What I Learned from My First "Published" Poem

A couple weeks ago an ad for Silent Spark Press popped up on my Facebook. The short portion of what I was able to read, stated they were accepting poetry submissions for their upcoming eBooks. I was intrigued and clicked the link. I learned they only produce eBooks, at this time, covering a variety of topics - photography, art, poetry, short stories, etc. Their goal is to give exposure to lesser-known creators. Sounded fabulous so I submitted a poem, Outside My Window, which was written a few months ago in honor of my dad.

I received a text last Sunday saying they'd accepted my poem and it would be featured in their upcoming eBook Beautiful Poetry. Through emails and further communication, I was able to preorder a copy and find out the publication date was July 22.

What I did not know when I submitted and preordered, was that I'd be expected to pay full price in order to obtain a copy. I paid the $12 because I wanted to see my words published. They sent an early copy of the "book" as a DropBox file and I was able to see it pre-published. When I didn't get another email confirming my copy was ready on the publication date as they stated it would be, I went back to the website, my order status showing "unfulfilled." Then I noticed they had 2 products listed side by side titled Beautiful Poetry. But one said book and one said eBook. I had initially clicked on the book and, believing I had placed an incorrect order, I paid another $18 for the eBook version.

The order was confirmed, but I never received anything except the same file they'd already sent. I emailed customer service, which I never do, and they informed me that was the final product.

I'm not so bothered by the total cost but the eBook is more like a Word document - cover page has only the company name. There is no title page or image, just the cover page and then 70+ pages of poetry.

I also learned when you purchase, the only option is to have an automatic payment EVERY WEEK "renewing" your subscription. They give you the option to cancel anytime - which I've done - but each purchase qualifies as a separate subscription. 

I've had enough conversations with authors to know there is frequently, if not always, out-of-pocket costs, and I don't think it's unheard of to pay for your own product. But none of this was disclosed until AFTER the purchase was made and some back and forth with the company. Needless to say, I won't be submitting anything to them in the future, and I learned a valuable lesson - do some damn research!!!

I did print the cover page and the section where my poem is printed because ... $30.

Photo by Andrea De Santis on Unsplash

The Only Question is Why

    A few weeks ago, I read two lists to my therapist. One was of things I can and cannot control. The other was about the way I treat others vs. the way I treat myself. The former wasn’t exceptionally long, and included things like personal boundaries, the way I treat others, other people’s opinions of me. The latter was a little longer, more specific and the more thought-provoking of the two. Some of these things might sound a little narcissistic, arrogant, pathetic and stupid. But believe me, I know everyone doesn’t need me. I know the world would get along just fine without me.

 

Boundaries

    With regards to personal boundaries, the biggest problem I have is setting them. I’m not good at it and the last few times I’ve set them, I’ve been told they’re unfair, unreasonable or have been asked to explain why I’ve set said boundary. Often times, the next thing I do is lift the boundary. I believe if I’m told it isn’t okay, then I somehow messed up and don’t deserve to be respected. I’m conflict avoidant and if removing the boundary means there won’t be an argument, I do it. 

    On the contrary, when others tell me where they draw the line, when I’ve gone too far or what boundary they’re setting, I do my best to accept and respect it. Sometimes it comes with explanation, sometimes not. Sometimes I understand it, sometimes I don’t. But I try to treat others with respect, even if I disagree or am unhappy.

    Part of setting boundaries is saying no. Frequently and without hesitation, I agree to do things for others, help when and how I can. I’ve struggled for years with feeling like if I say no, I’m going to disappoint someone. I’m going to lose a friend. I’m going to let them down. I’m being selfish. Many times, I say yes despite already being exhausted, and later find myself wondering why I said yes. Sure, I could reach out to the person and say I’ve changed my mind but I become overwhelmed with guilt. Chances are, most of the time, people will understand and not be upset. But I talk myself out of doing it because I feel as though I’m not being honorable or respectable by taking back my word. Telling myself no comes easily. I tell myself not to rest or take a break, knowing it’s needed. I tell myself my needs and wants are not as important as those of others. I tell myself no to saying no to others. I feel that if I tell someone no, they’re going to abandon me. The reality is by saying no to myself, the only one abandoning me is me.

