Empty Nest, Full Heart

I was just sixteen years old when I left my parents' home to marry a boy the next town over. I'm quite certain some people assumed it was because I "had to" get married. But I wasn't pregnant, I was merely foolish. And stubborn. Really, really stubborn. I actually believed that by moving away, I'd show my mom and dad just how much they'd miss their petulant, free-spirited daughter. Ha!

Looking back, I can only imagine the private happy dance they shared when I was out of their hair. Sure they'd miss me. They loved me. But man did I make their life difficult. I skipped school. I smoked pot. I went to parties. I played hooky from church. I pretty much did the opposite of everything they demanded of me. Not because I didn't love them--I did--but because I thought I knew better than them.

My emancipation came with a price. Suddenly I was in charge of me. I had to figure out how to pay bills which meant getting a job while also finishing high school. I learned how to balance a checkbook, shop for the best deals on groceries, cook meals and run a household. I even learned to change my own oil and spark plugs. At first it was fun, this perpetual date with my high school sweetheart and being addressed as "Mrs." by my teachers. Then one year later I did end up pregnant and gave birth just weeks before my high school graduation. Suddenly it was no longer just me playing house; I was now responsible for another life. 

In THIS I KNOW my young protagonist's mother suffers from postpartum depression. There's a very intimate scene between mother and daughter, when Grace sees her mama for the first time as Isabelle Carter the woman with hopes and dreams instead of the person who sews her dresses, cooks her meals and combs the tangles out of her hair. 

Mama stands and walks across the porch to look out over the meadow. She’s barefoot and wearing a sleeveless sundress with tiny yellow flowers on it that I’ve never seen before. It doesn’t have any pockets. All of Mama’s clothes have pockets. Most of the time they’re full. She turns around and leans back against the railing. Mama looks radiant in spite of the topic of our conversation. I can’t remember seeing her this happy. Ever. Which worries me.

I chose to symbolize the 1960s mother archetype as the family custodian, cleaning behind and picking up after her husband and five children. In this particular scene, Mama escapes reality by envisioning her dream house with a porch swing that overlooks a flowered meadow. She liberates herself from her expected role by wearing a sundress without any pockets. The dress says I'm free and unburdened. Of course, this scares the daylights out of Grace, who tries to convince her mother that she is loved, but what she's really saying is that she's needed.

I remember very clearly the day my youngest son left for college. I cried all the way home. I'd finally gotten that longed-for emancipation and it sucked. Although I cherish my idyllic, child-free adult life, I still miss being needed to tie a shoe, to kiss a hurt, or to comfort a heartbroken teen. My pockets might be empty of broken crayons and baby spoons, but my heart is so full of the memory of each of their young faces as they toddled toward me, arms outstretched, brimming with unbridled trust. 

Parents: What about you? Are you dreading or looking forward to a life without dependents? If your nest is currently empty, are you enjoying your more care-free life? Would you let your adult children move back home to save money on living expenses? 

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THIS I KNOW by Eldonna Edwards is available at your favorite Independent and Online Bookstores:

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When Things Fall Apart

Photo credit: Chow Times

"I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps inside me." --Sylvia Plath

We've all done it; pasted on a happy face to cover our fear, our sadness, our fragility. Nobody wants to be a Debbie Downer and drag others down with them, right? So we stuff our vulnerable selves deep into our core and pull out a mask bearing an appropriately put-together shell. One that appears happy and confident. But on the inside, things are still falling apart.

Growing up in the Midwest I learned from an early age that you need to "buck up" or " "grin and bear it" when times get tough. We were taught to smile through our pain or discomfort because appearances mattered more than feelings. I was a sensitive child and cried easily so I heard it a lot. Of course, I carried this idea of stuffing your feelings well into my adulthood, until that point when I realized that a river of repressed emotions will eventually breach the damn. This flood of truth might manifest as anger or addiction or even suicide if not treated.  

Such is the case for Isabelle Carter, wife of the Rev. Henry Carter, who suffers from a combination of postpartum depression and unfulfilled desires. She wanted to be a famous gospel singer. What she got instead was life as a rural minister's wife and mother to five daughters, one of whom reminds her of long-forgotten self.

