Author: Aimee Eddy

    We all want to be loved and to find the perfect person to give us that love. We dream of Mr. or Miss. perfect to come in our lives and sweep us off our feet. It’s common for women to fantasize of the most wonderful man to enter her life and steal her heart. Men even have an idea of the right woman to wander into his life. All people want is to be loved and cherished. Sometimes the person we imagine is too good to be true.

     Since I was a teenager, I dreamed of falling in love with Mr. Wonderful. In high school love seemed impossible. All the boys teased me, and none ever showed interest in me. They called me names, poured cologne down my back, and snapped my bra. I just wanted one boy to like me. I was the reject that guys had no interest in. One boy called me gay since I never had a boyfriend.

When Valentine’s Day came around, different colors of roses were sold to be given out to girls the boys liked. Different colors had meanings like “I’m interested,” “I like you,” or “I love you.” I don’t remember which color meant what. I just remember wishing I would get one. One year my cousins bought me a rose so I wouldn’t be left out.

     During my teenage years, the right guy existed in my imagination. A young man spoiling me with gifts, loving me despite my flaws, showing me extra attention, standing up for me when others put me down, and taking me off into the sunset on a dirt bike. My dream guy was perfect in very way, but unrealistic. A man like that doesn’t exist. No one person is perfect.

     My dreams of the right man were ripped apart when I started dating in my twenties when I took a year off from college and began working at a grocery store. The first guy that asked me out I though would be the love of my life. I thought I was in love with him and overlooked all the warning signs he was the wrong one. Then one day he told me a woman was sharing his bed, but they weren’t doing anything. She was just a friend. I dumped him and he married the so-called friend.

     I dated other men. One boyfriend told me how much he spent each time he bought me a gift. Another had to be told by his friends to buy me gifts, and another one showed up everywhere I went like he was stalking me. When I thought I had finally found love, I moved in with the man and he became abusive. He couldn’t handle my mental illness and used my weakness to hurt me emotionally and physically. He told everyone how I abused him and all the wonderful things he was doing for me. He enjoyed being patted on the back for supposedly taking care of poor Aimee.

     After we broke up, I swore I would never date again. I figured no man could ever handle my illness. I was destined to live with my parents the rest of my life, and when they passed, I planned to live with my younger sister. I was determined my dream man didn’t exist. I would never find true love.

     When a co-worker insisted I meet a man, named Lou, who lived in her basement I said no. She wouldn’t let it go. His fiancée, her stepdaughter, had passed away from cancer. The first thing that came to mind was I would be Lou’s rebound, but she continued to tell me about him. I continued to refuse to meet Lou. My therapist and friend, Kelly, told me I should go on one date. One date didn’t mean I was making a lifetime commitment. I finally agreed.

     On the first date he promised he would take care of me, treat me like a woman, spoil me, and never hurt me. All I had to do was give him a chance. I couldn’t say no to that. It didn’t take long to fall in love with him. He was willing to go to couple therapy to learn how to help me with my mental illness, he would never let me spend a penny when I was with him, he told me every time we were together how beautiful I was, he gave me lots of extra attention, and much more. He kept every word of his promise and still does.

     Lou is the guy I dreamed of as a teenager. He didn’t take me for rides into the sunset on a dirt bike, but he gave and gives me much more than I ever expected. I’m a needy person and I love attention. He fulfills my needs and gives me all the attention I crave. He is my world, my true love, and so much more. When my mental illness gets the best of me, I can always count on him to help me through it and to take care of me.

     When I met Lou, I was going in and out of depression episodes. With his help, I have risen above my mental illness and reached recovery. He’s not perfect. No person is, but I love every part of him. Even his flaws and bad habits. He lifts me up and showers me with gifts of love.

     The man or woman of your dreams does exist. He or she may not be exactly the way you imagine him or her, but that special person is out there. True love is real. There is a person who can love you for who you are and learn to help you with your mental illness. You can be loved.

     Lou is my soulmate. Some may say he smothers me too much, but I think he gives me exactly what I need. I couldn’t have imagined a better man to love me. Lou’s love holds me up in the light of recovery.

It started in first grade when a teacher called me a retard in front of my class. Retard is a label that haunts a person throughout his or her school years, or at least it did for me.

By the time I repeated first grade and made it to second, my teachers assured me no one would ever fail me.  Why? Because they would push stupid Aimee on, whether or not she could do the work. My humiliation only increased.  My second grade teacher was no more merciful than my first.

“Miss Eddy, come up here now,” my second grade teacher’s voice reverberated throughout the classroom.

Shaking with fear, I forced myself to walk to her desk in front of the room.

With a big red marker, she wrote an F on my paper.  “You cheated. No one like you could have gotten an A. 

Cheaters will not be tolerated.”

     To this day, I can hear the sound of her ripping my paper in half. The words, “Mom worked with me all summer.  I learned to read,” were trapped in my throat. I gasped for air as if choking on food.

In the years that followed, I sat in silence as my classmates talked down to me, called me names such as retard, dummy, and loser, and treated me as if I didn’t belong. My teachers insisted a person like me could not read or write. They even assigned other students to give me answers on tests.

