Ain’t no party like a no-pants PT party

Striding through the door to the physical therapy place, I realized too late that I should have worn pants.

The guy on the phone scheduling my appointment told me to wear comfortable clothes. I’m at that age where I give zero fucks about owning anything uncomfortable, so I just showed up in what I’d been wearing all day: my work clothes. I’m a children’s librarian, so my work clothes consist of a frumpy, long cotton dress and an open-front, long drapey sweater vest, both from Lands’ End, and Birkenstocks with no socks. 

As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed through the windows that the place has lots of exercise equipment. Treadmills, a weight machine, free weights, those giant balls that you sit on to strengthen your core. You know, typical workout stuff.

“Huh. That’s weird,” I thought. “What is this? Some kinda health club or something? What have I gotten myself into?”

You see, up until tonight, my only experience with physical therapy had been as an observer while visiting my elderly parents in rehab as they tried to recover from things such as having a ventilator shoved down their throat for a few days, or after bouncing back after a third episode of renal failure. Each time I observed them “getting physical therapy” they were laying in bed or on a comfy lounge chair, wearing pajamas. The physical therapist would lift one of their legs and see how far they could move it this way and that way. They’d do a few rounds of toe crunches and ankle rolls. I think one time my mom even got a massage out of the deal.

I, personally, had never been to physical therapy before tonight, but I had been to a chiropractor a handful of times after a car wreck, and when I was experiencing back pain with my pregnancy fourteen years ago. No special clothes necessary. Each time I’d simply lay on a cushiony table and the chiropractor would push my legs around and shove his hands firmly into the small of my back. A couple times I got this nice, steamy heat treatment on my shoulders even. Oooh, that was nice.

I have lots more experience with massage, both professional and spousal. All you have to do is take off you clothes (talk about comfortable), crawl up on this cushiony table and cover yourself with warm blankets. The masseuse takes care of the rest. You don’t have to lift a finger until you tip the professional massage therapist at the end. Or, when you give your spouse that look with the wiggling eyebrow and the “come hither” finger motion, wordlessly announcing it’s your turn to touch them.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up striding through the door of the physical therapy place tonight without any pants on. I hadn’t really thought about it being the kind of place where I’d be the one doing all the physical movements in a manner much less like lying back and getting a massage and more like having a personal trainer demonstrate, and then observe you completing, various exercises to improve your muscle strength to relieve pressure on your sciatic nerve so you can do things like putting your right sock on all by yourself or sitting chris-cross-applesauce with the kids at Storytime without crying out in agony. Miss Becky is cranky when she hurts. Miss Becky hurts so much she’ll try whatever she can to make the pain go away, including going to physical therapy. Next time, though, Miss Becky will show up fully prepared, pants and all.

Beautiful Butterfly

It's back-to-school season. I can't believe our daughter, Kat, is in eighth grade already. She turned thirteen this summer. She stopped going by the name "Katie" last year. Kat's less babyish sounding.



She was five--"a whole hand"--and just starting kindergarten when I began this blog. Our Katie Bug's become a beautiful butterfly as time flies by.



Kat brought home her first homework assignment. It's an essay for her English class, a "tell me everything you'd like me to know about your child" writing assignment for the parents.



When I was in eighth grade, I hated homework. This homework, I like. I enjoyed writing it so thoroughly, I decided to share it--with Kat's consent--on this blog:



Thank you for this opportunity to brag on my kid. Generally, I don’t wait for an invitation, as my Facebook friends, my co-workers, and random strangers trapped with me inside an elevator can attest.



Kat is one of my favorite people.



My husband, Will, would say, “ditto” and pretty much leave it at that. Brevity is his jam, not mine. I’m a total overachiever when it comes to writing about our daughter.



Just know that Kat’s parental love is not lopsided because Will and I have different communication styles. Kat is one of his favorite people, too.



I expect—and hope—you receive similar statements from other students’ parents. I firmly believe that all kids are special and gifted in their own unique ways. Please understand that when I gush over Kat it does not mean I think she is better than any other student in your classes. I’m my own daughter’s cheerleader. I’ll let the other parents rally around their own kids.



