To hear the angels sing

Every year at Christmas Eve dinner, my mother-in-law read us a poem.  I think the tradition started the year after my father-in-law's mother died, but it seems to me in the 11 years that I have known them that it was always just a part of grace. 

The poem (see below for full text) is about how we should not be sad for loved ones that we have lost because they are getting to spend Christmas in heaven and how joyful that must be to celebrate such a holiday in such a special place.  Some years it's more difficult to listen to it depending on what loved one comes to mind as it is read, other years I enjoy hearing and imaging it.

Which brings us to the true reason that I felt I needed to blog, which I haven't done in months.

Christmas songs are playing on the radio.  Snow is falling gently through the air today, not sticking, but giving us a beautiful preview of what is about it come.  The air is cold, but it's not bitter cold and there is little to no wind.  It's a lovely pre-Chicago-winters-suck day.

Bing Crosby began crooning "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" and I felt choked up.  I noticed this with surprise; it was a song that I had heard a million times, and then slowly felt the trickle of a hot tear slip down my face.  My mind was immediately filled with memories of Christmas' past, times that I long for now.  Particularly, Christmases with my Grandma Szwedo.

Grandma Szwedo is my Mom's mom and was one of the best ladies I have ever known.  The Best.  She was quiet when she needed to be, spoke her mind when she needed to, and always had arms open for hugs.  She made some AWESOME pierogi, something that we would all race to get on holidays.  She was a knitter, and made all of us blankets (which I still have in my closet).  She and my Grandpa Szwedo lived in a smaller house in the city, and some holidays seemed a little more cramped than others, but that house was always filled with warmth and comfort.  There were 8 grandchildren in total, but she loved the heck out of all of us and always made us feel special.  Some days I can still see her if I think hard, her permed dark hair, her glasses, her smiles.  And it makes me miss her to pieces.

My Grandma loved holidays and tradition.  Easter consisted of a blessing of the baskets on Saturday afternoon followed by lunch, and a big meal on Easter Sunday.  Christmas Eve was ALWAYS spent at Grandma's house, snuggled in against a mound of waiting presents and always a squabble about who got to sit at the "adult table" that year.  There was laughter and food and lots of talking and food and sharing of times past and food.  The fear of asking if it was time to open presents, and knowing that the response would always be "Now you've added 10 minutes on the waiting time", never stopped at least one of us from begging.  And while the chaos of opening presents proceeded, Grandma would pull up a dining room chair, sit in the back of the room, and smile upon her family and our happiness.

My Grandma passed away in August of 2004 while she was on a trip to Disney with my parents and younger siblings.  It was quick.  It was unexpected.  It was devastating.  It left our family reeling from shock and sadness.  There are still some days that I feel that; I feel that pain and sadness and confusion over how she could really be gone.

I wonder what it would be like if she was still here.  I wonder what she would have said when I had each of my children and what it would have been like to see her hold them for the first time.  I wonder what type of blankets she would have made.  I wonder how and if my family would be different today if she was still aroundI wonder if she would approve of what I have become; if she would be proud. 

I wish that I could see her one more time, a cliche phrase that I know most people say about a loved one.  But I really do.  I feel cheated with her sudden death, that we weren't able to say good-bye.  I wish I could give her one more hug, see her smile one more time, hear her tell me "I love you" once more.

I feel a slight bit of peace in knowing that she is in a place far better from this world.  She is with her husband and her son and countless other friends and family.  I can only imagine what Christmas is like in heaven, and even though I selfishly wish she was hear, I rejoice in thinking that she is celebrating with Jesus.

I'm Spending Christmas with Jesus Christ this Year

I see the countless Christmas trees,
Around the world below.
With tiny lights, like heaven's stars,
Reflecting on the snow.

The sight is so spectacular,
Please wipe away that tear.
For I'm spending Christmas,
With Jesus Christ this year.

I hear the many Christmas songs,
That people hold so dear.
But the sounds of music can't compare,
With the Christmas choir up here.

For I have no words to tell you,
The joy their voices bring.
For it is beyond description,
To hear the angels sing.

I can't tell you of the splendor,
Or the peace here in this place.
Can you just imagine Christmas,
With our Savior, face to face?

I'll ask Him to light your spirit,
As I tell Him of your love.
So then pray one for another,
As I lift you eyes above.

Please let your hearts be joyful,
And let your spirit sing.
For I'm Spending Christmas in Heaven,
And I'm walking with the King.

