Unique and Uniquely Broken....

            Do you ever feel like you were born in the wrong time? I love old things. Vintage table cloths, old architecture, old tea pots. I prefer vinyl records over cds. I prefer old blues, old jazz, old swing music. I like the new stuff too, but I always go back to Billie Holiday, Perry Como, and good ole' Frank. When I was kid, I listened to the oldies channel over the pop music my friends listened too. It is how I got a love for Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Aretha Franklin.  In my teens, I was rocking out to The Glenn Miller Band and big band swing music. I love vintage clothes and vintage furniture. Antiques make me extremely happy. Nothing bums me out more than going into an old house that someone has stripped all of the original character out of and made it "modern"....shudder. I mean, some things have to be modernized but leave the molding alone!

Right now, I am obsessed with old feed sacks. They are just so freaking neat. I also have an issue with old signs. I have a whole wall of them in my living room. My husband thinks I have enough, but just like books, I am not sure you can ever have too many. Of course, that could be my slight hoarding tendency trying to come out. I have to be careful or I could totally end up with a basement full of cheap vintage signs and old flour sacks....

I also love old typewriters, old radios, old cameras...ect. I just tend to feel like I was born in the wrong time. Or maybe, I am just weird. At this point, I can't tell the difference anymore. All I know is, I always prefer something old over something new. Like my great grandmother's chipped fruit bowl...I love that damn thing and it isn't worth anything. Except that it was hers and it was special to her because she grew up in the Great Depression and she got it around the time my grandmother was born. It is my most prized piece of china. It is my only piece of china but even if I got the most expensive china in the world, I would still only love this one chipped bowl. I love the vintage tea pots my grandmother gave me. They have lost all of their silver plating. One was from an old hotel in Texas that was given to her by one of her grandmother in law's husbands. Or the other tea pot that was made in the 1800's but has a huge dent in it, is no longer shiny and the lid hinge is completely broken so the lid falls off if you even breath while looking at it. They are worthless monetarily and yet they mean so much to me.


I love old, antique and vintage things so much that even my wedding ring is over a hundred years old. I picked it out myself thirteen years ago because it was unique, hand tooled, lovingly crafted for someone, and old.

 Maybe, I like old things because they are no longer run of the mill, cookie cutter objects. They have a history. I don't want new hardwood floors, I want hardwood that has been worn down for decades by the feet of living, breathing, loving, happily families. I don't want new furniture in my dining room. I want the table that has little scratches where the silver wear was placed for a century. I don't want the things that have no story. I want to add my stories to the things that already have one. I am fascinated by everyday objects that have little mars and scratches and marks from owners past that are a testament of their life experiences. A sign that they were here. I love the history of it all.

Obviously, some things have to be bought new but whenever possible I always go for the old. The down trodden. The underdog. The flawed and less desired because it is not perfect. I go for the tarnished tea pot, the well worn flour sack, the broken typewriter, the rusty sign and I utilize them to been seen in my home. They are my little artifacts of history. Worth nothing to most but so much to me because at one time they meant everything to someone else.... Maybe I like them because I see myself in each dented and cracked object...flawed, sometimes overlooked, bizarre, unique, broken, rusted, and well worn. Maybe these things bring me comfort because I feel we share a sameness. Our value is hidden but still exists just waiting for the right person to recognize it, not only in my little artifacts but in themselves as well. Maybe I like them because they are like tiny mirrors of what I see in myself. Maybe a bit dinged up but still beautiful, still interesting, still worthy of being seen and loved. I like them because they remind me that we are all unique and yet uniquely broken....and we all should be treasured.

Neurotic Nelly

My Mind Is Broken.......

My mind is fragile. Sometimes it feels like a rice paper lantern that has been painstakingly glued back together to hold it's original form. It is thread bare in some places and see through in others. However torn and glued it does illuminate and I hold on to that.

Beauty doesn't come from what others tell you about yourself. It comes from within. Beauty is a state of mind. How can I be beautiful if my mind is broken? My mind is broken? Definitely.

