"please tell me things get better soon"

Dear Friend,

You've been through a helluvalot lately. Your step-dad died last month. You thought you were selling a house. Your baby didn't make it. Your business isn't doing well. Your autoimmune disease flared up with a vengeance. Your kids have been sick. You are having family problems. You hate yourself lately.

You have no idea what your future holds, and that hurts.

Even if you aren't in one of these situations (every one of them is a real story that some of my closest friends have been dealing with; you're likely one of them), you can relate, at least to some degree.

A friend of mine and I discovered today that, although our paths haven't crossed physically in years, our lives are looking eerily similar lately. She's in the big middle of the same sort of disappointment and heartbreak that I was plunged into a couple of weeks ago, and while I'm sortakinda emerging on the other side of the dregs of depression and dispair, she's right in the big middle. So she read all about my story and realized that we have much in common lately. She said, "Please tell me things get better soon." I thought about that. I'd love nothing more than to give a hug and a promise that every-little-thing's-gonna-be-alright, but we all know that's a five-dollar answer to a million-dollar question, as an old pastor used to say. But I thought about it, and some tentative advice came pouring out of me, and I thought, heck. Maybe we could all stand to hear this.

And here's what I have; I'd love it if you'd comment below and offer your own suggestions about how you've dealt with the grief and the anger and the pain in your own life:

1) Pour your heart out to God about it. And then pour your heart out to your best girlfriends. I literally requested that my friends kidnap me and take me out for an evening. I'm not a party girl, but to be surrounded by wise women who loved me was very comforting. Good food and a glass of wine didn't hurt, either.

2) Keep a thankfulness journal. My best friend turned me on to a book called One Thousand Gifts. It is phenomenal, and because of it I have adopted the habit of keeping this journal. I just list any and everything I'm thankful for. During the most craptastic days (and there have been many), I force myself to sit and list things I'm grateful for: Chocolate. Sunshine. A job. No one puking at the moment. Whatever. It's not flowery or poetic, but it is real, and it re-aligns my heart a little.

3) Try to imagine the worst case scenario that your situation will cause. Homelessness? Bankruptcy? What's the worst that could happen? I know that sounds morbid, but it helped me to think, "Okay, what if all hell breaks loose? We'd be bankrupt. So what? No one will starve to death or die from lack of medical care. It would be embarrassing, yes, but nothing sacred would be lost in our family. So if I can handle the absolute mother of worst case scenarios, I can handle much less than that, which is what is most likely going to happen. And that means that I can handle today. And tomorrow. And the next day. (Now, I realize that for some of you, your worst case scenario is a nightmare compared to mine. I'm not making light of your pain at all, and for you, you are living your worst case scenario right now. For you I say wrap yourself in the love of whomever you can, and be as present as you can for today. And then tomorrow when it comes.)

(4) Don't be afraid to grieve the loss. It might seem silly when you think about all the people out there with "real" problems (death, disease, financial ruin...), but your pain is real, and it's legit. You're not whining. And your kids aren't, either. My kids have seen me crying a lot lately, and as weird as that feels, it's given me so many great opportunities to draw them out by being honest about it. When I'm sitting at the dinner table and start bawling because the smell of lavender tea reminds me of how I can't take my kids to the lavender farm on the island I was supposed to move to, I'm just honest about that. And then the kids are, too. And that's a good thing.

I think maybe the greatest thing about pain is that we're never really alone with it. I believe God designed our shoulders just a little wider than normal, so they could help carry the burdens of a life that just sometimes gets too heavy to carry alone. Another friend and I were talking about burden-carrying the other night, sitting in her car, the both of us just about as tapped out as we could be. I reminded her that she needed to reach out for help, especially from me. She reminded me that I, too, am carrying a big load right now. But this friend has made more time for me in her life than I can tally, even when she was underwater with burden herself. The big secret, I think, is that our staggering loads get somehow lighter when we take on someone else's, too. We're just designed that way, and it's magical. >p? And in its own way, when we share and open and grieve aloud, it does get better.

