Depression: What Not To Say

Depression: What Not To Say 

(aka Words Can't Hurt You? Yeah Right. Of Course They Do.)

(aka Please Just Stop. Staahhhp.)

So, I got meeeeself into a mess.

I had just gotten back from a shift a Saint Al's and Winco when I was lazily scrolling through my little Facebook-sidebar thing, glancing at whatever looked interesting. I'm a member of the LDS SMILE Youth Group page (don't ask me why because I don't know either. When was the last time I went to church? Not sure), and saw that a Facebook friend liked someone's post, and I clicked on it.

That probably was a poor decision, because now I'm slightly considering deactivating my FB for a while and I can't bring myself to look at my mounting notifications. How did I get from there to here? My opinions. If you haven't noticed from my blog title, I just really have a hard time keeping my opinions to myself. I can't keep my opinions to myself. True, at school in some classes I'm the opposite of assertive, and I usually don't go into "preach-mode" with people, but if you strike a nerve my thoughts usually start bubbling out of my mouth (or typing fingers) at an amazing, slightly horrifying speed. After reading through this certain post, oh, about five times, I noticed my brain was already coming up with sentences to rebuke this person and his controversial/offensive opinion.

Only now after simmering for an hour and a half (and after compiling the screenshots and memes) have I realized that I hate people who do what I just did. I frequent fMh, and can't stand the comment-trolls who go to that website just to contend with and defeat others in a "holier-than-thou" (and "smarter-than-thou") attitude. Even though I believe that this guy is seriously out of the norm when it comes to opinions on this subject, I feel kind of bashful about it now knowing that I acted like the typical kind of person I dislike, believing that I'm totally right and there is no way in the world or universe that I'm wrong. Even so, I do not excuse my opinion, only the way and method that I shared it. I tried my hardest to be polite, though inside I was pretty dang mad. So now I will do this the right way and turn it into a blog post. I will start off with the original post.

If you want to read a few of the comments I found to be important, they're at the bottom of this post (with a few meme faces thrown in... I had to make it more interesting). 

"I hope I don’t regret posting this. It’s very long, but I think it is worth reading, if not for agreement then for hearing out a new idea. I apologize for the intrusion when much of the conversation has already taken place, but I feel like I have a different angle on a side that hasn’t been truly considered. Okay, I don't want to be contentious or anything, but truthfully, this just kinda shocked me with the black-and-white facts that, even so, you did a good job of clearly presenting. I do realize your point though; It's like when people complain that they failed math because they had a bad teacher. Though a teacher has a lot to do with what you learn, ultimately it is your choice on whether you are going to work for it, and it is not completely the teacher's fault if you fail. Like what [One of the Previous Guy Commenters] said, you choose your attitude, no one else does, and I’ve read a quote that says “Happiness does not depend on what’s outside of you, but what’s inside of you”, and for many people that’s true. But seriously, how can someone who is harassed and tormented every single day, assailed from all sides without a break or helpful hand, be expected to just “let it go”? Have you seen the bullying video that *the church* produced, where a girl is bullied and made fun of consistently at school, and where another girl is cyberbullied by someone saying things to her that no one should ever have to hear or read? It truly affected their lives, and is it really your idea that if they just ignored it and let it bounce off, they’d be fine; that they shouldn’t take something as “superficial” as words seriously?  Do you believe that in high school or middle school, bullying victims should just go through the halls trying to prepare themselves and try to mentally put on a suit of armor, hoping that today the things that their bullies and tormentors say will just bounce off if they have the right attitude? I realize that after a certain point, some people overplay things and act victimized, and that isn’t right; no one should try and use the position of victim to their advantage. But that does mean that words can affect you.