 

Honesty and Integrity

    Among the values I hold, honesty and integrity are two of the most important. One reason I don’t lie is because I can’t. I don’t have a poker face and people see right through me. I’m also not good at poker. I feel an incredible amount of guilt when I even think about lying. I find it to be highly disrespectful and believe everyone deserves to be respected. Everyone except me.

    I try to act with integrity at all times. I know right from wrong. I know when I’m helping or hurting. I’m not always vocal about the things I agree or disagree with because, again, this might cause conflict. Instead, I try to do things that exemplify kindness, understanding, comfort and love. Everyone says actions speak louder than words, right? I can act with integrity without saying it. I am not saying every decision I make and everything I do is right or correct, but I know that I am putting forth an honest effort to do my best.

    No matter how much I want to be an example to others, I don’t treat myself with the same integrity. I am not kind to myself. I’m not understanding of myself when make mistakes. I don’t comfort myself when I know that is all I need. I don’t say I love myself. Simply put, I do not treat others the way I treat myself. Because that wouldn’t be nice. This is not behaving with integrity. It is not honest. I’m depriving myself of the very values that I believe everyone else deserves.

    I believe that somewhere deep within myself, I can find the strength and courage to get honest, tell myself what I need, and give it to myself. If it’s not something I can provide for myself, I’ll seek out and use the best resource I can find. I’ll tell myself I deserve it. I’ll tell myself I’m worth it. I’ll tell myself it won’t be burdensome. I know I need to treat myself with integrity and put forth the same effort with myself as I do with others.

    I know the things I should be doing to take care of myself and I don’t do them. I feel like I’m not important enough to be taken care of. I feel like taking care of myself means not taking care of someone else. I feel like I’m being selfish. And if I decided to truly be honest with myself, I might discover that none of these things are true. I have friends who are more than willing to be honest with me, and that’s when I tell them I don’t want to talk to them anymore. It’s never permanent – I always go back. But acknowledging the honest things means I need to make a change. The changes are usually challenging, but not impossible, and yet I tell myself I’m not capable of making them.

 

Kindness

    Each day I wake, I remind myself how important it is to be kind to others. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt someone. Who wants to be hurt? I decide how I treat others and it’s important that I’m kind, whether it be holding a door for the person behind me or sending a text just because I’m thinking about someone. I tell my kids they don’t need to be friends with everyone in their class, but they always have to be kind. People remember when they’ve been treated with kindness as much as when they’ve been treated poorly.

    I think everyone, including myself, could be a little kinder. As important as it is for me to be kind to others, I’m not kind to myself. I know how to be kind. I know it’s necessary to be kind. I know it’s right to be kind. I feel like I’ve done nothing to deserve any more kindness than anyone else. Even in instances where I know the kindness I’m receiving is sincere, I wonder why it’s happening and if it’s really meant for me.

    Instead of being kind to myself, I’m critical. I tell myself I’m not good enough, no matter how much I do, no matter how well I do it. I tell myself I could have done better and should have done better. I tell myself I have to keep being and doing more. I tell myself I need to earn kindness.

 

Compliments and Criticism

    I’m quick to give compliments to other people and slow to give them to myself. I tell others they’re smart, funny, beautiful and how much I admire them. I tell people I love them. I tell people how good they are at various things. I try to emphasize their best qualities, both inside and outside. Meanwhile, I’m telling myself the opposite.  

    The list of critical things I say to myself on a daily basis goes something like this - I’m not pretty. I’m not a good mother. I don’t matter. I’m a burden to everyone and a waste of time. I don’t deserve anything good. I don’t deserve to treat myself or do self-care. Whatever I’ve done anyone else could have, and would have, done better. I should be more talented. I’m not good at anything. There is no reason to love myself or for anyone else to love me because I’m not special in any way. No one really needs me because anything I can offer can easily be found elsewhere. I’m not any more capable than anyone else.

