Designated Doodler

Prodigal Son is a fantastic show. One of the reasons I got so drawn into it is because I can relate to Malcolm. I have PTSD, night terrors, panic attacks...in short - trauma.  Malcolm’s trauma, and how he deals with it, plays a significant role in the show and the writer’s have done a great job exploring this, but there’s always room to explore further.  For as much as I have in common with the character of Malcolm, I have just as many differences. I’m not pretty, I’m not rich, I don’t have medication that works for me, and my father’s not a serial killer. I’m average looking on a good day, totally broke, allergic to the majority of SSRI’s and my dad’s a geologist. Writing all of that down... I realize that only the last point works in my favor.  My own personal drabbles aside, there’s a lot that I’ve experienced that I’m sure the show could explore as well.  For one, finding the right medication can be a slow, terrifying and tedious process. There can be side effects..

How did infertility and PCOS become my entire life? That's the question I'm asking today as yet, one more of my many friends announces that they are pregnant. At this point, I could build a nice little doll house out of all the negative pregnancy sticks I've ever used. And it has gotten quite old - seeing literally everyone - post about how they're pregnant, or what the gender is, or are on their third kid, or posting pics of their kid's birthday party or nursery or whatever. When you yourself are wondering if you'll ever - ever be pregnant - if you'll ever get to experience that joy...seeing all that online is like getting a cut. Here's one big cut for that last negative test, add it to the fifteen others. Here's a little cut from Instagram, and another one from Facebook. Oh, and Pinterest would like to suggest baby products for you. You walk through your own house, staring at the room you'd thought would be a nursery by now - and it is

I haven't written in this blog in a long time. So long, in fact, that I'm not quite sure where to start. This post, for whatever reason, feels pivotal. Maybe that's because my life has drastically changed, maybe this is the start of a new beginning or the end of a very long chapter. Whatever it is, I find myself here, in this familiar space, staring at the same screen I stared at in 2008 when I was just starting college. The same screen I came to in order to escape, in order to muse about life, wax on about hardships, and try my hand at poetry & art. Here is some of my recent artwork...

Up a winding road, past houses that’ve been alive far longer than I have, there’s a wrought iron mouth. I’ve been up this road several times but I still couldn’t tell you how to get there. Perhaps I should have paid more attention. Perhaps some part of me never wanted to know how to get there. It feels as if there should be wrought iron gates attached to this gaping mouth, but there aren’t, so the car glides inside. Beyond the gate-less mouth the road is smooth for only a few blinks of the eye and then it turns to dust. It narrows and winds and splits in different directions and no matter what vehicle you’re in, you can feel every dip and bump and rock beneath the tires. When I come, I come in the summer, when towering rhododendron bushes bursting with pink flowers tower above the SUV. The trees and bushes and flowers may die each year, but at least they have the privilege of springing back to life.  We come to another fork in the road. To the right is the future that I vehement

Do you hear that? The whimpering breath of a dying dream It's more of a wheeze than a scream It's cracked open despair Pomegranate red drops of fresh squeezed blood Mixed with scalding hot tears The culmination of broken loss Life's timing forever tilted off My designs drawn in the sand Washed away with the rising tide Riding the knuckles of fate's fickle hand Plunged under the surface with aspirating aspirations The choked out gasps of fallen expectations Hope soaked and molding Resolve cracked and folding Slipping through my fingers like the finest grains of sand The shape and weight of those dreams like faded memories in starving hands

Today I walked through a familiar door into a familiar place, past faces, some of which hinted at recognition, and others that didn't. I stopped by an elderly home to deliver cards to the residents I usually play bingo with. The problem is, I'm a faces person, not particularly adept with names. So I stopped by my friend Cheryl's room for some help with names. And as I walked down sterile white halls, smelling the generic smells from the cafeteria, passing nurses and people in wheelchairs, some missing limbs, others missing sight or understanding, I felt like what I was doing wasn't enough. Cheryl helped me out with the names and I stayed and visited with her. I've played bingo there for a few years and she, and the other residents, have changed considerably in that time. She is older, more fragile, her arms darkened with bruises, the table next to her bed littered with a vast array of items. The cellphone next to her and the TV on the wall clamor with nois