[Original Poster's Name], you said that “if you believe words can hurt you, then you already failed yourself. You fell for Satan’s trap and gave up the idea that you have agency.” You also said, “[Blue Guy in the Comments I Posted Below] you used your agency and chose to be hurt. You control your emotions. Your emotions dont control you.” As someone who suffers from depression, I find those sentences and ideas misinformed and maybe slightly insulting. Again, I’m not trying to be too terribly contentious but with a subject like this many people have strong feelings. Anyways, does that mean that since I have depression, I’m stuck in Satan’s trap and have no agency? There are certain things under our control, and certain things not under our control, as all people must learn throughout life.  ***I’m not saying that depressed folks don’t have negative, pessimistic thought patterns. Of course they do — they  tend to obsess, ruminate, and nit-pick. But blaming an illness entirely on the way they think just isn’t cool, because it puts the bulk of the “blame” for their depression squarely on their own shoulders. There’s a big difference between feeling sorry for yourself (which you are correct in assuming that it is a thought pattern that should be and can be changed) and struggling with depression (which may be caused by more than just one’s own thought pattern, such as a physiological, true-blue chemical imbalance), although sometimes the two go hand in hand.***   

If I’m depressed, and someone starts bullying me, am I supposed to just hold my shoulders high and take it?

If words are not positive and uplifting the situation, in many instances it is negative and pushes things down, making the situation worse. Freshman year I was in a PE class. One day these boys came up to me and asked me why my arm looked kind of weird, why I had scars on it. At the time I believed that if someone asked me they deserved the truth, and that self-harm was a struggle that I had bravely fought and won, and I was proud of that. I told them that I used to cut myself. That was the worst decision I could have possibly made. Every. Single. Day. they tormented me, telling me that I should just go kill myself and that I shouldn’t have children because I was so messed up and disgusting. They called me a f…….... emo (I apologize for the assumed meaning of the word that you could probably be thinking right now), and somehow got a girl in the locker room to shove razor blades and those red ink Bic pens through the holes of my PE locker. They were both behind me in the attendance line so every other day I had to deal with them whispering things to me, calling me every demeaning and insulting name in the high school book, asking me whether I was going to slit my wrist or my throat when I finally listened to them and killed myself. 

 It made every other day a living hell for me. I faked sick to stay home a few times just to get a small break, a small reprieve. I don’t want to keep going on about this, and I apologize if I made it sound like some sob story and made it sound like it’s completely those boys’ fault that I was depressed. It wasn’t their entire fault, but their words, and actions, and decisions contributed negatively to my depression. But even so, please don’t say that words technically and literally don’t hurt me because they’re just a non-concrete, abstract idea.

Let’s think of some hypothetical situations: “You should toughen up.” Saying that to a depressed person completely trivializes and invalidates their feelings at the same time. “You have so much to be thankful for, so why let bullying and nasty words get to you? They can’t actually hurt you.” This does not contain the magical key to one’s mental health. Someone with a chemical imbalance in their brain going around reciting the things they are blessed to have doesn’t change the fact that they have a chemical imbalance that can be treated by medication.  Stress is a physiological condition as well as a psychological one. When you’re stressed you release what is commonly called the “stress hormone”, cortisol. Cortisol and your endocrine system are controlled by the hypothalamus. The hypothalamus also plays a role in “social defeat” (you can wikipedia it, but it sounds fairly self-explanatory) and the physical effects of humiliation in one’s body. (I may be full of crap since I pretty much stole all of that sciency stuff from Wikipedia, but I'm pretty sure it's correct).

 I’m a science nerd, so that might not make too much sense, but the main point is that **outside factors do indeed affect inside functions. You may believe that words can’t hurt you, but though in a literal sense that is the case, it is not the case when you bring feelings and psycho-physiological factors into the picture**. I have a diagnosed mental/personality disorder, called a “Major Depressive Disorder”, or commonly known as clinical depression or recurrent depression. I have been in a psychiatric hospital twice, and trust me, that is something that is definitely not a joke and it really isn’t a picnic, either. I have to go to an *actual* doctor to get meds to try and straighten chemicals and things up in my brain. In cases like that, **depression is not a choice**. (I feel as if I’m overusing the asterisks, but oh well.)

