"Humpty, If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times not to sit on that wall. But would you listen to me? No-o-o-o!"—Humpty's Mother
Divorce shattered my home into a gazillion pieces. I scrambled to put my fragile shell back together again. Humor helped. Knock pain off the wall with laughter that heals. This picture cracked me up.
"There is a time to weep and a time to laugh." Ecclesiastes 3:4 NAS
Solo parenting heaped stress and mourning upon my soul. Seeing the absurd humor in the ridiculousness of life relieves my stress. Trust me, laughter is the best medicine. Seriously! Big Larry overheard this in New York City on the Grand Concourse at 158 Street. Enjoy!
Thug on cell: Yo, hearse rent a car? Yo man, I need to rent a hearse. Yeah, I'll hold. (pause) Y'all don't rent no hearses? Why y'all call yoselfs hearse rent a car? (pause) Word? Well, I need to move a body, maybe you got a van or something? (pause) I don't care, I just need to move his dead a--. (pause) Cargo van? Whatever. Yeah.
Thug's friend: Ask if they got am'blances.
"It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness."—Eleanor Roosevelt
Do the holidays make you…
F
A
L
L
A-P-A-R-T?
I never planned to be a solo parent—or depressed. Numerous studies reveal that single parents, especially moms, are at greater risk for depression any time of the year.
Our daily "Must-Dos" are longer than Santa's gift list. The holidays heighten our multiple life stressors and decreased social support. This time of year also reminds us of all our losses—marriage, family, income, lifestyle, and home. Situational depression—feeling sad or unhappy—around the holidays is normal.
If you experience several of these symptoms and they will not go away, you're suffering from clinical depression.
If the holiday blues pitch you into a black hole, pay special attention to yourself. Don't bury your head and fill in the pit with more dirt. Depression is hard to dig out of alone. Ask for help and support.
"The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."—Psalms 34:18 NAS
Every fall after my divorce a silent shadow tiptoed up, cloaking me in darkness. For a number of years, I failed to recognize its stealthy intrusion.
Holiday depression.
As Thanksgiving and Christmas raced towards me, I felt anxious. Happy memories of "the way we were" haunted me. I grieved dreams that collided with reality. Even looking at my china made me sad, as I recalled happier family times gathered to enjoy the holiday feast I lovingly prepared. The empty chair at our table was excruciating.
When hard-pressed, I dutifully and grudgingly expressed "what I'm thankful for." But my mind raced, spitting out a litany of things I wasn't thankful for that year. It seemed as if everyone's lives went merrily along, leaving the remnants of my family behind. I was too angry to embrace gratitude. I wished things were different. I wanted more than anything for the pain and sadness dominating my emotions to go away.
I felt like the condemned Thanksgiving turkey celebrating this holiday against its will. As a victim of foul play, I was less than delighted that I was not spared the agony divorce served up on my family's holiday platter.
I leaned into the grief and embraced each recovery stage: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally—acceptance.
As I cycled and sometimes recycled through a phase towards personal wholeness, I accepted invitations from co-workers who allowed me to just sit and eat—grief stricken—among more joyous revelers. I found myself laughing at their jokes, even as my heart wept.
How we live our lives and treat others every day of the year.
I realized that being thankful was not what I said about my blessings, but how I used them. I acknowledged those who were less fortunate by volunteering to serve them a Thanksgiving meal. I offered compassion to other single parents newer on grief's path as we put our arms around each other in search of freedom from pain.
When my sons visited their dad, I appreciated small mercies like a welcome day off. Sleeping in. A long soak in a hot bath—uninterrupted. Staying home alone. Not celebrating with turkey and all the trimmings or enduring football.
At some point, I realized I felt relieved that I no longer had to awake early every Thanksgiving morning to stuff the bird, spend nearly six hours in the kitchen cooking, devouring the feast in thirty minutes or less, and then cleaning and putting leftovers away for at least another hour.
I appreciate the annual "stuff the freezer with cheap turkey" chase. Once I gave the boys $6. All three of us stood in the checkout lane to buy our one-per-customer $5 turkey. I laughed as my six and nine-year-old paid for their personal seventeen-pound birds. Kyle's turkey was bigger than his chest. Whether I spent Thanksgiving alone or with my sons, I managed to stuff at least one $5 turkey into my small freezer for Christmas day.
I knew I had healed when I invited friends to my home for Thanksgiving. I repainted my table and chairs, reupholstered the seats, and drove to three grocery stories to gather fresh herbs to brine my $5 turkey.
Today, I feel like the pardoned Thanksgiving turkey, set free from pain. Unlike the turkeys who receive the official Presidential pardon, I will not be strutting my stuff at Disneyworld.
However, I'm relieved that anguish no longer consumes all feelings of joy and thankfulness. Even so, sometimes parenting alone drags my emotions back into the oven, making me think, I can't take the heat.
Apart from some anxious gobbling, these days I choose to be an ungobbled gobbler. I observe Thanksgiving Day every day—by anticipating God's new mercies, strength for today and hope for tomorrow.
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