If there was a way to escape my life, I imagined it, pounding my fists and head against walls to ease the overwhelming pain within me. By my senior year of school, I began tearing at my skin with needles. I watched pain float away with each drop of blood. I hated living. I hated existing. Most of all I hated being me.

“God made a mistake when he made me,” I cried while my mother held me each day after school.

What peace could I find in a God who put me in a world of mental darkness? In my senior year of high school, I slid into a deep depression. After encouragement from a teacher, I went to college. My sadness left me no reason to live. Abuse from a friend only made me hate God more and question his existence.

In my condition, I had no other choice but to take a year off from school. I started seeing a therapist who diagnosed me with major depression. In therapy, I worked on self-esteem and changing negative thoughts to positive, such as “I’m worthless” to “I’m a good person.”

I got a job at a grocery store and, for a period, I found relief from my sadness. In five years, there were very few symptoms of depression. I made friends at the store and became popular. A social life turned me into the kid I had been unable to be.

Several years later, however, I became part of an abusive relationship and plummeted back into a deeper depression. My emotions became unpredictable, igniting into an inferno within seconds. The pain inside me burned in my soul and crawled through every inch of my body. I would cry in a fit of rage, screaming at the top of my lungs, and I began injuring myself more often.      

After the man I thought I loved kicked me out of his home, I was hospitalized and diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. His words, “You gave up,” became my motivation to prove him wrong.

I worked toward a more stable life.  Two years later, I met a woman at Saint David’s Christian Writers Conference. I discovered she lived in my area. She even shopped at the store where I worked. She encouraged me to join the meetings at her Bible study group. After going to several of the meetings, I asked her to pray with me to ask God into my life. Once I found the Heavenly Father, I began going to church. 

After reading a Bible verse from John 16:33—“These things I have spoken to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world,” I realized that if God could overcome the world, I could overcome Borderline Personality Disorder, self-injury, and depression.

The sadness in my soul slowly lifted. I came to the realization that I had never been alone. God sat beside me even though I had denied his existence. I stopped injuring myself and the emotional episodes stopped. I started on a path of rediscovering myself, a path of finding strength to stand up for myself, to take control of my illness and to live a stable life. 

Now, I am the happiest I have ever been. I fell in love with a wonderful man who tells me each day how beautiful I am. I married the love of my life and we have now been married thirteen years. He helps me stay in recovery and gets me through rough times. 

When I am asked how I gained control over this illness, my answer is, “I found God.”

God gave me a wonderful man to lead me through the difficult times. He also carries me in the light of recovery.

      “If this therapist can’t help you, we’ll find one who can.  I don’t care what it takes.” My mother wrapped her arms around me. “I’ve prayed to God he would send you an angel.”

      We sat in the therapist’s waiting room. There is no hope for me, I thought. 

      In my senior year of high school, my cousin died in a car accident. I slipped into a deep sadness. My sadness only grew after I moved in with my grandparents and started college. I rolled around in my bed at night begging for sleep and found myself sick to my stomach every morning. Why didn’t I die instead? I don’t want to live any more, I thought before I dragged myself to classes. As the pain inside me increased, I discovered cutting myself to gain release from my inner agony.

     After a year, I moved back home with my parents and started seeing a therapist in a nearby town. The therapist told me I was injuring myself to hurt others. With each appointment, I felt more hopeless and my mother became desperate to find me help. She turned to the outpatient clinic of a neighboring state hospital, which referred us to a clinic a half hour away. Even though I had no insurance, the clinic had a sliding scale and was willing to accept what we could afford.

      “Aimee Eddy?” A slim lady walked into the waiting room and extended her hand toward me. “Hi, my name is Theresa.”

      “Hi.” I shook her hand and peace filled me.

      A smile stretched across Theresa’s face and she led me to a small room. “Please sit down and tell me a little bit about yourself and what is going on.”

      I sat down and warmth engulfed me. My fears of talking to a stranger disappeared and my life story spilled out. After an hour, Theresa diagnosed me with major depression and anxiety disorder. She handed me a video on depression, and my assignment was to watch the video before our next appointment.

     “You’ll see that depression is a common illness and recovery is possible.” She took me back to the waiting room. “You will reach recovery.”

     For the first time in a long while I had hope. Theresa encouraged me to take a year off from college, saying, “You need time to care of yourself. When you get better, you can go back to college.” 

     At the same time, I started seeing a psychiatrist who prescribed medication. Theresa signed me up for a program to get my anti-depressants for free.

      With each appointment, overcome by a calming feeling, my mood began to improve and my depression started to fade. I stopped cutting and began working at a grocery store in the bakery department. In time, I moved to the front end of the store as a bagger.

      “For the first time I have a social life. I never had this many friends during my high school years.” I sat across from Theresa. “When I was in high school, I was picked on and now everyone loves me. I’ve never been so happy.”

    “This is just what you needed.” Theresa’s eyes reflected joy. She leaned forward. “Now–-we will be able to take you off your anti-depressants.”

      “But the psychiatrist told me I’d never get off my medication. He said I’d be on it for life.” I looked into Theresa’s eyes and my heart fluttered.

