BATTER UP WITH ACORNS

I was sitting in my neighbor's driveway, putting together a surprise goody box for her 94th birthday. Big crash. Like glass crash. I grabbed the goods and jumped out of my new car expecting to see a huge crack in my windshield. Two chunks of a huge split hickory shell were lying in the wipers grill. I couldn't see the guilty party but I did feel the force behind the pitch was aimed at my car.

That time of year again.  I woke up this morning and realized today was the day, the primary day of acorn flinging, Drop Day. Elephants running across our roof.

We do not have tickets to the World Series.  At this late date, all the baseball uniforms of every team are at the cleaners.  So who is running bases on my roof?

It is that time of year again, the Squirrel World Series.  Day barely breaks before they are playing with acorns as big as crabapples.  And they can’t catch!  If I sneak out on the deck, I can hear the fans singing “Take Me Out to the Taylor Tree,” smell the popacorn and hear little bitty cans of Nut Beer popping open, all before 7 a.m.! Bases are loaded.

Drop Day is a big deal at my house.  We have oak and hickory trees circling the house.  But this year we are experiencing Drop Week.  The acorns are so big everyone knows someone who has either been hit in the head or broken a bone falling over an acrimonious nut.  The dog has had his legs crossed for days. 

What is the purpose of the squirrel?  Maybe their purpose is to drive the meek mad. Friend or foe, ask a person not what they hate or love, but what drives them crazy.  A whole industry has developed to thwart the endeavors of these birdseed thieves.  My father had a little chair for the squirrel to sit on and eat corn, thinking it would distract the cute rodent.  They just got fatter. 

They keep their teeth sharp by chiseling deck rails.  We have especially talented squirrels that leaned out over the roof edge, devouring a shoebox size piece of soffit.  We covered the opening with mesh wire stuffed with steel wool pads, about the only thing they can’t get their teeth into!

 The antics of the squirrel are so amusing we forget they are just rodents in the tree of life.  Recently, we watched a squirrel climb into the BBQ grill.  He thought he had found a secret paradise, his twitchy tail still hung out the back.  Later, we looked in the grill and found a half-eaten acorn.  I left two fat ones as a gift.

 Do you know why you never see a squirrel kid?  They can’t run with nuts in their mouth and aren’t long or fast enough to keep up with Mama.  What makes a squirrel change direction in the middle of the street?  Count the times you’ve zigged for his zag.  Come to think of it, have you ever seen a squirrel lying dead from an inaccurate leap?  No.  A Secret Squirrel Society gathers up the errant Wallenda to perpetuate the myth of the flying squirrel. 

 Despite the negative, there are good things about Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel.  They are thorough and tireless when building a nest high in the treetops.  Think of the courage required to jump out a distance five times your length or the confidence required to zip along branches and electrical wires.  Despite my frustration with them, I am drawn to their secret treetop world, only imagining the thrill of flying through the air and maneuvering their hickory mazes and oak bowers. 




A yearly reminder of the revival of the love affair with Fall. One of my most requested posts for reading at Fall Festivals such as The Really Good Cornbread Festival and The Strangest Pumpkin Pie Spice Soups and Sauces Carnival.

NO CHARM IN A THIRD TIME

 

Three years ago, we replaced our old deck with a larger, more attractive model. I love this time of year because I can take a cup of tea and sit on the deck and enjoy this perfect autumn afternoon. Maybe read a book.

Inside, the house is a few degrees cooler than outside. We haven’t “turned the air” on. That is our quirky way of saying we are messing with the temperature – hot or cold. But no heat yet in the house on October 19. I am carrying my floor heater with me from office to den to take the chill off.

Apparently, this is the year of the wasp. Angry wasp. There are editorials written and poems and articles.

We had the yard treated in September and found a big nest under the wonderful, new deck. It was quickly disposed of after all of the contents were deceased. Several people have suggested I tell my wasp story but there are so many others out there. How different can wasp incidents be?

I didn’t have my peppermint spray with me. Supposedly, if you Google what wasps don’t like, wasp don’t like the smell of peppermint. Oh, the lucky person who made that discovery.

Lovely autumn day waiting for the jeans to dry. Still a chill in my bones despite the heater. Since it is warmer outside, I make myself a cup of Constant Comment Tea which is a lot like spiced tea, add sugar and head out to the safe deck. My husband has been giving me regular wasp reports when he goes out to grill or sweep the deck. None to see.