[Original Poster's Name], you are correct with your concrete use of and literal definitions that state that words alone do not make you do something or make you act a certain way. But as with the case of many things, theoretical ideas do not always translate black-and-white in this real, ever-changing world. Words affect feelings, which in turn affect behavior and ideas. There’s no way around it.

 Well, that's it. 

Right now I'm thinking, "guys, guys, come on!" If words didn't hurt, then it'd be okay to go around telling people that they're ugly, that they suck, that they should kill themselves, that no one loves them. That should just sum everything up. You can act like you're invincible, that you're Iron Man or the Tin Man or whatever and that insults and name-calling just bounce right off of you. But we're not robots. (Well, at least, I'm assuming we all are. But I could be wrong; I guess you never know what's out there reading this...)We're all different. We're strong in different ways. We're humans. 

Here are the outtakes/deleted scenes:

 

How 'bout we all just be nice to each other? Okay? I agree to be nice. Well, to try at least. To everyone. Even when it's hard. It's so sad that bullying has become such a problem. I feel like a hippie or something, but come on. Don't make me quote Thumper from Bambi here. Anyone with me?

"Which of these words don't we understand??"

From a recent post on my Facebook page:

Westboro Baptist Church founder Fred Phelps Sr. “on the edge of death,” son says

So, I saw on my Facebook sidebar Fred Phelps' name, and I hate to say it, but after that first glance, the first thing that came to my mind was, "Is he dead yet? It's about time." Now, I feel horrible for saying that. I have read a memoir from one of the former members who was excommunicated and shunned by the church and her family, and I have read countless other articles and statements from other dissenters, and I have developed some strong opinions regarding this church and the members of it. I have been personally disgusted by the actions of these people, and whenever I read something about them, I've always felt hatred and disgust towards them. But when the first thought in my head was, "Is he dead yet? It's about time", I immediately felt ashamed of myself. This is a human being, who had people who loved him. He fought hard for what he believed in and I respect that, even though many people including myself have disagreed with it. I feel I have failed as a Christian and as a decent human being for glorying in the fact that he is dying and probably won't be around for much longer. I feel like by feeling that way, I have sunk to the level they are on. Now, I am trying to change my thinking and feel nothing but compassion and pity for this man who so many people hate. My heart has been filled with hatred in the past for him and his family members and other members of his church, and now I have finally realized that isn't the way I should be doing things. I should remember that they are doing what they believe is right, and that they happen to be people also. So I hope that my attitude change can be an example to other people who hate this man and are so disgusted by him that they only wish for his death and not his well-being.

Why should we judge him, when we ourselves have made mistakes, being selfish, bigots, self-righteous, judging others, being hypocrites? Fred Phelps and the other members of the Westboro Baptist Church are not for us to judge, they are for God to judge, in his mercy and infinite wisdom.

 

 

Matthew 5:43-45

 43 ¶Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.

 44 But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;

 45 That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

 Luke 6

 27 ¶But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you,

 28 Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.

 29 And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other...

 31 And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. [aka THE GOLDEN RULE]

 32 For if ye love them which love you, what thank have ye? for sinners also love those that love them.

 33 And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank have ye? for sinners also do even the same.

 36 Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.

 37 Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven:

 41 And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

 42 Either how canst thou say to thy brother, Brother, let me pull out the mote that is in thine eye, when thou thyself beholdest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Thou hypocrite, cast out first the beam out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to pull out the mote that is in thy brother’s eye.

 Which of these words don't we understand??

For New People

If you've just now found your way onto my blog, hi :) I tend to write about a lot of varied stuff, from "Cognitive Dissonance" to [Mormon] church stuff; memoirs and essays to ideas and opinions and sociological views of the gender differences. I haven't written in pretty much forever since mid-October because it's been crazy-busy and I've gone through a lot of "potential-blog-posting-experiences" (maybe I should write about that time I had a nervous breakdown at Bogus Basin during Christmas Break) which range from *perfectly normal* to *you could write a freaking book*. I'll try and possibly catch up on some of that later. Anyways, some of my early stuff on this blog is... well, kind of really opinionated (hence the blog name!)