And so it lies there staring at me in the mirror with glassy eyes, bad breath, and an all knowing smirk. I am different. I am an enigma. An oddity.

It  has been a struggle to learn to love the broken person inside my own skin. The broken bits of myself. The over emotional slightly hysterical woman that freaks out when things aren't the way I feel they should be. The angry person that hates when people are mean to each other. The person that cries at sappy Hallmark cards and lovey-dovey commercials or moving stories. The anxiety prone woman that winces at the thought of not having control over certain situations. The germ-a-phobe that scrubs til her knuckles bleed. The over active intrusive mind that shows herself unwanted images that make her want to bang her head into the wall over and over and over again just to make them stop. The insomniac that can't turn these images and thoughts of dread off even when it is three a.m. in the morning and she has to get up at six. The person who can't work. The person who is afraid to take the bus by herself because there are forty million things that could go wrong. The person that sometimes, I swear to God, has the most sluggish brain and can't think fast enough. The over emphatic person that puts everyone else's feelings and needs before hers and has trouble seeing when she is being used or taken advantage of. The guilt ridden sorry excuse of a human being that grovels in shame and guilt for absolutely no reason.The always unsure, never clear, doubter that has doubts even of what she absolutely knows to be true. The word twister that twists her own words in her own mind making her wonder if she offended anyone or hurt their feelings. The health fear promoter that makes herself fear she may have something horribly wrong with her medically. The contamination starter that tries to make her believe she has poisoned herself or loved ones with imaginary substances that are no where near the food...

These are all me. Bits of me floating around in my own broken mind. I have had to learn to forgive them. I have had to learn to accept them. I have had to learn to live with them. I have had to learn to understand them and work with them. Most of all I have to learn to love myself even though I am broken. It is hard because I wanted to rebel. I wanted to hate myself growing up. It was easier to hate myself rather than to look at myself and work on who I am. It was less scary if I just hated and ran away from the truth. But truth never really goes away does it?

Broken things are not ugly. They are unique. One does not simply throw out the Sistine Chapel because the paint is cracking. One does not simply ignore the Sphinx because he has no nose. One does not simply stop visiting the Eiffel Tower because it can not handle one more coat of paint without fear of collapse. One does not simply bowl over the Leaning Tower of Pisa  because it leans. It leans that is the whole point. My mind is broken and that is the whole point. My mind is broken but I am not. These things are imperfect and damaged but they are beautiful. They are one of a kind. They are magnificent and view worthy. They are miraculous designs of life and I am too.

How is one beautiful if the mind is broken? Simple, all things are beautiful. All beings are made the way they are supposed to be. My mind is broken and I am beautiful.

 Bald is beautiful. Jagged scars are beautiful. Brightly colored hair is beautiful. Being young is beautiful. Being brave is beautiful. Your weakest fall to the ground on your knees moments are beautiful. Your courage to get back up is beautiful. Your ability to be gentle when you are the angry one is beautiful. Understanding is beautiful. Misfits are beautiful. Difference is beautiful. Love is beautiful. Being old is beautiful. Being wrong is beautiful. Being right is beautiful. Nature is beautiful. Being odd is beautiful.
Piercings are beautiful. Tattoos are beautiful. Tears are beautiful. Crooked smiles are beautiful. All shapes and sizes are beautiful. Kindness is beautiful. Life is painful and wonderful and gloriously beautiful. Beauty is beautiful and it has no limits or guidelines. It simply is.


So be beautiful. Be you. Own it. Stop apologizing for not being all the things you think you should be. Stop apologizing for not doing all of the things you think you could be better at. Stop worrying that you are less than others. You are not. You are beautiful and strong and perfectly wonderfully you.

Neurotic Nelly

Put It Down.......

