Winner of a Beautiful Mind Writing Challenge

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Congratulations to Terry Allen our

Winner of the "Beautiful Mind" Writing Challenge

Inspired by the LobotoMe Sanity Saving organization tools, we asked all the skirt! girls out there to have a hard think. We challenged them to write a story about an absent minded moment, a brain fog, going out of your mind, putting your mind to rest, mind over matter, a brain trust, a time of insanity or a strange state of mind.

 
Terry Allen will receive a LobotoMe Notepad set (comes with List Me/Doodle Me, Sit Me, Pack Me and Check Me pads).

Here is her winning story:

My Beautiful Mind

Call it obsession. Or mania, or grief, or post-traumatic stress disorder. Whatever its name, I had it bad, for an entire year. Joseph and I split up one sad, ridiculous night, following our one-millionth drunken argument over nothing important. This argument was different, because he proved his point by knocking me down with a well-aimed blow to the right of my cervical spine (he was a failed medical student, but he knew his stuff), and my little daughter called 911 when she heard him say he had a gun. Never mind the details. We left him, and I felt empty for a long time afterward.
We moved to an apartment, my daughter, our cats, and me, about a mile away from our former house. We moved quickly, due to the abuse thing, and we left a lot of our possessions behind. I was two years away from graduating university at that point. We lived on a very tight budget.
I hadn't learned to rely on friends for support yet, so I spent many evenings walking around the neighborhood, thinking things over. One night, I stopped in front of Joseph's house. Through lace curtains that I had purchased and hung, I watched him having a meal at the dining room table. I felt little more than a mild curiosity, but I was fearful of detection and moved along after a minute or two.
Another evening, I went by his house again. He was not in, as far as I could see, so I entered through the front door and retrieved a couple of my beloved books and photographs. I began to venture into his house regularly after that, taking things that were mine, in small amounts so he wouldn't notice. One night, I took a bottle of whiskey—definitely not mine, but by this time, I was hoping to shake him up a little. Another time, I snagged a pendant he treasured, a gift from me, which he had worn around his neck for years. I put it in his garbage can in the alley. Soon after, I started calling his voice mail service and listening to his saved messages. After a few days of this, I began selectively deleting his saved messages.
In my poetry class, I wrote a series of introspective, angry, expository, damning poems about the man I had loved. Some of them were selected for publication, which pleased and scared me at the same time. What if he read them? I wrote in a journal, read self-help books for victims of domestic violence, tried to keep up a brave front for my daughter, and stopped crying for any reason.
Because of the proximity of my apartment to his house, it was necessary for me to drive past Joseph's place regularly. One day, I saw him taking a walk. He was bent and slow, his hands in the pockets of his too-familiar black jacket, his hair disheveled. He looked like an old man. I drove on, unnoticed, with tears of pity stinging my eyes. That night, in my bed, I picked up my journal, then a book, then my phone. I wanted to do something, anything to drive away the consuming feeling of devastation that dogged me constantly. Then a thought came to me, clear as a bell: This is how it feels to be crazy.
What was the point in being angry or forlorn about a relationship that was over? Why cling to the jumble of emotions that served me in no way at all, except to prolong my sorrow? Why throw energy into a void? I slept poorly that night, but woke with a sense of purpose—the purpose of letting go.
In the years that have followed, I've found a few things about Joseph to remember with humor or a rueful shake of the head. I've listened to my daughter's insightful take on the time we spent with Joseph, admiring her zen approach to dealing with the past. I've allowed myself to listen to music, read books, and watch movies without wondering how Joseph would have reacted to them. I've learned, in the words of T.S. Eliot, to care and not to care. The part of my life that included Joseph is in the past, and I am healthy and happy without it. Somehow, my beautiful mind has healed me. -Terry Allen

Here our some more witty, freaky, silly, sad and kinda scary favorites from our "Beautiful Mind" Writing Challenge:

A true account of how I Lost Control over Rock & Roll

Aero Smith was coming to Minnesota. Yeah, you heard me right, Minnesota, and I was just about losing my mind. The very idea of seeing Steven Tyler face to face and skin to skin, made me want to...want to...lose control.  I visualized jumping on the stage grabbing his multi- colored silk scarves and pulling him toward me.  I visualized kissing him SMACK on those big, juicy, lush lips.  I visualized...
I called my girlfriends.  “Guess who’s coming to the Decc?”  And before they could answer, I screamed into the receiver, “STEVEN TYYYYYLER!”
A few of us rushed to the Miller Hill Mall to hunt for the right outfits.  Tube tops were hipper than hip at that time, and after much consideration, I ended up purchasing a mustard yellow one at the Black Seal.  It was all crinkly and cool, feminine and flimsy like one of those gauzy types Janis Joplin wore. 
"You're not wearing a bra with that?" Sue peered at my chest in shock. "You are one brave chick." 
"It's all for rock and roll, babe," I smiled, pushing up my breasts with my hands.
You see, for a girl like me; one who happened to be generously endowed with much; the decision to go braless was not made lightly.  But I thought, it’s Rock & Roll, it’s Steven Tyler, and it’s once in a lifetime.  No inhibitions.  No limitations. And anyway, isn’t that the way girls dressed at rock concerts---like Woodstock-liberated-free- lovin’ feminists?
If one isn't familiar with the tube top; it’s like a small piece of piped material, and mine was so vividly yellow, I was sure that Steven Tyler would not only see me, but perhaps, ask me backstage afterwards.   
On October 14, 1978, Steven Tyler sauntered on stage in all his glorious satin, seduction, and sexiness. The crowd went wild.  I ended up in the third row, thus I could detect the sweat upon his brow, the sound of his leather shoes squeaking, and I even felt a slender breeze against my cheeks as he ran across the tiles belting out “Sweet Emotion,” and “Back in the Saddle.”
His raspy voice pumped through my mind and body as if I had a needle stuck in my arm shooting up electric guitar, hot metal, and smoldering smoke. I began dancing, jumping, and throwing back my head like Martha Graham's, Lamentation.  I closed my eyes and pounded my hands into the marijuana filled air. 
Time stopped.
When I opened my eyes, I noticed some of the band members snickering and pointing their black fingernails in my direction. 
What?  What’s going on?  Are they pointing at meeeee?
Sue squealed like a hyena, like a damn crazy person.
“Look!  Look at your tube top!”
My mustard colored tube top had fallen to my hipbones.  Not only that, but my brain was not telling my hands to pull it back up.  Hence, there I stood speechless, motionless, and braless.  There I stood with my succulent sorbets unleashed and uncensored.
There I remained— dazed and confused while the rock gods laughed.
Fifteen seconds feels like an eternity when a girl loses her mind. -Kim Sisto Robinson

"The Morning Fog"

I'm not a morning person.  It's best not to speak to me until I've had at least two cups of coffee.  This is not an easy concept to explain to children.
Both of mine wake up at the first light of morning, cheerful little faces who plant themselves at the side of my bed, chirping, "It's morning!  Time for cereal!"  I stumble from bed, sometimes putting my slippers on the wrong feet, and shuffle to the breakfast table. 
The breakfast ritual is automatic.  Red bowl goes to the girl.  Winnie the Pooh bowl goes to the boy.  Cheerios.  Whole milk for the boy.  Skimmed for the girl.  Spoons.  Toast.
Coffee.
The fog lifts a bit after the first blessed caffeine rush, and I attempt speech.  Usually, entire sentences are a stretch, but I can manage "yes" or "no" in response to questions, or more often, "uh huh" and  "mmph."
One recent morning, my daughter was puzzling over the various meanings of  "aliens", "ghosts," and "zombies."  It was of course far too early for me to have any kind of proper discussion about the distinctions and semantics at stake of imaginary beings.  I said a lot of "mmmm" and "I don't know," until I finally got out that zombies were more or less brainless, walking around with their arms in front of them, going "mwaaaaaaahhhh!"  My daughter looked at me in all seriousness, and said, "Like you right now?"
After one such breakfast, we had begun the process of getting ready.  I pick everyone's clothes out the night before, knowing that I can't make weighty decisions about matching colors through my morning fog.  My daughter complained that her jeans were too small.  "They're fine," I muttered, wrestling with my own pair of too small pants.
"MY JEANS ARE TOO SMALL," she repeated. 
"Okaycomehere," I called.  Thank goodness for adjustable waistbands (and too bad they don't make those for adults).  One quick button to undo, and at least one of us was at her maximum waistband.  Off you go. -Amanda Callendrier

"Remember that really good meal we had?" 
"Sorry, what? What are you talking about?"
"You know... that time when we went to that place. It was behind that big thing. Remember? On that street? And we met that lady, what's-her-name? Remember? The one that was at that deal you had at the place you used to work."
"What was I wearing?""
"Whaddya mean 'what was I wearing'? I don't know. Clothes? It was probably something brown, like always. Or orange. Or maybe green. But you had on those shoes. The ones that do that thing to your little toe.
"Was I wearing a hat?"
"A hat?!? I don't know!! Okay, maybe... yeah, I think so... 'cause you kept pulling it off and sticking it in your pocket. I don't understand why you bother having a hat if you're not going to wear it."
"Well, it's obviously because my hat didn't go with my coat. Which means I must've been wearing my red boots, because my purple hat doesn't match my plaid coat. So it must've been in London, because Greta went there in March and would've recognized those boots even in a crowd of thousands. She was so mad when I bought the last pair in her size! Oh!! You mean the butternut squash, thyme and goat cheese pasties,  jumbo-sized mug of locally-pressed apple cider and artisan chocolate tart with the gold-leafed hazelnut we had at the Borough Market on the other side of the London Bridge?!? Well, duh, why didn't you just say so!! That WAS delicious!!" -Johnna Phillips

Pregnancy brain is a hormonal phenomena that affects many women during their 1st and 3rd trimesters. It causes forgetfulness ranging from forgetting phone numbers to forgetting where one lives.
There was a time when I was pregnant that...
Hmmm.. Wait a second, now....
Oh. Well, I guess I've forgotten. -Sarah Moore