Before you read some of my early posts, this is my disclaimer: For a few months back there I wasn't really a happy camper with the church, and was all fired up and ranting about all the some of the wrong reasons. Some of those posts and my views in them kind of take up the tone of bitterness, because I went through this stage where I was just picking church doctrine apart and trying to find things to argue about and disprove. (I think I'm out of that phase now but I'm still having a hard time with church for different reasons.) Now, I'm not saying that I am now completely disowning these views, but that looking back I find that some of them are just angst-fueled and, in a nutshell, childish and making me sound like a whiny teenager who has taken it upon herself to unveil the "inequalities of life". I don't want to delete them because, hmm, this is difficult to word. I still believe in some of the things I have previously written about, but not to the point I was at and I think some of the posts really aren't worth looking at. But I'll leave them up, and you can read some of them if you want even though some of them are really dumb.

Please keep in mind that while I am not apologizing for the views and opinions in some of my earlier posts, my views have changed a little and many of the posts are only emotionally-driven, so I do not want to engage in a "comment-war" about them. If you feel differently from them you can sure let me know, but please remember my views have changed to a certain extent and I don't really want to spend time arguing about these posts.

If you're new, here's four of some of my posts that are actually really worth reading:

Cognitive Dissonance Part I: Psychological phenomenons interest me and I spend much time reading up on them (Wikipedia is a very close friend of mine). Alongside that, I've come up close and personal to some psychological conditions either through myself or through personal or second-hand experiences with others. Plus, I love Les Misérables, the character Javert (along with *cough*RussellCrowe*coughcough*), and researching things. Bingo. Plus, I get pretty creative with the story narration. It makes a pretty interesting read. [Note: It says "Part I" because I was originally planning on writing another post about it. But meh. Not feelin' it. It probably won't happen. Très désolé.]

CPR and Life... Totally Random: This isn't really a big post. It's pretty good, though, if you want to see me talk about an abstract way of looking at CPR and the concept of hurting someone to essentially help them in the big picture. (I have to warn about a Star Trek [2012 movie] spoiler, though.)

Memoir: Okay, this was actually a Language Arts gosh darn essay assignment that I think I did pretty well on. If you wanna read about mah family and maybe get a little depressed gain insight into the experiences of losing a parent, this is actually a brilliantly excellent (excellently brilliant?) essay to read. I believe that the subject of death does not have to be depressing, it depends on the view of the reader. Go ahead and read!

Clothing Memories: I compare this post to the Memoir post above, but un peu différents. It was actually a submission to a website (wornstories.com) about the memories associated with an article of clothing. It's kind of personal, but really good. Highly recommended.

I Am Not a Boy: Now, okay, this one is kindaaaa politically-motivated. But not like all of my garbage beginner posts. In a good way. No matter your political agenda or personal beliefs, it's a pretty good read. Seriously. I don't really know how to explain it or put a summary, but if it's on this list, it's one I think you should read.

Sooo I'm hoping that by now there's going to be a change in the attitude or maybe a slight shift in views of future blog posts, starting now. I can usually find something interesting to write about or recycle one of my thought-provoking essays [hopefully] without offending anyone (I'm the kind of Language Arts student that mostly hides in the shadows but consumes books like chocolate and writes really good essays if I don't procrastinate and if I actually give a crap about the topic. All that added to a small-but-growing list of missing assignments, and you get a kid who is good enough to stand out but then again *not living up to her potential* AKA I'm super lazy. In other words, I'm that student that kind of intrigues LA teachers but I'm kind of weird and lazy so they don't really get into it with me.) (Just to be clear, I have loved/really liked every single Language Arts teacher I've had [CyrRiceFineThomasWelker] except for 7th grade.)