~Wanda Bencke ~

How to rememember

It's a dreary, rainy, stay-in-bed-under-the-covers kind of morning, and I was slow to move from my pillow.  Glancing at the clock and seeing it was already 7:10 was motivation enough to spring from my nest and dash into the hallway, turning on lights and wondering if I would have time to shower before I dropped the kids off at school.  Thankfully, Lilli had been awake for awhile and not only had herself dressed, but was in the process of dressing her siblings.  Into the kitchen I went to make a quick breakfast or waffles and pancakes, still hoping to get that shower in before 7:40.  Austin fed, his sisters were packing backpacks and sorting umbrellas when Lilli said to me.

"We get to wear red, white, and blue tomorrow!"  I smiled and remembered the joys of "Jeans and Hats" day from my Catholic school upbringing.  A day not in uniform was like a little blessing.

"That's great," I responded.  "We will have to find your 4th of July shirts tonight."

"Yeah, we get to wear them because two men jumped off a building in New York."

I froze and looked at her.  Abbi's head slowly peeked around Lilli's, her eyes as wide as saucers.  A moment of panic.  What do I say?

"Well, Lills, that's not exactly how it happened."  I continued to butter Abbi's pancakes, fresh from the microwave.  "Two men flew planes into those building in New York and it was scarey and a lot of people got hurt."

The looks on their faces clearly showed that they had no concept of what I was saying.  I frantically tried to think of a different way to say it.

Deep Breath.

"Some men made a very bad choice to fly planes into the buildings, and lot of people were killed.  They also flew a plane into the Pentagon which is a building in Washington, D.C., and there was a fourth plane where some very brave people were able to crash it into the ground so no one else would be hurt.  It's called 9/11.  It happened when Mommy had just gotten out of college and I remember it as one of the saddest days of my life."

The silence in the room was unbelievable.  With the exception of sleeping, I have never heard those two so quiet.  And still in their tracks.  I pressed on.

"We remember 9/11 each year so that we don't forget all the people who were so brave and worked so hard to help people who were hurt.  It's a very sad day for a lot of people."  I felt a hitch in my voice.

"But they caught him, right?  The bad guy?  They caught him in the ground?" Lilli asked, almost like she was looking for reassurance.

"Yes, they caught the man who everyone said planned what happened."

And that was that.  Abbi took her pancakes and sat down and Lilli asked for toast.

7:24AM

I knew that I would have enough time to shower if I hurried.  I let the hot water fill the bathroom with steam, and was thankful for the jolt it gave me as I stepped under the shower head.  I felt pain well up in my chest and a few tears slipped out. 

I thought about that day, driving to Naperville from DeKalb when Barry Keefe on The Mix first said that there was a plane that had crashed into the antenna of the Tower 1.  By the time I got to work, two planes had crashed into the buildings and it only got worse from there.  At the time, I was working at a Special Education School, so I couldn't just sit and watch TV, and was anxious to hear more news as I drove home from work.  It was a dream, a nightmare, as I am sure it was for many.  Something that it seen in other countries, but not our own.

The one memory that stands out the most happened the next day.  Again, on my daily commute, I began looking at the people in the cars around me.  Most were very solemn, as if driving in a funeral procession.  There were no heads bopping to music and no singing like no one was watching.  And then I pulled up next to this blue four door something or other with an elderly gentleman driving.  And he was sobbing.  Not just tears dripping from his face, but should-shaking sobbing.

I am not sure if what I said to my kids today was right or wrong, it just was.  My guess is they will have many questions about it later, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a few months.  Or maybe they won't.  Maybe tomorrow will be just another day that they don't wear plaid and they will compare who has the cutest jeans.  But I will remember tomorrow for them, until they are old enough to fully understand and remember on their own.

Oh Captain, my captain

I am wrestling with this topic, and whether or not I should say something as part of me feels that it has been overtalked about on Facebook and that people are ready to move on with the subject.  But then part of me feels like it needs to be talked about; that we need to have more conversations about the trauma that is caused by depression.

I have been there.  I know what it feels like to feel that your world is crumbling around you and that you have no one or no where to turn.  I know what it feels like to think that you are causing so much pain and discomfort to those around you that it would be better off if you were not around.  I know what it feels like to want to commit suicide.  And it's not a nice place.

Have you seen "What Dreams May Come"?  Remember when Chris finds Annie in the after-life and she is dark, grey, and unfeeling?  That's what depression is.  You don't want anyone to touch you, there seems to be no way that anyone can comfort you, you would rather sit in one place and rot then have to move.  You don't want to take your medication as it seems useless, and you are afraid to reach out because it could mean having to go to the hospital and being locked away.