      “I assure you; you will be off your medication and will no longer need me.” She reached over and patted my hand. “But I must warn you, after a period of five years your illness will return, and you’ll need to get help again.”  

      Could this be true? Am I well enough to get off my medication? Wow, I can’t believe it. It’s a miracle. 

      Theresa directed me to stop taking my medication. I learned years later therapists don’t take patients off antidepressants. Within a year, I returned to college as a part-time student. I continued to work on the weekends at the grocery store and found time for my social life. After three years, I was ready to graduate from college. I sent an invitation for my graduation to Theresa only to have it returned. I went to the building where we had our therapy session and found it empty. No one had ever heard of Theresa and said the office had been empty for a very long time.

     My father rubbed his chin. “She must have been an angel.” 

     Two years after my graduation from college, I slipped back into my depression and began injuring again.  

     Years later, I have reached recovery, but I still must take medication and deal with the challenges of mental illness. Memories of my therapy angel, all that she taught me, and my five wonderful years of freedom that doctors cannot explain have become part of my drive to stay well.

Recovery from back surgery takes a long time. Even though I am healed on the outside, it will take several months for the inside to heal. The doctor told me they cut muscles and nerves to get to my bones to fuse them. It takes a long time for those muscles and nerves to regenerate. The doctor told me this, but I didn’t quite get what that meant. When my incision healed up and I no longer had shooting pains down my legs, I figured I was now pain free. I was wrong. It’s a different pain, but there is pain.

     I noticed the pain last Tuesday after I worked my first six-hour shift. I was on big register. At first it was slow, then suddenly it was busy. I tried extremely hard not to twist too much or lift too many heavy things, but it is impossible to completely avoid it. A cashier’s has a very physical job, especially since most stores no longer have baggers. My store got rid of them many years ago. The cahier rings up groceries and bags them. I’m one of those cashiers.

     While I worked my back ached. The line stretched into the aisles and I cashed and bagged as fast and efficiently as possible. Even though we have hand scanners, customers think it’s fine to put cases of drinks and bags of dog food on the conveyer belt. Some were willing to put them back in their own carts, but there were others who informed me they were not heavy. By the end of my shift, I was very sore.

     Lou took me out to eat after work. Sitting felt good, but when I stood up the pain made me cringe. I let out an, “Ouch.”

     Lou looked at me. “What’s wrong? What happened? Did you bang your back or fall?”

     “No. I didn’t fall or anything. There better not be anything else wrong,” I replied.

     Fear that I messed up my back again haunted me that night and into the next day. My mind went to the worst scenario. I was sure the fusion came undone and I would need the surgery again. I have a bad habit of thinking the worst. This led to anxiety and worrying. When I start to worry, I can’t seem to stop. I journaled out my feelings and talked to Lou and my friends. Everyone reassured me I was fine. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe them, it was just that I couldn’t stop my mind.

When I went to physical therapy, I told my therapist about the pain. She explained to me the same thing the doctor told me; the muscles and nerves were still growing back. She told me if the pain stayed in my back then nothing else was wrong. She showed me stretches to do to help relieve the pain. Keeping up with physical therapy will help strengthen the muscles and nerves as they regenerate.

One day Lou and I sat down and talked. We decided it would be a good idea that I change my availability at work. Since I was going back to a regular schedule, we decided I would say I was unavailable to work on Thursdays and Wednesdays. That way I wouldn’t work as many hours as I used to before surgery and I would have two days in a row to rest. Lou is working more hours and getting good checks, so he assured me we could afford for me to work less hours.

I filled out my availability sheet at work. My manager told me I was really restricting myself and it would hurt my hours. I told her what Lou and I decided. My mind suddenly went crazy with worry again. Was I doing the right thing? Would we be able to make it? What if we can’t pay our bills and we lose our home? Was this the right decision? Was I making a mistake? What if restaurants close again and Lou’s hours are cut? My chest tightened and I felt sick.

Lou and my friend Cheryl reassured me everything would be fine. I swear the two are secretly talking about me. They often give me the same advice. If things get hard, I could always change my availability back, but for now this was for the best. They reminded me to journal and look at the positive.

I sat down and journaled the positive things: now I could participate on Thursday night writing Zoom meetings, I will have more time to woodburn, I will have extra time to focus on editing my memoir, Lou and I could have more time together, and my body will have more time to fully heal. This means I will get my book ready for publication sooner. I have been working hard at editing it. I have seven more chapters to edit.  

Plus, if I work less, maybe I will not have so many physical problems. I’ve become a regular at physical therapy over the years and I have had way too many surgeries. Most of my problems have to do with my job and years of doing the same thing.

I plan to get back to exercising when my back is fully healed. For now, I can walk. Working less hours also gives me more time to walk. When my body gets stronger, I can always get my hours back. For now, I need to take care of myself first.

Our bodies and minds are precious. If we don’t make changes to nurture them, then they start to fail us. Part of taking care of your mental health should also include taking care of your physical body. If you need to exercise more, cut down on activities, make changes at your job or change your eating habits to take care of your body, then do it. Your body and mind will thank you. Nurture yourself inside and out.