Okay. That went off on a slight tangent (probably due to the fact that it's 12:56 am and caffeine is fighting sleeping medication. "Sleep? Who needs sleep? I don't!" That's not what my doctor thinks) My little dog has been alternating between trying to sleep and giving me pitiful little glances letting me know that he wishes I wouldn't keep him up and that I would go to sleep ("seriously, even though you sleep pretty much all day and it's not like you have a busy life"). I'd better go :-)

Happy reading, 

Kelsey

Clothing Memories

[I originally wrote this as a submission to wornstories.com/. The guidelines said it had to be less than 600 words, so hopefully there are not many mistakes because of my attempt to squish it down. I tried to find a picture of the dress when it was brand new, but there's only two in existence and I can't find it in our picture black hole. Taking a picture of its state now, about 18 years later I believe would be anticlimactic.]

When you first look at my bed, it probably looks like it could belong to any other teenage girl: bedspread, pillows, and a few stuffed animals thrown in the mix. But if a quick scan turns into a searching glance, you would see that in the corner under the blanket is a small lump. This small lump isn’t another stuffed animal or small pillow.

That lump is a size three button up silky-like red dress that I sleep with. Every night.

Of course I realize that dresses are meant to be worn, not slept with. But this, this is my security blanket. The person who owned it before me only wore it on a few occasions, since it isn’t your average casual or church dress. Between the top button on the neck and the one below it, there’s a circular space designed to show a little skin with a heart charm hanging down into it. It almost seems slightly risqué, at least on a conservative Mormon. The previous owner doesn’t care about the fact that I sleep with it as one would sleep with an old, faded favorite blanket. The previous owner is dead. The previous owner was also my mother.

I found the dress when I was around thirteen. I was sifting through my mother’s hope chest at my grandparent’s house. When my grandma came in and saw that I had found it, she smiled. “I remember that dress. Your mom wore it when she and your dad and Grandpa and I went to see “The Phantom of the Opera” at the Salt Palace. I think we got it at somewhere like… Dillard’s? No, I’m pretty sure it was Nordstrom.” Going through some of my grandma’s old pictures, I found a picture of the night they went. My mom is wearing the dress, with her hair down and her typical large smile spread across her face. Whenever I look at pictures of her, I study the eyes and the smile and think, she really didn’t know what was coming for her, did she?

At night I clutch the dress in my arms, holding it tight, inhaling that musty-yet-sweet smell of years passed in a cedar chest. It is soft to the touch, cool against my face, and makes me almost believe that my mother is here. I talk to it sometimes, pretending it is her. When I hug it, I hug my mom. When I tell her that I love her, it is she who hears it, not a piece of lifeless red fabric. One may chalk it up to madness; I chalk it up to grief.

The dress is among the few things I have left of a person I do not remember, aside from a few memories. It represents the person who loved singing alto in various choirs. It represents the person who would sneak microwave popcorn into movies using her purse. It represents the person who dedicated her life to her family and to her career as a psychiatric nurse. It represents the person who dealt with kidney disease and dozens of surgeries, along with a few near-death experiences. It represents the person who longed for a child for years, and in turn received two miracle babies.

Sometimes during the night the dress escapes above the covers. When my dad or stepmom wake me up, I try to hide and cover it. They never say anything, but I’m sure they’ve seen it and know of its existence. My family never talks about her, they pretend she never existed. She and the sadness from her death are not supposed to exist in our seemingly happy and normal family. But when I have no one else to turn to, the dress with the remnants of a person long gone will always be there to comfort me.

[UPDATE: I did find a couple of pictures of her with the dress, but not the one from the "Phantom of the Opera Night"... I'm sure the picture vortex in my house swallowed it up. This one was taken by my iPod camera and not scanned, thus the poor quality and discoloration. The poor quality does not, however, change my depressed look... :)]

Memoir

For Language Arts, our project we've been working on is a memoir. I wrote this all in a 90-minute period (yay for being a peer tutor in a class full of freshmen with nothing to do!) So.... Not exactly sure why I'm posting this, but I hope the writing's ok. Now, just to let you know, in case you're some random family member who was there at my parents' wedding, remember that I was five years old. I may not have remembered things exactly as they were. This is just as I remember them. So if it's completely wrong, that's nice. Don't ruin my story. And if you're my parents reading this, GTF(oops)[H]O. Thank you.