There is hope, there is the possibility of healing and moving on.  The POSSIBILITY.  It doesn't happen for everyone, some people will struggle for years to pull themselves out.  Some people are able to pull themselves up in a short period of time, only to down cycle over and over again.

We are not here to judge; we are here to show compassion and understanding and that we have an open mind.  We are hear to be willing to sit with someone, even if they cannot talk, just so that they know they are not alone.  We are here to be there for someone.

My e-mail has a signature, something I heard a long time ago, so long ago that I don't even remember when.  "To the world you may be one, but to one you may be the world."  Be that one, be that one person to one other person.  Don't be afraid to ask your friends and family if they need help, if they need someone to lean on.

Rest in Peace, Robin Williams.  May the untimeliness of your death be a call to at least one person to seek help.

Smart

There are a lot of things that I am good at.  I can knit; I can sew.  I can make a mean meatloaf.  I can whine with the best of them.  I can read through course catalogs for colleges/universities and get a good idea of all the policies and procedures the first time through.  I can down a pint of Ben and Jerry's in no time flat.

But I have never done smart.

Smart was not me, growing up.  Smart was my older sister.  She seemed to effortlessly get A's and B's in school, and was always coming home on this honor roll or that.  Not so much for me.  I didn't like to study.  I didn't really like school, to be totally honest.  So, I didn't do well.  Not in high school, not my first time in college for my BSW.  Only by the skin of my teeth did I pass and graduate.

Then I started working in University settings.  First in Enrollment, then Academic Advising.  I started to appreciate "school".  I understood the learning process more.  The more I understood it, the more I appreciated.  I decided that I should go back to school, to get my Master's.

I am sure that there were some who thought that I wouldn't pass.  I am sure there are some who thought I wouldn't make it all the way through.  I am pretty sure one of them was me.  But I surprised myself; I did more than "good", I did honors good.  Graduated with a 3.78.  Holy Cow!

I was happy with my Master's; I thought it made me stand out on applications and that I was going to go far.  It did make me stand out, but in the past 7 years since I got it, I haven't gone far.  I wasn't doing what I really wanted to do, which was to teach at the University level and be a counselor in a practice.  I wanted to have a greater impact on the world.  I wanted to work with adolescents and young adults who were struggling and not making the best choices when it came to coping.  Because I have been there, and I know what the caring of one or two people can do.

But I thought I wasn't smart enough to do that.  To do that would mean to become a doctoral student, and I couldn't possibly do that.  Right?

With a lot of encouragement from about 5 people in my life, I decided to give it a shot.  I applied.  I sent in transcripts, written statements, letters of recommendation.  I crossed my fingers and waited.  I was called in for Interview Day, a day where you would be interviewed by 2 professors and learn more about the program.  I got a new dress, new shoes, new jewelry.  I wanted to "look" smart.

My first interview, the Professor went on and on about how wonderful my references were, how I had an impressive GPA, that my statement paper was well written.  I perked up.  She made me sound smart.  We talked.  I shared stories; she shared horror stories of her graduate work.  Then she did something that shocked me.  She started talking about things she and I could do, could work on, when I was a student.  She talked like I was already admitted.  I was thrown for a loop.  I was in shock, but I was also euphoric.  This lady, who I had never met before, thought I was smart.  Me.  Smart.

I didn't sleep last night, knowing that I would get a phone call today saying if I was or was not admitted.  I woke up at least every 45 minutes and would think about it for 20 before going back to sleep.  I was scared.  What would it mean if I was rejected?  What would it mean if I was accepted?  Torturous!   

Then today, as I was driving to work, my phone rang. I recognized the number.  It was the school.  I was worried.  My stomach did flip flops.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Megan.  It's Dana from the Illinois School for Professional Psychology.  How are you?"

"Fine, how are you?"

"Great!  I wanted to call to congratulate you on your acceptance to the PsyD program...."

Tears.  Lots of tears.  I had to pull the car over tears.

They think I am smart.  They think I can handle this work, that I have what it takes.  They think that I will make a good doctor.

A Doctor.

Dr. Mueller.

Dr. Megan Mueller.

Smart. 

I can do this. 

I can do smart.

You have what?

Today is World Mental Health Day.  October 10th.  Every year.  And, with the exception of last year, it wouldn't have even been a blip on my radar.  Another "World Something" day, I would have muttered as I looked at Facebook.  There seems to be a day for everything.  But after living with a mental health disorder for the past two years, well, I guess I view it a little different.

