moosh in indy.

I don’t rant very often.

But I spent the afternoon with my family at the mall.

Shoe shopping.

We were woefully unsuccessful.

And I left grumpy. But not because of the shoes.

Because of the teenagers.

Let me say this, neither Addie or Vivi will ever be allowed to leave the house in shorts or skirts that end above their fingertips.

There wasn’t a single girl wearing these…things, who wasn’t constantly pulling them out of her crotch.

I saw more butt cheek fold today than I’ve ever seen on MTV, VH1 and E! combined. ON TEENAGERS.

I had to physically restrain myself after seeing a MUCH OLDER MAN ogle a girl in a short skirt.

I wanted to take her to the side, grab her by the shoulders and say “HONEY. YOUR BUTT. IS HANGING OUT. WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE (11 years ago?) THAT WAS ILLEGAL. A MAN OLDER THAN YOUR DAD JUST ENJOYED LOOKING AT IT. COVER THAT UP. HAVE SOME RESPECT FOR YOURSELF.”

Then there were the bare midriffs.

YES.

Never have bare midriffs been acceptable unless you are on the beach/pool, near a beach/pool or walking to the beach/pool. Even then? Bare midriffs are debatable. With this being the case about bare midriffs, they are certainly not okay on TEENAGERS at the MALL in INDIANA in SEPTEMBER.

Google “cute teen clothing?”

YOU GET THIS.

WHEN DID THIS BECOME OKAY?

Google “modest teen clothing?”

You get…well. Let’s just say some people have some ideas about over the top modesty.

Shouldn’t there be some middle ground?

That being said, there were some girls who did cover themselves. Who dressed to flatter their body instead of flaunt it. I wanted to congratulate them. Thank them. THANK THEIR MOMS. The best part? They were the ones that stood out in a sea of non existent denim and tiny tank tops with multi colored bras hanging out from underneath them.

So.

That’s my rant.

(See also, ice cream is more delicious this week than other weeks. Make of that what you will. *ehem*)

Oh Addie.

I am so proud of you it makes my throat itch.

Hey, remind me again, who was that first grader who read a third grade level book out loud, to her class?

Oh yeah, that was you.

There is so much worry these days about young girls being sexualized before they have a chance to realize their true worth and capabilities. You my love, my beautiful curly headed daughter with the gangly legs, sprinkle of freckles and eyelashes for days?

You are becoming the smart girl. You are bordering on dork. Nerd. Smartypants. Bookworm. Brainiac.

And I couldn’t be more proud.

I was the smart girl. I was the quirky weird dork who loved reading and had an affinity for Shakespeare long before anyone else in my class could spell Hamlet. I dazzled the ACT (32.) I sailed through the ACT (1423.) I looked forward to geometry and never got less than an A- through high school. National Honors Society? Yep.

But here’s my confession. One very few people know.

I dropped out of high school my senior year. Because of a boy.

After interviewing with colleges I went to his house full of excitement about scholarships, far off places (Texas to be exact) and figuring out what I wanted to be when I grew up.

He was a high school drop out too. He asked me why I even bothered staying with him if I was just planning on leaving him for college.

Who knows what I would have become had I kept those college brochures in my hands instead of dropping them for him. There’s really no sense in wondering.

I would have never met your dad had I left that day with the pamphlets and without a boyfriend.  I would have never gotten the highest score possible on the GED. Vivi wouldn’t be here. This blog wouldn’t be here. YOU wouldn’t be here.

You, my intelligent baby with my ears and my blue eyes.

There is nothing wrong with being smart.

And anyone who tells you otherwise?

Is just jealous.

Stay geeky my love.

****

Speaking of geeky, I babbled the seedy underbelly of Nursery Rhymes.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I have a folder in my email titled “Warm Fuzzies” where I keep the kind heartfelt words that are sent to me. I have to be careful when I dip into them because they bring me to tears every time.

I generally receive the most emails when I am lost in my own brain. I read over them, file them away and when I’m able, I go back and respond to them.

“…Reading your blog made me feel like I wasn’t the only one. It made me smile, it made me laugh, it made me tear up.

I minored in English in college, but I was never able to harness my words and wrangle them into the style I wanted. Reading your blog is like reading my own thoughts that I was never able to turn into a worthwhile read…”

Often times I am unable to write much more than “Thank you.” But what I truly wish is that they could *feel* the thank you that is in my heart. The overwhelming gratitude that leaves me staring at my screen in disbelief at all of these tender injured souls who found comfort in something I wrote.

“…’You are not the only one who regrets their children on the bad days.‘
is burned into my brain.
It is the worst feeling I have ever felt.
It is such the horrible, honest truth.
And I thank you so much for telling me/making me feel like I wasn’t alone…”

I’ve wanted to share parts of these emails for a long time. But I was never sure how to do it without it coming across as a big “LOOK HOW WONDERFUL I AM! *glitter glitter* APPLAUSE HERE” But the truth is I get a lot of emails me asking how I do it.

‘It’ being honesty about my mental illness.

“…Then after I read what you wrote, I realized that we do have a close relationship.  She will be fine as long as I continue to shower her with love, despite the overbearing cloudy days.  Basically, I just wanted you to know that you helped me feel at ease that everything will work out.  So, thank you for your honesty and opening my eyes to your situation…”

I have a hard time responding to questions like that, and then I remember my Warm Fuzzy folder. In it there are currently 66 reasons why I do “it.” Why I am honest about my struggles. 66 people who I have helped. 66 people who were able to find words about their own struggles and emotions because I was honest about mine.

“…Casey, I cannot tell you how much it is helping me to read these words from you.  I have never, not ever, found anyone who was willing to share, explain, put it into words that made sense or even came close to expressing how much it hurts.  And when you talk about this I don’t feel like such a freak show…”

Can anyone do it? Maybe. But there are still a lot of social stigmas around mental illness. Should you do it? If you can, yes. Even if no one ever reads it. There are days when writing is easier than breathing for me. And the first time someone thanks you for helping them feel not so alone? You’ll never forget that. Ever. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend, a stranger or your mom. Your story can and will help people.

“…The world is a better place because people like you exist in it…So thanks for being you, Casey. Even though we don’t know each other, I look up to you a lot. Your ability to fight back…I hope you know how many of us find this inspiring. I’m rooting for you. We all are…”

I’m beginning to realize that what drives me the most, as well as what drives others who admit to emotional defeats is that we want nothing more than to be well. To be better. Even though I know I will never be healed from this disease, I have hope for those good days.

And hope makes anything possible.

Anything.

**************************

This post is sponsored by Hallmark’s “Life is a Special Occasion” campaign.