I remember my first wasp sting. I was about seven, playing in a front yard tree where a few wasps resided. I poured mud on their nest and they rewarded me with a sting near my eyelid. My next sting was at my grandmother’s house. You always had to watch for wasps at her house. Like when you got in the bed. I leaned up against a window seat and it got me. My knee was swollen and hot and I went to the doctor.

A few years ago, I stepped on a sluggish wasp in my office. It was just wobbling on the carpet. No reaction except any injury on a toe or knuckle drives you crazy. Several years pass until the end of this summer.

My first two wasp stings were two weeks apart. Honest. I was standing in the exact same spot, wearing the same clothes and the same time of day. End of July. One was on my left forearm and the second on the back of my upper arm. The first was red and swollen and I went to the doctor because it was obviously not just a little sting.

The second sting caused my arm to swell inches past my elbow. And it was bad red and hard and hot. My doctor said I had had a severe reaction and I must carry an EpiPen. He puts me on steroids and cream. I won’t post a picture.

I am devastated. My daughter carried an EpiPen and I remember the mystery severe reaction that put her in the ER. Yes, I am glad to have the pen if I need it, but just the thought of needing it caused me to lose sleep.

I love to be outdoors. But there are stinging insects out there. I suddenly felt restricted, scared to step on our deck. I even made up Peppermint Spray – not to spray at the wasp but around the area where I am. I bought Peppermint Shampoo and Peppermint Soap.  

Wasps like trash and recycling and my ferns. And also, Constant Comment Tea. I had just gotten settled, a couple of feet from the previous wasp attacks, when this flash of black flies towards me and swoops up over the roof. I would know that swoop anywhere. I am out of there.

If I get stung again, I will probably have a panic attack and will be unable to distinguish it from the severe allergic reaction of not being able to breathe. I carry my pen with me everywhere, even if I were to go for a walk. I keep one in the house.

This pen is Epinephrine. It comes with its own special Trainer for Practice Only Pen. I don’t carry that. I can only hope I will be cognizant to use it myself or instruct someone how to jab my thigh and count a slow three. But once you inject the pen, you have to go the hospital. That is the best part about being out in the middle of nowhere if you do get stung.

Everyone raves about the ability to take the shot and I agree. I just disagree with some little flying wasp that can cook my goose. I am not ready to have my goose cooked or in such a manner. I don’t take out the trash or recycling or look forward to yard work.

The audacity of the angry wasp to send me running into the house. Guess I’ll go find my peppermint spray bottle. And get lathered up about something I have very little control over. Afterall, it could be peanuts or shellfish.    

OUT THERE AGAIN

 

Wow. Yesterday I realized that today was World Mental Health Day. I decided I didn’t want to participate. Thank goodness for celebrities like The Duke and Duchess of Sussex, Harry and Meghan. They have a huge platform and their openness about their own mental health struggles can speak to millions of people. Individually and as a couple, they have put themselves out there.

I wasn’t going to put myself out there today. Rest on my laurels. I have told my story for over thirty years. I have lived with mental illness since college. The story is the same but wonderfully, the world is changing. I got up, drank my coffee and got dressed. My blessings begin to fill my mind. How could I not open up once more.

My platform is not huge but I wanted to put this article out in the open again. Never shy or retiring. Strangers cross my path – share. Individuals referred to me so I offer them hope. Speaking from a pulpit (preaching) to a church full of people dealing with mental health issues in their families and personally. Overwhelmed by their support and whispered needs. But maybe this once, just private and quiet. But no.

Here is the story retold. Initially, I wrote the story to share what a life is really like when living with mental illness. I walk with Bipolar Disorder. To take away the mystery and insert transparency. This is what I am given. Every morning I wake up with an illness that has no cure.

But I am blessed. I can enjoy this sunny day. I can live a good life with the help of family and friends, my faith, good doctors, therapists and medications. I have hope for my future because of my past.

Is it scary? Yes, but I kicked stigma to the curb long ago.  

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

I am just an ordinary person. With a big mouth and a love of writing. And total willingness to throw stigma to the wind. Stigma for a mental illness that can be caused by a biological difference to the brain and genetics, according to the Mayo Clinic. Physical. I had absolutely no control in procurring my lovely disease.

May is the month for Mental Health Awareness. I have lived with Bipolar Disorder Disease since college.


