THEN: A regular day. After five. The kids are flirting with their food, not eating much. I am riding waves from the day, mulling over threadbare chapters, editing posts in my head. Someone is crying. Someone is asking for a candy. Someone is asking for a show. There are toys everywhere. A rainbow reminder of what life is now. I trip on them. I feel something. A tightening of the chest, a flurry of questions, a surge of ideas. But I can’t write now. I shouldn’t want to write now. I should pick them up and twirl them around and tickle them to the couch. I should sing something: How was your day? You are such a good girl! Mommy loves you! I sing these things. My voice is mine, but not entirely. I walk to the fridge. I swing open the door. I pull the bottle. Uncork it. I pour a glass. A big one. I drink it down. Things are better, smoother, softer, more beautiful. The whines are melodic, the toys symbolic of something gritty and grand, the chapters I didn’t finish mere details. Specks on the canvas.

NOW: A regular day. After five. The kids are flirting with their food, not eating much. I am riding waves from the day, mulling over threadbare chapters, editing posts in my head. Someone is crying. Someone is asking for a candy. Someone is asking for a show. There are toys everywhere. A rainbow reminder of what life is now. I trip on them. I feel something. A tightening of the chest, a flurry of questions, a surge of ideas. But I can’t write now. I shouldn’t want to write now. I should pick them up and twirl them around and tickle them to the couch. I should sing something: How was your day? You are such a good girl! Mommy loves you! I sing these things. I get a glass of water. I sip it. It tastes like nothing. Nothing can be delicious. I open a book and read a few words. I open my computer and write a few words. I wrangle my girls into a tiny circle and say a few words. Remember when. Imagine this. Can you believe. I am proud of you. Life is life. The voice is mine. Entirely.

WHEN: A regular day. After five… I walk to the fridge. I pour a glass of wine. I take a sip. I put it down. I read some words. I write some. I sing some. I say some. And they say words too, many of them, rising up, floating between us. Words about today, words about tomorrow, words about homework, words about heartwork, words about whatever. We set the table. Plates. Napkins. Forks. Knives. Daddy is home. We sit together. We sip. Words. Water. Wine. We are living. We are loving. We are learning. And we are talking, listening, dealing, dreaming, words weaving in that invisible and exquisite space, over the plates we pick from.

Words.

*

Words. They are this year’s wine. I sip them and swig them. I slurp them. I spill them. They make me feel, and see, and imagine, and dream. They make me alert and aware and alive. They are my dots, scattered about me, toys on the floor, connecting themselves on the canvas, tripping me up.

Words. They arrive all day long, lining up, waiting to be plucked, placed. They whisper and whirl, they tangle and twirl.

Words. They have no calories. They are free. They are me.

They do not make my head hurt. Well, they do. But in a good way. The best way. Life is life. And I will read about it and write about it and talk about it instead of escaping it.

*

Thank you all for your wonderful words yesterday. Your support and stories mean the world. The world.

*

For other Five for Five musings on WORDS, please click here to visit the lovely sisters at Momalom. I am also thrilled to be linking up with other JUST WRITE participants over at The Extraordinary Ordinary. Leave a comment here before 11pm EST for a chance to win Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. Congrats to Heidi for winning yesterday’s copy!

What role do words play in your life? Do you think it is possible to replace our vices with words – thought, written, spoken? What does the 5pm hour look like in your home? Why do you drink?

{October 2007. Sister C’s wedding weekend. Big Girl is 10 months. Dad has just been diagnosed with cancer. A lot going on behind that smile of mine.}

I have been wanting to write this post for a long time. It’s been inside me for almost a year, the words rearranging themselves in my head. I’ve waited. For what? I’m not sure. For the right time. For the perfect time. But the thing is, the thing to remember, is that there is no right time. No perfect time. There is no right or perfect time to leave that job, or have that baby, or tell that truth. And so you must just do it, that thing that matters to you, that thing you will look back upon in years to come and say: Thank goodness I did that. Thank goodness I said that. Thank goodness I had the guts to go for it.

I wrote the following words last spring:

May 20, 2011

It’s a little past 5am. I shoot up in bed. My bangs are stuck with sweat to my forehead. I look down. My breasts pop from my tank, full and ready. I will feed my baby soon. She’s two months old. Asleep in her crib upstairs. On the monitor, I hear her pre-waking grunts.

I don’t remember the end of my night.

I shake my husband awake, as I do on mornings like this – yes, there have been others.

“Babe,” I say.

He grumbles something in acknowledgment.

“Why do I do this to myself?”

It’s a question he’s heard before. One he’s never quite able to answer. Why do I drink myself into oblivion only to hate myself the next day? It’s a tough thing to explain. Even for me.

