Today is my birthday.

What brings a tear of joy to your eye?

My kids woke me up this morning,  and while I could have done without them jumping on me, I loved how excited they were to tell me happy birthday.

Kaylee immediately started bringing me toys she didn’t play with anymore as gifts. When I started to get dressed, Erik tossed me a brand new shirt that said, “Hold on, let me overthink this.” Very me.

Evan was so excited to give me the rest of my gifts that he asked Erik, “Can we just give her the other two shirts now?,” and gave away what my presents were.

Tonight, we are going out for dinner where they serve my absolute favorite soup, and tomorrow, we are going bowling. But better than any of it is how loved I feel from my little family. I am truly lucky.

So everyone will know.

Why do you blog?

Mental illness changed my life and the way I look at suffering. It turned me into my absolute worst self, someone I detested. More than that, it was the journey that led me towards that depression.

For years, I struggled, fought, cried, and crawled to make sure my family had a secure future. I stopped caring about my appearance, I stopped caring about our apartment, and I stopped caring about going out. I became more secluded over the years until I had completely locked myself away from everyone. The only thing that kept me going was my kids.

When I started having memory problems during the pandemic, I finally reached out to a therapist for the first time. I told him everything I could think of from the get-go. All I wanted was to get better. Every appointment was over the phone. I would set anywhere from 10-15 alarms, and I would still forget about every appointment.

My therapist told me that if I missed another one, he would cancel our sessions. I begged him to call me instead. I explained how difficult it had been to remember much of anything.  He told me, “If you can’t remember, we’ll give the time to someone who cares enough to remember.”

When he finally let me go, it felt as if I would never get better. It became harder to even hold on. The image of my kids wondering why their Mom didn’t love them enough to stay popped into my head. So I kept trying.

One day, I sat down and tried to sort it all out. Why am I this way? When was the last time I was happy? How much of this is from abuse, neglect, or being overworked?

The words started spitting from me, writing out every event happy or sad. Little by little, I began remembering strength I once had and what had covered it up.

I came to realize how horrible the support networks for mental illness are. Not to mention how impatient everyone was for my recovery. As if coming back from anything so horrible could happen in mear days. Or weeks. Or even years.

I’m still trying, even now. Recovery is day by day. Little by little. But I can feel it happening, and I can see it in the eyes of my children.

Super Smash Bros

When I was seventeen, my friends and I would gather on the weekends. Usually, Squee, Korin, and me. We would order pizza and soda and sit around my flat screen t.v. Most importantly was the weed.

“Tapey, you ever try purple cush before?” Korin asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Why? Is it good?”

Squee laughed, “Oh, you’re in for a treat.”

We sat on my red leather couches, passing the bong around. When the bong came to me, I lit it and inhaled deeply but coughed it up immediately when my hair started to sizzle.

Korin burst out in laughter, “Tapey, how do you do that? Your hair isn’t even long enough to reach the flames!”

I sputtered between coughs, “Shut up, I’m just that kind of lucky, okay?”

“Hey,” korin said, looking serious.

“Hey,” I smiled.

Korin made dramatic eyebrows, “Super Smash Bros?”

“Oh,” I giggled, “yes!”

We started up the game and shuffled through the characters, picking who to play.

“What? Tapey, you can’t pick Kirby. He’s like, the most bullshit out of all of them,” Squee scoffed.

Korin nodded, “He’s right, you can’t Tapey.”

“Shut your faces, don’t you talk shit about my cute little mush face. You’re just mad cause that sappy little face is gonna kick your ass.”

“As if, bring it Tapey,” Squee retorted.

“Oh, look at that. Look who just took Squee’s first life. This adorable little mush face, that’s who.”

“Only cause you’re playing the world’s biggest dick sucker.”

Korin nodded, “He’s right, Tapey. He is the biggest dick sucker.”

“What, no he isn’t.”