I strongly believe medical compliance and therapy are the two most important requirements for living a successful life with mental illness. A life of recovery. Good doctors and therapists, along with my faith and the support of my family are crucial. Being the best me I can be. I truly believe I would not be here without this combination.  

***

I pulled my suitcase out of the closet. Earlier in the day, when I gave up my full bottle of tranquilizers, my psychiatrist said I needed to go to the hospital. Months earlier, I found the extra bottle while I was unpacking. I had held the bottle in my hand but it gave me a weird, creepy feeling like walking past a gun counter. I knew he was right. I had to trust him. I had not been hospitalized because of my mental illness in twenty-seven years. For all of those years, I had managed to stay upright with the help of family.

I always thought I would feel like a failure if I had to return. Despite the ups and downs, those years in between were full of joy raising a beautiful daughter. Decorating homes, hosting parties.  Cooking chicken and dumplings for those in need.  Raising pups. Starting a blog. Writing poetry. Volunteering. Cross-stitching beautiful linen samplers. A third set of ears when the going got tough. Traveling. Learning to knit and to play Mah Jongg. Hitting the keys again. Teaching a Sunday School class of older ladies. Painting my office. All the while, using medication and therapy to help me be the best me possible, living in recovery. 

This was not packing for a holiday. I am known for my precise, neat packing which is exactly how I packed my suitcase. Three pairs of jeans, folded once to fit inside. A couple of tee shirts, a designer navy, white polka dotted, cotton shirt with three-quarter length sleeves, a green knit tee style gown, a Muumuu, socks, underwear. I packed my toothbrush, styling brush. No liquid. No makeup. No blow dryer. I slipped a picture of my daughter in my bag.   

How did I get here? Blame it on the Christmas money burning a hole in my pocket in April. My big box store was out of stock. I drove thirty miles to another store. I was feeling good, maybe too good. But I was in control. 

I walked over to check out my new CD/stereo system. A large screen television caught my attention. “If you give a Moose a muffin….”  I could use a new television for the bedroom.

A young man and woman took me through the department. Accessories were piling up. One is good and more is better. She detailed my new purchases. Between confessing my illiterate electronic skills and entertaining this new group of friends, I was definitely getting a buzz. A little mania is never a good thing, only addictive.

I do remember offering to buy them supper and inviting them to my house for homemade chili. I didn’t blink spending hundreds of dollars. But later that night I started to worry. They had my phone number and my address. And why did she give me her personal cell number? And they knew I could drop a bundle without flinching. What if they came to my house and tried to scam me or worse, kidnap me? It could happen. 

*

My first depression occurred in high school. By my junior year of college, I knew something was wrong. Some mornings I would wake up glued to my bed. Days of hopelessness, worry over classes. A day later I would feel happy, successful and positive. I was the one in the lampshade. Three schools in four years but I graduated. Ten years and no clue. Rollercoaster.     

I married my husband just after graduation. I had never lived in an apartment, paid bills, cooked regularly. I was trusting and naïve. Two months later, I took a job in a doctor’s office. The patients loved him. I came to hate him. He was verbally abusive, emotionally manipulative and sexually harassing.  No one talked about these things. I had just been married six months.  In front of the whole office, he said “your husband isn’t man enough for you and someday you will find someone who is.”     

After leaving the job, stress threw me into a depression which I medicated with food, gaining forty pounds in three months. This was just the start of decades of yo-yo dieting and tensions over my weight. The first two years of marriage were extremely difficult, setting up a pattern.

*

No kidnapping during the night. Now I was sitting in my own apartment. My world was teetering on extinction. Piercing quiet days spent sleeping on the sofa, jerking like a baby. Taking calls from friends and family, forcing my lying words into chit chat. No appetite for the instant potatoes, saltines, yogurt, protein shakes, Coca-Cola. Nothing stayed in my system.

Then the afternoon I fell. What I call flat on the floor with Jesus. But on this afternoon, I lost all hope. Jesus couldn’t help me now. But He was hovering. I was face down in the rug. No neighbors came running but I don’t know how they did not hear my guttural anguish at my world destroyed. I couldn’t move. Breathing dust in and out, smelling like butterscotch sweet and salty, lives walked, shoes and crumbs. I don’t know how long I stayed down. Finally, I sat up. My face was scratched and my eyes were swollen shut.   

