- I believe in the magical powers of cheese.
- I believe a good night’s sleep trumps getting up early to exercise. But I also begrudgingly believe that one helps the other.
- I believe we all should listen more and assume less.
- I believe that bagpipes are the devil’s instrument. Much like country music.
- I believe in silliness.
- I passionately believe that every gun-related death is preventable and that more can and must be done to reduce gun violence. I believe Congress must pass the latest proposed bill on background checks.
- I believe that colors, flowers and Stevie Wonder can positively change your mood.
- I believe my son could be a future Conan O’Brien and my daughter may well become a tattooed drummer in an all-girl punk rock band — and that’s cool with me. I think.
- I believe in optimism and dancing; both are good for the soul.
- I believe I alone am responsible for my destiny and my happiness. (Cheese helps.)
- I believe Olivia Pope and I are BFFs. She just hasn’t realized it yet.
All posts tagged optimism
Posted by samanthamcgarry on March 20, 2015
There’s a lot of nasty in the world right now: it can suck your spirit. My weapon to guard off the negative? A healthy dose of silly, especially when it includes my kids.
Now, you can’t force the sillies. They gotta happen spontaneously.
This morning, I snuck into bed with T shortly after her alarm went off. We were talking sweet nuthins and I can’t remember how or why but suddenly we were messing around with words and landed on the fact that ‘waffle’ and ‘awful’ kind of rhyme, especially when you pronounce ‘awful’ like ‘offal’.
“Waiter, this waffle is awful” I stated, and we both fell into a crazy heap of gut-busting giggles. The kind of giggles that set you up for the day with a smile on your face.
But it got even better.
Guess what papa had made the kids for breakfast?
Yup, waffles. T and I looked at each other gleefully and plotted.
She took a few bites then turned to her father. “Papa, this waffle is awful!” she giggled.
I giggled. We all giggled.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on August 20, 2014
She’s a lot like me. A little cautious, a tad fearful. Prefers to set her own pace. Doesn’t take criticism awfully well. But determined, so determined.
Last year, she really tried it but took a spill. And that was it. Her confidence was grazed, never mind her knees. She decided she didn’t want any more of it. The wheels went back on. We didn’t push it.
A year later, things are different. After all, just look at the glee in her big brother’s eyes as he crazy speeds up and down the driveway, purposefully weaving this way and that, doing tricks? Taking spills but getting back on. She wants some of that action.
If I were the only parent, she may have never learned this. I’m the mother than cannot watch as they struggle to gain balance, take off and then wobble. With my breath catching in my throat, I put on an eager, supportive face but my insides are jelly, my nerves are screaming, waiting for the inevitable swerve and crash, tears and wails, grazes and bruises and hopefully, really hopefully, nothing worse. I’m terrified but I’m still cheering her on.
Fortunately, there’s him. Cool as a cucumber. Instructive. Determined and patient. Under his steady eye and hand, she really works at this, confidence building like a three-layer cake. And something clicks. She gets it. And she’s off, a little wobbly at first but she’s off. Self-propelled, balanced. Proud. The pedals turn, kinetically building energy, speed and conviction.
As she practices, her balance becomes stronger. The thrill of the ride shines in her eyes. “Wooohooo,” as she picks up speed. If she wasn’t wearing a helmet, the wind would be buffeting her hair, locks streaming out behind her like the dust Road Runner leaves in his wake.
I’m still terrified, of course. It’s the mother in me. But so proud of her hard work and grateful for his steady determination.
Of course, there will be spills, grazes and tears. But she will deal with them and get back on. She will learn when to switch into a higher gear, to look out for bumps in the road, to enjoy coasting, and when to apply the brakes.
And if that isn’t a metaphor for life, then I don’t know what is.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on August 3, 2014
by Kristin Parran
I can’t keep it in any longer. I must be the worst mother ever. It doesn’t matter that my not-yet-3-year old son adores me. Or that he climbs in bed with my husband and I and tells us we make the best team (then asks for high-fives). Or tells me he loves me more than cars. CARS! None of that matters.
