get it all down.

It's a new day.

I am quite literally writing journal entries in my mind all day.

Who knew that ten years after high school we would all have cell phones, iPads, and devices where we could journal any time we like and send it out into the world. I never even imagined. I especially think this when I FaceTime on the iPad. Here I am doing what I always dreamed would be possible, having a face to face meeting with someone over a TV. I never thought that could be reality.

I kind of wished these last two weeks that I could think my journal entry and it would be sent into cyberspace. The way I write is conversational anyway, so wouldn't that be great? Just but a chip in my brain and tell it when to start recording and transmitting into the void?

Who's to say it won't happen? I couldn't have imagined this, so hey, I'll just expect that.

I have so much I need to record here. All the things that happened at the hospital, what I learned, observed.

I can't wait to get it all down.

Hard.

I don't think people understand how hard this is going to be for me. 

I am going to release my online journal to some invitees right now, and it is against everything I wanna do.

Not because I don't want to share. But yes because it is not perfect yet.

I haven't written My Story and put it in a cute little tab at the top of the page.

I haven't organized the side gadgets and made sure I have them just how I want them.

I haven't put up my "Mormon" tab, which I want to. It's cute.

And I still haven't decided about comments.

I keep debating! Allow comments. No comments. Allow comments. No comments. 

I've changed my mind at least six times in the last two days.

It's just so fresh. 

I left the hospital on Sunday and was feeling brave. I knew I had to tell the world before I was too afraid to anymore. 

Now I'm feeling not so brave.

I'm not sure I'm ready to "converse" about it. And I feel like that will happen if I enable comments. 

Later I think I'll be a converse-a-holic. 

But today. I don't think so. I'm still in it. Deep. Like real deep.

Yet I want to hear people say, "I can relate to that!" Or, "I want to try that!" Or, "Thank you. That made me think." Heck, maybe none of this mumbo-jumbo is worth any of that anyhow. 

But love, love and feedback. I like those things. 

It's just that I'm not really ready for people that don't understand. I'm not ready for comments like, "Just let it go." "You're too hard on yourself." "Perk up!" Whatever. But I know there's a whole nation of people out there, like me, that don't want to feel alone.

So I'm doing it. 

It's not perfect.

And I'm scared.

Be gentle with my heart.

Hot.

I haven't sweat that much since Venezuela. Our claim to fame, "The Hottest Mission in the World." And it killed me. Misery. I'm gonna be honest. Misery.

I hate sweating! I hate it! But for a friend, I attended her hot Piyo class.

Somehow I was liking it. My joints could move more freely, I felt I was more flexible, I felt lighter. In fact, I think I loved it.

That was in 95 degrees.

Then I went to Hot Yoga. 105 degree studio. Super Yogi teachers, the ones that worship yoga like it's their religion (those are the best ones). I just didn't realize that I was suppose to come in just my underwear like everybody else. (I bought some Yogi Shorts on the way out that day.)

I went in.

The teacher's voice was therapeutic. She explained things like a dove. "Let your heart melt into your knees…Curve that spine, our getting all of the benefits of stretching out that aniyanabanda, breathing oxygen into your heart, your soul…" You know. I can't even give you an example really.

I sweat. A lot. Drips of sweat. For like the third time in my life. (Just not a sweat-er.)

And I walked out saying, "Woah. Loved that."

Not only did I feel like all of the toxins in my body were flushed out, but I felt like the toxins in my mind were sloughing off. Dripping out of my body and soul. Floating away.

My soul was lighter when I left.

Must have more.

Last night with Jason. As we sweat our hearts out, all thirty of us, me being the biggest one in the room. My realizing I have a lot more body fat than I thought. Me realizing there really was no core strength there, just leftover jiggle from baby incubating this last time. And me thinking, man, I should eat better.

Then I looked in my eyes.

Wow.

That's me.

Those eyes are me.

"Look at yourself in the mirror. Honor yourself. This isn't about being better than your neighbor. It's not even about being better than you were yesterday. So just focus. Find your balance. And float. Honor yourself and express how you want to as you hold this tree pose."

Sweat drips off the tip of my nose.

I think I like me.

I have jiggle. Yeah. But I have three kids to show for it, so eh.

But those eyes. Those eyes of mine. I can see the soul that belongs underneath those eyes. And I think I like her.

She looks like someone that has been through hard things, that has taken on hard challenges, that gives back to the universe. She has gifts. And she wants to bless others with her gifts. I think I like that friend I see inside those eyes.

Jason finger paints giant-sized hearts into the windows of the studio, steamed with our sweat.

We move into a pose, an inversion, where the blood rushes to your head.

"As the blood pools in your head, that's breathing fresh new blood and carrying oxygen to your center. This pose works on your emotions. As you quickly arise and as all those emotions are made free, don't be afraid if you feel those emotions well up. Don't be surprised if you even start to cry."

Cry? Huh? Nope. Not happening.

As we lay down for shavasana, and I see the dimmed light above my eyes, it's like a bright light in the darkness. I smile. Big. Maybe bigger than I've smiled in weeks. Months. I felt so happy! Wow. The world is a wonderful place! I love life! Joy coming out my fingertips and nostrils!

Then tears. Tears well up in the outside corners of my eyes. Not enough for them to fall, since I stopped myself, not allowing myself to be that free yet. But just enough that I knew they were there. Just enough to know that this heat, this sweating, this being back in Venezuela is good.

Real good.

Guilt.

I know I just told the world that my illness is valid, that it should deserve some attention and validity as compared to other illnesses, but I am starting to feel guilty. 

I emailed Princess' dance studio director that I was having health problems and went into the hospital and could she refund us tuition until I know when I can have Princess back in dance.

She was so kind and replied, "You look so beautiful and healthy. I had no idea you were ill."

And now I'm feeling guilty.

Nope. It wasn't a medical hospital. Nope. I don't have cancer of the body.

The world isn't used to regarding mental illness and "ill". 

I kind of feel like I lied.

A pear and a bond.

Flashback:

My first day at the psych unit, this guy and I were bonding over this pear. 

The lunch lady had come in and asked if he and I wanted a pear. There were only two. Everyone else were left to just apples for their snack.

As we bit into the pears, man were they good. Holy cow. So juicy and perfectly ripe. I felt privileged above the rest to have been this pear.

Not knowing the mental stability of the other man eating the pear with me, when he said, "This is good!," I replied, "This is so good…Don't tell the rest of 'em!"

"Yeah! We are lucky!"

I laughed inside myself as I thought of how this guy and I were bonding over this pear, in the psych unit, in this sub reality that doesn't seem real to me. 

Then the guy started making way too pleasurable of sounds as he continued to bite into the pear. The kind of sounds that you would only make when in private, behind closed doors.

And my smile inside changed to a "yikes". And a little bit of a "help me."

Um…awkward. I think I'm gonna go to my room now.

Manic.

I had a dream last night that I had gone manic. I'm having real side effects of insomnia and hand shakes from the medication. And my dream was that the medication made me manic.

During my mania, I was in President and Mrs. Obama's bedroom with friends from elementary school. We were all in costumes, either Cinderella and the step sisters, a fairy, a fairy clown, or m&m's. (The cinderella characters had the m&ms to lick. I think this stems from the Super Bowl m&m commercial.) 

I started to hit President Obama.

At some point, glass shattered all over the room and my hands were bleeding. 

Brave.

I was feeling brave. Now I'm feeling not so brave.

I'm not sure I have the strength to be a warrior in fighting the mental illness stigma (stupid word).