    I don’t hate everything about myself, and I can actually name a few things I like. I think I have pretty eyes. I’m funny. I’m a good employee. I tell my kids I love them every day, just so they never forget, and I never turn them away when they ask for a hug. I keep my promises.

 

Try to picture this –

You’re on the edge of a lake, placing a bobber on your line and bait on your hook. You move your arm backward and thrust it forward, casting your line into the water as far and as deep as you can and await the perfect catch. You know the hook is baited correctly. You know there are plenty of fish to catch. But while everyone is catching fish big enough to feast on, all you’re catching is small fish that you release back into the lake. These fish aren’t good enough. They’re not big enough. They’re useless.

You keep casting your line, hoping one fish you catch will be good enough, big enough and worth something. But every time you feel the tug on your line, you reel it in to find that, once again, it’s nothing but disappointment.

You keep waiting to feel the tug that’s almost impossible to yank above the water. When you finally feel it, you can all but hear your line breaking as you try to bring it in. It takes a lot of effort. A lot of strength. A lot of persistence. And finally, you find a strength from deep within, give it all you’ve got and you yank that sucker out of the water and reel it in.

You suddenly feel a sense of pride, perhaps some relief. You finally feel capable and good enough.

 

    This is the kind of strength I’m searching for. The big fish. The only question remaining, if it does indeed lie within me, is why haven’t I found it? Why does it seem like I can’t find it?

The Little Yellow Basket

I wanted to sew a basket liner for my little yellow basket. I was going to share before and after pics. The picture of the basket was taken on Saturday at 2:19pm. The after? Taken Sunday at 11:10pm.

Was I distracted? A little. Did I have other things to do? Yes.

BUT... the main reason it took 21 hours to make was because of my depression and how much I beat myself up when I can't do something. I spent the better part of yesterday trying to figure out why my sewing machine wasn't working. I read the manual over and over and over again. I threaded and rethreaded the top. I set and reset the bobbin. It would not work, no matter what I tried.

I called myself stupid. I told myself I couldn't do anything. I told myself it wasn't worth doing anyway. I told myself I wasn't sure why I tried anything at all since I fail at everything. I cried hard and for a long time. So hard and so long that when I woke up today, I noticed a dark area above my left eye. I have a black eye from causing so much trauma to my eyes from crying. I cried that much. I literally beat myself up. No physical punches were thrown. They all came from within. They all came from decades of depression. Mental blow after mental blow that I couldn't stop. That I couldn't control.

I do this frequently, but this is the first time it's been so intense that it actually left a physical mark. The first time I've been able to see what I'm doing to myself. The bruise is evidence of how powerful words can be, inside and out. Evidence of how much I've lost myself to depression.

I solved the problem with the sewing machine. I made the liner for my little yellow basket.

Now I need to solve the problem with myself.

Listen to What is Being Said

Last weekend, unsure of what to expect, I walked into the house of a person I'd only met once previously. She, my sister, and seven other women sat around the living room. In the middle was a man who was going to give each of us a tarot card reading. 

On the table sat fifteen to twenty boxes full of cards. Each set had its own purpose. The tarot reader described what each box contained and said we could choose any one we wanted. Some were blunt in their delivery of the messages while others were a little softer. A couple boxes were filled with affirmations and others had a specific focus, such as relationships. He also explained that sometimes a reading would pivot because he would receive energy from a spirit that wanted to talk to us.

As soon as I sat down, I noticed a box called Postcards of Love and couldn't take my eyes off of it. I knew when my turn came I was going to choose that box. It contained postcards, just as indicated, that had short notes full of affirmations. I'd watched him pull out card after card after card during each of the readings before and didn't expect mine to go any differently. 

When I sat across from him, I told him which box I wanted and he opened it. After giving my full name and date of birth, he shuffled the deck and began pulling out cards. He pulled out two and as he got ready to lay down the third, he stopped. He said someone else wanted to talk to me. He told us when this happens to be ready to engage in a conversation, asking questions or sharing something we needed advice on.