Two things I have read today make me believe that despite all of these things, I must be a terrible mother. First, I read a blog post about breastfeeding. Or, rather about not breastfeeding. The author shared her honest feelings around the disappointment – and subsequent judgment – around not being able to breastfeed. The point was that mothers should leave other mothers alone – breastfeeding or not. Funny, though, all of the comments from women who felt judged about not breastfeeding came from a place of not being able to breastfeed. I didn’t see one from a woman who CHOSE not to breastfeed, like I did. It’s hard as a new mother to not feel at least a little judgment with every decision you make – even if it’s self-inflicted judgment. But, I am increasingly finding that mothers like me – those who choose to bottle feed for one reason or another – don’t exist in public forums. They sit back, try to stay unnoticed and feed their babies the best way they know how. Some choose the expensive organic formula. Some pay for soy-based. Some do extensive research to understand which product is best for their babies. But the thing that connects all of these women is that they love their babies just as much as breastfeeding women do. I love my son no less than the next woman. I firmly believe – and would argue til I died – that in the way I know how, I have given my son the best chances for a life full of love, happiness and health. But it’s hard to find people like me out there. At least those who admit it.
The second thing I saw was on Facebook. This kind of thing usually doesn’t affect me the way it did today. Maybe it’s because I’m more sensitive, or because my stepdaughter is visiting and that always has my emotions doing somersaults. Either way, it hit me. An old acquaintance just went back to work and posted that she’s missing her babies more than ever. But that’s not it – it’s what she said next that hit me: “I know every working mom would rather be at home with their babies all the time.” I dropped everything and started this post. I couldn’t help it. My brain is screaming. You ARE a good mom. You ARE a good mom. But, am I? Really? My response to that post was not: “Sister…you are so right! I would so much rather be at home with a screaming toddler, playing with cars and arguing about naptime Every. SINGLE. DAY.” Rather, instead my response: “That’s BS! While I LOVE my baby, I also LOVE my job. And the people I work with. And the opportunity to be ME. And the socialization. And that I contribute something financially to my family. I love having both. I NEED to have both.”
I get the sense that a lot of mothers will read my response and gasp. GASP. HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT!?! How could you say you love your job AND your baby? How could you not want to spend every single waking moment with your child? The answer for me is simple. Being me – the me who loves my job and my husband and my son and my friends and my time alone – makes me the very best mother I can be. Whether or not that mother meets standards set by others is something I can no longer judge myself against. I wish I could say that feeling follows me everywhere, every day. But, it obviously doesn’t. Rather than reading that post and saying: “There are mothers of every color, and I happen to a bright pink” I took it as a jab. A knife turning in the heart that is still trying to heal from post-partum. So, I’m not perfect. I do let some things get to me. But after the initial crazy self-judgment and guilt wear off, I once again see that I’m not such a bad mom. My son is an incredible human being. And, at the end of each day, I have to believe that I have something to do with that.
Kristin Parran is a mother of one (nearly 3-year old) boy and wife to a husband who anchors her in peace. Wise enough to know life can (and should) have balance, brave enough to listen to her gut – but not always smart or Zen enough to stop sweating the small stuff – she recently moved her family 1,100 miles to give everyone the best shot at equilibrium. She spends her days working from home for a tech PR firm and shedding tears of gratitude for newfound peace – which is soon interrupted by the impatience of reality. Each time she leaves her house, she secretly hopes to be discovered by Keith Urban, Brad Paisley or Dierks Bentley as a (silent, yet energetic) back-up singer. Or, to someday see her name on the cover of a book.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on February 23, 2014
I know this is a departure from my usual posts about kids, parenting and domestic dramas. But this is a topic that’s been burning in my head for a long time and I have to get it out, put words to “paper”, have my say. Bear with me, please. Or don’t – as this is about to get political and if you don’t want to get into this here on my blog, then I understand.
This week marks my 14th year living in America. This still amazes me as I really only intended to stay one year. But here I am, happily married, two beautiful kids, lovely home, great job … All the goodness of life in the US of A. I do not take any of this for granted, not for a nanosecond.
It often surprises people when they discover I’m not actually a US citizen: I’m still a legal alien. I have long qualified for citizenship and, in doing so, would not have to give up my British citizenship. I’ve been advised by attorneys that I should get my citizenship, if only to make things easier on my husband, should I pop my clogs before him. It’s always been there, hanging on my life to-do list, along with other things like getting my kids their British passports, which I really must do one of these days.
But something has always stopped me from applying for US citizenship. At first it was something intangible. Like, it would seal my fate, trap me here forever. Which I know is ridiculous but I like to keep my options open. The world is a big place. I long to live again in France. Maybe elsewhere, who knows? Also, there was the reality of becoming a citizen of a country led by George W Bush. I didn’t like his politics and couldn’t bring myself to do it.
And then Obama came along full of promise. I felt optimistic. Maybe, with him running the show, I would feel more at ease with – even proud – to become a US citizen. I firmly put it on my 2013 new year’s resolutions.