The monologue begins. A true shame spiral. I travel down. My husband reaches out and strokes my arm.

I’m crying now. Shaking from the white wine aftermath, but also from some kind of awareness. This morning’s different.

I shake my husband some more. He sits up in bed, cradling a lavender pillow.

“I think something’s wrong,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

His eyes open now, and he looks at me.

It was a Friday morning. Husband was due to leave in just a few hours for his cousin’s wedding. It was the first time he would leave me with all three girls. The day before, the pediatrician confirmed that Little Girl still had blood in her diaper from a severe milk allergy; I was cutting all dairy from my diet in an effort to continue nursing (and barely eating as a result) but it was not working. The day before, Big Girl had taken her ERBs – a Kindergarten placement test. My beloved baby nurse was due to leave me in a couple of days. I had not slept much. I had too much wine the night before. My body was a mess. So was my mind. I was due to attend a building dedication to my family, a quasi memorial to Dad.

Still in bed, I considered two words for the first time: postpartum depression. I asked Husband if he thought it was possible and he said he didn’t know but that I should call my OB. I promised I would. But first I went with Mom and my sisters to Green Chimneys and sat in a folding chair as new dormitories were dedicated to the Donnelley family and as people, and Mom, talked about Dad. And I listened but in my head, my throbbing head, four words pulsed: The day everything changed.

You see. I am a writer and I title books that do not yet exist, and might never exist. I knew it, I felt it, that the day would be an important one for me, that it would mean something looking back. And so, it had a title, this story: The Day Everything Changed. It would be a story of waking up, literally and figuratively, to a truth, to a life. It would be a story of surrender and strength.

I came home. Wiped out, inspired, missing Dad. I called my OB. And she gave me two names, two numbers. I stood there in my bathroom and called them both. Left messages. Even though it was a Friday afternoon, they each called back. I arranged to meet both of them the following Monday. Monday came and I sat in two different offices and said the same things. I’m not sure what is going on, but I want to figure it out.

Tell me a bit about you, your upbringing, your history. And so I did. I grew up here. I am the middle of five sisters. We all went to the same schools – Dalton and Yale. I went on to law school at Columbia and practiced for a bit and then left to write a novel. I published it not long ago and am trying to write my next but it is hard because I have three kids under four.

They nodded, smiled, jotted notes.

Why now? they asked. Why did you call on Friday?

And so. I told them. Everything. About the buckets of wine. About the allergy. About the Kindergarten test. About my husband going out of town, the baby nurse leaving. About missing Dad. 

More nods. More notes.

You are not depressed. They both said this and it was obviously a tremendous relief.

But they were not finished. They both arrived at the same conclusion: You are anxious.

I sat there, in those comfy chairs in two different offices on the very same day, and I nodded and thought something. Duh. Of course I am anxious. I have always been anxious. I am a perfectionist, an achiever. I spend my days writing about insecurity, and anxiety. I like things a certain way. Myself. My life. My world. I did not say these things aloud, but listened.

You have probably always had anxiety. And your anxiety has always served you well – it has helped you achieve and accomplish all the things you have achieved and accomplished. But. But now you are in a different place. You have a husband and kids and a life that is at its core chaotic, a life you cannot completely control. And this is making you anxious, it is. Three babies? A child testing for kindergarten? A child with a health issue? A dead father? A desire to be an author and a hands-on mother? This is the perfect storm. This is too much. And this is not really about drinking. You are drinking – as many people do – because you are anxious, because you do not know how to relax, and because you need a release. But drinking makes anxiety worse. Know that.

Subconsciously, I knew these things. That I was anxious, that I drank wine to quell my anxiety, to cope. But hearing someone, two someones, say these things aloud struck me. And I decided something: I wanted to change. My life would not change; there would always be stresses, the chaos would not magically abate, but I did not want to feel the way I was feeling. So. For several months, I traveled to the East Side and talked to one of these women about my how I was doing. For several months, I took a very low dose of anti-anxiety medicine. I think it helped.

The sad thing? I barely told a soul about any of this. Even though I knew I was surrounded by people who loved me and would want to support me. I didn’t tell anyone because I felt weak and ashamed. I didn’t tell anyone because I felt like a failure, like I couldn’t hack it. I didn’t tell anyone because I felt like I would, for some reason, be judged. Instead of opening up, something I wish I did in retrospect, I slogged through very much on my own – thinking, writing, mothering.