My Freshman year of high school exists in it’s own little smoke-filled bubble in my mind.  It was a year spent getting high, hanging out with friends and taking dangerous risks.  When the principal gave the freshmen class his speech about yadda yadda yadda, look to your left, look to your right, most of these people will not be graduating in four years, I giggled.  I knew I wouldn’t be one of them.  Lot’s of people had moments in high school where they considered suicide.  I was among those people, however I was absolutely convinced that I was going to die before graduation, either by my own hand or by someone else’s.
    After a junior high filled with dealing with child hood trauma, losing friends left and right, and hating myself, I was disillusioned about life.  I didn’t want to grow up to be one of the uncaring, unfeeling adults that peppered my life.  All I wanted was to be loved, wanted, needed.  Since I got none of those things, I figured fuck it.  I’ll just do what I want.  My best friend moved 2 miles away and her dad worked nights, just like my mother.  Most evenings consisted of getting ready and making the 2 mile walk to my friends house, sometimes arriving only minutes after her father had left.  Where I’d watch her get ready, tease her about the black hole that was her bed with it’s mountains of clothes, blankets and stuffed animals.  Then some how or other we’d get high, hang out, enjoy each other’s company, and around 3 a.m. I’d make the 2 mile trek back to my house. 
    The streets between my house and hers were plagued by gang violence.  A boy that I met walking by my house was shot and killed in a drive by less than 24 hours later, on a street I walked on all the time.  I knew the risks of walking home all by my 15 yr old self.  I was praying I’d become one of the casualties.  But the funny thing was that no matter how fully I believed that I was going to die, I didn’t sleep around for fear of getting diseases, I didn’t do crystal because I knew how quickly someone could become addicted, and I never ever tried LSD, no matter how badly I wanted to because I had heard that it could come back to haunt me years later.  The image of me driving down the street with my kids in the car, and suddenly hallucinating and wrecking the car killing my kids, kids I was convinced I’d never have, was enough to keep me straight.
    Walking home every night, my body knew the way.  My feet never faltered, never took me down the wrong street.  My body guided me home while my ears were busy listening.  Listening for footsteps behind me, for cars, for noises that didn’t belong.  I became light on my feet while passing homes with dogs, and always braced myself for the strange hoofing sound of that big white dog, who, no matter how hard I tried to be silent, he always came.  Vocal cords cut, and that odd hoofing sound of his bark so terrible and frightening, so wrong.
    One night it happened.  It was just before 4 a.m. and a guy I had been hanging out with was walking me home.  He was hit up by a rival gang, but because he was with “his girl” they let him go.  I told him to just go home and I would walk.  I’d walked this path so many other nights before, and this time I wasn’t even high.  It would be a piece of cake.  So he did.  I was just 3 blocks from home when I heard it.  Footsteps running up behind me.  I saw a brief glimpse of the man before he caught me.  He was so incredibly fast.  Before I could react his arms were around me.  One hand on my mouth and the other on my waist.  He was shorter than I but strong enough to lift me off my feet.  I could smell the reek of his breath and knew he was drunk.  Everything went into slow motion.  Part of my mind was amazed at how fast he was, how strong he was, and how drunk he was.  It didn’t seem to make sense.  How could someone so drunk be so fast?  While one part of my mind was busy thinking of that, another part leapt for joy.  It was finally going to happen!  I was going to be put out of my misery!  But a third part of my mind, that beautiful part, took over my body.  I kicked and screamed and fought back.  He let me go and ran off.  That beautiful part of my mind controlled my body and I ran, faster than I had ever run before.  To my amazement he came back.  Outrunning me easily he caught me a second time.  But this time my mind knew what he would do and I evaded the hand reaching up for my mouth and screamed again.  The scream was loud enough to finally wake the neighbors.  As I fought to get him off porch lights started coming on around me.  He let me go and ran off again.
 That happened 15 years ago.  For a while I was angry that instinct took over and the will to survive was stronger than my will to die.  That beautiful part of my mind knew more than I did.  Life no matter how painful and unfair, is still life.  With time and determination things change, wounds heal, and the will to survive proves beautiful. -Angel Stroup
 

"Mom, I think I broke my toe..."
Ever wonder how tired you might actually be?
Or if we can ever make up the hours lost over the years?
We new moms (and, probably, even you experienced moms, too, come to think of it...) don't really fully grasp how much sleep we are going to end up losing when we bring home that sweet bundle of joy. Everyone tells us to "rest up" and "sleep while you can" before the arrival of Junior or Little Missy. But, that piece of advice, for whatever reason, is never absorbed.
Instead, we develop a crazy phenomenon known as "mom brain." You'll find your self putting the milk away...in the pantry. Or, putting dirty dishes in the fridge...Just goofy things like that. But nothing has ever been as crazy as today when I was talking to my mother:
Me: "Mom, I think I broke my toe. It feels funny."
My Mom: "Oh, honey, maybe you should just stay home and do errands a different day."
[Bursts of laughter begin.]
My Mom: "What's wrong? What's happening?"
Me: "It was a Cheerio stuck on my toe!"
Seriously?! Again, welcome to Motherhood where goofy thoughts take the place of lost sleep. Yes, this is how I apparently get through the day. But it's all good.
Because, who needs sleep when we have Cheerios? -Heather Woyak

I have a friend.  He's not a young man but he's not a senior citizen.  He can run circles around most of us.  As long as I've known him, he's always just been a little off...but funny.  He knows what he's talking about, but to those of us listening, he's just verbally creative.  Like ... someone made him "an offer he couldn't confuse."  He wanted to go to the movies and see "Cinnamon Man" [Cinderella Man}  He mentioned once that he had too many emails so he just "diluted" them.  And then there was the time he asked me to pick up a copy of the Creative Loafer.
It's not brain freeze or senior moments, my friend has a fabulously inventive mind... or he might say he's got a preventive mind.  Whatever, we love him. -Shelley Freedman

WHAT'S IN A NAME
Rose, Is That You?