He started speaking loudly, letting the spirit guide him, and then his tone went soft. He asked if I would join hands with him, which I thought would feel awkward. Instead, somehow it felt comforting. With his eyes closed, he asked me what I wanted help with. I said my biggest struggle was self-confidence and battling with the voice inside my head. I said I wanted to share my story and give hope to just one person, that I wasn't anything special and hadn't achieved anything great, wonderful or fantastic, and therefore felt as though I was unworthy and didn't deserve love. At this point I was in tears.

He asked me if I remembered the small act of kindness I did for someone three months ago. I, of course, thought back to three months ago. Before I could respond, he said I didn't because it was small and insignificant to me, but the person it was done for remembered.

He told me I didn't need to do anything more than just be me and that was enough to be loved and valued. He said there wasn't a list of things I needed to do to earn love. He said while things such as founding Amazon or being the CEO of Tesla were great feats, I didn't need to do something of that magnitude for it to be considered great. If it wasn't to that scale it didn't mean it wouldn't have an impact.

And then words I'd heard many times before from each of my therapists and a handful of good friends began to pour out of his mouth. He said things like being me was enough and that was all I needed to be loved, that there was no amount of things I needed to do to gain love and feel worthy. He said being kind is enough, being generous is enough, being funny is enough. He said if you were to see a stranger who needed a shirt, you'd gladly and without hesitation give him yours. He said sharing my story was important and would reach someone who needed to hear what I had to say.

The tears continued to fall from my eyes and everyone was silent. In a room full mostly of strangers, a man who I'd never met spoke words I've heard dozens of times, if not more, and they were almost verbatim. The difference in hearing them this time was that I listened. I got vulnerable. I didn't resist. I just let the message come to me. 

Call the spirit whatever you want. Call these instances a coincidence, a message from a guardian angel, anything. I think we are being given messages on a daily basis that we need to hear and lessons we need to learn are showing up all around us, and I don't think they're accidents. The phrase I've heard a number of times is you won't really receive a message until you're ready to hear it, and whether I knew it or not in that moment, it was time for me to receive it. 

What I've learned from this experience is that no amount of resistance or fighting is going to keep away what the universe wants you to know. And the more you fight it, the more often it will appear. When it's repeated over and over and over again by the people who love you and care about you, and then it's echoed by someone who's just met you and you only spend a short time together, it's really hard to ignore. The message will keep coming until you finally get it, and it might be brought to you by someone close to you who you love, or it might be a complete stranger. The message may come through a song or a billboard. It's okay to not be ready to receive and accept it. Just know it will be there waiting for you when you are ready to listen to what's being said.

Photo credit Austin Chan, Unsplash

Absolute Yes

Though often vivid, the dreams I have while sleeping usually do not make any sense. When I am in the dream itself, either as an observer or a participant, they seem completely normal; no one questions anything. I had a dream last night about my father and stepmother and it felt very real. And although a large portion of it seemed plausible, there were parts that were puzzling.

My sister, my cousin and I had gone to North Carolina, where my dad and stepmother lived for at least a couple decades and until they both passed away. They were both present and looked as healthy as they ever had. My dad had his beer belly, bird-thin legs, the most hair I remember him ever having, which wasn't much, and of course, his fishing hat. My stepmother was in her normal attire - floral t-shirt, loose khaki pants. Her glasses were set perfectly on her face and her hair hadn't yet grayed. 

My dad and sister were in one room sorting through things, and my stepmom, my cousin and I were in the dining room. Photo albums and papers were scattered across the table that I'm pretty sure they had forever. We flipped through the albums and they were full of various photos of family members, ranging from the two of them to photos with them and my sister and me to pictures of us with our cousins and so on. The faces of everyone didn't look any different than if we were looking at actual photos.

We were doing a purge of their belongings and sorting out what would go to whom. For some strange reason, without it ever being addressed, everyone knew their deaths were approaching. We didn't know when but knew it would be soon. We carried on as casually as we would have during any other visit.