I know some of you already know this, as I posted it once and very briefly on my Weight Loss blog...but for those who don't read that one, I have been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder within the past two years.  Severe and recurrent.  I take medication.  I see a therapist twice a week (LOVE HER).  I have been hospitalized for it.  More than once.  I have had 12 sessions of ECT, which I would never do again and wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  It's a daily struggle to do basic things: shower, eat, take care of the kids, take care of myself, work.  I have good days, and I fully embrace them when they happen.  I have bad days, when I crawl into my bed and don't move for hours on end and literally want to die.  But I always pull through.  I have learned that there are more good days than bad, and I just have to hang on or sleep the day away and it WILL get better.

So, why share this?  I think that mental health is still widely misunderstood.  And stigmatized.  I think that there are more people out there living with mental health issues than we are aware of because they are too afraid to ask for help or don't have the resources available to them to get help.  Maybe it's you.  Maybe you realize that you are having more off days than on, but don't know what to do or where to go.  Or maybe you have a loved one who has a mental health issue and you don't know how to talk to them or what to say.  Because there are probably a lot more of us out there than you think.


I am not defined (totally) by my disorder.  I am a Mom.  I am a Wife.  I am a Worker.  I am a Brownie Leader.  I am a Daughter, a Sister, an Aunt.  I am an obsessive Starbucks Junkie.  That's who I am.  I just happen to also have this extra bit of "joy" in my life.  One more hurtle to overcome in my journey.

So go here...  APA or here...WFMH  Read about it. Learn about it.  Don't be afraid of it.  Get educated.  Ask questions.  Ask me questions.

The Fight

The book lay open on the floor. He lazed on his stomach, reading the lines and smirking with each quote. This was too much fun for him. He thought that he hadn't had this much fun since he was a cub on Christmas morning. Eagerly, he pawed at each page and enjoyed the poetry that flowed like a river. He looked over at where she was. Happiness filled his chest. She was just where he wanted, and he took pride in knowing that he was accomplishing his goal.

"Death must be so beautiful," he read to her. "To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and to listen to the silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace."

She jerked on the bed, struggling against the prose. He had shackled her hands and feet tightly; she had limited movement. She was trying to fight against the sadness that he was pouring into her soul. Her attempts to block the words were futile, and she felt her spirit shriveling with each stanza.

"I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life,” she spat back at him. She didn't need a book to recite the quotes. They were imprinted in her being, and she searched the quickly to find the ammunition that was much needed. He was king of his craft, however, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could go on.

He snapped his head up. Anger boiled in his blood. How dare she try to combat his words! He quickly turned the pages is search of more poison. "I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.”

Each word pierced her soul like a dagger. The tears flowed down her cheeks. She kept telling herself to fight, that she could not give in. She must continue to fight. The handcuffs dug into her flesh, but it was not the outside pain that she was worried about. Those scars could heal. She needed to protect what was left inside.

"I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.” She breathed the words heavily, feeling like she was being choked with each syllable.

He took a moment to look at her. So sad, he thought. She didn't have a chance and yet there she lay trying to fight against him. At least he had picked someone with spunk, he mused. If he had selected prey that would have just rolled over and died, well, that would have been no fun. He turned his attention back to the book, and searched for the next quote.

"I have taken a pill to kill the thin papery feeling,” he roared.

Her back arched, the words burning. Her defenses were weakening, she knew that she couldn't take much more. One more, she thought, I only have energy for one more. She would have prayed that it worked, except she didn't believe in the power of prayer any longer. It had been too long since any of her prayers had been answered that she found the act pointless. She lifted her head and looked the Lion right in his eyes.

"I think I made you up inside my head.” She collapsed back on the bed. That was all she had. She couldn't speak; she could fight no more.

He leaped from his spot and pounced on top of her. Straddling her frail being, he looked down at what was left. Just a shell, a wisp of where a woman used to be.

"All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.” The words flowed from his tongue. Pride swelled in his chest. He took a final swipe at her body with his paw to make sure she was done. She made no movement. He retreated to his corner, curled into a ball, and rested his head on the ground. He had won.

I have a blog?

I have a blog?  Really?  I have several, actually, and they have all been neglected.  So, to ease myself back in, I want to share what I think is the quintessential song that I think should be in the 50 Shades of Grey ( yes, still obsessing) movie.  Don't worry, I have a book club in about 2 weeks so hopefully I will get it out of my system....

I believe that Counting Crows came out when I was in college, so this is circa 1997 maybe?  Still good stuff....But, tell me you don't agree that this fits......