But then Sandy Hook happened. And my world was forever changed. How could such a thing be allowed to happen in this civilized society? How? I watched with hope and admiration as President Obama passionately put preventing gun violence at the top of his agenda:
While no law or set of laws will end gun violence, it is clear that the American people want action. If even one child’s life can be saved, then we need to act. Now is the time to do the right thing for our children, our communities, and the country we love,” he said.
I followed closely as Senators Manchin and Toomey spearheaded the first concrete bill to enforce criminal and mental health background checks for guns purchased at gun shows and online. This is commonsense, no? And then, my heart sunk as the bill failed in the Senate, to the cries of “shame on you” in their chambers. This, despite that fact that almost 90% of Americans supported it.
And what has happened since? School shooting after school shooting. Mall shooting after mall shooting. Accidental deaths of children who somehow get their hands on ill-stored or illegally acquired guns. And all because of the power and money and influence of the NRA-led gun lobby? Tell me, our politicians, how can you sleep at night while all around the country, parents weep?
It’s appalling. I cannot wrap my head around this. Sadly, my faith in Obama ‘s ability to achieve even the smallest step towards gun reform during his final term is waning. Still, I actively support the groups that lobby and advocate for reform and gun sense, such as Moms Demand Action which provides great tools for contacting your local government representatives. Day in day out they use their voices to bring attention to the issues and lobby so that we don’t become desensitized as a nation to these seemingly-daily tragedies.
To those who own guns legally and responsibly, that’s cool with me, if it makes you feel safe and satisfied with your constitutional rights. Just please – please – keep them properly locked up so your kids – and their friends – don’t find and “play” with them or they find their way into the hands of those with mental health issues or criminal intentions.
I know, if I were a US citizen, that my voice, my vote would contribute. After all, they say one vote makes a difference. Oh how I wish that were true. But sadly, I think this is not the case. I love this country. This is my home. It is also the homeland of my children, their heritage, their identity. But, until the safety of all of our kids becomes a higher priority than the interests of the gun lobby, I just can’t fully adopt it as my own.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on February 11, 2014
When I say “lost,” it’s actually more like “mislaid.” And it was only for 20 minutes or so. But, as any parent who’s lost visual contact with their child in a crowded place knows, even a minute feels like a lifetime.
I surprised myself by being completely calm and rational. But, before we get into the psychoanalysis, let me describe what happened.
We were on vacation in Australia. In a small town on the bay of Melbourne called Anglesea. It was a Sunday morning and we were strolling through the market alongside the water’s edge, two adults and five kids aged 9 through to 4. There were all kinds of colorful booths selling books, crafts, food, souvenirs and other random local stuff. It was hot and sunny, and milling with families vacationing in the seaside town. We had given the kids each a few dollars to spend and, kids being kids, they had each spent it all on the very first items that took their fancy. And then kept asking and asking and asking for more money to spend on this item and that item. We shut them down, of course, intending to impart a lesson.
Onwards we browsed, lingering a while here and there at different booths and trying hard to keep the kids all herded together, despite distractions in every direction. At this point, my son was perusing a book stall (even though he had already spent his money at an earlier book stall.) Now, I’m not going to squash his interest in combing over books but, after a while, we needed to keep moving on: in fact, we’d spied some delightful, fluorescent frozen slushies at a booth that the kids just “had to have” to quench their thirst. I told my son we were leaving. He pleaded for a minute more. I acquiesced. But a minute passed and he was obstinately ignoring me. Another reminder, followed by a warning, was issued. And then I “fake left,” i.e. I told him I was leaving, hoping this would be enough of a kick up the derriere to get him to put down the books and rejoin the group. We were quite literally two metres away. Thirty seconds passed and I asked one of the other kids to go find him, tell him we had bought him a neon-red raspberry slushie. She returned, saying he wasn’t there. I went back over. No sign of him. I did a 360, searching the immediate crowd for his bright yellow t-shirt.
He was gone. I asked the vendor if she’d seen which way he had gone and she pointed in one direction.
I wasn’t worried, at this point. More annoyed, truth be told. I found the rest of our party, told them what was happening and we set off, retracing our path through the crowds in the direction we’d been told he’d gone. Scanning through the thick of bodies for a 9 year-old boy dressed in a yellow t-shirt and blue shorts (I was relieved he’d chosen such a bright top to wear that day.) After about 25 metres and no sign, I thought it best to leave the group and go solo. It’d be faster, I could be more nimble in the crowds.
