My legs were uncomfortably tangled by blankets but I dared not to stir them and disrupt the sequential order of the pages laid on top of them. As painstakingly as it was to piece together my extracted crowded thoughts and form them into something a normal mind could chew, it was almost comical; a very tangible reflection of the chaos in my head.
It is so frustrating to leaf through all of these thoughts especially when I have no idea what I’m even looking for. It’s like standing in front of an overstuffed fridge on an empty stomach. All that food within your reach, and you can’t figure out what is going to satisfy your grumbling belly.
“Whatcha doing Momma?” he said as he forcefully flung himself at the foot of the bed. I squinted my eyes as the pieces of paper scattered.
“I’m writing,” I frustratingly said.
“Oh. Can I help?” he asked as he grabbed a pencil that had abandoned my makeshift office an hour ago.
He scribbled a string of numbers haphazardly across the page and asked me to make a man. I drew a primitive stick man and he laughed.
“What do all of these words say?”
“Well, it’s a note that I wrote for you a long while ago.”
“What did you write?”
“That I was proud of you. If it is good, I will get to share it with other people. I will get to read it on a stage .” I explained as a drew a microphone in the stick man’s hand.
“That’s silly,” he said, ” You can’t talk into a magic wand.”
I roared. He told me to close my eyes and when I was told to open them, I saw a purple heart. “This says that I love you and I made it with a butt and a triangle.” I kissed his forehead and he wiped it off. “I’m out of here,” he said as he quickly leapt off of the bed and ran down the hall.
I spent a lot of time and tears on that note. Bits came from an actual letter that I wrote for him when I was in the hospital. They were written on sheets of lined paper because the nurses had confiscated my journal. The metal spiral binding was a safety concern since I was self harming to cope during a horrible time in my life.
Within a few days of its completion, I found myself sitting in front of my computer getting a crash course on google hangouts. When I figured how to work the microphone, I took a big breath and shared my story. I cried and I stumbled over words that got caught by my heart. A week later, Kimberly, the girl behind the words in this hub of the internet, became a cast member for Listen To Your Mother (Detroit).
Who may just be the first Canadian cast member.
I am beyond elated that I’m going to have this platform to touch the lives of women who are parenting with a mental illness, perhaps even breathe hope into their lungs that are starved of happy.
The women that I am so very blessed to accompany onstage in May, will pour our souls out to you.
We will tell you that “Hey Mom, yes you. We all laugh, cry, struggle, celebrate, and love our children fiercely except for that one time they drew Egyptian pictographs on your walls. We are beautifully imperfect and there is nothing wrong with that.”