My last memory of her is of her in a hospital bed.

I don’t remember much, except for the warm yellow fluorescent lighting and that she was smiling. I don’t remember my three year-old self feeling fear or apprehension from the medical instruments and monitors. I just remember the happiness of my beautiful mother looking at me and smiling. It was the last time I would see her alive, though we didn’t know it at the time.

            Linda Diane Fralick Wilcox died on Thanksgiving, November 23^rd, 2000 of a cerebral hemorrhage. After a lifetime of suffering from multiple kidney transplants, dozens of surgeries, hypertension, and a couple of near death experiences she was finally gone. She died at only 34, leaving behind a 48 year-old husband to care for their three year-old girl and two-year old boy, her miracle babies.

            My first memory is of getting a computer for my 3^rd birthday (one of the benefits of having a father in the computer industry). I remember sitting outside my bedroom door, hearing the unknown noises coming from my room of my dad setting it up. I remember my mom sitting down by me, hugging me and laughing.

            “What do you think Daddy is doing in there?” she asked.

             With a shy but excited smile, I answered, “I don’t know” with an added shrug.

            We waited until he was finished, then I was introduced to a whole new world of Microsoft Word and a plethora of Sesame Street games.

            My second to last memory of her is on the way to Utah, a day or two before she died. We were about two hours away from our destination when two whining children wanted their mom.

            “Mommy!” Kevin wailed.

            “Mommy, please come sit back here with us! Please,” I pleaded.

 She finally relented, unbuckled, and precariously climbed into the back seat between us. That may have not seemed like a major act of love, but in that case, in that instant, it was everything.

            I don’t remember the funeral. And I’m glad. I’m well; I guess happy probably isn’t the right word to choose while talking about death. I’m suppose I’m thankful that my last memory of her isn’t of a cold, pale dead body, dressed in white clothes in a casket. This may sound demented but I have always been intrigued with dead bodies. From examining a dead mouse with my play doctor kit as a child to touching the waxy hands of the deceased at viewings and funerals, I’ve always found it fascinating. I know random facts, such as how decomposition starts the moment of death, though of course it’s not noticeable for another while.

            I want to know what makes a dead body so different from a living one. What is it about the moment of death, the absence of the spirit that causes such effects? Energy cannot be destroyed, only transformed. Where did the part of my mother that made her her go? I also wonder if someone this day, this second, is walking around with my mother’s corneas, her liver, hear heart. Definitely not her kidneys, because no one would want a malfunctioning, twice-used body part. I found out that she was an organ donor, that her body was kept alive just long enough to be eligible for organ donation. While her brain was… a dead, useless piece of body tissue.

            Because of my religious beliefs, I know that I will see her again. But that is not enough. I need her now. I found a hope chest of her things at my grandparent’s house. I sleep with her beautiful red dress she wore to see “Phantom of the Opera”, clutching it like a child’s security blanket, inhaling the musty but oh so wonderful scent of being in a wooden chest for 11 years. Sometimes by morning it ends up above the covers, and I know that my parents have seen it, though they never say anything. They never say anything at all.

            A month ago, I found a large box of her old things in the attic. I found a journal from when she was a teenager to her twenties, from which I found out her exact medical issues, that she didn’t even go on a date until she was 25, and that she considered suicide on a number of occasions. I found her old, huge make-up box filled with Amway makeup over 13 years old. I even found her glasses, those clunky, unattractive “coke bottle” glasses. I put them on and try to see what she saw. Maybe it would bring her back.