So we just got the event information for my husband's 20th college reunion.  Which was distressing in two ways.  One:  Man, are we old!  And number two: I had a pretty embarrassing moment at my high school reunion, just last fall.
In my defense, I am the mother of two very active, very loud, very distracting wild boys. And we all know what happens once you have kids -- you lose a good bit of your mental sharpness.  Poof!  Gone forever. It is replaced by some other very important things, however, like mother's instinct, eyes in the back of your head, and the ability to kiss away pain.  But just like Anne Lamott . . . or was that Erma Bombeck . . . well, anyway, someone really funny and smart said that "the afterbirth" is really half your brain sliding out after the baby in the delivery room.  Wait a minute!  I think I may have come up with that witty idea!  Well, hell. Sorry I can't remember who first made that brilliant observation, but I have birthed two kids, as I mentioned. So there you go.
Sadly, I was very much reminded of this loss of brain power at my high school reunion.  I had really been looking forward to seeing all those great and random folks who made high school the fun and formative time that it was.  I especially had one long lost soul on my mind (first problem; clearly there's not much room in there), a young lady who had a personality the size of Texas.  She was loud and funny, and had a habit of breaking the most serious silences in the classroom with a part wail, part gospel-style declaration of "OH WELLLLLLLL!!!!!" Gotta love public school.
So I enter the fancy dinner at the hotel and begin seeing folks.  Hugs, waves, smiles.  And then someone comes up and throws her arms out, saying she has been looking everywhere for me.  And I look her right in the face and say, Me too! And call her the wrong name, the name of my oh-well friend.
Now, these two ladies have a little bit in common. One is that they both went to my high school. They look the slightest bit alike, although I would bet they don't think so. Their greatest similarity is that they both have very strong, very witty, very DISTINCT personalities.  Which actually makes them seem very different.  Really, you would never confuse them.
So it would be like crashing into Christina Aguilera and screaming,  "Oh my god, Britney Spears!! How I've missed you!"
When I made my error, I knew it as soon as it was out of my mouth. But it was too late.  The look of disgust and disappointment I received after felt like a punch in my gut.  I tried to make up for being a jackass. "Oh, please, Christina, of course I know you are not Britney Spears. Goodness!  I don't even know why that flew out of my mouth!" But the damage was done.
My friends who were nearby and heard me cracked up and proceeded to kid me about it until . . . ok, they are still kidding me about it.  Why oh why did you go for the name? they asked.  Reunion rule #1:  Don't throw out a name unless you are absolutely sure.  Rule #2: Don't congratulate a former classmate on her pregnancy unless you are absolutely sure.
I can't think of one thing to say in my own defense (shock).  Except that I am a mother and prone to these absent-minded moments.  Ohhhh wellllll. -Bess Kercher

A strange state of mind can be an absolutely wonderful place to be. Or, it can be one of the most panic stricken moments in your life. I found myself in my mid-thirties, divorced, living alone and in a career I wasn’t feeling fulfilled in to say the least. I joked I was having a mid-life crises early. I did have a strange state of mind to say the least. I felt myself one day go out into the hallway at work, call my mother with what strength I could muster and through my tears choke out, ‘I don’t know who I am anymore’.
Now to be fair, I know I am not the first one to encounter this feeling. However, a word to the wise, don’t ever, EVER tell that to someone who is having this moment of crises. This will not bode well for the deliverer of this news nor the receiver. Thank goodness my mother responded with the grace of a saint. Which I am sure, as a parent is not easy. The urge to step in and fight a battle for your child I imagine never goes away no matter how old they are.
For me, the ultimate Libra, clarity, balance and utter harmony are key to just about anything. So this strangeness not only wasn’t a place I didn’t want to be, it wasn’t a place I planned on staying. The problem I found with not having a clear thought process, not knowing who I was, not even knowing how to articulate what was causing this crises of identity. Is that you can’t answer that if you don’t really know what the question is in the first place. So I decided, as Don Henley says, ‘To get down to the heart of the matter’ and I threw all pride out the window. I think the best thing you can ever do for yourself is to admit when you can, or can’t do it alone.
 I called up 2 people. My doctor and a therapist. In that order. Now I laugh because this is what I do, I deflect so as not to call attention to the fact I was falling apart. So when I went to see my Doc who stands all of five foot two and I laughed as I told her I thought I was losing my mind with tears streaming down my face. She looked at me with determination and asked, ‘So what are we going to do about that?’ and smiled. I wish I could say that it was easy for me to sit in that room and take those pills from her. But it wasn’t, oh no, shame marked that day feeling like I shouldn’t have to need this to think better about who I am.
The therapist however quickly upon meeting me said, you are your own worst enemy.
No, no one is going to look at the pretty girl with the good job and the witty repertoire and think there’s something going on. But you’re not helping yourself by feeling the need to live up to others ideals of you. This is how you got here. This is why you can’t think straight. I think you do know who you are. I think what you’re finding is it’s not what others think you are and now it’s coming to a head.
Whew! Really? This made a whole lot of sense. Now, to be fair, I had suffered with depression off and on for the better part of my life. But I had always seen this as something I could control. Something that I would be weakened by if I went on medication and it certainly isn’t received well by society. Try telling someone you deal with clinical depression and watch their reaction. Trust me when I tell you it’s about as understood as how a plane stays up in the sky.
So here I sat in my thirty something year old life and I had a choice. Was I going to stay in this strange state of mind or was I going to do something about it? Depression is an ugly thing it can convince even the most once determined person that giving up REALLY IS the answer. But this girl had, had enough. For me all of my stars aligned at just the right time. I had a team of women behind me who were there to guide me through this black abyss I had found myself falling in. For the first time I in a long time I knew this was not forever. I may not always have the clarity everyday to not feel like I’m in a thick pea soup trying to figure out who I am and how I got here. But I will say this. When I looked at the people in my life, my family, my friends, my doctors and said,‘I’m just so broken I think I can’t think this one out’. That’s when these women all pulled together and said, you’re not broken, you are one of the lucky ones who’s spirit is actually so strong it’s guiding you to who you really should be, wholly and completely instead of going through life miserable. -Amy Leon