When Kat was three, we had another married couple over to our house. They brought with them their six-year-old daughter, Lilly. It was our first time meeting Lilly. At one point in the evening, Lilly broke something inconsequential and Lilly’s dad, our friend JJ, reprimanded her pretty harshly. Lilly balled up on the floor, shaking and sobbing.



Will and I froze. We didn’t know what to do. JJ was our friend. JJ is no longer our friend. JJ is the kind of guy who was fun to hang out with until he had kids. JJ is the kind of man who doesn’t remember what it feels like to be a child, the kind of man who thinks sparing rods makes spoiled children. JJ’s wife, Lilly’s mom, ascribed to the same line of thinking.



So there we were, the four of us grownups, just standing there, not knowing what to do while Lilly bawled. Lilly’s parents glared at her. Their faces looked like they were both about ready to give Lilly something to cry about. Will and I shoved our hands into our pockets, and bit our lips. Our eyes darted back and forth between Lilly and each other. I, personally, felt like throwing up.



Before I made a mess of things out of an already sticky situation, along comes little Katie Bug.



I should explain. Katherine is the name on her birth certificate. She’s named after my sister Kathryn, who goes by the nickname Kit, who in turn was named after our great-grandmother, Catherine, known as Kitty. We called our child Kate or Katie Bug before she decided she’s more of a Kat, although she still lets her Dad and me call her Katie Bug as long as her friends are not around.



So along comes our little Katie Bug, all of three years old. She ignores the grownups in the room, hyperfocusing on Lilly as she walks right up to her, crouches down, and wraps her arms around this weeping ball of six-year-old.

“Thewe, thewe, Lilly. It’s OK,” said Katie Bug. She held her and rocked her, as if she were the wisest old nanny in the world.



I don’t remember what happened to the other grownups. I think they all went into the kitchen to grab another beer. Later, when Will and I discussed the interaction we both agreed that the three-year-old in the room had more fierce compassion and moral standards than the adults in the room combined.



As I stood there, watching our kiddo cuddle this older kid she’d just met that night, doing the right thing when no one else seemed to know what to do, I knew this person was going to leave the world a better place than she found it.



This is the essence of Kat. She’s strong-willed, righteously indignant, and the most sensitive soul you’ll ever meet. Everyone struggles with strengths overdone, and in Kat’s case that means she’s sometimes rebellious, hot-tempered, and moody.  But mostly, she’s a pretty great kid.



Kat has struggled in school over the years. She’s bright, and creative, and curious, but she gets bored easily and her classmates often annoy her. Once, when she was in second grade, she came home from school, threw her backpack on the couch and yelled, “I’m so sick of these second graders. They don’t know anything about empathy!”



“They’re seven,” I said. “They probably don’t even know what the word empathy means, let alone how to be empathetic. Give them time. They will learn. Everyone learns at their own pace. You’re just a 53-year-old trapped inside a 7-year-old’s body, like Dr. Bostwick says.”



Dr. Bostwick is the first child psychologist Kat began seeing. She’s the one who encouraged us to advocate for Kat’s needs at school. I’m old, so when I went to school you just had to buck up or change schools. There was no such thing as trauma-informed care, or gifted education, or homeschooling.



We don’t want to homeschool Kat because we firmly believe in the value of a quality public education system, and we want to support it as much as possible. We also, frankly, can’t afford to homeschool Kat since we are working class people and not independently wealthy. Plus, I don’t want her father and I to be Kat’s only teachers. We want her to experience life and learning from many points of view. We want her to learn how to exist in a diverse, challenging world.



On the other hand, Kat’s mental health is our primary concern. She began exhibiting signs of anxiety in first grade. She was diagnosed with precocious puberty—a genetic difference she inherited from my father and me—at age 7. She was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety by fourth grade. She was tested and accepted into the gifted program by fifth grade. By seventh grade, she was diagnosed with dysthymia, in addition to Major Depressive Disorder. Her current psychiatrist, Dr. Christopher Van Horn, has prescribed regular aerobic exercise, methylated folic acid, fluoxetine, and monthly cognitive behavioral therapy.



In addition to her genetic and hormonal issues, Kat’s home life has been particularly difficult. Here is a list of stressors our family has experienced in the last couple of years:



Will quit his job of eleven years when Amazon bought Whole Foods.