Since I decided to make changes at my job, I know I will heal faster and feel better. Nurturing myself is helping me stand in the light of recovery a stronger person inside and out.

With COVID, the safest place to be is at home away from people and chances of getting the virus. Many are working, going to school, having meetings, and so on from the comfort of their couch. I’ve been jealous of them. I hate being a cashier on the front lines.

My husband was laid off at the beginning when the United States was shut down, and I wanted to trade places with him. People came in groves to the grocery store buying cartloads of food. They stocked up on everything like they were going to be stuck in their homes for years.

Customers became grumpier and more argumentative. They complained about the longer waits, they complained that our registers were wet with sanitizer, and they complained because the debit machine was moved. They argued with us about social distancing, they argued it was against their rights to have to wear masks, and they argued about pulling the masks up over their nose. I was at my wits’ end. My anxiety was high.

I got my break from work when I had to take off before and during my back surgery. Before my surgery Denise and I walked many different places, and I lost forty-two pounds. Then I was laid up from my surgery and Netflix became my best friend. I also woodburned and sold Christmas ornaments to pass time. I was free from the front lines, from grumpy customers, from being out in public exposed to the potential of catching the virus, and free from the hoarding of food. I was home safe, but lonely.

In a way I enjoyed being home and, in a way, I missed work. I didn’t enjoy being laid up, but I liked being able to have time to do my hobby of woodburning and not dealing with the public. I did miss my regular customers who have become like friends over the years and some of my fellow employees. Being home my anxiety was under control and my stress was low. I was relaxed.

A week ago, I started back to work, and my stress and anxiety began to shoot up. I’m working three days a week for four hour shifts for a while, but the shifts feel endless.

Transitioning back to work has been rough. Because of complications, I couldn’t do physical therapy before returning. I didn’t have time to build up the muscles in my back and to become more active. Returning to work has been tiring and my body aches everywhere, especially my back. The pain in my back is not the shooting pain I felt before surgery. It’s muscle aching. My whole body aches.

The first day customers and employees welcomed me back. They missed me. Some customers feared I quit, and others were worried about me. Some new employees were nice and tried to get to know me. I was sore and tired, but I felt loved. That changed fast.

On the second day, I asked a customer nicely not to put her groceries down before I sanitize, and I asked her to please back up while the previous customer paid. When I kindly asked her if I could get pass her to sanitize the debt machine, she got mad. She said I was on her (swear word) since she got in my line and she also said other nasty words. I tried to be as polite as possible, but it wasn’t good enough. I apologized for offending her, but that only insulted her more.

The lady went to the service desk and complained to them that I was belittling her. When a lady from the service desk asked about it, the only thing I could think was, I didn’t miss this when I was off. I explained to the service desk my side of the story and they believed me, but my anxiety went crazy. I felt sick.

Customers frequently ignored the rule to stand back and wait for me to sanitize the register. Some were apologetic and some were nasty about my reminders for them to wait like the lady who swore at me. They also yelled at me for asking them to pull their masks up over their nose. I got so tired of being yelled at for doing my job that I gave up. I just let them do their thing. I bit my lip and struggled to hide my dry heaves. I felt like I was a punching bag. Instead of punching me with fist they were punching me with their words and attitudes. Boy, I did not miss that when I was off.

On the third day back, I was on big register for the whole day. A lady put six packs of pop on the register. When I tried to tell her to leave them in the cart, she requested I put each one in a bag. So, I lifted each one up, put it in a bag, then lifted the bag and placed it on the end of the reg ister. The muscles in my back screamed, “I’m sore! Stop this! Go back to being off!”

The woman smiled with her eyes. “Sorry for the extra work.”

In my mind I called her names, but I said, “It’s not a problem. I just returned from sick leave, so it’s a bit tiring.”

She continued to apologize and asked me a hundred questions about why I was off work. I gave her a short explanation and returned the smile with my eyes.

On the fourth day, a customer came with two cart loads of groceries. I scanned each item, bagged the groceries, and placed them in her cart. When I was finally done, she leaned up against a register, took her coat and mask off and said she was going to pass out. I got the manager. They moved me to the register behind her. She was sitting on a chair with her head between her legs and with no mask and I was closer to her. My automatic thought was, What if she has COVID? What if I end up out of work again because I got sick? I didn’t miss this either.

Along with work I also started physical therapy. Between work and therapy my stress level shot to the stars. One night my husband was complaining about something and I went off. I yelled at him and pushed him. He wrapped his arms around me and held me while I screamed and then cried. After I calmed down, we talked, and I apologized. My husband is amazing because he totally understood and forgave me.

Now on the days I don’t work I practice self-care and I do the things that make me happy like woodburning, writing, sleeping in, walking with Denise or my dog, and journaling. During work I remind myself to take deep breaths, I confided in my support system about my frustrations, and I try to mentally list positive things. Practicing coping techniques is making the transition of going back to work easier.

Returning to work has been a struggle, but in time I’m sure it will get easier. By practicing coping techniques, I go to work standing in the light of recovery.