In time, I felt much better. I told my therapist this. I told her I wanted to stop the meds, and with her thoughtful supervision, I did so right before Christmas. In January, I went to see her one final time to check in and talk about things. It was a wonderful, real hour. I told her that I was feeling good, that my girls were thriving, that I got anxious of course but in a way that seemed appropriate and manageable. I did say that I was still drinking a bit more than I’d like.

I have been thinking of giving up alcohol for one year. Just as an experiment, a reboot. To see what life feels like, and looks like, without it. I don’t know but I just think it would be really interesting. The writer in me is curious and wants to do this, and write this, and just see.

My therapist smiled. I don’t remember her exact words, but they went something like this: Do you know how many people would want to read what you write? Do you know that every single one of my patients, most people I know, would relate to your story? Do you know how common it is to feel anxious or depressed or disillusioned and drink or do something else to feel better, to escape? This would be a more subtle story. Not about alcoholism or anything severe. About real life, about stumbling, about coping, about trying to do it all.

I smiled. Nodded.

She smiled. Nodded. This is big. This is good, she said. And then we said goodbye.

And I left her office that day and walked back out in the world. It was a sunny, but cold day and I was buzzing. Buzzing with the idea of change. The book, that imaginary book in my head, would have a slightly different name now, a name that Thoreau would approve of:

The Day Everything I Changed.

The Day I Changed. Because Thoreau is right. Things do not change; we do.

I look back to a year ago. To a time that was tough. To a time when I woke up, yes literally, yes figuratively, to a murky and meaningful morning, to a series of truths. I am struggling. It is okay to struggle. To struggle is to be human.

I am writing this because I have wanted to for a long time. I am writing this because one of you reading this might be in the thicket now, struggling with something similar or different, afraid and alone. I am writing this because this is my story and I am ready, finally ready, to tell it.

I am writing this because this is me.

There is no right time. No perfect time.

So I chose today.

Thank you to the lovely sisters over at Momalom for inspiring me to finally write this and post it. I am linking up with several other bloggers for the wonderful Five for Five community blogging effort. Click here to read many more musings on today’s topic of Change. Come back each day this week for more truth. I am also linking up with Imperfect Prose.

And leave a comment today before 11pm EST for a chance to win a copy of Danielle LaPorte’s FIRE STARTER SESSIONS. Per my vow, I purchased one copy for every five of your wonderful comments Friday and now I have a slew of books to give away! And big congrats to Susan for being Friday’s winner.

Have you or anyone you know dealt with any type of anxiety or depression, postpartum or other? Why do you think I was so scared to talk about this publicly? Do you agree that there is no right time, or perfect time to do and talk about important things? Please feel free to comment anonymously as I know this can be a sensitive topic for many. Thank you for listening

C,

Remember when it was just us? Just us Donnelley girls? Remember that time before boys and babies and big responsibilities? Remember when we all slept in that big green room with the balance beam, your balance beam, running its length? Remember when I locked you in the bathroom and made you sing as song to your crush? Remember when we sat on the floor and sifted through Halloween candy while the humpback sang upstairs? Remember when we visited Penny Land in the big, black shower? Remember when we wrote letters to Santa and tried to hear little hooves on Christmas Eve? Remember banging pots and pans on New Year’s Eve and dying eggs on Easter?

Remember when you dropped me at college and then came to visit?  Remember when I dropped you at college and then came to visit? Remember when we wandered the streets of New Haven, a swirl of blonde and black, arms linked, laughing, the future ahead and oh so bright?

Remember when you were my maid of honor and zipped me into the big satin dress with the kissing birds on its back? Remember when we danced to We Are Family under the big Blue Whale? Remember when I was your matron of honor and I stood there in the sun-soaked airport, that field full of love and tiny bugs as Dad walked you down the aisle toward me? Remember when we danced that night, and smiled, and pretended? Remember that July morning when we gathered and propped each other up and whispered that final goodbye?

Remember when you visited when I had my first baby and then I visited you when you had your first baby? Remember when I had my second and third? Remember when you had your second, just one month ago?

Remember when I said to you: This is hard. I am having a hard time with this? Remember when you said to me: This is hard. I am having a hard time with this? Remember all those lunches and manicures and glasses of wine? Remember the fits of laughter and the ponds of tears? Remember all the conversations, long and layered, winding and beautiful, about childhood and life and love, and loss?

Remember yesterday? We had lunch with the kids. We sat at a big booth. We ordered food and sodas and we ate and we talked. We cut food into small bites as we looked at each other, locking tired, Dad blue eyes, and took turns. We took turns talking about our days. Listen to my day, I said. Listen to my day, you said. And we did. We listened. We traded bits of ourselves, of who we have become. As we were leaving the restaurant, hefting our strollers down the steps to the sidewalk, I asked you a question.