My 90-year-old father moved in with us for three months of hospice car. He passed away in February 2018.



My 80-year-old mother moved in with us for eight months of hospice care. She passed away in February of this year.



Will’s 65-year-old father was diagnosed with lung cancer in June of this year.



Will was the primary caregiver for my mom and dad, and now he is for his dad.



Our two-year-old puppy died unexpectedly this summer.



I am not only grieving my parents’ death, but I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anorexia at age 11, and PTSD in my late 30s. With meds, exercise, a fantastic job as a children’s librarian, tons of therapy and reading self-help books by Dr. Harriet Lerner, and especially the support of my amazing husband, I can function well most days. But long story short, it’s a bummer when your mom can’t get out of bed sometimes.



All this is to say, we greatly appreciate all you do for our family in general and our daughter specifically. It’s been a roller coaster, but we’re hanging on.

Nothing Left to Do

The insidious transition
From old age to the afterlife
Undignified and aggravating
All control, lost
Your body, your mind
Succumbed to the dreaded bed
The burden you put
Your middle aged children through
With goals and aches of their own
These grown folks, once babies
Bottled, burped and bathed by you 

Now feed you
Now diaper you
Your eye for art, once great
Now cataracts cloud your vision
Colors, once vibrant
Grey matter sees only grey
Hearing fades
Songs don’t sound the same
Tastebuds betray you
Favorite foods lose their flavor
Meat, too tough
Coffee, too bitter
Donut, too dry


Nothing left to do but die

Sunbonnet Sue

As I kept vigil at Mom’s bedside, I felt compelled to take her picture. But isn’t that weird? Wanting to take a picture of a dying woman.

Mom was deeply asleep. I couldn’t even rouse her when her favorite TV show came on. I was stuck. I wanted to take her picture, but it was probably too late to get her permission.

Years ago Mom gave me permission to write anything about her. But she was always camera shy. I had to guess what her wishes would be. I figured she wouldn’t mind, as long as I captured her at a good angle. And turned her into art.

Mom was a maker before making became the hip new trend. As a kid growing up in her house it was not unusual to walk by more than a day’s worth of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink on my way into the living room where mom had the TV on as she sat at a card table strewn with art supplies, coffee cups, and abandoned projects. Mom would smile as I’d walk into the room.

“Hey, Becky Sue! Look what I’m making.”

I always hated my middle name. Sue. It’s such a pansy ass name. I dropped it as soon as I got married and replaced it with my maiden name. Rebecca Burton Carleton. No longer Rebecca Sue Burton.

She’d set down her soldering iron or her paint brush, her crochet hook or her jig saw—whatever artist’s tool she’d been using to make things. She’d hold up her creation for me to see. Making art brought Mom more than joy. It was therapeutic. In the late Sixties Mom went through an art therapy program at the hospital where she was treated for a “nervous breakdown.” The psychiatric nurses would hand Mom a potholder kit that was easy to weave as she rested in bed following another round of electroshock therapy.

I’m not as good with my hands as I am with my words. Mom was always my biggest fan. She read everything I wrote and encouraged me to keep at it. Mom taught me that it’s not just OK to express myself creatively, even when it’s hard to do. It’s essential. It’s therapeutic. Making art is creation. Making art is life.

I think Mom will be OK with my taking her picture on her deathbed. It’s kinda weird. And kind of morbid. But I want a way to capture this moment as I sit here with my mom, my mentor. 

One of my favorite creations that Mom has made me over the years is this Sunbonnet Sue quilt. Earlier in the day I laid it on top of Mom. She opened her eyes for a minute.

“”Hey, Mom! Look what you made. It’s your Sunbonnet Sue quilt.”

She smiled and blinked her eyes.

“My favorite is this one,” I pointed to the girl with the cat on her dress. “And look, Mom! Her sunbonnet is magenta!”

Mom smiled and blinked.

A few weeks ago, Mom was frustrated. We had been talking about our favorite colors. She couldn’t think of the word for her favorite.

“It’s pinky purple,” she said.

“Fuchsia?” I asked.

“Yes!” The excitement immediately fell from her face. “No. That’s not it. I can’t think of the word.”