At this point, maybe 15 minutes had passed. I figured I’d go all the way down one end of the market, then make my way back through to the other end. I was wondering at what stage I should start panicking and who I would call. Being that I was a tourist. All this time I was also worrying about my son’s state of mind. Would he be nonchalant? Or terrified? Would he have the presence of mind to ask for help?
It never crossed my mind that he might have been abducted. Had this happened in America, like in a busy mall, I’d have been immediately anxious and suspicious. But, everyone here in Australia seemed genuinely nice and, well, normal.
Another five minutes of searching and, suddenly, I spied him seated at a bench surrounded by some concerned adults. I called his name, probably sounding higher-pitched and less chill than I thought I was, and he ran to me and clung to me, sobbing. The kind adults saw that he was OK and moved away as I expressed my thanks and relief to them.
I sat down with my son, held his trembling, teary body as he gulped and sobbed. My heart and womb clenched with complete relief. I wanted to shake him and yell at him, but I could see just how traumatized he was. I knelt down and looked him in the eye, telling him: “I will always find you, no matter what.” A promise to him. A promise to me.
Holding hands, we turned back and re-found the rest of our group and everyone was happily reunited. We texted folks to let them know we’d found him. We talked with the kids, reminding them of the different things they should do if they were ever lost or separated from us, which included:
- If you have a pre-agreed meeting place, head there.
- Or stay put, don’t wander. Let us come to you.
- Find a helper, like a Mom.
- Know your parent’s phone numbers.
My son did #3 & #4 and I was very proud of him for that. Sure, the number he gave them was my U.S. cell phone and he had no clue about international dialing codes but I’d like to think that, had the local police got involved, they would have figured that all out.
That evening at bedtime, he wouldn’t go to sleep without me. He fairly clung to me. And there were bad dreams too that night. See, there was no need to yell and be mad at him. Those 20 minutes amounted to some of the best education he’s ever had. Frightening, yes. But he’ll never wander off again, that’s for sure.
As for me, yes I was rather calm and collected during those 20 minutes. I did not fear for his safety. But, my heart is forever scarred by the look on his face when I found him.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on January 26, 2014
A real conversation from early December:
Husband: “Honey, when will our Christmas cards arrive?”
Me: “I’m sorry, I haven’t even ordered them yet.”
Husband: “What? How come? We’re already receiving loads of cards and should be sending ours out now too.”
Me <insert snark> : “Oh, I didn’t realize. I’ve been lying here on the couch watching reruns of Desperate Housewife and filing my nails.”
Husband: “I know you are busy, I get it. But I’m surprised the cards aren’t done because you always seem like you have everything under control.”
BOOM. The moment of truth. It always seems like I have everything under control. Hahaha!
The reality is: I don’t. It’s all a thin veil or, rather, a grand illusion. Scratch the surface and there’s a hot mess of confused priorities, a healthy dose of anxiety, a fair amount of disorder, random spots of remarkable focus and OCD, a pinch here and there of laissez-faire and, more often than not, a wing and a prayer, a shrug and a nervous giggle.
Or, as a friend who is also trying to figure out this working Mom thing calls it: the sliding scale of incompetency.
Reality #2. Also back in early December, Liz O’Donnell, author of the new book “Mogul, Mom & Maid: The Balancing Act of the Modern Woman” asked me to contribute to a blog carnival with other working Moms, to share our tips and perspectives about our balancing acts. Irony: it was one of those weeks when all around me, life was exploding and there was no time to blog for me, let alone anyone else, let alone blogging about my balancing act! So, Liz, here’s my post, just a few weeks late …..
So, I ask myself, what of this grand illusion? Does it help or harm me? One the one hand, apparently I project this image of a confident working Mom, managing all that comes with it, with a smile on my face. This is good, surely? Heck, I even fool myself most of the time. I achieve this illusion, like so many other women, thanks to my ability to prioritize, multi-task and to turn on a dime when it’s really needed. It’s also thanks to several handy tools that help save some precious time and the wonderful invention that is Waterproof Post-it Notes which, quite literally, ensure the contents of my brain don’t disappear down the shower drain. (Buy them now …. hurry!)
On the flip-side, existing in this mode is a scary place. At any given point, there’s a terrifyingly strong chance that I will screw something up big time. The fragile card tower that I hold together all day and night is precarious. One missed deadline, one forgotten item at the grocery store, one overlooked play date invitation – not to mention the fun and games of hormones – and it can all come toppling down. The energy involved in keeping the cards propped up and balanced is exhausting.