It was happening.  I could feel it.  It was like I was navigating the rapids and all of a sudden I was on a waterfall descent.  My mind was in overdrive, and I was talking at the speed of light.  I was laughing and conversing with two colleagues, one of whom I've known for nearly five years when I opened my mouth to say her name and I couldn't!  Her name had slipped my mind and I couldn't recall it but I kept trying.  Her "Oh my god!" put me into a frantic tailspin and all I could say was, "I'm sorry!"
"It's Lisa, Crystal. Lisa!" I needed to explain, but all I could muster was "I'm so sorry!" My ears burned and face was hot. I couldn't recoup but I tried. The conversation then steered toward how long we'd actually known each other and some of the funny times we'd experienced together. By then, I felt as if I had become an observer, an onlooker for what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes.  I was devastated!  Why had this happened to me? Was I losing it?
If only they could've known that I was literally navigating personal rapids that day.  Underneath them swam piranha, eel, water moccasins, and I felt mired in the riverbed's sludge.  It had oozed between my toes and slowed my roll due to a brain overload.  My mind was wrapped around my recent layoff, preparations for sending two children off to college that week, the book money they needed, the visits to the allergist that were costing nearly as much as my monthly car payment, my mom's breast cancer treatment, and my stepmom's diagnosis with early stages of Alzheimer's. Later, when LISA and I talked and I apologized again, we both acknowledged the blessing of how beautiful the brain is: it sends messages when we are tired, overworked, overwrought, and over stimulated. "Get some rest," Lisa told me. "We're in communications and sometimes we don't listen to our own messages." As usual, she was positive and understanding. Here's to the friends whose names may escape us when the rapids of life toss us about, but that our brains will never allow us to forget. -Crystal Roberts

A Day in the Life of My Brain:

Forgot that it was a half day at school and didn't pick up the kids in time- real nice....total brain fart
Quickly sucked down an extra frosty Ice Blended Mocha at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf... major brain freeze
Failed miserably at an attempt to solve a Sodoku puzzle- why do I even try?... brain teased
Organized closets, wrote out To-Do List, balanced the checkbook- left-brain work-out
Had a Madoona dance party with the kids, splattered my kitchen walls with bubbling over marinara sauce in a crazed cooking frenzy, and day-dreamed about escaping to a tropical paradise... right-brain work-out
Watched mindless reruns of Real Housewives after an exhausting round of homework, theatre rehearsal, tantrums and tickle parties... brain dead
Stayed up way too late trying to figure out what to write about...brain fried -Esther Gallagher

There are many situations in this life you can walk away from, run away, drive away or just tune out the constant noise.  But the one thing I can't get away from are the thoughts in my own head.  I've tried so hard to just not think but the thoughts keep coming like annoying flies on a hot summer day.  You may be wondering what thoughts could she be rambling on about well let me call the role.  Have you ever bumped into a friend at your local super store and frist thought is, "Do I look that old?" How about this one you're standing in line at the grocery store and there is this lady in front of you, she has to be about 200, you think oh my god how many places is she going to look in that purse for her money and you scream, in your mind of course, HURRY UP!  This one right here is classic ladies.  You are sitting in church this lady walks in with a dress on so ugly you want to close yours eyes but you can't look away.  The dress is like a magnet to your eyes and you think she is not blind so she must have got dressed in the dark. The thoughts in your mind can be entertaining or horrifying.  Those thoughts that scurry through your head can be stimulating or boring as mud.  So whoever came up with that old saying about losing your mind is so far from the truth because all those thoughts never go anywhere.  They may get all tangled and knotted up in your mind but you want get away from them no matter how hard you try. My mind. My constant companion, friend and sometimes, but not to often, enemy. -Cheri Howard