            My dad had already endured a divorce from his first wife in the 80’s, and now he was stuck again by himself but this time with two little children. I remember how night after night I would wake up in the middle of the night and run to his room, knock, and ask if I could sleep with him because I had a bad dream. I have to admit that I lied pretty much every night about those dreams. In reality, I was just lonely. In the mornings my dad would get my brother and I breakfast, do my hair in one or two little braids, and we would be off to the kind lady who babysat us every day. After over a year of shuffling my brother and me to the babysitter during the day, my dad finally found a permanent caregiver: my stepmother.

My stepmom was divorced by her alcoholic husband who came home with his new girlfriend and told her she had three weeks to move out. I didn’t care at the time that she was my stepmom, she was someone who was there to love me and take care of me. She was my new mother. She is a good woman and has done a wonderful job of raising my brother and me. But still it is not the same. I want the mother who thought she would be childless all her life. I want the mother who miraculously conceived and went through a risky pregnancy, but thought that her 3 lbs 7 oz daughter was perfect and completely worth it. I want the mother who would wake up in the middle of the night just to turn on the camcorder and record me, so that those moments could be captured forever. I want the mother who… loved me before she even knew me.

            On my dad and stepmother’s wedding day in January 2002, I was wearing a pretty puffy blue dress. I thought I looked just like Cinderella. No, I was Cinderella, and the temple with its beautiful fountain and landscaping was my castle. My new aunt was arranging all of my new cousins and aunts and uncles into cute picture-taking poses. Walking up to “Mommy”, I asked excitedly, “Can I be in a picture? Please?”

“No, honey,” she replied. “Only the cousins are going to be in this one.” My little five year-old mind was confused. Wasn't I part of this new family too? “But Mama, I am a cousin now too!” I could tell she was busy and didn’t want to worry about me at the moment. “Kelsey. These pictures are just for the people born or married into my family.”

“But… but Hannah and Abby were adopted, though—” She just looked at me. I could feel the implication. They count. You don’t.

  I was heartbroken. I wanted to be in a picture, any picture so terribly bad. I felt left out, like everyone got to have fun and be a part of everything while my maternal grandparents stood there watching Kevin and I the whole time. I wasn’t a part of that family. I didn’t count. I was an outsider.

            Sometimes now, when I put on her glasses and favorite lipstick (Amway color “Ember”) and squint reeeaaally hard while looking in the mirror, I can almost see her face. I can almost see the face I don’t remember but have memorized from looking at countless pictures. But when I open my eyes all the way again, I see no resemblance.

            There are dozens of photographs from that wedding day, and I pass many of them in a collage frame in the hallway many times a day. I am in only one picture, the group picture, where my little body is standing in front of my new mom, face stained with dried tears, with red eyes and a half-hearted, attempted smile.

Here's a poem I found online a couple of years ago that I really love and I'm thinking about adding it to the the printed copy:

“Memories”

By “AmbRawr”

And I remember she wouldn’t wake up.
Her lips were mushed together in a
Horrible shade of red
They buried my mother in a white dress
And red lips.
And she couldn’t see.
Where are your glasses, Mommy?
And still at sixteen I bring them to my face
And peer through the distorted murky lenses
To see what she saw
Maybe one day …
And I remember it hitting me 
Like it does every day
When I hear them all talk and complain about their
“Horrible” mothers
What’s it like to have a mother
I’d give anything to know,
Or at least for them to know how lucky they are.
They know.
And I remember she wouldn’t sit up
And I dreamed of a stuffing machine because
Someone whispered by my ear she was
Cut in half and stuffed
And it made no sense
And still at sixteen I wonder
What happened to my mother?
And I remember her faintly 
She doesn’t even smile in my dreams anymore
And I wonder if she’ll ever be proud of me
If she’d ever approve of me
And who I’ve become 
The things I’ve seen
The things I’ve done
And I remember her singing 
Though I can’t hear her voice
The only happy Christmas I hold on to
Every year
Maybe one day it’ll come back
I used to think
Maybe one day she’d come back
And still at sixteen I hope
Maybe one day she’ll come back …
And I remember she wouldn’t wake up
Not even to say good-bye.

Haha, are you depressed yet from reading this? Sorry.