This Little Light

Sometimes Kathryn and I forget that we’re snuggled in soft cushions. Our world is full of love and acceptance and light.

We forget the world is still harsh and cold in many places, to many faces.

And then someone comes along and ‘lovingly’ slaps us with their version of ‘truth.’

Someone who once cared for me, babysat me when my dad was in the hospital, someone I considered an extra parent when my parents were overcome by my brother’s illness.

She doesn’t know how much this slap stings. She posted something on my mother’s facebook, something she thought my mother needed to hear, because “it is the truth of the Word of God.”

Her version of truth, that my mom needs to hear, because my mom is openly supportive of her gay daughter.

Me – in all my gayness – she loves.

Kathryn – in all her gay-itude – she loves.

Us – in all our queer-marriage-homo-loving-rainbow-coloured-PRIDE – my mother loves and accepts and celebrates and supports.

Do you see the difference between ‘loving’ someone and loving someone?

My mother, with her fierce love to protect and nourish, wildly embraces what is best for me – the union of my heart and soul with the one who brings light into my world, this woman next to me.

Our gender is irrelevant – to us, to our parents, to God.

But the slap stings still, because my heart aches for all the gay kids (young and old) that don’t have the soft cushions to protect them from these hurts. My heart breaks for the ones who believe they are not enough. The ones who have been told their love is not pure, not sacred.

My love for Kathryn is sacred.

How could anyone suggest otherwise?

And the slap stings because I still get scared. Because I too, as much as you, am vulnerable to fear and shame. And whether those voices rage or whisper, their message is the same. Gay is not okay. Or, the thinly veiled version “gay is okay, but straight is better.”

So where should I turn when the world slaps me for who I love?

The small voice inside me, the one that still sings,

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.


Why Write?

You may have noticed that I haven’t written as much this year as I was writing last year. There are some obvious reasons for this. While I was in the hospital, there were a lot of really strong emotions to process, changes to my mental health were happening frequently, and I had less communication with friends and family simply because I was not at home. So I used writing as a way to understand my own experience, and to share what was happening with the people who expressed concern.

But there are also some more subtle reasons why I have written less. At the depths of my illness, my living was very moment to moment focused. I had little concern for how the actions of that moment affected the future, and this had both positive and negative consequences.  In order to publish a piece on One Deep Breath now, I spend a lot more time thinking about what I want to say, how I should or shouldn’t say it, whether it will be received well and what implications it might have for the future. Some of this is natural and appropriate, but sometimes it becomes fuelled by anxiety and I fear leaving some kind of trail of my illness that might negatively affect me in the future (say for a job, as an example).

I also spend more time worrying that what I am saying may be meaningless, that I’m just sending out words into a void that have little to no effect. Or that at some point in the future I may not agree with what I have previously written. My writings are my thoughts now, in this moment, but I (as all of us) am in process and my thoughts grow, evolve and change overtime. This is particularly true when I write about issues of spirituality.

And here’s a truth I am hesitant to admit. Although I know the reason the number of views on One Deep Breath has dropped this year is because I am writing so much less, I sometimes worry it’s because I am not writing as well as I was. I think people are no longer interested in my voice, it has become redundant and tired. When I’ve posted new content recently, I’ve felt compelled to watch the views climb (which is about as fun as watching paint dry). I’ve felt disappointed that One Deep Breath isn’t reaching ever greater levels of popularity. And for awhile, it’s discouraged me from writing.

So I am left trying to answer this question: why do I write on One Deep Breath? I have said before and still believe that I write as a way of processing my thoughts and emotions, that writing is therapeutic, and that qualities like love, peace and hope must be cultivated like a garden and writing is one form of that work.

However, these are benefits that are solely for my own sake. Could these goals not be achieved by writing in a private diary rather than publishing my writing online? There is of course one difference between writing online and writing privately – and that is my readership. I have approximately 100 subscribers, and each post I publish tends to get about 50 views or so. I believe an overwhelming majority of these subscribers are individuals who know me personally – friends or family members who have a personal interest in my journey with mental illness, issues surrounding being gay, and my work with adults with developmental disabilities. But I also know that some of you have found me through the Mental Health Writer’s Guild, are fellow WordPress bloggers, or individuals who also experience and/or write about mental health issues.