I sat in my doctor’s office with little hope as we discussed what we were going to try next. She warned me to change my meds over a weekend when my husband would be home to help take care of my daughter. For four and a half years now I had taken care of my daughter through all various phases of depression, so I knew I could handle it. What I could not handle anymore was not feeling like I was getting better. I was now depressed about being depressed. I could try to blame it on the pregnancy, or maybe it was being in a new city with no friends. But like most of the time, it was just plain old ugly depression.
Later, I made my way through the pharmacy drive-through feeling like maybe, just maybe, this new medication would help. Screw the old one. Why take something for depression and still be depressed? With careful hands I began cutting my old meds in half as I began to wean myself off of them. I sat them next to the new little bottle of hope sitting there waiting to transform me back into the person I used to be.
By the following weekend I was out of the meds that had helped keep me depressed for the past two years, so I started taking my new happy pills. Saturday began early as usual and I just felt so incredibly tired (that's depressed). My husband got up with our daughter and left me asleep, which he knows is my favorite thing to do. He was used to me having good days and bad days, and was understanding of how tired I was carrying around all of the extra baby weight. When I wasn’t sleeping, I sulked around the house, feeling hopeless as usual. After sleeping the better portion of Saturday, I awoke with lots of energy to channel into my depression.
So what does a depressed person with lots of energy do? Cry, of course. I wanted to sleep and I hated that I wasn’t sleepy anymore. So I cried about that, too. I was left with nothing else to do but think, the most dangerous of hobbies for a depressed person.  I cried a little more as I thought of how horrible of a mom I was for crying in bed all day. I cried for the rotten wife I had become lazily lying in bed while my husband took care of our daughter and our house. The amount of energy I was able to put into crying and thinking was amazing.
But oddly, for the first time in a long time, I begun to have a little clarity about the horrible person I had become over the past 10 years. Every time my little boy gave me a kick in the stomach or rolled around in my ever growing body, I knew with more certainty what had to be done. I drug myself up out of my bed, grabbed my laptop and began writing down my plan. I felt my fingers tingle with each stroke of the keys as I wrote a letter to my husband detailing my plan. The clarity I was experiencing was exhilarating. For someone who’d been feeling her way around life in a depressed fog for years, being able to see so sharply was like seeing for the first time. I had this answer.
He was going to kill me.
It just made perfect sense. I had always been a cowardly depressed person. I didn’t have the mental strength to kill myself. I would simply just drive along hoping someone would crash into me and it would all be over. But since the likelihood of this ever happening was slim, I knew this was the answer. I walked downstairs to where my daughter and husband were watching TV and gave them a smile. My husband asked what I was doing and I just happily announced that he would see soon enough. He smiled back and me with a look that said he was happy I was finally out of the bed and done crying for the day.
I knew he would be just as excited as me about the plan I had come up with. He would be so happy that my end was coming. It would be the end of my suffering, my guilt and our unhappy home. I could just visualize him saying goodbye to me while I smiled and thanked him for fixing what had been broken for so long. Me. I envisioned him telling my brother and best friend, the only other people in the world who knew about my condition, and how happy they would be that things had ended so well for me. I could close my eyes and see the new person he would find to love and what a perfect mother she would be to my daughter. She would be the mother I had always wanted to be, but never quite found the strength. He would get it right the second time around.
My baby boy would go with me so he would be fine. I would wake up in a happy place cradling him in my arms and then tell him how wonderful his daddy was for helping us find our way out of sadness. My mind and heart raced as I thought about the wonderful world without me and the cloud of gloom that followed me everywhere I went. My little girl came over to kiss me goodnight and I just happily held her in my arms for a few extra seconds knowing her happy life was just around the corner. I snuggled happily into bed that night exhausted after a mind racing day, but thrilled at finally understanding what had to be done.
The first thought that came to my mind the next morning was how wonderful the new meds were that my doctor had prescribed for me. But then a picture of my mom at my funeral came to me and I felt a jab of sadness for her. Then I saw the look of anger in my dad’s eyes as he comforted her. Suddenly, my happy plan wasn’t so happy anymore. Still I went to my computer determined to finish the letter to my husband. Then I wondered if he would go to jail for helping me out of this life. The clarity I’d had just twenty-four hours before was becoming clouded.
The thing about temporary insanity or “losing your mind,” is that you have no idea that it’s happening or happened until one day you are shaken from the distorted reality you were wrapped up in either momentarily, a few days or years. Some people never realize the alternate state of reality in which they are living. Most insane people are totally unaware that they are thinking differently from the sane person sitting next to them in a restaurant or walking next to them at a mall.
A few weeks later, I followed up with my doctor and she asked how the transition off the prescriptions went.  I just nodded my head and told her everything was fine. Inside I was still horrified and ashamed at the conclusions I had come to that day. Months later, I finally deleted the letter to my husband. But not before reading it and rereading it, wondering who the person was that wrote such a request. I wondered how, even in a brief moment of insanity, I could have asked the love of my life to help me end my life and how I concluded he would be happy about it. It frightens me to this day.
The mind is a beautiful and complex organ, with thoughts and feelings racing through every crevice of every vessel inside. There are places within its walls that are dangerous even to the most unsuspecting victim but there are also places of happiness both real and imagined. Sparks fly through this well-oiled machine we call our brain. Most of them connect inconspicuously,but some ignite into unexplained fires of rage. The mind is unpredictable at best, distorted by emotion and rarely allowing us to know when it is working improperly. It is the blessing that connects us as humans and gives us our free will. It keeps our bodies functioning and helps us create the most wondrous ideas far surpassing any other being. This beautiful and fascinating mind is our life, it is our breath and it is our curse. -M. McDonald
 

