Eight Feet Small

Just after the September 2013 birth of my daughters, I found myself in an unprecedented mental state; at times depressed and negative, and at other times profoundly contemplative.

Today, a couple years down the road, I can only begin to understand the emergence of these feelings as being triggered by an ever-mounting anxiety, postpartum depression, childhood abandonment, coming to grips with my mother's bipolar disorder and eventual death, as well as the painful loss of my uncle and my grandfather. All this compounded with the overwhelming guilt of simply having these feelings while still recognizing my fortune in having an incredible husband and two healthy, beautiful new daughters. As a child, when I felt a bit off (more so than I normally do), I would turn to writing. I now have a stack of journals I can give my daughters - replete with the trials and tribulations of their neurotic, boy-crazy, anxiety-ridden, dorky mom during her adolescence. They'll love 'em.

I talk with my hand a lot

I talk with my hand a lot

So when I began to feel off yet again, during the time proceeding my girls' birth, I turned to what I knew had helped in the past. But, this time, without leaving the ink stain on my little finger. I started a blog; Eight Feet Small.

All that to say I've decided that, from time to time, I'll transfer over some of the Eight Feet Small posts to this lovely blog. Good? Good.