“Depression scoops out your insides and tosses them to the winds. Realizing you are depressed is, in and of itself, depressing. Especially since I have been evading this particular diagnostic destiny since I was a child.
It seems ridiculous now, claiming health through diagnostic omission. Lacking a chart in a shrink’s office with my name, I was therefore safe and healthy? I suffered for a lot longer than necessary, and told myself that life was just this hard. That maybe I needed to build a capacity for happy. In darker moments, I shrugged off happy as something that I simply didn’t deserve.”
Think about the time we spend engaged in debate: pleading, proving or otherwise bargaining for ourselves and our perspectives. At work. At home. In the classroom. In our own minds. On social media, especially. Sometimes we offer a point of view rooted in our most cherished beliefs, our deepest convictions. More often, though, we might find ourselves frothily insisting that, yes, we are sure we refilled the goddamn printer paper.
“White people are responsible for our own race education. Problem is, we haven’t exactly proven trustworthy with this task. We tend to hide out inside the vacuum, seeking voices that validate our experiences and don’t challenge us or make us uncomfortable.
Podcasting is a one-way medium. There is no chance for monopolized conversation, no my-black-friend bloviating, no #notallwhitepeople qualifiers. On Another Round Heben’s and Tracy’s voices resonate without interruption, speak the truth, and force us to shut up and, just, listen.”
“Balance stumped me. I rarely drew boundaries to protect and care for myself. I did not neglect my child, but practiced abandonment every single day until I found that I had transitioned seamlessly from neglected child to neglected mother. More isn’t always better, time with children included. Staying at home meant that my child had me all to herself. But it also meant I was left with no self to myself. The sad irony is, if I had kept more for me, I might have had more for her.”
In the little notebook I carry in my purse, there are four scrawled pages crammed between cabinet measurements for our kitchen renovation and notes from an early morning school levy campaign meeting. No essay. No grand reflections. A few stolen moments documented from a folding chair.
I open with the best kissing scene in all of John Hughes history. Better than Sixteen Candles [snooze]. Better than the passionless pecks in The Breakfast Club. Better than any Brat Pack liplock involving Andrew McCarthy. Is it the soundtrack? The juxtaposition of sex and oil pans? Is it the badassery of Mary Stuart Masterson as Watts? No matter. It’s a cocktail of PG-sexy awesomeness.
Behold…the Kissing Lesson from Some Kind of Wonderful.