me more than the others—driving. But I found ways around it. A flexible work schedule enabled me to drive into my governmental teaching job in the light and leave before it became dark. When I taught overseas, I could take public transportation. At the latter stages, my discomfort behind the wheel told me the time had come to give it up.
But yet … deep inside …
I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around the fact I couldn’t ever drive again. It’s a true rite of passage bequeathed to us in our teens.
Moving into a White Cane
When I learned to use a white cane, I gained back a lot of my independence. But because it revolved around a public tool, others didn’t always view me as having the same capabilities as I once had.
Excerpt from Second Sight: Milestones in Mobility (to be released in October)
The except from “A Gutsy Convertible” starts with two short commuter flights, leaving from Erie, PA and arriving in Detroit, MI. Here we go!
The cart driver eased to a halt. “Here ya’ go, ma’am. Ya’ bag’ll come in at Carrousel Three. Can I help ya’ git it?”
“N-no. I’m good.” I reached into my purse and found a couple of dollars and slipped them into the man’s hand who steered me through Detroit’s domestic airport.
My gaze, blurred as it was, swept through the throng of people—those maneuvering suitcases, parents admonishing children, and those headed out the door—seeking one person. Was that him? The man turned and waved in my direction. Yes! It had to be him. Relief coursed through me and my smile must have shown it.
“Look at you,” Mark said, taking me into his arms. “I was watching you on that airport cart. Ya’ looked mad or upset and a little bit lost. I said ‘What is goin’ on with Amy?’”
I made a face. “I coulda’ found my way here much faster on my own. Get this—the stewardess had them bring me a wheelchair while everyone else exited the plane la-la-la without a care.” I shook my head, still unsettled. “My legs aren’t broken,” I fumed. “I can move pretty fast with my cane.”
“When ya’ saw me, your face lit up like the Fourth of July fireworks we’re gonna have tomorrow night,” Mark teased, squeezing my shoulder and changing the subject. “Let’s find your bag and get outta here. Let me take that.” He lifted the strap of my burgundy leather carry-on from my shoulder.
That left me with my purse and white cane. I hesitated then folded up my cane. As expected, Mark took my arm, and looped it through his as we made our way up to the conveyor belt.
“There’s my bag.” I pointed to a small blue-gray nylon bag slowly moving on the carousel. He stopped in mid-step and stared at me. “How could ya’ see that? I mean, how could ya’ tell where your bag was?”
“I’m partially sighted, ya’ know. Besides, see that bright polka-dot scarf on the handle? That scarf is permanently tied on the handle. It always makes it easier to find my bag when I fly anywhere.”
Taking a deep breath, I consciously put the unsettling airplane experience aside for the moment to focus on Mark and my weekend with him.
That evening, we ate out on the grill as he had promised. He cooked all my favorites—steak and shrimp, corn on the cob, and baked potatoes. We chatted as he brushed the barbecue sauce on the steaks.
“Ya’ see the trouble I go to for you.” He grinned.
I took an appreciative sniff and smiled back. “It’s worth that awful flight to get here to see you—and eat steak and shrimp.”
“What? Miss World Traveler is put off by a couple of baby flights?” He jabbed me in the side, mock shock on his face.
“That’s just it,” I said. “This is my first time flying since using my white cane. “I don’t know about this wheelchair and cart business. Why don’t they just ask me what I need?”
“Silly, why don’t you just tell them?”
Silence hung in the air. I’d kept asking myself that same question throughout the flight. I didn’t have the metalanguage. Ha! This was not linguistics class at college. It required only a few simple words.
When Mark opened the grill to check the steaks, a wave of smoke escaped. He took the foil-wrapped corn and set it aside, then added more shrimp. He turned to me. “I think airlines use wheelchairs as an easy way of identifying those who need assistance. Otherwise, how would they know who needs it? They only have so much time to get you to the next flight so it’s a matter of convenience. Think of it that way.”
“Well—” as they look for an easy way to accommodate their little airlines, they rob me of my independence.” You let them. “I certainly don’t have any problem with getting from one gate to another.” I huffed.
The next morning, the sun shone but there were clouds in the sky.
“You’re in Michiganian land now,” Mark offered. “Don’t expect your Pennsylgonian weather to follow you here. The clouds are just for show. Pure sunshine here.”
He liked to play with words, maybe to impress the writer he imagined me to be. Maybe because when a relationship is fresh, the banter is too.
After I took an early morning run, Mark said, “Let’s go shopping.” He took the convertible, which he only used on special occasions—like my arrival.