Hypothetically, if I were to write you a blog birthday letter, can I mention that you are moving?

And you said yes. It was a quiet yes, but it was a yes. I could mention it. And here I am, doing just that. And as I write this, my eyes water because this is becoming quite real, isn’t it? You are leaving me, and us, and this city that has raised us and made us, in a matter of months. And I know that it is more that you are going than leaving, more that you are growing, that this is what is good for you and your family. I know these things and I am doing the best I can to accept them, these things, these complicated things.

But the truth? The truth is that there are times when I wish we could go back. To the simpler times, the times of just us, the moments of childhood when we were still young and protected and together. To the time before little creatures and big choices. The truth is that I miss you already. Our moments, our lunches, the tangle of the everyday. I know that we will figure this out, this distance that looms. Maybe we will carve out mandatory phone dates and book frequent sister weekends. Maybe we will write old school letters on yellow legal paper with Parker pens. Maybe we will become email aficionados, scribbling long and lovely stories on our respective screens. I don’t know. But we will figure it out, right?

Today you are thirty. And you are some thirty-year-old – downright gorgeous, smarter than I’ll ever dream of being, wildly thoughtful, full of love.

One day in the not-too-distant future we will have a new slew of Remember Whens.

Remember when you turned thirty and were about to move to Charleston and I was a bit dramatic and undone and wrote you that sappy birthday letter? Remember when our kids were itty-bitty and we were so overwhelmed and so in love with them, these little creatures? Remember when we came up with all those ideas and inventions? Remember when we played my cat-your cat? Remember when?

The point, C, is that my memories include you. And they always will. Whether we are in our thirties or in our nineties, looking back. Whether you are in New York or South Carolina or Zimbabwe.

I hope you are having a good day, C. I hope you realize how loved you are. By them, by us. By me.

Happy birthday, sis.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Times eleven.

Love,

A

Take a moment and wish my sis a happy day (or convince her to stay in NYC!) Do you live close to your siblings, and other family? Any sage tips on how to stay super close despite the miles? How did you celebrate your 30th or most recent big birthday?

There are voices.

They are real and imagined, imagined and real.

They whisper. They whine. They shout.

True things are nice. It’s nice to tell the truth

When truth is pretty, sparkly stuff.

But when truth is gray, cracked, crusted,

uncertain, unsweetened, undone,

keep it covered, keep it quiet.

Please.

There are voices.

Theirs, yours, mine.

Mine.

Some things are not meant to be said.

Think them, sure, but never say them.

Because saying them means they might be real.

Because saying them means people might know.

And to these voices,

These voices that are real and imagined, theirs, yours, mine

whispering voices, whining voices, shouting voices,

I stand up, I say something:

But I am interested in true things.

All of them.

Those made of sparkles and those made of sadness.

Those made of rainbows

Those made of grays.

In fact, it is the grays that grab me most.

I will say things. True things.

Things that are real.

Things people should know.

Things people already know because these things are theirs, too.

There are voices.

There always will be.

How to live with these voices and be true to our things?

*

Are you afraid of telling the truth about certain things? Are there voices in your life that keep you from doing what you want and need, saying what you want and need? Are you interested in truth that is real or fiction that is pretty? Tell me one true thing. I double dare you.

{Checking out the flowers outside the subway station.}

Every morning, I take the big girls to Preschool. Usually we take the subway or the bus. Sometimes, if we are late, a cab. Or, if we happen to be early, we walk. All twenty blocks. These are my favorite mornings because we hold hands and talk. We talk about the things we see, and the day ahead. We talk about the weather, and the numbers of the streets.

At school, as each girl settles into her respective classroom, I say two things. The same two things every morning.

The first: I love you.

The second: I have some homework for you today.

And they both know just what that homework is.

What’s your homework, baby? I whisper into tiny ears.

To have fun, they answer. Each of them. Both of them. They know that this what I want them to do. They know this is what matters.

I was thinking about this last night for some reason. I was in a bit of a mood. Just a bit off. I was thinking about how complicated adulthood can be and feel even when things are going well and humming along nicely. I was thinking about how amazing it would be if our only responsibility, our only homework, was to have fun. Wouldn’t that be something?

Anyway. Today is a brand new day and I have little creatures to ferry to school. This morning I am taking all three. And it will be a bit of a juggle, maybe a struggle, but a happy one. A fun one.

And I’ve already given my own 33-year-old little girl self some homework for this weekend.

You guessed it: Have fun.

How do you get your kids to school? Do you have any drop-off rituals? When do you have your best moments with your children? Do you ever remind yourself to relax and just have fun?