So this is my balancing act. With the emphasis on the word ‘act’. But would I exchange it for not being a working Mom? Nope! This is my bed and I chose to lie in it.
Oh, and back to those Christmas cards. Yes I did get around to ordering them but so late that they ended up arriving on Christmas Eve. Have I had the chance to mail any out? No. Will I? The likelihood is probably not. Sorry folks. Because here’s reality #3 which, thanks to Dr. Seuss, I use day-in and day-out as a filter for the choices I make when prioritizing the 23697,2466,00000 things on this working Mom’s to-do list:
Those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind!
Posted by samanthamcgarry on January 5, 2014
by Ben Jackson
As most of us who blog discover from our analytics, people put some strange search phrases together to find things on the internet. Aside from the stomach-churning searches for nocturnal activities (of which there are many), I also often find queries for advice on dadding (“single dad blog. too busy to eat breakfast”), searches for quotes and things to say on fatherhood (“dad eulogy” often appears), and queries for which I simply can’t understand how my blog could possibly be relevant (“waiter with dreadlocks” and “she said prison barber hair shorn”).
And then there are the searches for “teratoma,” and variants thereof. It’s these people, anonymous through the internet, I want to find, and hug and do whatever else I can to offer some small measure of comfort.
My daughter Emma was born in 2001 with a cervical teratoma – a tumor on her neck which was larger than her head. It protruded from her mouth, it extended down into her chest and attached from her heart, and it sat like a grapefruit underneath her chin. It nearly killed her, and she spent almost her entire first year hospitalized as a result.
These search queries in my stats page are small digital prayers. They represent some terrified stranger, who has just received news that is far beyond their comprehension, and they are pleading into the information ether for salvation or information. They are suffering in a way I can understand more deeply than almost anyone else on the planet, and most of the time I feel powerless to do anything to help. I hope my writing provides some factual information and a lot of hope, but because of the anonymity of the internet, these deeply personal cries for help are beyond my reach to personally answer.
Last week, I received an email from a mother of a girl who also has a tumor similar to the one Emma had. She talked about being isolated, and was largely reaching out for a connection from a very lonely and scary place—and it knocked me for a loop for a bit. It reminded me that what we write is read by actual people; that those search phrases bandied about have an individual behind a screen, looking for something to connect with. That, beyond the creeps searching for their jollies, there are stories, and there is pain, and hope, and love and loneliness yearning for something that maybe we can touch.
It reminded me that we who write have a responsibility to those people behind the queries, that our words matter to someone, and that we had damn well better get what we’re trying to say right—and it reminded me that from my readers I can gain the connection that I seek as a writer, and as a dad.
Here’s hoping that your queries find you the connections you seek in 2014!
Ben Jackson is a father, blogger, publishing professional, creative writing student, and majestically bearded. From time to time, he has conned otherwise sensible editors into publishing his short fiction and essays. As an avid martial artist, one can often find Ben writing through bruises, slings and casts. You can read more of his writing at www.benfjackson.com or www.dadofthedecade.com.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on January 2, 2014
(Other than “love you,” of course.)
Picture this. A crowded shopping mall, two and a half week’s before Christmas. I’m taking my son to Build-A-Bear for a pre-school class mate’s birthday party. I’m fully prepared to hang out for the hour or so, watching a gaggle of five year-olds stuff and clothe some furry creature. I know a few of the parents, I’m ready to chit-chat. But then, the parents of the party girl offer the following wonderful utterances: “This to totally drop off. Just come back in an hour or so.”
The angels wept. A free hour. In a mall. Christmas shopping. Without a child. Hallelujah!
Off I scampered, barely even glancing back at my son who, I knew, was far more interested in the impending stuffing (of bear and of cake) than whether his Mom was hanging around watchfully.
This was just the beginning of what I realized was a major paradigm shift – and I don’t use those words lightly – in my parenting journey. All of a sudden, every party was a drop off party. Every play date was a drop off play date (unless the Moms want a play date too! I mean, haven’t you read The Three Martini Play Date?)
Moving from having to negotiate the universe with an infant/toddler/pre-schooler constantly attached to your side (or at least within a meter’s arm grab) to a few sacred hours without them was an eye-opener. What to do with this free time? Most often, it was the gloriousness of solo grocery shopping which is so much more efficient ‘sans enfant.’ Or other such errands. Very occasionally, I treat myself to a mani or head to Starbucks and join the cool folks, sipping their lattes, comfortably ensconced in an armchair with the sunday papers or a good novel.
