Lost years in my life? Not nearly as many as I originally thought!

 

 

Yesterday I received an e-mail notice of a blog post on Bp Magazine’s website www.bphope.com. It was called Learning From My Lost Years by Dave Mowry. In that blog post, Dave Mowry reflected on years he considered “lost” from his life, as a result of his bipolar disorder. He wrote that a lot more years were “lost” than actually good, and that though he appreciates the good ones, they just don’t make up for the bad (or “lost”) ones. He ended his post positive about the present, but I felt bad for him and then I started thinking about my life with bipolar disorder. In the past, I have also labeled many of the years in my life as “lost”, with great sadness. I suppose I still do to some degree, but at this moment I realized that maybe not so very many were really “lost” after all. Dave Mowry only emphasized high value for the good years, but perhaps there is value to the bad ones, as well. Continue reading

The Secret World of Lost Socks

sock with hole in toeWhy does my “official” sock drawer have fewer socks than my “lost sock drawer”? Please someone, tell me why so many socks form pairs no more. Do you, too, have dozens of forlorn socks waiting for their mates? Is there a world out there, like the Island of Misfits, where lost socks wait?

Sometimes when I’m delinquent doing laundry, I find myself with no sock choices. I’ve been known to open the “lost sock drawer” in hopes I’ll hear the voices of some pairs of choices. After all, when I put my clean laundry away there’s always going to be at least one or two stray. With luck, there are some reunited pairs in there. A match of socks sure would be fair! Continue reading

I just want to go home, but I’m already home

home seclusion

I remember being at work, or somewhere else, and thinking over and over again that “I just want to go home.” The hours seemed like days. I’d watch the clock, and it would seem to have stopped. Two minutes before I was officially to be set free, I’d run around the corner and make an escape. I knew that those last two minutes would just kill me, so I had to make the run for it while I could still breathe.  Continue reading