Stumbling Towards Perfect

This morning I listened to that woman talk for twenty-two and a half minutes about cyber-bulling and the way public shaming and humiliation can affect a soul. I don't know her. I just know what the media has told me about her. I've never spoken to her. I've never had a conversation with her. And I would never, ever claim to know what psychological disorder (or disorders) she might possibly suffer from. But I sat, captivated for twenty-two and a half minutes. And I thought about her mother the entire time. Because I have seen, first hand, what happens when people think they're being funny by photo shopping a nasty picture with your child's face on it for all the world to see. I have seen what being called whore, slut, bitch and nasty ass ho  over and over, in the halls, yelled from a passing car, and plastered all over Twitter and Facebook can do to the inner dialogue of a daughter. And, just in case I was slow in my education, I know what it's

There are times when I get so inside myself I don't know how to come back out. I hurt. It's only expected, of course. Ask any parent who has lost a child and they will tell you the hurt never goes away. I met a 91-year old woman who lost her son when he was 11. She told me not a day goes by where she doesn't think of him. She remembers him as if he were here yesterday. You can, externally, appear very put together. Very well adjusted. Very okay. Possibly even very thriving. But sometimes, sometimes the hurt is too much to bear. It might last seconds, like when triggered by a smell. Or minutes, like when triggered by a song on the radio. It might last an hour as you flip through the pages of a photo album remembering with great fondness that time you went camping. For some, the hurt pulls you down and holds you hostage for days, weeks even, sometimes months, threatening to never leave. Sometimes the only way to escape is to talk yourself out. But family is tired