We all have  memories that stick out clearly for recall to any situation. A memory that you can apply to almost any situation. It could be a series of them or just one really poignant one. I have several. Like when I was six and I kept trying to ride my Great Dane dog as a horse. She didn't really appreciate my efforts to ride her and my Dad told me dogs were not for riding even if they were almost as big as horses, that didn't mean they were horses. Kind of like the opposite of the adage if walks like a duck and quacks like a duck then it must be a duck. He taught me it might actually be a zebra in duck's feathers. Make sure that you really clearly see people and things for what they are. Just because the resemble something or act a certain way doesn't necessarily mean they are what they appear to be. Also, apparently trying to ride a dog is frowned upon.


Another poignant memory I have from childhood that has applied to me in many ways is when I was around seven and my brother was around eleven years old. My mother and Dad had taken us into a very expensive store. We were scolded and warned in the harsh, authoritative whispers that only a parent can muster out of nowhere. You know the kind of whisper that is so serious that only two words come out at a time leaving slight pauses in speech that emphasize the importance of them. "Do not ........touch anything....in this store. Don't touch anything, don't look at it, don't even breathe on anything in this store."

We looked at each other and then my parents and nodded solemnly further proving that we agreed  we would indeed not touch anything, look at anything, or get close enough to breathe on anything in the store.

Walking behind our parents slowly ,as not to accidentally bump any of the objects for sale, we were dumbfounded. Surely this store was a place of magic.We had been transformed from the cracked sidewalk and hot stifling weather of a summer Texas day into a new world. A new world where everything was beautiful and exciting. Where colorful do-dads, shiny thing-a-ma-jigs, and brilliant baubles lined the shelves. There was fancy china arranged neatly on shelves under a golden glass chandelier. The light bounced cheerily off the crystal wine glasses and glass bowls. The reflections danced around  on  the ceiling like diamonds. The store smelled so strongly of spiced candles that it actually made one's stomach growl in anticipation of what must be cooking. Spiced apple, spiced cookies, spiced whatever....it was a wondrous almost ethereal place. We were too stunned to even move. It was the holy grail of all things beautiful, or at least it was to my seven year old mind.

My mother turned to remind us yet one more time not to touch anything and we nodded again in agreement. Then it happened. In my mind it plays as a slow motion reel. As she turned back around her giant purse circa 1985 ever so slightly tapped one of the stately shelves lifting the edge of her purse just high enough to tip over one glass goblet after another creating a cascade of beautiful broken glass tumbling onto the floor with such force it looked like a shattered waterfall. The sound was that of some horridly fast screeching comet crashing into the earth at break neck speed. I believe the sound can only be described correctly as "A bull in a china shop".

We all stood there frozen. It seemed like ages before my ever so observant brother tilted his head towards my ear and whispered with awe mixed with complete and utter shock,"We didn't do it this time." We stood there wide eyed as big as saucers and mouths agape. And although there was great apprehension in how the store owner's would react there was a slight smugness, a slight giggle that we forced down, specifically because mother was so worried about what we would do that it never occurred to her to be equally careful and maybe leave her ginormous purse in the car.

The store owners accepted mother's apology and we promptly left the magical store. My brother and I giggled a little to the car.  To this day he and I find this quiet amusing. My mother....not so much. It turns out the store had this happen several times and my mother's massacre of all things shiny and breakable was the last straw in how they placed the glassware. They removed that particular display.


What this has represented to me in my life as a lesson is that it is not always the things you think are going to cause problems that actually do. Just like our general health. We often are so consumed with physical health that we may overlook the importance of mental health. Mental illness can, in fact, come into your life and cause many beautiful things in your life crashing to the ground. Like self esteem, confidence, the illusion of control over our lives, our friendships and relationships, our jobs or schooling. It can be the giant purse from 1985 that knocks everything off the shelves and you end up shocked and dumbfounded not knowing where you stand in anything anymore. We often do not realize that mental illness is a possibility, leaving us caught unaware and unprepared. We treat it differently rather than if we were just diagnosed with diabetes. No one whispers about you when you just have high blood sugar. They do, however, tend to whisper when you have been diagnosed with a mental illness. And when being diagnosed we sometimes forget to take into consideration that we are in fact carrying it around like a hideous satchel that takes up to much space and never matches our outfits. We forget to pay attention to when the satchel becomes to heavy a burden to carry by ourselves. We get busy. We get stressed. We ignore the signs because we think we don't have time to take care of our mental needs. We knock over display shelves.