“It’s OK, Mom. It will come to you.”

Later, after I returned from work, Mom said, “You are so lucky. You have the smartest husband.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because he knew the word!”

“What word,” I asked.

“Magenta!”

“Magenta?”

“Yes! Magenta is my favorite color.”

For Valentine’s Day I bought Mom a tube of magenta lipstick. She was thrilled. Despite not being able to steer a fork to her mouth without spilling most of the food onto her nightgown, Mom successfully opened the tube and applied the lipstick to her lips. No mirror. Half blind, anyway. She looked beautiful.

So as Mom laid on her deathbed, I pointed out the magenta bonnet-wearing Sunbonnet Sue.

“Look, Mom! It’s magenta! This Sunbonnet Sue, right here.”

Mom smiled and blinked and said, “Hey, Becky Sue!”

That did it. I burst into tears. I started laughing and crying at the same time.

I haven’t cried much since Mom moved in with us eight months ago. It has certainly not been all fun and games, but honestly having her around in my daily life has been a blessing. But hearing Mom call me “Becky Sue” just did me in. 

“I always hated that name! Becky Sue,” I shuddered.

“Why?” Mom asked.

“It’s just so dorky. But I never realized until now that you named me after Sunbonnet Sue.”

“Becky Sue, my Sunbonnet Sue,” Mom said in her lilting voice. And then she closed her eyes and fell back asleep.

It’s not the last thing Mom's said to me. As the day’s progressed she’s mostly speaking in word salads, if at all. Now I sit here, watching her sleep. Not sure if she’ll wake again.

I hold Mom’s hand and this is what I’m thinking. 

Mom, you gave me life. Your eternal creative spirit resides inside me no matter where you rest. I will always love you. I will always be your Sunbonnet Sue.

My artistic mentor, Beverly Martinmaas, my mom

There’s nothing more to say

There’s nothing more to say except 

I love you

There’s nothing left to do

To show I care

But being next to you

Inside this room now

I hold your hand

With warmth beyond compare

I learned when I was young 

How best to love you

For giving me this life of mine to live

You’re always there when I need you to talk to

To dry my eyes   

And show me no despair 

No other mother can compare

With you now

When I was young you taught me how to share

This love you filled a well

That’s deep inside me

I learned to love 

From you because you care

I’m filled with love because 

I am your daughter 

You taught me well

You showed me that you care

Now you’ve grown old

Our time is drawing nearer

And still our love’s for always ever there

It’ll do no good for me to

Tear my heart out

There’s lots of love for me I’ve got to share

With others in this world who need assurance 

More than my mama needs me to despair 

To sit and cry and worry what’s to come now

It’s hard to think we’ll say one last goodbye

But mama dear don’t worry ‘bout your daughter  

You’ve grown old but

Love’s forever there

Fat Bottomed Girl

The other night Mom was asking for morphine and talking about how she thought her time to die was drawing near. She didn’t want to crochet. She didn’t want to watch The Game Show Network. She didn’t want anything to eat, not even a cupcake. We knew something was wrong.

I asked if she’d like to listen to any music.

“YES!” she said.

“What would you like to listen to?” I asked.

“Bohemian Rhapsody!” she said, instantly, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all day.

Will began spinning Queen’s “Greatest Hits.” Mom grabbed my hand as I sat next to her chair. She squeezed it. She’s become more affectionate in her old age. While the song played, Mom subtly bobbed her head up and down like someone who is awfully agreeable.

When the next song, “Another One Bites the Dust,” began to play, Mom’s free hand shot up, her mouth turned into a frown, and she sliced her hand through the air horizontally as if to say, “Nuh nuh nuh nuh no!”

“You don’t like this one?” I asked.

Mom flared her nostrils like something stinks.

The next song, “Killer Queen” got Mom’s head bobbing in approval once again.

Next was, “Fat Bottomed Girls.” Another head bobber.

Later that evening my sister, Jenny, and my brother-in-law, Brian, visited. They asked what was up, and I said, “Oh, we’re just sitting here listening to “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “Fat Bottomed Girls.”

They both laughed. 

Let me stop you here. 