    We were all excited to kick 2020 out and start a new year, but the news doesn’t promise a better year. People are still getting sick and dying from COVID at a high rate. When this started, we hardly knew of anyone with the virus; now everyone knows somebody who has it or had it. The news is also telling us there is a new strain of it that is more contagious coming into the United States. What can we find positive in a new year? Will things get better or worse? What hope do we have for 2021?

     Instead of dwelling on the grim facts of a virus that seems to have no end in sight, we need to look at the positives and our goals to make the year a good one. The vaccine is supposed to fight off this sickness and lower the number of cases of those affected by it. The vaccine isn’t a promise that this will help slow the disease, but it gives us hope. Some don’t trust something made in such a short time. Whatever you believe in the vaccine or not, you need to find hope. Finding hope will help you push forward and out of the realms of negativity.

     I’m looking at goals to help 2021 look brighter. My first and most important goal is to get my memoir published. I asked some friends and my husband to hold me accountable for making time to edit my memoir. My friend Amy and Cheryl and my husband so far have agreed to give me that little extra push. I started a “book fund” to help pay for a professional editor and any other tools I need to get my memoir published. I started the fund last year. I have saved five hundred and fifty-four dollars so far. In the new year I’m going to work on selling some of my woodburnings and that money will go to my fund.

  I’m determined 2021 will be the year I hold my very own published memoir in my hand. It will be the year I do book signings and have my first launch party. This makes me excited for the new year. I’m putting together a schedule of days I will edit and days I will do woodburnings.

I ordered a new, professional woodburner that will make my work look even better. I joined a pyrography Facebook page to get tips on how I can do better at my hobby. If my burnings look better, more people will want to buy them and there will be more money to put into my fund.

     In 2021 I will be healthier and stronger. As soon as I start my physical therapy to build up my muscles after my surgery, the more I’ll be able to get back to working out with my friend. I’m going to return to my healthy diet. Being off work and laid up, I got off the healthy eating and gained some of my weight back. In the new year I’m going to work my butt off to lose the weight and become healthier. I hope to put an end to having surgeries and health problems. I’m also looking forward to being skinny and buying new clothes. My goal is to continue my weight loss journey and to look fabulous in a new body.

     In this new year I return to work after being off for four months. By the time this goes out I will have had my first day back to work. I’m returning to work as a stronger person and without the pain I had for a long time during 2020. My goal is to build up the muscles in my back so my scoliosis will not be as bad, and my job will not cause so much back pain. Maybe if my back is stronger then things like breaking a bone in my back will be less likely to happen and I’ll have less pain after work. Plus, my surgeon said I needed to keep weight off and build up my back muscles so the fusion will not bother my scoliosis.  

     2020 has made spending time with family and friends difficult. We can’t get together in big groups and we have to be careful when we do see each other. I do many things online. For a while I had no contact with my parents except on the phone. In the new year I plan to deepen my relationships with my family and friends even if it’s through video messenger, zoom, emailing, texting, or just a phone call. I’m going to make sure the people I love know I care. My friend Amy loves to give gifts to cheer people up and I thought maybe special messages will reach the hearts of those I care about.

     Another goal of mine is to find time to nurture myself. I neglect my own needs to much. To face the public, I need to take care of my needs and know my limitations. People during the pandemic tend to be grumpier and they come to the store in groves to stock up on food. They complain about the rules, our conveyer belts being wet, and our store being out of stuff. They wear their masks below their nose and complain because they are forced to wear a mask for the couple hours or minutes they shop. My anxiety rises, I start to stress and by the time I leave work, I’m a wreck. This year I’m going to nurture myself while I’m working by reminding myself to stay positive, practicing deep breathing, and learning to let customer complaints roll off my shoulder.

     What goals will you make to help you have a positive new year? You can find hope in a troubled world. What can you do to make your 2021 positive for yourself? Making goals and striving for a happy year will help you fight off depression and anxiety. It will give you hope and strength. Don’t sit in front of the morning and evening news listening to the COVID statistics and let your soul drop into hopelessness. Find hope by making the goal to have a positive 2021.

     I’m going to work hard at achieving my goals and looking for the positivity in the new year. 2021 will be a wonderful year, even with the pandemic, because I have my goals to strive for. My positive goals will hold me up in the light of 2021.

Checkout my guest post on Shirley Ledlie’s blog. Checkout the link below.

https://www.saledlie.com/survivor-aimee-eddy

     This year has been rough on us all with the pandemic. COVID has totally changed how we live our lives and has given us a new and unusual normal. We are stuck in our homes, we can no longer give hugs to people we care about, we walk into stores and banks with masks on, and we have learned to do more things online. This year has made dealing with mental illness extremely hard. Even people who don’t deal with mental illness are feeling down. I know it has caused my anxiety to go up, I’ve struggled with depression and my stress levels have been high.

On top of the pandemic are other challenges that we face: health conditions, breakups, friends fighting, death, loss of a job, financial problems, and other things. Some things are caused by the pandemic and other things are just part of life. Life’s challenges can hit us hard and it’s how we cope with them that helps us pull ourselves up out of the hole and aids us in staying above it. One thing that assists me in copeing and is therapy to me is woodburning.