At one point, my sister began packing a box of her things. My dad left to feed the neighbor's dog. Not because he had to, but because he loved animals. The dog was a Labrador Retriever and he and my dad had a special bond. I'm not sure where my cousin was at this time but my stepmom and I were still in the dining room. She left the room briefly and came back with something small and black but I don't recall exactly what it was. She asked what else I needed or wanted, and after I responded, she asked "have I given you both a piece of my heart?"

Back to reality for a minute - I don't remember a time when my stepmom wasn't in my life. She met my dad when we were very young. I was three or four years old, which made my sister five or six. She gave us as much as any mother would, and even more in some cases.

The dream continued with everyone leaving. I didn't see anyone go but I left on a bike with a box of things. I don't know who would travel from North Carolina to Indiana on a bicycle but perhaps in the dream they were much closer to each other. 

I rode for about twenty minutes and realized I hadn't given a hug to anyone and turned back. I was now on a different bike and the box was gone. Instead, I had a small wall shelf, less than 16x20 in size. There was a shelf on top, a chalkboard below and the bottom had a few hooks. I also had a photo of a man but I don't know who he was.

On my way back, I was nearly run off the road by someone driving a semi. He came around the corner but had to maneuver the large truck in an unusual way because someone had planted corn down the middle of the road. 

I cruised along for the next few minutes and saw my dad and stepmom walking. They were holding hands, as they often did, and enjoying the sun that hung high in a flawless blue sky. They were chatting and smiling as they searched for a place to eat lunch. I caught up to them and told them why I'd come back. The three of us continued walking and ultimately ended up back at their house.

When we got inside, I noticed an elderly man in a wheelchair. No one questioned his presence and he moved about the house freely. I saw a soup plate on a small table full of chicken noodle soup. Unsure of how long it had been there, I carried it to the kitchen as broth spilled over the sides.

My dad was in the kitchen tearing bread for his homemade stuffing and we were all working to prepare a Thanksgiving meal. 

That was the end of the dream.

My stepmom died in April of this year, on the one year anniversary of my dad's death. During a few conversations with our stepbrother, we learned she left a few things for us. We drove to North Carolina in June to pick them up. One of the items was a letter she'd written to us. At the end she wrote "and if you ever need to talk, I'll be listening ... always."

In response to her question in the dream, it is an absolute yes. She had given us each a piece of her heart.

Photo by Drahomír Posteby-Mach on Unsplash

Learning What You Were Never Taught

For over a year I've been in therapy and have had sessions weekly, with the exception of a few weeks. The first therapist I started with recently took a leave of absence and will not return until after the first of year. I was able to find another for the interim, or longer if I choose. Oftentimes, I know people have a hard time finding a therapist that is a good fit for them, and maybe I'm a little naive or too willing to settle, but I've found that they are both good therapists for me for different reasons. I've even felt guilty that some people have struggled and moved from person to person trying to find the right one for them and I just settled in so easily.

One topic that comes up in nearly every session with my new therapist - and was often discussed with my first therapist - is the importance of self-care. My definition of self-care before therapy was showering regularly, eating regularly, getting enough sleep. I was immediately told that is hygiene and self-maintenance, not self-care. Self-care was defined by each of my therapists as taking time for myself, on a schedule, with consistency and the intention to do something that brings me joy. Spending money wasn't a requirement. Traveling to an extravagant location wasn't necessary. In fact, many acts of self-care can be done at home for no cost at all. People who aren't me and who are good at this practice already know this but I was never taught. 

I never sat down with my mom to do my makeup, paint my fingernails or play hair salon. I was never told to wear what made me feel good, or do something nice for myself just because. I was never told sitting with my feelings was okay, or to journal about them. I wasn't taught how to share them and express them in a healthy way. I was never told being upset or sad or angry was okay, and I wasn't taught to take time out for myself. 

I remember even as a young child being told what I'd picked out to wear wasn't okay. I picked out things that didn't match. They were either different patterns, or colors that weren't complementary. One thing would be too big, another too small. I was too young to understand why it even mattered, and I still don't know why it did. 