So my post is really about learning to recognize the signs of mental illness.  Learning to pay attention to not only when your body is telling you you need to be wary but also when your mind is telling you it needs help as well. There is absolutely no shame in asking for help and if someone thinks differently then they do not have your best interests at heart. Take time to not just look at what is going on with others that you care about around you but also take a very careful look at what is going on with you and where you are. Not just at this moment in time but in every situation. It's important. You are important.

So put down that ugly purse and take a load off. Rub your feet, take in a movie, read a book. Don't keep dragging that albatross around everywhere you go and not take care of yourself every once in a while, and never....I repeat never try to ride a dog. They don't like it.
Neurotic Nelly.

Broken Ballerinas

As a child I used to take my candy money and go to a small junk store. This store sold antique gas signs, hubcaps, and various junk. The store was a dark disheveled mess that smelled slightly of motor oil and grease. The man ,whom I secretly believed was a magnificent collector of all things thrown away, would pull out a cardboard box for me. It's contents were my precious treasures. Broken ballerinas that had been separated from their jewelry boxes. Beautiful ballerinas that were no longer destined to dance and stand. They could be played with and collected. They could be bunched together as to never live a lonely existence again. I loved them with their different paint colors and hair styles. My little plastic delights. I spent everyday there until I had finally purchased every last one he had saved for me. I kept them in my generic eighties music box with pink satin interior that played Rain Drops Are Falling On My Head. I would spend large amounts of my childhood playing with them and making them twirl to the sounds of my music box. It was a comfort. I kept them always and when I grew older instead of playing with them I would occasionally take them out and look at them. My little treasures. They were like me, broken but beautiful, strong but small, colorful and different. Some were newer and some were antiques but I loved them all equally.

 At sixteen I moved back down to Texas. We were living in a one room house beside my grandmother and grandfather till we could get back on our feet. All of our belongings were stored in a big shed next to our tiny home. Not long after moving we had a drought. The grass had turned to yellow tufts. The ground had such deep cracks in it that one would imagine they reached straight to the depths of Hell. There had been declared a state wide burn ban. No one was allowed to burn fields or garbage. Cigarettes were supposed to be snuffed out in ashtrays or in water. No fireworks were going to be allowed on the fourth of July if this continued. That day was hot and windy. My mother, grandmother, and I went to go get bbq. My grandfather, who had a heart condition stayed home. There were tall grey black clouds in the sky. Darker than I had ever seen and I felt uneasy every time I looked at them. Something was wrong but I had no idea what. On our way home we were stopped by a road block. The main street was closed and we had to take an alternate path back to the house.We saw fields with fire blowing across the street and many brave farmers and volunteer firefighters trying to put it out. It was still far enough from our home to not be a worry. The acrid smell of smoke was thick in the air and hung like a wet blanket. Not unusual for Texas in the dead of Summer. As we reached home we ate and watched the news. Some moron had decided the burn ban was not anything to listen to and had burned some garbage in a barrel. The wind had blew the barrel over and the fire had spread over two whole counties. Right then, there was pounding at our door. The fire had finally made it to our street and the volunteer firefighters were trying to get everyone out in time. We loaded up into our vehicles. My grandmother went first in her van. My mother and I got into our car and waited for my grandfather to get the insurance papers and get into his van. It took him a little longer than he expected and we were getting worried. Then as he got into the van, like any good slasher film the stupid thing refused to start. By this time the fire had climbed the trees snapping and crackling. It was a hungry beast that devoured everything in it's path.  The earth had turned into a sweltering sea of orange, red, and black. The fire had now become a forty foot wall of flames bearing down on us and grandpa's stupid van was not cooperating. I believed that we were going to be roasted to the spot. I believed that we were going to die. The van finally jumped to life and we drove like bats out of hell. At the safe point people were staring at us. I couldn't figure out at what until I went to go to the bathroom. The restaurant was full and everyone was gawking at me because I was covered head to toe in thick soot. Our street was closed for three days. Our crazy brave neighbor had managed to save our houses by watering them down with the water hose and leaving it running on the butane tank. If he had not done this, the tank would have exploded like everyone else's had on the other side of our property. Because of him we were the last house on the street to still be standing. He could not, however, save the shed. The next few weeks were filled with grieving the losses. Many had lost pets, belongings, and homes. Many were not near as lucky as we were and we were thankful. My grandfather mourned his golf clubs, my mother mourned her couch and other furniture. I mourned my childhood that had turned to ash. My first teddy bear, my clothes, my awards and yearbooks, letters from friends and family, and most of all my broken ballerinas. They were now an ugly kaleidoscope of blackened glass, melted plastic, and warped metal. There was no trace of what these items had been beforehand. The were all black chunks of char. I never collected them again. There was no point in trying to relive the past. The beautiful ballerinas were left like I felt, melted. I loved them because like me the were broken. Like me they were unique and different. Like me they were lonely until I found them. Now they were gone. I was lucky to have still had a home. I was blessed to have had a few extra years with my grandfather. This event taught me that things are not really as important as you might think. I miss the ballerinas, but I don't need to have them.  I do think of them often. I wonder if any little girls collect things like that anymore.  And still anytime I walk past a music box in the store I always take a second to carefully wind it and see if it plays Rain Drops Are Falling On My Head.