Part of the reason this anecdote is so funny is because my mom looks nothing like the type of person you’d think is a fan of rock n roll in general and Queen specifically. Mom was born at the end of the Great Depression and was a young girl during World War II. Her family got a TV when she was 12. They were the first family on the block to get one of those newfangled contraptions. Mom went to dances in high school in the 1950s. She did not like Elvis Presley. She and her friends used to drink malts and giggle over jokes like this:

Did you know Elvis the Pelvis has a twin? His name’s Enis.

Mom’s record collection was comprised of mostly musical soundtracks such as “South Pacific” and easy listening soloists such as Barbra Streisand. 

Then, in the Seventies, likely while paring apples from our backyard to bake a pie, Mom heard the song, “Bohemian Rhapsody” on KKJO, the popular radio station that one of my older siblings was always listening to. Mom loved it so much she went out and bought the album, “A Night at the Opera,” on eight track tape. Mom had a portable eight track player she kept in the kitchen so she could play “her” music while the big kids were at school and I was in the living room watching Roosevelt Franklin and the gang on “Sesame Street.”

Much later Mom admitted to me she had no idea that Freddie Mercury was a bisexual man. “I didn’t even know he was a MAN. His voice is so high. I just thought Freddie was short for Frederica.”

Mercury’s gender and sexual identity didn’t stop Mom’s love of Queen. They’re still one of her favorite bands. 

Back in our living room, Mom was directing everyone where to sit. 

“Jenny, you sit here. Brian, go over there. Will, no, over here, no, hold on, over THERE...”

For some reason I ended up on the commode. It had been temporarily moved directly in front of Mom’s recliner, in front of the white board Mom used to keep track of what day it is and what events are upcoming.

We all got to talking, and laughing, and trying to get serious again, and talking and laughing some more.

Mom held the crowd like the grand matriarch of the family she has become. We couldn’t understand half of what she was saying, but the other half was extremely entertaining.

Someone said something about what day is Super Bowl Sunday. Without batting an eye, Mom craned her neck around and said, “If Becky would move her fat bottomed girl out of the way I could see the calendar.”

I almost peed my pants laughing so hard. Good thing I was on the commode.

Spoiler alert: everything is not OK

"You are such a good mom."

"She is so lucky to have you."

"She just needs your love and understanding and everything will turn out alright."

It's easy to smile at these compassionate lies, comments my well meaning friends tell me when I'm worried about my kid. It's easy to encase these words inside my mind, as if they are true. To use these words as a protective shield around my breaking heart. Deceptively simple.

Don't worry. She'll be fine. She has YOU for a mother.

As if it matters.

I used to believe it. I believed that I was put upon this earth to help my child thrive. Yes, thoughts trickled inside my mind. It's a mean world. So much violence. So much hate. Do you really want to bring a child into a world like this? But the answer was always yes. Yes, I do want to bring a child into the world. I will love her, and that love will protect her. With the strength of our love, we will conquer all the hate we encounter.

I honestly believed that as long as we didn't beat her she'd be fine. I believed with open eyes and a full heart that if only my husband and I don't fuck up, we'll finally figure a way out of the labyrinthine cycle of family dysfunction that began generations back beyond our memories. Our child will have a good life, with a good mom and a good dad. We will love her and everything will be OK.

Spoiler alert: everything is not OK.

I come from a long line of creative, clever women, who have all, at some point in their lives, cracked up.  A cuckoo bird flies freely on our family crest.

My mother recalls, in the 1940s, tagging along on many trips to the doctor with her mother. Mom would sit quietly in the waiting room, drawing pictures and coloring, behaving, obedient, such a good girl. Not getting on my grandmother's already frazzled nerves, awaiting a prescription for my grandmother's "nerve medicine."

I recall, in the 1970s, sitting at the piano just outside my brother's basement bedroom, gently placing my little thumb on middle c, behaving, obedient, such a good girl. Trying hard to keep the secret of what my teenage brother and his best friend had just done to me in his bedroom, scared to tell our mom. My brother's words ringing in my head as I plunked on the keys. "Don't tell Mom or she'll freak out and end up back in the hospital." My siblings and I forever hyper-vigilant of Mom's moods after her stay in the psych ward where she was forcibly committed and received electroshock therapy after experiencing a couple of "nervous breakdowns."