--Teri.

old crappy poetry of the soul, or, i'm still the same old nerd i was in high school

On a dare, I promised a couple of my girlfriends to brazenly post some poetry from my high school and post-high school days, when I was brooding with nowhere to go. This was primarily done to prove to them just how bad that poetry was, even by the standards of my more recent writing. And so you've been warned. I give you...Old Crappy Poetry of the Soul. By Teri Messec.

Birthday

(written for my friend Rachel Espinoza on...what else...her birthday.)

1997

One more year

Tucked somewhere

Under the belt of your life--

Telling without words

All that your eyes have seen,

That your heart has known.

Joyful days that have danced

Their way through your life

Sing now upon their exit,

Granting you mirth

On this bright day.

(Note to self: Eliminate the words "upon" and "mirth" from vocabulary for eternity.)

Chaos

(written on some random day a few months before I met my husband, when I was feeling really, well, chaotic in my life.)

1997

Swallowed whole;

Seasons of disjustice

Force me

From timeless dreamings

And larger hope.

In that blackness

I swim,

Straining towards Reason

But caught in the deluge

of Chaos.

Insomniac

(written after one of my many sleepless nights in 1996, when I thought, because I was too tired not to, that I was really, terribly clever.)

1996

Sleep came not for me last night---

Sleep and me, we had a fight;

Oh, t'was a struggle sleeping tight,

For sleep came not for me last night.

(har har har, snort, har har...)

Pantothenic Rage

(Written in '96, when I was 19, with 2-foot-hair, trying to grow my bangs out like a hippie.)

1996

I have these episodes,

This pantothenic rage

Flares within.

My mind,

In utter anger,

Screams--

A single thought;

I HATE MY HAIR!

To Self

(Written in 1995, just a few days before I graduated high school. This is one of those "Dear Me-of-the-Future" poems. Eerily salient, even 17 years later.)

1995

I've lived with you all these years,

Through your hours of sorrow,

your days of ineptness.

I've seen you gazing, tearful, at your angry mirrors,

While you silently cried at your self.

I've seen your agony

At being shunned by the world--by your self.

I've seen you mock yourself, scoff at your self,

Hurl hurt at your self.

And I've seen you look sadly back at your self,

Wanting so

Just to love yourself.

Empathy

(Written in the big middle of my lustyangst for Ireland, when I was sure I'd die if I wasn't borne straightaway to the Emerald Isle. I'm still trying to get there and this poem is just as sillily true as it was the day I wrote it. I had met Christopher by this point, and was flirting with the idea of marrying this dude. This explains why this poem isn't as horridly black as the ones from 3 months prior.)

1997

I see through my mind's eye

A picture tainted

With the sweet poison of empathy

And yet I am taken

By that utopic scene

And puzzled

At my indescretion.

Sing with Me at Daybreak

(Written for my little brother Matthew, who was probably 11 at the time, on one of those rare days when I actually woke up before 10:30 and discovered that the morning was amazing--so amazing that it was killing me to let the little rascal sleep instead of hanging out with me on the front porch watching me shiver and write bad poetry to the sunrise. Poor kid.)

1997

Sing with me at daybreak,

Quiet sleeping one--

You who paint the dreams

Inside your slumbering head,

Wake with me and feel

The quiet of morning,

The glory of dawn.

Slip the bonds of hallowed sleep

And find the sunrise

Creeping over the night--

Magic is deeper at daybreak,

Oh slumbering child.

Sleep no more--

Wake to the miracle

And sing with me at daybreak.

(note to self: abolish the words "oh", "slumbering", and "sing" from not only your own vocabulary for eternity, but also see about having them legally banned from the English language, as well.)

So that's a taste. Gagging yet? I'm pretty sure I win the bet.

--Teri.