“Look at that big pink mouth Tapey, and what’s he do all day? He sucks, Tapey. He fucking sucks,” Squee retorted.

I laughed, “Nuh-uh, he eats your souls and wears them as his skin, obviously. Boom, got you again.”

Korins tone turned serious, “That would essentially make him gluttony in a cute pink package. Tapey, we need to kill that thing.”

“You just made me like him more. I’m coming for your soul, Squee.”

“Good luck with that.”

I burst out laughing, “No fair! Korin made me laugh. What are you even doing over there?”

“I’m attacking this wall,” Korin said plainly.

“But why? Squee, stop killing me. I need to know what’s going on with this wall.”

“It’s just standing there, always looking down on me.”

“…okay,” I giggled.

“I mean, just look at it. It’s so tall and so thick. Like he’s better than me.”

Squee and I were dying in our chairs, watching Korin try to defeat this digital wall.

“This wall doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know my life.”

I tried to sound serious, “I’m offended. Do you think it’s a guy? It’s all flat from what I can see.”

“Fine, I don’t care if it’s a woman. No woman or man gets to look down on me, so I’m gonna beat the shit outa this wall.”

“I’m with you!” Squee yelled.

“Alright, fine!” I laughed menacingly, floating Kirby up and slamming down on them both. “Woops, looks like I killed you both.”

“You’re the worst, Tapey.”

Korin nodded, “You are the worst, Tapey.”

I am a warrior.

I was in the sixth grade when my parents took me and my brother to a school fair. Our school always put on impressive fairs, lots of games, dunking the teachers, and I almost always came home with a new pet fish only to have it die a few days later.

That year, they had brought in a new attraction. A gladiator jousting inflatable arena. Two people would enter and climb onto their own pedestals. Each would get a long stick and fight to knock each other off their pedestal.

I rushed to get in line. Looking around, I could see a lot of high-school students in the crowd. I felt a bit nervous thinking I would have to fight people twice my age. I was always the strongest in my class. I won every arm wrestling competition, playing mercy, or race. Sometimes, I would play with a stick in the backyard for hours, swinging the stick like a sword. But to beat a high-school student in a competition like that? It was going to be hard.

It was my turn now, I entered the baloon like arena to face the previous winner, a twelve year old freckle-faced boy. “Okay, I got this,” I thought and placed my feet shoulder width apart, ready for the go-ahead.

“Go!,” the ref shouted.

I thrust my stick forward, aiming for the boys chest. He blocked me and jammed his stick back at me. Running my stick along the side of his, I did a quick spiral and twisted the stick from his grasp and pushed him from his perch. The crowd cheered, I had won.

My next opponent was a high-school student at least twice my size. He had broad shoulders and wore a black tank top with jeans. I squared my jaw and planted my feet firmly, ready for a hard fight.

He started aggressively, and I blocked each attack with equal force to prevent falling back. I was getting the timings of his hits down. Hit hit, hit. Hit hit, hit. Hit hit, now! I moved to the side of my pedestal, dodging his next blow and impeding his balance. I swept my stick from the side to finish the job.

The next five matches went more or less the same way. Soon, there was a crowd cheering me on. It was such a rush, the adrenaline, beating kids twice my age. I felt unstoppable. 

Until a five year old girl was lifted onto the stand. I played along with her, pretending like she was hitting me right in my weak spot. It was hard for her to even lift the huge stick, so I moved to the very front of my pedestal to make it easier to hit me.

Bam, “Oh no!” I yelled as I fell, “you got me!” The ref came and held her hand up in victory, and her face gleamed. This was a different kind of rush, a better one. She was so happy.

Making my way off the arena, I found Mom and my step-dad Bob waiting for me.

“You were incredible!” Bob yelled.

“There were kids in line that literally left because they didn’t want to fight you. High school kids!” Mom exclaimed.

I blushed, “I know, it was awesome!”

Driving home, I felt an absurd sense of pride, I was the strongest. I was a warrior.