                                              Neurotic Nelly

On Days Like This

On days like this I find it hard to be upbeat. On days like this my mental illness is showing again. On days like this I collect all of my imperfections in a glass jar and drink them down. They taste dirty and bitter. I drink them over and over until I feel like throwing them back up. On days like this I don't want to get out of bed. I would rather dream. But I have things to do, places to go, and people to see. People that want to tear off bits and pieces of me like I am a coveted loaf of bread. Maybe a stale loaf of bread but they are hungry so it doesn't really matter. On days like this I listen to music. Happy or moving tunes to get me out of this whole I have dug for myself, one shovel of dirt and gravel at a time. On days like this I am spilled red wine on my grandmother's white linen table cloth. On days like this I have no philosophy.  I am too tired to ask questions, too exhausted to seek answers, and too damned weary to know the difference. I just keep plugging along. On days like this I cry myself to sleep. Salty tears are my nighttime beverage. I don't need to be shattered from the inside. I am already broken. I am the derelict toy car that now only goes in circles. I am the rag doll with the missing eye. The teddy bear with bald patches of fur.The favorite sweater with the missing button. I am dried out marker tips and melted crayons. I am the stamp collection that has gotten warped and damp. On days like this I am the lost bird calling from the cliffs. I search and search for my location. On days like this I am ashes in the wind. I scatter with the slightest of breezes. I am frightened. I am unsure. I am complicated. On days like this my stomach growls but nothing seems appetizing. I will probably fill my stomach with too much coffee and cigarette smoke. I am weary but I am trying to turn this day around. On days like this I am haunted by my own fears. My own accusations. My own desperation. On days like this I am quiet and contemplative. I will drop everything that falls into my hands. I will forget to check the mail. I will probably burn dinner. I will definitely not sleep well. That's ok. I am not too worried. There is always tomorrow and you never know what tomorrow has in store for you. Maybe tomorrow I will feel like the queen of Sheba. Maybe I will feel like superman. Maybe I will feel like me again. As long as tomorrow is not another day like this.....
                                                                                 Neurotic Nelly