“You don’t need that right now,” he whispered, pointing to my cane. “Nothing against your stick,” he added quickly. “I’m being selfish. I’d rather hold your hand.”
I blushed, and folded up my cane. Being with Mark was like playing the piano keys on the high end—fast and furious. My heart ran trying to keep up with the light notes, the ones I felt when I thought of: us.
Inside the store, Mark pushed the grocery cart with one hand and held onto my fingers, which rested on the steel handle, with the other. How I’d longed for such a feeling—being part of a couple again.
We picked up all kinds of party food. He’d planned a small get-together—in part, to welcome me and in part, for the Fourth of July.
My stomach did happy flip-flops. We’re kind of a couple. We’d connected via Facebook and from there, it went to phone calls and long talks. Several months after he met me, he visited. It was then he showed me a song he wrote …. about US! “…We need to be together. You be here or I be there ‘cause I can’t send flowers through the phone…” It had a country twang.
My heart burst every time I thought about it.
Outside, the sun caused a problem for me. Even with my sunglasses, I squinted to see this man that filled my stomach with butterflies from the start. He opened the car trunk and placed several full sacks of food inside.
I eyed the bags. “Will that all fit?”
“Almost.” He grabbed the watermelon and set it aside, then closed the trunk. “Got an idea here.” He used a pocketknife to cut through the tough rind. With a slow smile, he handed me a thick slice, dripping slice. He licked some of the juice off his fingers. “This here is Michiganian watermelon, nothin’ like it.”
“Hey, I can’t eat this—it’s way too big!” I held it away from me so the juice wouldn’t get on my clothes.
There in the store parking lot next to the car, we had an impromptu picnic for two. The sticky juice dripped down our fingers and onto the pavement. I attempted to eat a second one, but the juice tickled, and to my dismay, I snorted and felt a weird sensation as a seed flew up my nose. “Agh! Nose. In my nose.”
“What! You okay?” Mark looked concerned.
I took a tissue out and blew my nose. The seed came out. “I’m good now.”
We laughed at the silliness of eating watermelon slices that big and having a seed fly up my nose,
“We’d better get these groceries home,” he said. “We have the whole afternoon for our picnic.” He glanced at the sky and frowned. “Hope the weather holds up.”
With the leftover watermelon stashed away in its flimsy plastic bag and the dark green rinds tossed in the trash, we prepared to leave.
I opened the passenger door to Mark’s small white Mustang convertible.
“She’s got some years on her,” he said caressing the glossy enamel exterior, “but she’s still my baby.”
The tips of my mouth turned up as I looked over at him. “Don’t hold back now.”
I faintly caught his shrug. “You gotta slam the door or it won’t close all the way.” His words were part-apology and part-directive.
“I used to love driving.” I tried not to let my voice show how I longed to feel the wheel at my fingertips, how I used to follow a curve to wherever it went, then make my way home, put the car in park and slowly take the key out of the ignition. I jingled the keys on my chain all the way to the house before I set them on my table.
I hated giving up driving, something I did twice, once before going overseas in ’97 and again, nine years later when I returned to the States.
Mark looked over at me, a dare in his eyes. “Want me to put the top down?”
“Yes!”
I kicked off my sandals and jumped onto the seat as he slowly backed out of the Kroger parking lot. I stood up, my face to the sun and tried to keep my balance. My short hair whipped around as he gained speed. “This is living!” I shouted, my words lost in the rush of the wind.
I waved my arms back and forth, thrilled at my own daring. Maybe it was that I was nearing fifty and felt sixteen again. But maybe, with the sun warming my arms and the wind fresh on my face, it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see as much as I used to or that I relied on a red and white cane to get around.
At that moment, I trusted myself completely.
As we neared the private road leading to Mark’s house, he pulled the car over.
“Drive,” he ordered.
“What? No, I can’t. I couldn’t. Can I?”
“You want to drive, don’t you?” he sounded excited. “Is it a good vision day?”
It was no better or worse than usual, but I said, breathlessly, “Yes, it IS.”
“Then drive.” His voice held a distinct challenge.
***
You’ll have to wait until my book comes out in October to see if I took the wheel or not! Second Sight: Milestones in Mobility is the 4th book in my Mobility Series. Meanwhile, I hope you’ll check out my other books on coping with sight loss to learn about the challenges, and the resilience.
Social Media To learn more about me, please check out and follow me on my social media sites: I’d love to hear what you think of my excerpt!
I would like to thank Aimee for inviting me to do a guest post.
aimeeeddy.com 