I received my first woodboring kit when I was a child. My uncle bought it for me as a Christmas gift. I automatically fell in love with it. I started woodburning on any piece of scrap wood I could find: a piece of tree that was cut down, plywood, or a scrap of wood thrown away. I cut pictures from magazines and traced them to the wood with carbon paper my grandma gave me from her bill pads. With being bullied in school and dealing with mental illness, woodburning became my therapy. It was something I did well, and it helped me release my inner anguish. Just about everyone in my family and friends got my work as a gift.

In recent years, my woodburning has taken a sideline to writing and editing my memoir. Having a book published has been my dream since I was in high school. For a while I stopped doing my pyrography to dedicate my time to my dream of holding my very own published book. I woodburned a few Christmas decorations for my family and friends while I recovered from a hysterectomy. It helped me cope with being home alone while my husband worked and I dealt with the emotional roller coaster of the sudden menopause the surgery put me in. Once I recovered, I stopped and continued my focus on the editing of my memoir.

Two years later the pandemic hit and despite my work at losing weight, I had another health problem. If you have been following my posts, you know a bone broke in my back and I had to have back surgery. Recovery from this surgery has been very hard physically and mentally. One complication after another has left me laid up and bored. I couldn’t do much of anything. Depression reared its ugly head. There were so many things I wanted to do but couldn’t. I felt helpless.

Wasn’t it enough that 2020 cursed our lives with a pandemic? Then I had to have surgery. With the growing cases it was unsafe for friends to visit and my parents lived a half hour away. We depended on my husband to work so we could pay the bills. Disability from my job didn’t pay much. To deal with my depression, loneliness, worrying, and boredom, I had my husband bring my woodburning kit out.

I found cheap wood at Dollar Tree and decided to print a picture of my friend and me. I traced it to a star shaped piece of wood and woodburned it. It turned out great. I messaged my friend to stop by and I gave it to her as a gift. I took pride in my work. It helped me feel like there was something I still could do. Woodburning was the one thing I could do without twisting, bending, or reaching. It helped take my mind off depression and my problems.

I used a motorized cart to get around Walmart and I found six packs of small round wood. I joined a pyrography group on Facebook and learned that you can find pictures to woodburn on Google public domain clipart. I started searching Christmas pictures. I printed the pictures out and began making Christmas ornaments. I have two pyrography tools so I can use two different tips at a time. I burned pictures of Santa Caus, a reindeer, Mary holding Jesus, a dog and cat under a Santa hat, snowmen, and an angel. Instead of feeling helpless, fighting racing thoughts and drowning in depression, I was concentrating on my projects. I had to trace the clipart on the wood and concentrate on burning the design into the wood. I had no time for those unwanted thoughts or to dwell in my sadness.

My husband realized how therapeutic my woodburning was and he bought me a wooden box. He asked me to do a Steelers design on it. In between making my ornaments, I worked on my husband’s box. I looked up clipart to put on it and I used stencils to put words on it. The planning, finding the right pictures, tracing them on the box and tracing them with my woodburning tool kept me focused. Time seemed to past quickly, and I had no room for negative thoughts or racing thoughts. With each stroke of my pyrography tool, my sadness receded to the back of my mind. I was too busy to be bored.

I planned to give my ornaments away as Christmas gifts. I sent a picture of them to a friend from work.

I messaged her, “You might get one of these for Christmas.”

She replied, “I’d rather buy one from you.”

I was surprised that she wanted to pay for it. We agreed on a price. I posted my ornaments on Facebook, and before I knew it friends and family were messaging me wanting to buy my work. My therapy became a way to make a little extra money. Before long, I sold eighteen ornaments and two keychains. A couple of friends gave me a little more than what I was asking for them. Good came out of my surgery and out of 2020. Some of the money helped pay some bills and some is going to my “getting my book published “fund.”

My woodburning not only became my therapy, but it showed me how kind people are. Despite the struggles of recovery and of the pandemic, I found positivity. Friends who had little money of their own gave a little extra for my work just to help me out. I cherish their kindness.

Many things have changed in 2020, but people’s kindness is everlasting. No one knows what 2021 will bring, but we must have hope. Hope that the vaccine may bring an end to the pandemic, hope in the kindness of others, and hope in our ability to cope. There is no promise that the new year will be better, but remember to find that one thing you do that helps you cope whether it be knitting, singing, drawing, sewing, writing or something else. Use the special craft or ability that brings you comfort to deal with life’s challenges and mental illness.

I go back to work on January 4 and I’m not looking forward to it, but I have my woodburning to cope. My husband got me wood and a woodburning book for Christmas. I have more projects to plan. Whatever I am to face in the new year and with going back to work, I have woodburning projects to be my therapy. My hobby helps me soak in the light of recovery.

     When I was a child, my dad, uncles and grandpa had a tradition where they all got together and got real Christmas trees. They cut the trees down on land my grandfather inherited. Dad always picked out big trees, ones that had to have half cut off to fit in the house, some that had to be tied to stay standing, and those that took up a big part of our living room. To this day the ritual continues. Except now my husband and Dad go, the trees are smaller, and they pick them from a farm that already has the evergreens cut.