Adaptation

Yesterday, I fell down my flight of stairs. The result being that as I fell my hand got caught between the railing and the wall. I broke my right middle finger along with bruising my left elbow and side pretty severely. I currently resemble someone who has been attacked by angry, bat wielding leprechauns.  The downside being that I now have to see my local hand surgeon to make sure it will heal properly and the fact that it hurts unlike anything I have ever felt before nor care to again. The only upside, and I do mean only upside, is that I no longer have to express my feelings to people I am angry with because I now am inadvertently flipping everyone off when I wear the splint.( If you are wondering how I am typing this I am slowly stabbing at the keyboard with my left index finger.) Like most people who are right handed it has been difficult for me to function. I am now unable to zip up my coat, buckle my own seat belt, and open things. Having to have my husband do these things for me makes feel like I am five years old and  I hate it. What is worse is that I have now realized how important my right hand is to me. I am blind in my right eye. I was born that way. It looks like it works but the vision is so bad that my brain purposely ignores the vision from it when my left eye is open. My brain has adapted so that I can see well enough from my left eye to function. I have little to no depth perception. I can not drive. I am always falling or running into things. I can not see things when it starts to get dark. My right eye is only good for peripheral vision. And it sucks at that too.I hated being forced to play sports in school because as the balls would be kicked or thrown into the sky I would cover my face and not look up. I could not tell where the ball would come down at and I was terrified that it would hit me in the face. You only have to be hit in the face once with a ball to gain a healthy fear of it happening again. When I was six, an eye doctor instructed my parents to have me wear an eye patch over my left eye to force my brain to use the right eye.I remember that it was Summer and hot. The patch itched and was sweaty. I was even more clumsy than usual. I hated it and spent the whole summer feeling like a defunct nerdy pirate. Other than making me miserable wearing the patch did nothing to help my eyesight. I now realize that I adapted by using my right hand to "see" for me. That I use it to feel my way around. I clutch things tighter so not to drop them if I bump into anything, I put out that hand in front of me in the dark to find the walls so I don't run into them, I use my right hand to be my eyes. And for the next few weeks I am going to have to adapt and use my left hand to not only open and close things but to also "see" for me. Keep in mind that it took me five minutes to open the milk jug with it last night. I am a little worried I am going to become more familiar with the walls than I'd like to be. All of this came to me last night as I laid there trying to figure out the best way to prop up my hand to quell the throbbing  People with mental illness have an amazing ability to adapt. Now, that may sound crazy to some people, but it is the truth. Many of us with mental illness have had to learn to adapt to live. We adapt to be able to work, to go to school, to leave the house. Some of are not able to do those things but  adapt to living house bound. In a world that terrifies us we have made our home a sanctuary. Which is an adaptation of sorts. Many people with mental illness have adapted to become creative people. We not only suffer for our art but our art is so good because of our understanding of our suffering. Many of the most famous writers, poets, and artists of our time suffered from mental illness. Ernest Hemingway was a prolific writer that suffered from severe depression. Sylvia Plath was an amazing poet who suffered from severe depression also, Vincent Van Gogh is rumored to have suffered anxiety and depression although there is no proof of exactly which mental illness's besides depression he suffered from. I think we can all agree that if you cut off your own earlobe something is not quite right in your mind. These people adapted by creating some of the most famous and amazing works of art. Sadly, until twenty years ago mental illness mostly misunderstood and not treated properly. Had it had been, these amazing people might have gone on to create even more amazing works. They might have been able to manage their illness to the point that they could have lived out their lives with a lot less pain and despair.We that live with mental illness, have learned to adapt to our situations and be able to function. It may not be the way the other part of the world functions, but it is unique to us. It works for us.We adapt and learn to live. We all have talents and are passionate about them. Whether we are advocates, teachers, writers, poets, photographers, painters, or musicians we are using our adaptions for art. We are adapting our pain into beauty, understanding, and honesty. We see the world from a different view and that is exceptional. And as we keep adapting, we help the world to understand us. We are changing the world one song at a time. One book at a time. One picture at a time. One poem at a time. We are changing the world one post at a time.