I remember my grandmother taking me shopping before I started fourth grade and she said I could pick out one outfit. I found a small skirt and matching t-shirt (I finally learned how to match). The skirt was multi-colored with fluorescents and the shirt was white with a picture of a lady at the beach, I think, and it was accented with the same bright colors as the skirt. She told me I wasn't allowed to get it. 

I don't care what anyone wears, and I wear what I think is comfortable. I think being able to express yourself through fashion, no matter what you choose, is important. And long after I was able to choose appropriate clothing, I was told what I chose wasn't okay. It didn't matter how I felt in it. It didn't matter how much I liked it. Expressing myself in this way was not okay. I was never shown other ways to express myself, and I certainly wasn't encouraged to do so.

None of this matters now but my takeaway from these experiences is that self-expression is not okay, whether it's by your clothes, sharing your emotions or taking time out for yourself. I'm 41 years old and still believe these things are not okay, and that if I'm sharing my feelings with someone or taking time for myself, I'm being bothersome and selfish. 

If self-care wasn't taught to me, if I can't define what it is and if I feel selfish and guilty any time I put myself as a priority, then how in the world am I supposed to do it? How can I implement self-care into my regular routine? How do I get past the discomfort of putting myself first, making myself unavailable to others? How do I come to believe it's okay and that I even deserve it?

Honestly...I still don't know. Over the past few weeks, I've been really intentional about scheduling self-care. My therapist and I agreed to take time for myself twice a week. Ideally, she'd like me to get in self-care time every day, but, you know, baby steps. I'm not downright refusing to do it. I'm even sure what is creating the resistance to do it. I just don't do it.

My husband and I agreed on a schedule where I'm out of the house, or unavailable if I'm at home, for a couple hours each of the two nights. A couple times, my plans have been disrupted by or canceled due to things out of my control. I made up for one of those nights and was able to purchase some things I need for a project I'm working on.

My first night out, I went to Panera Bread and had dinner alone. I took my laptop to do some reading. When I signed into their wi-fi network, I was told the time limit, due to Covid, was 90 minutes. I stayed about 70 minutes because I was done eating and had reached the end of a chapter. They weren't crowded, or even near it, and I probably could have stayed longer, but I try to follow the rules. 

When I left I went to a nearby bookstore to just browse, but let me be real - if I'm in a bookstore, I'm leaving with something. As soon as I entered, the employee told me they would be closing in thirty minutes. Neither of these was too terrible, but now my self-care had a time limit, and I became a bit frustrated. I walked out with a zodiac candle - Scorpio - and a boxed set of Friends-themed body lotion, body wash and bubble bath.

My therapist was pleased to hear both of these and asked how my bubble bath was. I confessed all of it was still in the box, but said I'd try the following week. Thursday arrived and it was time for the bubble bath. I undressed, put on a robe and applied a clay mask. While the mask set, I grabbed a fresh clean towel, a towel for the floor beside the tub, my bubble bath, my music, my incense and my candle. And then I noticed the toilet needed some attention. I began to fix that problem and then found myself standing on a wet floor. I gathered some towels and dried it up. My frustration had already set in and I was ready to give up, but I had promised my therapist I would try.

I turned on the water to a temperature hotter than what I would shower in, but not so hot it was scalding. As the tub began to fill, I squeezed the bottle of bubble bath into the water and watched the suds form. It honestly looked amazing! I don't recall the last time I took a regular bath, let alone a bubble bath. I do remember my dad giving us bubble baths as kids and he always made us a bubble hat. 

Once the bathtub was full, I started my music, lit my incense and candle, grabbed a cool wet washcloth to wipe the mask off my face, disrobed and stepped into the warm water. I settled in quickly and laid my head back. My therapist told me to soak until the water cooled. That was the plan...

