Kate's Motel

What you don't know about your bedspread won't hurt you.

You Can’t Hear My Secret

I can tell you a secret.

I can get it off my chest
have some redemption
throw away some guilt
fold it up small
shove it
the sun

I can show you
corners of my heart
where the real me hides
hoping that no one
ever sees the truth
because what if it’s written all over my face and I’m the only one left that DOESN’T see that

I can take you
inside my Hell
where everything is my fault
and there is nothing I can do to fix any of it.
Where men hate
and women lie
and children cry
and the end

I can show you Love.
I can take you
to the place where love started
foolish and free
with leaves in my hair
and buttons misplaced…
the turning points of my life.

Decisions made and unmade.
I get to do that.

I can sing you my song
but you won’t hear it

But I can still tell you a secret.

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December 16, 2009 Posted by | On Writing | , , , , , | 2 Comments

To Write Love On Her Arms

People who have never suffered from real depression don’t understand. In fact, that’s probably the best way to know that you’ve never been seriously depressed and you should count yourself extremely lucky.

Real depression is a road that no one should have to go down, but over 131 million people do, every single day of their lives. The worst part is that over 2/3 of those people go down that road by themselves. They never find help, they never see the light at the end of their tunnel, and most often they end with substance abuse or worse, suicide.

Depression Road is what I imagine that Hell is like. Your own personal Hell. If someone was able to turn depression into a weapon of war, the human race would be obliterated. It’s lonely, it’s dark, there are monsters, and if you’re there, you can’t find a way out.

I know depression.

I know heartbreak.

I know anger, sadness, fear, humility, and guilt.

I also know courage.

The thing is, I don’t feel courageous. I’m told I am by everyone that knows me, but I don’t always see it in myself. Every single day, I’m bombarded with guilt. It’s all my fault. I have failed both of my children. One of them, so badly that I don’t have him anymore. The other one, I failed in that I wasn’t there for him when he apparently needed me the most. I’ve failed my family. I’ve failed myself.

It’s easier to fall back to that depression than it is to pull myself out of it. It’s easier to eat a half pint of cream cheese icing and sleep for hours than it is to get up and get dressed and go outside to do something. It’s easier to swallow that entire bottle of Oxycontin than it is to live with the hurt, betrayal, and heartbreak. The hardest part of all is finding help. That’s the humiliating part.

What depressed people don’t realize though (and it’s not their fault, the depression doesn’t allow them to see), is that finding help isn’t really that hard at all. You are NOT alone. You DON’T deserve this, and you CAN fix it all. You CAN start over.

Today is To Write Love On Her Arms Day. To Write Love On Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire, and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery. www.twloha.com

When I picked out Carlton’s parents, when I signed the adoption papers relinquishing my rights as his parent, when I left the hospital without the baby I’d just given birth to, I knew I had done the right thing. I was just a few steps lower than what I thought rock-bottom was.

I can tell you with complete honesty, that if I’d not asked for help…I would have been six feet under, three years ago.

You are loved. Find help.

www.self-injury.com (S.A.F.E. Alternatives)

I write LOVE on my arms today. If you stand still long enough, I will write LOVE on yours, too.

I love you.

November 13, 2009 Posted by | advice | , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Best Thing About Me Is You.

I had previously decided that Andy was going to be referred to from here on out as “The Cable Guy”. While that is highly comical for me, since he works for the cable company and it’s fun to joke that I’m only with him for the free cable, the nickname just doesn’t work for me anymore. Andy is “Doo”.
Fifteen years ago during my high school years, we lived in an awesome neighborhood that was just outside the city limits. The individual lots were huge, averaging 2.5 acres each so that it wasn’t really possible to string two cans together between the 2nd floor windows of each house and pretend you had an actual walkie talkie. We had privacy. Not long after we moved into our house, building commenced on the lot next door to us. A family was moving in. It was interesting to me that I knew the boy. We were in the same grade at the same school. Not really friends, but we were aware of each other. His name was Andy. My hetero lifemate Liz and I tried once to get him to come over to my house one afternoon when we saw him outside raking leaves, but I think he must have been afraid of us. He dropped the rake and ran inside without even speaking.

When I turned 16 and got my first car, it was arranged between our parents that we would ride to school together each morning and home together on some afternoons. It worked fine until I totalled my poor Ford Tempo on the rear bumper of a 1938 pickup truck made out of cast iron. That’s another sad story best saved for another day. After my car was no longer in commission, my new carpooling friend, Andy, managed to get himself a Bronco. (I secretly thought it was hot.) He’d bring me home sometimes, but because he was also taking home his good friend John, and John was apparently more important than some silly girl, Andy made me sit in the back seat. (Coincidentally, that’s when I am ashamed to admit that I learned all the words to Shaggy’s Boombastic song. Andy listened to it on his car stereo set to repeat all the way home from school.)

My senior year, I never went to prom. I wanted to go SO BADLY. But I refused to be silently pitied for being the girl that no one would ask out because yeah she’s nice and all and she’s not UGLY per se but she’s not exactly hot either and she’s way more fun to be friends with and I don’t want her to get the wrong idea if I ask her to be my date so there’s no way I’m going to the prom with her. I had tortured myself plenty by attending all the homecoming dances and watching everyone else dance with their guys and slowly dripping into a suicidal state because it seemed like the only guy NOT dancing with someone was the unibrow kid with the weird last name.

Mom told me I should ask the boy next door. I couldn’t ask HIM!! HE had to ask me!! I told mom he had a girlfriend. Turns out Andy never went to that prom, either.

We left high school and our lives separated. He’d moved in with a girlfriend, and I was on my way to becoming a mother. Before we’d blinked good, 10 years had passed. We both had children. We’d both been through some SERIOUSLY hard trials. We both had joined Myspace.

“What does ANY of this have to do with his nickname being Doo?”

Nothing. I just wanted to tell you. 😛

I found out that no one called him Andy anymore. He had matured to Andrew. There was no way I was calling him Andrew. He was Andy to me. But when the impossibly sweet 2 year old daughter of Andy’s roomates began calling him ‘Doo’ because she couldn’t say ‘Andrew’, I knew it was going to stick. And it has.

Doo works hard at the cable company to take care of me and Ryan, Doo reminds me that stuff needs to be done around the house and I try not to forget to do it because I like when Doo is happy but sometimes I can’t help it, Doo makes me laugh, and Doo loves me good. Even though Doo sometimes does things that I want to be mad at him for, like using ALL of my expensive cinnamon and replacing it with craft purpose cinnamon because he wanted to make cinnamon toast, I love him so good right back.  And I think Doo owes me a prom date.

Now Ryan needs a name.


November 8, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , | 3 Comments