In the 1980s, Mom showed me a letter my brother had written her in which he used the exact same phrase when referencing his memories of our grandmother abusing him. "Don't tell your mother or she'll end back up in the hospital."

It was also in the 1980s that a doctor told my mom to take me to talk to a psychologist, someone who could help me overcome the anorexia I'd developed in fifth grade, two years after my parents began sending me to weekly Weight Watchers meetings. I'd gone overboard on my dieting. It was a form of perfectionism. "You guys want me to lose weight? I'll show you."

I waited a long time to become a mother myself. I spent decades working on myself. Seeing doctors and psychologists. Reading self-help books and memoirs and novels--the good ones that actually helped me grow and develop a sense of self. The Dance of Anger by Harriet Lerner. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. The Color Purple by Alice Walker. I dated and broke up with a handful of people. I was mean and angry and insecure. I was a terrible girlfriend. I took a decade off of dating. I lived with my cat Zach in a one-bedroom apartment. No boyfriends. No girlfriends. No roommates. No family. Just me and my cat.

It was great.

But after a decade or so, I started to feel lonely. I wanted a family. A family of my own making. A spouse who loved and understood me. Children who laughed with me and listened to my stories. People with whom I could share all the goodness I'd found in the world.

I met Will. Everything was too easy. I didn't have to pretend to be anyone I'm not. I liked the me I was around him. He loved me, and he showed it. There was no guessing with him. He admitted why he liked me. He said, "You're the smartest person I know and you call me out on my bullshit." He also said, "I like the way your ass looks in that dress."

I stopped taking birth control pills two months before we got married because we were in a hurry. I was getting old, I had fertility issues, and we both wanted kids right way. Will wanted six kids. That sounded great to me. Although I doubted my body would cooperate. With the help of a fertility specialist, I was able to finally conceive. We named her Katherine after my sister Kathryn, and McKenna after Will's middle name Kenneth. Katherine McKenna Carleton. A good strong name for one good strong girl.

She's lived up to it for the most part. We nicknamed her Kate, then Katie. Pumpkin, then Punkin, then Punk. At the age of four, when she was learning how to write her name, she asked if we'd please stop calling her Kate and instead call her Katie. The summer before seventh grade, when she'd switch to middle school and meet lots of new classmates, she took the opportunity to re-nickname herself to Kat. Kat Carleton. Sounds like a badass to me.

And she is a badass, mostly. Badass because she's compassionate and kind. Authentic. Clever. Creative. Philosophical.

But, she's a twelve year old girl. She can also be fearful, and absent-minded. Moody. Sensitive. Shy. Anxious.

It was the 2010s when her doctor convinced us to start giving her antidepressant medication. She was ten and she'd been exhibiting signs of anxiety and depression since she was six, in first grade. It's the same anti-depressant medication that I take. The same my dad took. There should be a bottle of Sertraline on the crest of my dad's side of the family.

My friends, family, and coworkers often ask how she's doing. She has her ups and downs. Her behavior seems normal to me, but I was a moody, anxious, depressed teenager at one time myself. If I could bubble wrap her and keep her by my side at all times, I'd feel less stressed, but neither of those options will teach my little birdie how to fly.

I just worry so much about her. I try my best, and that's all I can do. Sadly, no matter how "good" we are as mothers we can’t protect our children from the awful aspects of this world.

I had an amazing conversation with one of my heroes last April. She was in town to give the keynote speech at a reception for the teen literary arts magazine I support. We had dedicated the 15th issue to author A. S. King, or Amy, as she told us to call her. I got to ride around in the car with her on our way to the various teen writing workshops and author talks we had booked for her. We're the same age, with daughters of similar ages. We shared our struggles of raising daughters with depression. It's a difficult topic to talk about, so it felt good to bond over it. It made me admire Amy even more. She's a fantastic author, and a good mother, too. I had proof.