Five minutes later the water was no longer hot. It wasn't warm. It wasn't lukewarm. It was cold. I'm not a genius, but I'm sure the water should have stayed warmer for much longer. I drained the tub part way and turned the knob for hot water. After a few minutes of holding my hand under the faucet, and never feeling warm or hot water, I shut it off completely and let all of it drain. I was done. I immediately started crying, told myself over and over again I couldn't do anything and only an idiot would mess up running a hot bubble bath. I stopped my music, blew out the candle and put on my pajamas. I continued to cry and belittle myself and told myself that doing anything for self-care was pointless. I concluded that I must not be deserving or worth it if this was how it was going to go. My past attempts had been derailed and restricted by time and now this. I felt like a complete failure. 

I can usually find humor in situations like this but I wasn't able to laugh about it this time. I was overwhelmed. I was exhausted. I was defeated. 

These feelings of worthlessness, being a failure and undeserving are not uncommon for me. Belittling myself is a weekly thing at the very least. Trying to undo a habitual way of living, thinking and doing is more than difficult, and there is nothing easy about learning to do something you were never taught. 

Five-year Goals

A few months ago, I was in a small group of people who, through the pandemic, became friends. We lifted each other up when we were feeling down, became accountability partners and encouraged each other to go after their dreams.

We made vision boards and shared them with each other because it’s a well-known theory if you put something out into the universe, it will manifest. I hadn’t made one before but thought it was something that couldn’t really be done wrong. I’ve always had a love of words so most of the things I attached were words, small phrases like “fancy but not too fancy,” “small changes,” “she can,” “I did it,” and other positive words. I included a picture of a large stack of books and a cover someone designed for one of my books that I hope to publish. I put a picture of a piano on there because I’d love to learn to play piano. I had a few other items and thought the board turned out well. I was proud of it. I’m not often proud of myself and even less often do I admit it.

At any rate, I shared my board and was shortly after brought to tears. Someone questioned why I included certain things and asked if it was just thrown together. I cried because I cry a lot. But also because I thought I was among friends, and though some of my dreams may have seemed ridiculous, a vision board isn’t meant to have limits. You are supposed to stretch yourself and imagine yourself doing the unimaginable. I was crushed.

It took me a few weeks after that to hang my board up on my wall. I had convinced myself my dreams were ridiculous. That they didn’t matter. That there was no way I’d achieve any of it anyway. Maybe I won’t ever learn to play piano but I know that is not impossible. I played the flute for 6 years, and though they do not belong to the same family of instruments, I know how to read music.

I’m not sure I’ll ever have a pet monkey or be able to tend a garden properly. But maybe I can. I don’t know. What I know is if I don’t work and don’t start to believe I can do it, I certainly never will. A good friend of mine reminds me of that often – maybe you can or you can’t but if you don’t try, you won’t.

My therapist and I frequently discuss my recurrent episodes of negative self-talk. It’s brutal. I hear one comment that could be a little bit critical and one thought turns into two, then three, then dozens and they don’t stop. I spiral until I’ve talked myself out of anything and everything.

She told me part of what’s holding me back from achieving anything is that I’m too focused on the outcome. I can have dreams. I can speak them into the universe and hope they manifest. But if I focus simply on the outcome, and not the steps I’ll have to take along the way and the things I can do to get there, I’ll never achieve anything. I’m so overcome with a fear of failing that I don’t even try. I’m standing in my own way. No comment from any other person is the reason I can’t do something. My vision board can be covered in things that no one else believes I can do but it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. I have to believe I can and I have to try.

In five years, I hope to be a published author. I don’t know if that means I’ve published one book or ten, and it doesn’t at all mean I need to be a best seller. I just want to publish a book. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a kid and since then, I’ve always written in some way. I’ve journaled, written poetry, blogged and started a few novels. I write simply because I love to write. And if I never publish, that’s okay. But if I continue to work diligently on this goal, I think it is one I can achieve.

I want to be in healthy relationships with myself and my spouse. I know I have to work on myself first but I cannot neglect my husband either. I cannot sacrifice my marriage to make myself better. I need to be better for myself so I can be a better wife. I don’t know what a healthy relationship with myself looks like but with more therapy and more self-reflection, I hope I will learn what that looks like. If I can’t take care of myself, value myself and love myself, I cannot do those things for a spouse or romantic partner.