The mind is such a complicated and mysterious thing.  I grew up in a mentally unstable home.  Growing up in an alcoholic home is crazy-making.  I knew what I knew, I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and I felt what I felt.  Yet I repeatedly was told that what happened didn’t really happen.  Things were explained away.  My dad didn’t fall because he was drunk, he tripped on something I had left out (I was responsible).  My mom wasn’t crying because she was hurt, they were “happy tears” she tried to explain through a forced smile and wild eyes.  I was told I was having fun, when really I was scared or confused about my father’s behavior on outings.  And I was constantly being coached about what to say and what not to say to people at school.
All this conditioning resulted in my not really knowing what was true or not true for me.  I didn’t trust my intuitions, I couldn’t decipher my feelings, and when I recalled a moment from my childhood, I would question whether it really happened or if it was just something my mom made up to cover up an uncomfortable truth.  I felt unrooted, floating around my life not tethered to anything solid.  I felt a bit crazy.  And I was very sensitive to being called crazy; my husband learned early in our relationship not to call me crazy.  Many times I defensively snapped at him when he jokingly said, “you’re so crazy.”  “I am not crazy!” I would yell at him.  With a crazy look in my eye.
I was scared, scared that I may be crazy.  I often felt that I lived my life walking on the edge of sanity.  I would look over the edge into the dark abyss that was insanity.  I was terrified that if I wasn’t very careful, one misstep could send me over the edge, never to find my way back.  I contemplated mental illness when I would see someone on the sidewalk arguing with someone I didn’t see.  She and I may be standing right next to each other, but mentally we may as well be on two different planets.  Two different dimensions perhaps?
Maybe I was on my way to insanity, but I remember the moment I decided to choose the road to sanity.  My children were asleep in bed, my husband out of town on business, and I was relaxing on the couch flipping through a magazine.  I came upon an article about the woman who drowned her children in the bathtub, and I felt a connection to this woman.  I had often felt like escaping the oppressive pressures I was feeling.  I had often fantasized about packing a bag, leaving a note and driving away.  I had even visualized leaving my kids with my neighbor and coming back home to end my life.  Not theirs though!  But reading this article made me wonder, if I slipped into mental illness past the point of no return, could I be capable of murder?
I decided to get help right then and there.  I got medical and psychological attention.  I started taking better care of myself physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.  I stopped neglecting my needs, my wants, and my passions.  Over the past decade since my life changing choice, I have gotten to know myself and I have gotten to know my past.  I tore up the script my parents gave me and I wrote my own.  I am grounded and I am confident in my perceptions.  I trust what what I know and feel, and my intuition is strong.
The mind is a beautiful thing in its complexity and mystery.  It is also very simple.  Who do you want to be?  How do you want to live?  Your mind is a powerful tool that is available and ready to help you create the life of your dreams. -A. Moore

"I swear I'm not crazy!" and "This must happen to other people!" are thoughts that cross my mind frequently. Mostly, in the throes of an AWFUL panic attack. Usually, while driving.
I suffer from the dreadful disease called anxiety. It often stems from the illness of notfeelinggoodenoughitis. That's a nasty little bug you can catch from anyone, even if you don't directly talk to them. It's something that I've been dealing with a lot and have been trying to come to terms with.
In fact, this might be the first time I've admitted it to the public.
I've been to three different "therapists" in order to best contain my anxiety and keep it at a "normal" level. (I'd really like to know what a "normal" level of anxiety is. Just slightly paranoid that your life might end at any moment or is it a full-blown breathing into a brown bag episode?)
I've always felt a little weird and different from other girls my age. I guess it stems from being the youngest child and growing up with two older, and gorgeous, sisters. They had boyfriends constantly and would have streaming phone calls coming in. I walked the hallways looking down at my feet trying to avoid eye contact. I remember my dad asking me once when the boys would start calling me. The icy fist that I'm so used to now took hold of my throat and tears threatened to break surface so I went upstairs and dwelled on how I would probably be alone for the rest of my life.
After dealing with a crazy boyfriend in high school who constantly told me I wasn't good enough and would break up with me and then get back together I was a total wreck. He claimed to love me one minute and then he would tell me he wasn't sure he ever did. Or would. Now I could add abandonment issues to my repertoire of angst. Those feelings would haunt me for the next several years, and still peek in even though I've been with the greatest man for almost four years.
I think he is who made me discover that it's okay to be a little bit weird and a little off kilter. As long as you have someone to ground you and bring you back to Earth.
He's my magnet. As corny as it sounds I can think of him during my wheezing, painful moments and feel calm. Feel...normal.
He thinks my unbalanced mind is beautiful and knows that without it, I wouldn't be me. He loves my neuroses and not only "puts up with it" but finds ways to work through it and reassures me that's all it is...paranoia.
I still walk around with my head on the ground and don't talk to people as much as I probably should. I'm still a little unbalanced and definitely prone to anxiety but I think it's what makes me me. I think our neuroses are what make all of us who we are and who we're supposed to be. -Alexis Arnone