If you haven't read any A. S. King novels, you're missing out. Most of her protagonists are teenagers. All of them are smart, funny, thoughtful, sensitive, and wise. Their stories relateable and feel true. There's a lot of weird shit that happens in an A. S. King novel. Surreal. Curious. WTF moments. But that just makes it all the more like real life. Amy’s novels focus on the lives of teens and kids in today’s chaotic world full of tests, and grades, and active shooter drills at school, and family violence, and divorce, and suicide at home. Amy writes with such an astute insight into young people’s minds. She understands young people. She remembers what it’s like. How hard the struggle is. How the only way out is through, and the only way through is with love.

I just wish her fictional stories weren't so true.

This weekend, Amy's oldest daughter died. Just sixteen years old. My heart breaks for Amy and her family. Yet it's still true: the only way out is through, and the only way through is with Love.

Love. That's all I got. It's all I have to give, even during the darkest times. Love is what I'm sending Amy and her family this week.

https://www.snyderfuneralhome.com/obituary/gracie-edith-king/


Love is what I'm sending them because















I have no words.

Letter to Representative Kevin Yoder: Detaining families in military encampments is immoral

I emailed my representative:

Please do all that is in your power to stop the Trump Administration from detaining people who enter our country illegally. It is cheaper and more humane to allow these immigrants to live freely in the United States until their immigration hearing. Detaining families in military encampments is immoral. Kansans are better than this. Fight, Representative Yoder. Do all you can.

My body is none of your business

It’s been a bit since I’ve posted anything about my mental health and my Health at Every Size advocacy. So maybe it’s time to send out a reminder.

I have Post-traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of trauma I experienced as a child. One of the major traumas I experienced was being a fat kid in a fat phobic family and culture. I was sent to Weight Watchers in 3rd grade. I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa in 5th grade. I struggled with disordered eating and body dysmorphia for decades. I hated my body so much that I defied convention by not inviting our extended family and friends to our wedding because I knew I’d have a panic attack standing in front of all those people with their eyes on me.

The year I turned 40, my brother died of alcoholic liver failure. The same brother who had sexually abused me when I was a young child. The same brother who, when he came back into town after having been gone a few years, asked my mom why I had gotten so fat. As if my body were any of his business. 

The same year my brother died, I checked out a book from the public library: Health at Every Size by Dr. Linda Bacon. The book saved my life. I still struggle with body shame as a fat, sexual abuse survivor living in a fat-phobic, misogynistic society, but the Health at Every Size philosophy has changed my mind. I can see clearly that I deserve to be happy and healthy and loved and understood. It is not my fault that I live in a culture that hates fat women, and it makes me feel proud when I speak up and defend myself. 

This morning I defended myself again. A so-called friend, knowing that I live with PTSD that is triggered by diet talk and fat shaming, took it upon herself to share unsolicited advice by recommending to me a weight-loss book. 

No. 

No diet advice. No weight-loss talk. No discussion with the assumption that there is something wrong with my body. 

My body is none of your business. 

#Unfriend.

Bullets Bursting

The internet's shame-ganging Fergie's interpretation of our national anthem.

I understand the purists who think The Star Spangled Banner should always be performed in a traditional way. It feels disrespectful to make the national anthem your own.

I get it, but I don't agree. Isn't that what makes our country great? Not great again, but great now and always. We make this country our own. We vote. We protest. We argue ideas. We sign petitions. We swamp our elected officials with calls and emails and faxes from our smartphones. Our Constitution makes it clear that this is not an armchair democracy. This land is our land and we have a say in how we live our lives. We have a say, as long as we let our voices be heard. What makes me proudest is our right as Americans to speak freely. If Fergie wants to interpret our national anthem in an overtly sexy way, why not? Isn't our country fraught with sexual tension? Isn't the #metoo movement a modern day battle of the sexes? Maybe Fergie was trying to make a point.

That's what's so beautiful about art. When it points something out you might have missed on your own. You look at it, you read it, you hear it and you shake your head and you say yes.

Here's a big yes of a song. It's my favorite version of our national anthem. It's as if you can actually hear the bombs bursting in air. You're witnessing history. You're there, hanging out with Francis Scott Key. On a hill. At the battle. Witnessing men killing each other over ideas. You're in the audience at Woodstock. Protesting our country's "conflict" with Vietnam.

The amazing thing about Hendrix's version is how relevant it is today. It's as if you can actually hear the AR15 bullets bursting through the atmosphere of our kids' schools.