The other, larger ambition I have is to open a non-profit mental health clinic. I’ve dealt with depression since the age of 13. I’ve had thoughts of killing myself hundreds of times and have attempted it twice. I’ve suffered from a low self-esteem for even longer. I’ve never truly loved myself. Some days, I don’t even like myself. For almost three decades, this is where I’ve been and it is not a fun place to be in. I don’t want to stay here for another 30 years. I’d love to be out of it sooner rather than later.

I’d love to overcome my depression, or at least make it manageable. I’m currently in weekly therapy and am working with a psychiatrist to find the right medicinal combination. Depression is really difficult to treat because it takes a lot of time, especially when medication is involved. There is no magic way of identifying exactly the right medication. And suspecting I have bi-polar, my doctor is having a more difficult time finding the right combination. The one that will make me feel better, not for a day or two, but long-term.

In the span of eight months, my prescriptions have changed probably ten times, the latest change coming just this week. Most drugs of this type take a few weeks to work if they’re going to and it is frustrating to be on something for a month or longer only to learn it isn’t the right one. Despite the number of times we’ve changed, I cannot put into words how grateful I am that I have a doctor who not only loves a challenge, but one who will not stop trying. This is the first time in my life I’ve had someone who is actively trying to help me. The first time I’ve actually been treated. The therapy I was in as a 20-year-old was minimal, short lived, and not helpful at all. Having dealt with mental illness as long as I have, there is a lot to work through.

My challenge has taught me that the way society treats people with mental illness is lacking. BIG. This is why I want to start a facility. I don’t want anyone else to feel like I do, and certainly not for as long as I have. The problems are plentiful though. Diagnosing and treating mental illness takes a lot of time which equals a lot of money. Insurance is great but it doesn’t pay for everything. And for those without insurance, it’s unaffordable in most cases.

I’ve been able to get through some of my toughest times because I’ve had a support system. Some people don’t have health insurance, some people don’t have a support system and some have neither. I don’t think it’s fair that someone cannot be helped and given the proper support to overcome a mental illness simply because they don’t have money.

People who deal with depression don’t have a program that resembles AA or NA. These organizations have helped numerous people navigate alcoholism and addiction. The meetings are free and available worldwide, and attendees are among peers who truly understand how they feel and what they are dealing with. There is nothing like this for people who battle anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation and other mental illnesses. I strongly believe a support system alone would have a huge positive impact.

I want to build a community that offers free counseling, proper medication management where needed, access to free or low-cost prescriptions, and most of all a group of people who can empathize with others. A community who understands what it’s like to fight an uphill battle every day. A community who knows what it’s like to want to be wanted, to be loved, to be accepted. A place where people can share their stories free of judgement and receive positive support.

I hope that in five years I’ve navigated my way through my own depression and am able to offer this support to others. It’s known and said often you can’t love or help others until you love and are able to help yourself. That sounds like a simple concept but I’m really quick to extend love and a helping hand to others and not so swift to do that same for myself.

I hope in five years I can look back at everything I’ve learned from my therapist, mentors and own experiences that I can be a mentor to someone else. I want to help someone else get through the struggle.

If I do it right, maybe I can be a published author of a book about how to navigate through this disease. Therapists have great knowledge. Medication helps to remedy the chemical imbalance. But true experience can provide knowledge that nothing else can.

Opening a service such as this is a lofty goal, and in five years I’ll be a mother of three teenagers! That’s enough work on its own, I’d imagine. But my hope is that, over the course of the next few years, I will be on the other side of this mountain I’m climbing. Making it to the other side means I’ll be equipped to guide my kids through their own challenges. It means I’ll be a better mother and example to them. They deserve better and so do I.

I know we all made five-year goals in 2015 that we thought got wiped away when the pandemic hit in 2020. But maybe they just got rerouted. I don’t know what will happen over the next five years, or even tomorrow. I do know that I want to do better, be better and live better and that’s where my focus will be, no matter what the universe throws at me.