Let it also be known, being a fan of paying it forward and good karma and all that, that I also happily host the drop off play date and let my fellow parents experience the joy of a few solo hours. I can always see the relief on their faces.
So, to all the parents that have said to other parents those two delicious words, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on October 13, 2013
by Spencer Bruford
I’m @AdadcalledSpen. Not a journalist or a writer, just a dad to 2 amazing children. I was a SAHD for 3 years and now I’m not. I’m divorced, love cheese and got the moves like Jagger. I blog at http://adadcalledspen.wordpress.com/, have had written stuff published in books, and recently won an award for blogging.
I’m honoured to be asked to write a guest post for Samantha’s blog.
Well, I kinda volunteered myself but let’s gloss over that. The point is I’m writing for this blog, and I’ve been asked to write something about the brighter side of Life.
And so I’m going to write about depression.
No. Don’t run away. I’m going to attempt to write a positive and uplifting post about depression. About this thing that can cripple and debilitate people, and bring them to their lowest points. I’m no expert on the subject. I’m no guru or plastic philosopher, sending out inspirational tweets or posting inspirational quotes on my FB feed, I can only speak from my experience, and so it is from this standpoint that I’m writing this post.
First positive thing.
You see, I’m writing this post.
I’m writing it.
This means something.
It means I’ve suffered from depression, and may well have a moment or two in the future where something knocks me for six, but the thing is I am writing it.
I’m not dead. I’m here.
My gran always said, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. She also said never eat anything bigger than your own head, so she wasn’t always Yoda. But she was right. Man alive I’ve felt ABJECT in the past. Low, suicidal, and I’ve attempted that twice, but I AM here. I’m alive.
Guess what? It didn’t kill me. I sought the help I needed, got the counselling I had to have, took the meds for a bit, changed my way of thinking and, while that Black Dog does lurk round the corner sometimes I now feel able to look it straight in the eyes and tell it, BAD DOG. Go away.
Some recent counselling has taken me out of a funk I was in due to circumstances beyond my control. Did I do my best? Yes. Was I honest? Yes. Did it work out how I wanted it to?
Sometimes things DON’T work out but I did my damned best and really, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s something to be proud of so, why feel down?
Good point. But by feeling down I got the help I needed. The weapons in my armoury to be able to deal with this and any future disappointments in a positive way. This is good. This is positive.
Positive thing number two.
I’ve written a lot about my depression, and I know others have too. Encouraging people to talk about this subject is a good thing. Many feel ashamed to do so or maybe feel that, if they do, others will see them as wallowing. Ach, we all have a wallow from time to time but we’re allowed to.
For me, writing is a release. I was recently talking to someone who went through an episode of self-harming, wishing to cut out and let out the physical PAIN the depression was causing them. Very brave of them to tell me that and, while some may frown upon this, the fact that they were talking about it, and we were conversing in this way, and the fact that they said they got help and won’t feel like that ever again is a GOOD and positive thing. I have so much respect for this person it’s untrue, for their bravery, honesty and strength.
So, by talking about it, communicating about depression we can see a side to people we never saw before, and people can get to understand us, and perhaps take the stigma away from this bastard of a disease so perhaps WE win the battle. We know more, and we can be there for them in the future when times get rough.
This is good, right? This is positive thing number three?
And back to me writing about it. Guess what? Depression makes me very creative. I blog sometimes to get it out of me. Put the feelings into words and then… wow. People respond. And always in a supportive and caring way. This I never expected. This I never thought would happen but it does because SO many people know what you’re talking about, have been through similar, know people who’ve been through similar and are willing to hold out a hand of friendship and say ‘It’ll be okay. We’re here for you.’
So this is good too. This is positive thing number four. These are the bright sides of depression.
I can never, and would never say that depression is a good thing. Whatever causes it, be it bad times or something more physical and long lasting, it ain’t good. It kills people and can affect people around you. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. On them I’d wish trenchfoot, Tropical Monkey Ooga Booga virus and a plague of inspirational tweets and pictures on the Twitter and FB timelines.
But being depressed can make you makes those changes in your life, reach out for friends, allow you to see it in others and be there for THEM,
And so, really, through the dark clouds, and although it may not feel like it at the time, there can be a glimpse of the brighter side.
Go forth, be strong my friends. Much love.
And thanks for reading.
Posted by samanthamcgarry on September 22, 2013