The biggest motivating factor for sharing my writing on mental illness publicly is to tell other sufferers of mental illness that we are not alone. Stigma around mental illness is still profound. I share my story because I believe empathy and compassion is built through dialogue. Awareness is key, and by saying “I have this illness and this is how it affects my life,” I open the door for others who experience similar illnesses to do the same. Additionally, my writing gives those who have never struggled with such dark emotions, or experienced the inside of a mental illness, a window to increased understanding.

So I find myself asking – do I care if anyone reads this? Do I care how many views, likes, comments, or shares each post receives? Sometimes my ego does care. Sometimes I get caught up wishing my blog was more popular, or that it got noticed by the wider internet world. There is a little rush of affirmation when someone says they appreciate my writing, or they comment on, like or share a post. But these ego-boosts are not the reason I write, or at least they should not be. Don’t get me wrong, I still want people to comment, like or share posts if they feel they connect to the content. If a goal of One Deep Breath is to reduce the stigma of mental illness then the wider the audience is, the better. But – and here’s the point of this whole post – the number of views I receive for each post is not indicative of my self-worth. This may seem obvious, but I think we’re all vulnerable to this kind of thinking. The world of social media fuels a desire for ever increasing amounts of acknowledgement from our peers that we are smart, funny, talented, gorgeous, etc.

So I’ll just put this here for when I need the reminder: I am not my Facebook likes. Maybe I should even say it out loud: I am not my Facebook likes. I am not the number of views One Deep Breath receives. My value, as a writer and as a human, is affirmed by nothing and no one but me. I write for me.

I am so much more. We are so much more.

Whatever Happens

Tonight, she is the moon.
She is the light on my horizon.
She loves with her whole soul and reminds me to breathe.
I am more wholly me because of her love.

Tonight, she is depth.
She is the northern lights.
She finds beauty in pain and hopes with abandon.
This love persists beyond fear.

Tonight, she carries flowers.
She is early signs of spring.
She warms my heart with her touch and steals my breath with her smile.
Home is wherever I’m with her.

We live these sacred moments.
Whatever happens, this is.


How Are You?

I can’t write! It’s driving me crazy. I’ve sat here, trying to type out words… blank blank blank. There is so much pent up emotion, swelling underneath the surface and I… can’t… find… my… voice. It is beyond frustrating. Is everything I write wasted space? Is this blog just self-pitying, or too dark? What line exists between vulnerability and exposing?

I feel lost in so many ways: spiritually, in my recovery, in getting back to work. Everyone is congratulating Kathryn on her new job, and I’m so happy for her (she loves it) and relieved for us financially.

And then they turn to me and say “and how are you doing?” And I have no FUCKING clue, no answer to give them. I’m adrift, anchor less, rudderless.

Usually what follows is the inevitable deluge of suggestions: set some small goal for yourself each day, find a project to focus on, get outside, exercise more, don’t let yourself sleep in, build routine. Yes, all of this would be so easy if I could haul myself out of bed, maybe brush my teeth, and actually eat something.

Maybe I’m just making excuses? Can a person with depression still make a grocery list and go to the store and buy what we need?

Can I swallow that damn pill that I hate so much but some how makes it easier to cope? The truth is, I haven’t taken my meds in a week. I hate them. I know tons of people take meds for tons of things. I feel like it changes me. But I also hate how I behave when I’m not taking them. So unstable. I know not taking them isn’t helping me reach any of my goals. I know it’s only making things harder. So why do I keep resisting?

Honestly, I am FUCKING scared. Recovery scares me. Back to work scares me. I’ve been off for more than a year. And before that I was never super consistent when it comes to work.

All of this just comes tumbling out and I can’t say any of it without feeling such shame.