     My dad made putting up real trees look easy. He stuck them in the stand, he, screwed them in, and they stood up straight. We covered them with decorations, and they looked perfect. To this day my parents’ trees still stands perfectly. Lou and I aren’t so lucky. We kind of struggle with the tree in the stand thing. For many years it was because the metal stand, we had was lopsided. We had to put a book under one leg and still our tree leaned to one side. It became our tradition.

     This summer I bought a new stand at a flea market for fifty cents. When my husband and I brought our Christmas tree home at the beginning of December, I was excited. I was determined to start a tradition of having a straight tree. This year we were going to break the crooked tree tradition, I just knew it.

     A few days before we got the tree the doctor said I could gradually do normal activity. I could bend, twist, and reach once again. I was happy I could decorate the tree and help Lou put it up. The day we brought our evergreen home Lou put it on the stand. I got on my stomach and twisted the screws into the trunk. Lou helped me to my feet, and we admired our straight tree.

     Lou went to bed early since he had to work in the morning, and I decided to start some decorating. I hung the lights and then I started to put on my husband’s delicate Steelers ornaments. Then, timber! The tree started to fall over. I grabbed a hold of it before it could go all the way down. I was in a debacle. I tried to balance the tree so my husband’s ornaments wouldn’t crash to the floor. I’d be dead if his Steelers bulbs broke, but I needed to stabilize the tree. How could I do that with one hand?

     I yelled from the top of my lungs, “Lou, Lou, help, help!”

     Lou came running down the stairs. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

     “I’m fine, but the tree is falling,” I said.

     He held the evergreen while I tried to tighten the screws. After a few tries we got it to stand, but it was slightly crooked. I was tired and decided I would finish decorating the next evening. Maybe I’d have more luck once I got some rest. It takes time to get your energy and strength back after surgery.

     The next day Lou brought the plastic container with the rest of my ornaments down. When he had gone to bed I went fast to work at decorating. The tree was looking nice and I was happy even though it was slightly slanted. Then once again, timber! The tree began to fall. I grabbed it in time. A few decorations fell off and I was lucky enough to catch a glass Steelers bulb. Man, I could have been buried in the backyard weeks before Christmas. The headlines would’ve read, “Wife killed and buried after breaking a precious Steelers ornament.”

     Once again, I screamed for my husband. He came running again. He repositioned the tree and I tightened and loosened the screws several times, but each time he let go, the tree started to fall. After Lou’s hand went numb, we finally got it to stand. The only problem was it was leaning to the left a lot. The angel on top looked like she was going to jump for dear life.

     Lou said, “Well at least it’s standing.”

     My dreams of a new tradition shattered. Frustration, exhaustion, and anger flared. Lou ducked as a small stuffed teddy bear ornament went flying and just missed his head. The tree was even more crooked than usual. I stomped over to the couch and flung around empty and partially full boxes of ornaments. Tears streamed down my face.

     Lou walked over to me and pulled me into his arms. “Calm down baby. You’re overdoing it. Just leave the tree alone.” He wiped my tears away. “At least we are keeping the tradition of having a crooked tree.”

     So, the crooked tree tradition continued. I sat down and stared at our very slanted tree and thought about all we faced this year: Lou laid off because of COVID, pain shooting down my legs as I forced a smile at work, having to take an early leave of absence two months before surgery, surgery and a rough recovery. My crooked back from scoliosis caused a broken bone, a year slanted with politics, and a deadly virus only revealed an imperfect world. The only thing that can stand our world and my life up straight again is God.

     If I only have a crooked tree on a perfect holiday that celebrates the wonderful birth of our savior, I’m doing well. God loves us with all our imperfections. He loved us so much that he gave us his son, a child to grow up and die so we could be forgiven for our sins and loved no matter how many mistakes we make. Like my crooked tree, we are not without flaws, but God loves us as we are. We need to love ourselves, too, with all our imperfect ways.

     I think next year we will have a crooked tree to keep the tradition alive and to remind us how much God loves us no matter what. My slanted tradition keeps me standing in God’s everlasting light.

   Recovery from surgery or even mental illness can be a slow process. Sometimes you face complications or ups and downs. It’s hard to stay on the road to recovery when things keep going wrong. When it comes to surgery, there are many things that make recovery difficult. When you get past those problems, recovery sits on the horizon waiting for you. You just must keep fighting until you reach it.

     Fighting for recovery is what I have been doing since my back surgery. With all the surgeries I have been through, this has been the hardest recovery I have dealt with. The bilateral mastectomy was rough, but harder mentally than physically. Each of my surgeries had a level of difficulties. I expected recuperating to be hard, but not this hard. I’ve not only struggled physically, but also mentally.

     The nurse, Mike, came in three times a week, Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. A red burn mark where the adhesive of the bandage stuck left my skin red and sore. Each time the nurse and my husband changed my dressing, I’d grit my teeth in pain. Mike told me that one of the holes in my incision had closed, but the other was still open. I was reaching the six weeks the doctor said I would be off work, but my incision wasn’t closed completely. I expected to go back to work, but there was no way I’d be able to return.

