My true home has far less to do with the ceilings and walls or the style of the window frames but more so with the people living in it.
I want to spend my days watching my children play and grow in the backyard. Shrieking and giggling as they spray each other with the cold hose water. I want to spend my evenings playing board games with my husband and laughing maniacally when I finally, finally beat him. I want to lay in the grass, flying kites with my children. I want to watch all of my favorite animes together so they can nerd out about them with me. I want to see the world through the eyes of my children, so completely full of an innocent wonder.
I don’t care what the house looks like as long as it’s at least big enough to be comfortable and has a yard. I learned a long time ago that the extras are overrated.
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.
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.
Today, I got my kids ready for their registration/ picture day at school. The night before, Erik and I spent hours coloring and styling Kaylee’s hair so she could have a large strip of her favorite color, purple. When we woke up in the morning, the color was even brighter than the night before and highlighted her radiant blue eyes.
So excited to see their new school, Evan and Kaylee were already dressed and eager to go. Kaylee insisted on wearing a purple sweater and a fluffy purple jacket in 80-degree weather because it all went with her new purple hair. To balance the ensemble, she wore beige shorts, beige flats, and flung on her black mini backpack.
Evan wore his brand new camo shirt, which he noted was very silky and comfortable. To show he was dressing up, he wore jeans and even put on his pair of tennis shoes instead of his shark Crocs. Which he pointed out avidly.
As we walked, Evan and Kaylee got quieter and quieter. Their excitement giving way to nerves. I couldn’t help but think back to those exact same feelings when I went to jr. High for the first time.
Once we were done registering and taking their pictures, we walked back home hand in hand. “How did you like the look of the place?” I asked.
“It looked awesome, I’m excited to join Band!” Evan exclaimed.
Kaylee remained quiet. “You nervous, Kaylee? It’s okay if you are.”
“No,” she said, “I’m just excited because they have an art class. I’m thinking of all the things I’m going to make.”
I squeezed both of their hands and could not believe how lucky I was to have such brilliant, beautiful children.
The Ugly Boudoir 