Monday, September 13, 2010


"Why do you have a tear, Mama?" asked Maya an hour ago.

"I don't, honey," I lied.

"Yes.  I can see it.  Why?"

"I'm kinda sad.  I'm gonna miss my mommy and daddy, Maya," I said.  Tears flowed freely then.  I felt ridiculous.  "Is that silly?"

She nodded.

"I'm too old to miss my mommy and daddy, huh, baby?"

She giggled and nodded again.

I told ya'll I would write if something SPECTACULAR happened. 

I'm moving out of my parent's house tomorrow.  Today I pack my little boxes.  Tomorrow I will be mistress of my own castle once again.

For those of you who missed my dramatic saga.  I was once a princess with an enormous custom home and Gucci at her finger tips.  Then the housing market went to crap and I had to sell my Royal Palace and move into the mansion inhabited by King Daddy and Queen Ama.

So why am I sad?  Who is their right mind would WANT to live with her parents when she is 34 years old with a family of her own? 

I'm rarely in my right mind.  I don't even know what that means.  Next!

I actually really LIKE my parents.  Nuts, huh?

On broken nights, which were often, I would find myself at 2am at the piano with tears flowing like the Nile. Musical sorrow drifted through the house. My mother would find me and sit quietly listening on the cold slate steps. 

She never mentioned the self-produced salt water on my face.  Instead she would wait until I was exhausted and the pipes had stopped gushing.

"I need some tea," she would say.

And I would follow her to the kitchen and let her talk.  I listened as she told me stories of Mexico and cowboys and magical dreams and God and The Devil.  I listened as she recounted story after story of Apaches and brave defenders of their families.  Of a woman who is my ancestor that carried a knife in her boot and rode horses with her skirts flying wildly behind her.

My mother healed me with these stories.  These people she spoke of are strong people.  They are my people.  She Healed me with tea and Love and true stories.

On other nights when I felt empty and bruised and battered I would go to my Dad.

"Daddy, I need a blessing."

Even if you don't have faith in my religion how could anyone argue with a blessing of protection and Love upon the head of a wounded daughter by a caring father?  What could be more beautiful?  Or more real?

I believe in Miracles.

My dad would bless me with his prayer and again I let the tears fall as he spoke.

"You are easy to Love.  God has an ease with you, Crystal.  He loves you.  I love you."

The greatest lie I have allowed myself to believe throughout my battle with depression is No One Loves You As You Are.  They Only Love You For What You Give And How You Make Them Look.

Do you ever feel that way?

My daddy healed me with his prayers and his Faith.  His faith in God and his Faith in Me.

Like a pathetic child who has spent almost a year mentally curled up in the fetal postition with her thumb in her mouth I don't want to leave this security.

I am a heart patient shakey from surgery. 

I have healed for the most part.

My heart is in the right place.  (There are times I have found it precariously lodged in my knee cap or elbow...)

I look forward to becoming whoever it is I am supposed to be.  I look forward to becoming the best of both of those SPECTACULAR people I call parents.

I'm not done crying today.  I will water the cardboard boxes I pack tonight and tomorrow I will ready myself for a new adventure.

I like adventures.

The possibilites are endless.

I like possibilities.