     Each time I sat even on the couch I had to have a pillow behind me. My incision still hurt. I was worried something else was wrong. One day I got in the car and pain shot through my back from the surgery site. It felt like needles were pressed there. I tried to reposition myself, but it still hurt. Fear rushed through my body. Could something else be wrong? Could the opening have opened more? Was the infection coming back? Why did it hurt so much if it was healing? Haven’t I struggled enough?

     When I went into restaurants, I brought a cushion to put behind me and when I got my haircut, I brought a pillow. Pillows had become my best friend since I left the hospital and continued to be. If I was healing, why did I still need a pillow? When would I be pain free again? I just wanted to go back to normal and it seemed like that would never happen.

     I told the nurse about the pain. Since I was seeing the doctor the following week, he told me to mention it to her. He reassured me there was no sign of infection and the incision looked good. That didn’t stop my fears. My fears haunted me night and day and drove my spirits into a downward spiral.

     I deeply missed my regular customers and fellow employees. In a way I missed working and in a way I didn’t. I didn’t miss the covid and holiday craziness, but I missed the people. I felt lonely. I spent my days alone while my husband worked. I thought watching Christmas movies would lift my spirits, but it only reminded me of how I haven’t been able to decorate my home. I cried on and off in between the movies. Because of the pandemic, no one could visit me. I texted with my friends, but it wasn’t the same as having face to face contact with people.

     One night I was feeling really depressed and I messaged my friend. I typed that I felt she no longer cared. I accused her of only being my friend when I could walk and exercise with her, and since I couldn’t, I no longer meant anything to her. I messaged her with tears streaming down my face and sadness distorting my thoughts. We went back and forth several times. She tried to explain to me she did care, but I refused to believe it. She was busy with work and it wasn’t safe for her to visit me. My inner anguish flared and I messaged more upsetting things to her.

     I told her I didn’t want to talk anymore and typed goodnight. I went upstairs and woke up my husband and cried in his arms.

     He wiped my teras away. “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset?”

     I looked into his soothing blue eyes and choked out, “Denise doesn’t like me anymore. No one cares about me. I’m not ever going to heal. I’m going to be like this forever.”

     Lou said, “That’s not true. Denise still cares. She is your friend and that hasn’t changed because you’re laid up. I think you’re tired and depressed. You’re not thinking right. Shut off the TV and come to bed.”

     I shut off the television and got ready for bed. I was finally able to lie on his chest, so I did. I cried while he held me and whispered comforting words. Eventually I cried myself to sleep. The next day he called to check on me. I still felt down, but better. I sent Denise a message apologizing for being upset with her. I explained to her I was depressed, and she understood.

     The night before I had to go to the doctor for a checkup, I stayed up most of the night. Even my sleeping meds couldn’t stop my worrying mind. I was sure the doctor would tell me I had another complication. The possibilities of what could be wrong ran wild throughout my mind. Lou kept telling me I would be fine, and I needed to sleep. I wish I could have just believed him, but once my mind gets going, I don’t know how to stop it.

I began to picture myself on a beach with the water coming up around me. I took a deep breath in and slowly letting it out. When a worry tried to intrude, I fought to concentrate on the beach and my breathing. I repeated silently, “Deep breath in, slowly breath out.” In time sleep took over.

The next morning, we drove to Mayfield Heights Cleveland. Before my appointment I had an x-ray done. After a long wait, I made it to my appointment with the doctor across the hall fifteen minutes early. Lou had to stay in the waiting room while I went back. After the nurse took my vitals, I sat in the exam room for a half hour. The doctor peeked in to tell me she had an emergency and would be in as soon as she could. I was left alone with my worrying mind. I played with my phone and texted my husband to try and keep calm.

Forty-five minutes later the doctor came in. She looked at my incision and told me it looked good. She said I no longer needed bandages and to wear dresses so it wouldn’t get sweaty and so that air could help it heal. I don’t own a dress, except for my wedding dress, but I could wear nightgowns since I’m at home most of the time. She said I could slowly get back to my normal activities and that I would be sore for a couple more weeks. She encouraged me to walk and said to send her a picture once I have lost all my weight.

She pulled up my x-ray on her computer to find out they did one of my neck and not my back. After I was done with her, I had to go back for an x-ray on my back. By the time we left it was dark out. I agreed to drive part of the way home. I babbled on to Lou how happy I was that I was finally healing that I didn’t even notice I was heading down an exit until it was too late. Before I knew it, we were lost. I pulled over and typed our address into the GPS. It was a longer than usual trip home, but I was glowing. Recovery was on the horizon. I couldn’t help, but smile.

Don’t lose faith when you hit roadblocks and bumpy roads on your way to recovery. Have faith and push forward. Fight the negative thoughts and hopelessness. If you keep pushing forward in time you will reach recovery.

My incision is feeling better each day. I get to spend my days in a nightgown and I’m slowly building up my strength. I’m doing more around the house and my depression is getting better. I’m walking towards the horizon of recovery with God’s light guiding the way.