"I had a mind once. Then I had children."
Okay, I only had one child. But apparently that's enough to suck the mojo out of your brain. This is not a "I'm losing my identity because I stay at home now" story. This is a "I was a fully functioning working woman who somehow teetered on the brink of insanity" story. Can you guess how? I stopped sleeping.
As women, we are all insanely jealous of the men that lie down beside us, close their eyes, and drift into a snoring slumber. And when we are faced with the same opportunity to get relief from exhaustion, our body relaxes and our mind perks right up. Let's go through everything we had to do today: for work, for home, for the pets, the kids, the bills, the... Now what did we forget and what do we have to do tomorrow. It's maddening but also pretty typical.
So when did this simple unwinding before bed drive me to insanity? It started just after Christmas when I would fall into bed exhausted. Then the seasonal colds and coughing starting where everyone in the house would wake me up and keep me awake. Then I started anticipating the sleep interruptions. I would easily fall asleep at 10pm and wake up every morning at 2am. For the day. My mind was racing and I could not go back to sleep
Now I know of this rare breed that needs only 4 hours of sleep a night. But that's not me. I'm a solid 8 hour girl. And it kept getting worse and worse until one night I didn't sleep at all. When the rest of the house awoke, I informed my husband that I was going crazy and needed to go to the doctor.
Thank God he didn't take me to the nearest psychiatric ward, which is where I felt like I belonged. All I wanted to do was pace and pace and pace. My doctor entered the office. I explained my newfound insanity and he asked me if I'd like to take a nap. I HAVEN'T SLEPT IN DAYS. DON'T YOU THINK I WOULD TAKE A NAP IF I COULD?
Turns out the intravenous valium does a nice job and knocking you out. And that's how I kept from teetering over the brink of insanity. Now insomnia can be a serious issue. And there were serious issues that I had to deal with. It's usually rooted deeply in something which seemed par for the course for my life. I got something deeply rooted in everything.
So the next time you feel like you are losing your mind. Or that your hormones are way out of whack. Or you just can't find your mojo. Take a nap. Get some sleep. It just might keep you sane. -Fadra Nally

Brain Cloud

I am emerging from a 25-year brain cloud. That’s right. I have pulled back the corner of the blanket that shrouded my free spirit and poked out my nose to discover the possibilities.
I suppose I was in high school when I really began to notice the avant garde kids. Every high school has them – I wanted to be one of them. They always seemed so happy with their non-conformity; relieved of the pressures to wear the right shoes or sport the most popular hairstyle. I had to fit in. I was a farm girl from a holler in southeastern, Ohio. I already stood out, but not in the cool way. No, high school was not the right time to express myself as an individual, best to stay with the crowd and avoid the inevitable taunting.
College came and I was even more fascinated with the free spirits that roamed campus. Again, I dreamed of the bohemian lifestyle and the freedom to live it; to express myself; to wear flowing, earthy clothes and never cut my hair. But in my world, after class each day I went to a part time job at a bank in my pencil skirts and kitten heels. The world of the button-down collar was no place for a bohemian wannabe.
College went and I was left with a Liberal Arts degree in Advertising and no prospects to practice what I had learned. Oh, to travel across Europe with the gypsies. But those student loans couldn’t wait and that company car I was offered with my new sales job was a little too tempting. The gypsies would have to wait for me until I had a little cushion in the bank. When the time came I would be ready to throw out my expensive business suits, high heels and panty hose and trade them in for Jesus sandals and hemp skirts. The prospect was exhilarating.
Then the kids came along and it was important to set a good example and be the homeroom mother who brought cupcakes to the class parties in freshly pressed slacks and matching cardigans. I could feel the bohemian bubbling up inside me, nearly bursting to get out. Again I kept her at bay.
I give credit for my emerging metamorphosis to my sister, who I felt, having recently celebrated a half-century of life on this planet, needed to try something new. At least that was my excuse.  So I called ahead, got the address, and charted her course for adventure and my course for self-discovery. The studio was located in a semi-industrial area with the only thing betraying its existence a hot pink steel door. We opened it and traipsed up three flights of stairs to a second, less inviting door. Opening it I felt like Dorothy Gail walking into the Emerald City. The wonder. The awe. My sister was still without clue of my admittedly, very selfish plan. But slowly I saw her put it all together and surprisingly, she didn’t run screaming back down the stairs. She was just as excited as I was. So together, arms locked, we moved past the filmy, fabric shrouds separating us from the waiting area into the dance studio and began…our first belly dance class. I could feel the bohemian inside of me tackle and beat down the hesitant girl/woman with body-image issues lingering since the teenage years. At last, the bohemian won! I tucked my shirt up under my sports bra to fully experience the freedom of movement and dance with the drumbeat of the music. It was exhilarating. It was freeing. The 25-year fog lifted and the bohemian being inside of me came forth, never to be kept down again. -Becky Barbera