I called Mama. She has always been there. Calm. I could hardly put words together. I told my mother I didn’t want to live. All those years ago, when I had been born two months premature and laid in an isolette for a month, she drove to the hospital every day and sat in a chair, watching nurses take care of me. She couldn’t even hold me. On this afternoon she told me I did want to live. I had to promise her I wouldn’t do anything. Everything would be alright.

I promised to call my therapist. I saw Sheila weekly. When I called her on this horrible afternoon, she didn’t miss a beat. We had spent four years together and she knew what was happening in my life. Minute by minute, over the years she had gained my respect and minute by minute, I had given her the authority for our present hour. She talked. I would talk. Was I going to be okay for the night? Yes. We had a plan. I told her I had promised my mother. I got into bed and went to sleep.

One of the values of consistent therapy is the professional relationship between the therapist and the client, the trained versus the bewildered. A therapist is non-judgmental. One therapist told me to say anything I want, spit words on the floor and then he would sweep them out the door. 

Living with a mental illness is a hard way to do life. This is not a river cruise on a beautiful summer evening. Life is checking what’s going on in the engine room, inhaling diesel fumes. Or going back up top and watching for snakes hanging from low limbed trees. Alligators pushing off from shore, diving below, waiting for you to fall off the boat. Everyone else is sitting thin and pretty, chatting with friends. Their lives are full and happy, with energy to run an efficient home, mother two or three babies, have a full or part-time job and read books, play bunko and tennis. How many times I pushed through the pain of depression to attend an occasion, hoping I was smiling enough, wanting to appear just like everyone else. 

Despite years of successful living, even armed with valuable information, I was now going back into the hospital for the second time. Willingly committing myself for medical help, hoping I could push a reset button and gain back my health. 

One of my best friends was beside me. The moon was full and so was the hospital. They took my suitcase as I entered the admissions area. “ What brings you here?” By this time, I was covering my arms and face with wet paper towels. Mental illness is a physical illness. While I felt relatively composed, my anxiety was giving me a headache, making me nauseous and light-headed. My meal of crackers and lemonade the night before and my one meal of this day, a Starbucks tall latte with one sugar, were not helping. I was told a dinner tray would be brought once I had a room.

I was frightened but every nurse and employee met me with kind eyes and reassuring words. Hours of data entry, vitals and bloodwork. “What brings you here?” When I stepped into the small, sterile medical room, I looked down and saw a penny, for me a little piece of comfort when I needed it. Two blue gloved nurses checked me out from top to bottom. Anticipating the unknown is usually worse than the reality. I actually felt safer afterwards. 

Hours later, I fell asleep in a rolling cot between two other women. My shoestrings were removed, along with the underwire from my bra. I was given a paper sack with my possessions minus my soap, brush and cell phone. My dinner ended up being Goldfish snacks from the nurses’ station. Even with an extra blanket, I was miserably cold.

I called this medical excursion Spring Break. The required daily activities were group therapy, my psychiatrist visit, meds handout, mealtime, dayroom activity and bedtime with fifteen minute bed checks. One day, a nice, young woman with an extremely short term memory asked me if we were children. “What brings us here?”

I was moved to another room. My roommate, who was there on court order, said I was her nicest roommate of all. The bathroom door was a short-type curtain. There was no privacy with the consistent observations by people and cameras. In this setting, most people didn’t give their last name or talk much about family and home. Very little about what brought us there. We didn’t psychoanalyze each other. Days were spent in the day room coloring pictures, napping in chairs, drinking insidious coffee while the television blared MTV and the majority taking outside smoke breaks. My phone calls were not restricted. I never felt threatened or unsafe. 

My main complaint was the cold. I wasn’t cold-natured. My second night, I was fed up. I woke up and walked down the hall to the water fountain near the nurses’ station. “Can we help you, Amy?” “Just water.” In addition to my nightshirt, I was now wearing three cotton tees and a Muumuu along with two pairs of jeans, sock and shoes, socks on my hands and my designer cotton blouse wrapped about my head. Other than that, I was perfectly normal. And I wasn’t cold.

When Spring Break ended, I took my paper bag to the desk to verify my original possessions. I was escorted through a set of double locked doors into a foyer to wait for my things. I was amazed at how much better I felt. I was ready to go forward. My mother was there to pick me up. I felt like a six year old again, so excited to see her standing there, waiting for me. A nurse came through the doors. I took my suitcase in hand and headed out into spring.

 From Hi Low Happy Sad @2017 Amy Holt Taylor