My husband and I have had a not even remotely fairytale story from the very beginning. At the point in history when my father decided to run my then-boyfriend off, we had been dating for about a year.

Now, as a little background TheMan was my first serious, lasted-more-than-a-few-weeks boyfriend. And he didn’t go to our church. He was Lutheran and we were quasi-Baptists. AND his mother owned a bar.

And we were boinking like horny bunny rabbits suspected of engaging in less than pure activities.

So there was, at the time, very little love lost between my then-boyfriend and my dad.

One day, shortly after my parents developed the aforementioned suspicions, TheMan invited me out fishing, with the guys.

I, being a young teen girl who was madly in love, chirped, “Oh, that sounds fun! I’d like to go!“ And then spent the next hour or so, until his planned arrival, picking the perfect outfit for fishing with the guys.

I see his truck pull up to the farm, and I grab my jacket. In the amount of time it takes me to grab a jacket and walk downstairs, he had already backed out of the driveway and onto the road.

This, of course, led to an ugly scene with my dad. But that’s a story for another night!

Later, I found out what had happened, according to TheMan.

Note: My dad was/is a farmer. This is important to the rest of the story.

Dad had been out doing chores when TheMan pulled in. Feeding something or other, or mucking out some building, or something like that. Farmer stuff.

Then TheMan pulls in. TheMan. Who has (possibly) sullied his sweet (and willing) daughter. To take her out, on a boat, on the river.

Oh, HAYUHL NO. So he marches up to the truck, and he informs TheMan that he needs to get gone. About 30 seconds ago.

Now, what TheMan SAW was an angry father, coming up to the truck, yelling and carrying a pitchfork!

Now, he could have taken the time to drive forward and pull around, because my parents driveway makes an awkward loop. But. Pitchfork.

So instead, this 18-year old version of TheMan chooses to back that truck, which is towing a boat, down the long driveway as fast as he can.

And he does. Hauling butt, with a boat attached, he gracefully backed down that long driveway, and onto the road. With nary a wiggle, or misplaced wheel.

What can I say? His driving skills charmed me.

*****

Many years after this, I mention the story to my dad. He gave me a funny look and says, “I was carrying the pitchfork? Huh. That explains why he backed up so fast!”

And then he walked away chuckling.

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Tags: Barn, family, Farm, Fathers, Humor, marriage, relationships

Events of these past few weeks have dredged up memories from less stable times like a month ago.

And while digging for nylons that didn’t have major runs in them, I found my duct-tape covered Binder of Angst. Where I wrote page after page of depressing poetry between the ages of 13 and embarrassingly-old-for-that-sort-of-thing.

I’ve been fairly open about my struggles with depression and anxiety, I think.

Those that have known me since way back when can probably tell you that I’ve had these “issues” since at least adolescence. Example? Excerpt from angst-filled poem written when I was all of 14.

Losing control
Out of my mind
Selling my soul
One piece at a time

I don’t live
I just exist
What kind of life is this?

Clearly not the mind of a well child.  Of course, I couldn’t really see it at the time. My head was clouded, both by mental demons and by religious convictions. I was convinced that I, too, could be normal. If I just read my Bible every day, and prayed a little harder.

There’s a song that I learned as a child that actually runs through my head every time I see the phrases. It went (in part), “Read your Bible and Pray ever day, Pray ever day, Pray every day. Read your Bible and Pray every day, and you’ll grow, grow, grow!”  But I digress. I think.

I wish I could look back at that and shake my head, and say, “Gosh, am I ever glad I outgrew that!”

But I can’t.

Because I haven’t outgrown it yet. Not the hopelessness that catches up to me more often than I’d like to admit, nor the tendency to write angst-riddled, poorly constructed poetry.

The main difference is that at least now I admit and embrace my lack of skills, rather than convincing myself that I will someday be rich and famous. Don’t laugh, 14 year old girls tend to have rich imaginations, you know.

I realized the other night that I’m much farther from moving on from that stage than I thought.

After a week spent picking fights with the husband, bankers and the dog, I lay there in my darkened bedroom, possibly because none of my family/friends could stand being in the same room as I, contemplating how physical pain is closely linked to mental pain. I realized that clearly there are times where I am still just a scared, pissed-off little girl.

I wish there were a better conclusion to this post. I wish I could say, “And so I realized that, in order to fix everything, I merely need to start doing XYZ! And then life will revert to rainbows and snuggly puppy hugs! Yay!”

But. Alas, no such clarity was bestowed upon me.

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Tags: anxiety, Bible, depression, illness, Mental, Mental health, Poetry