Daddy brought Mama back home two days ago. She doesn’t seem very rested if you ask me. She still naps a lot and when she is up and around she bumps into the walls. Joy won’t let Mama hold the baby unless she’s sitting down. Mama reminds me of a Dilly Bar from the Dairy Queen, like there’s only a thin shell covering what’s melting inside.

In this scene from THIS I KNOW, Mama has just come from a place where she was sent to "rest" but returns home looking anything but recovered. I wanted to underscore the disconnect that people (mostly women) from that era suffered. Faces disguised with pleasant, Stepford-like eeriness. These women were often over-prescribed "nerve pills" to calm them or "diet pills" to give them energy. Many self-medicated with alcohol and other forms of escapism. Or as in Mrs. Carter's case, told to pray away the malaise when what she most needed was simply to be allowed to feel what she was feeling. In retrospect, it's no wonder we're currently struggling with an opioid addiction epidemic crisis. People want to feel good and will do anything to make the pain go away.

I enjoy what most friends and acquaintances would describe as a happy disposition. But where there is light, there is shadow. For several years I endured depression that might have been postpartum or might have been circumstantial due to life events. Or maybe it was just good old-fashioned clinical depression. What I remember most was feeling terribly ashamed, that old tape of "get over yourself" looping endlessly in my head. Eventually I sought help, got counseling, and was able to talk openly about my feelings as I surfed the waves of melancholy and despair. 

During that time I learned that what depressed people most need is acceptance and support. Things young Grace strives to give her mama as the reverend's wife struggles to find her way back to happiness  and contentment. In THIS I KNOW, Grace's way of helping happens to involve using her uncanny abilities to break through the membrane of consciousness to reach her sullen mother. Because sometimes a little magic is the best medicine.

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Someone, maybe you, is reading these words and recognizes yourself in them. Talk to somebody. 

• Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA): 1-800-662-HELP (4357)

• National Hopeline Network: 1-800-SUICIDE (784-2433)

• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

• National Youth Crisis Hotline: 1-800-448-4663

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My debut novel, THIS I KNOW, releases April 24 2018. I'd be honored if you'd add it to your wish-list on Good Reads. and thrilled if you recommend it to your friends. You can also pre-order the book on Amazon or from you local bookstore.

In this outstanding debut, Eldonna Edwards has created an enchanting, loveable narrator by the name Grace Carter, who shares all she sees about her world and beyond.  Rendered in a voice at once singular and exquisite and with an old soul sense of wisdom, I was captivated by this story of a girl and her unique gift, her love of family, the pain of loss, the sting of indifference, and the simple joy of acceptance, but most of all by Grace, and her purity of heart. --Donna Everhart, best-selling author of THE EDUCATION OF DIXIE DUPREE and  THE ROAD TO BITTERSWEET.

And Then There Were (Still) Six

I was five years old when my mother lost her seventh daughter. I don't remember my mom being pregnant. I only remember my exhausted dad lining up the six of us girls and telling us that our baby sister had been born with a hole in her heart so she went to be with Jesus. They named her Lori Lee and she was laid to rest in a tiny cemetery in New Era, Michigan. I never got to see her. Fifteen months later my mother had another baby, her only boy. He weighed thirteen pounds. That one I remember.

One day, while snooping in my parents' closet, I found a pair of tiny white booties, a lock of hair, and a photo of a ruddy-faced infant lying in a silk-lined casket surrounded by bouquets of flowers. I wanted to ask my mom about the stillborn baby but it seemed a box tucked that deep into a closet was a thing she might prefer to stay hidden, so I left it there. Every once in a while I'd sneak back into the closet to visit the box and study that photograph. The baby looked like she was sleeping; the casket, like a tiny doll bed. I'd whisper her name over and over, as if by doing so she'd recognize me someday if I ever bumped into her in heaven. Even after all these years, the image of that baby remains frozen in my mind's eye.

My mother died when I was thirty-one and I regret not asking her more about how that was, losing a child. I imagine people might have tried to reassure her with clumsy words about how lucky she was to have six healthy children. I doubt those words soothed her pain. I wish I'd talked with her about it, felt the full weight of the sorrow she must have endured. Maybe I'd have been better equipped to console friends who've miscarried or given birth to stillborn babies. Maybe I'd have navigated my own episode of postpartum depression with more self-compassion. And maybe I'd have understood my mother better than I thought I did.

I can't go back in time, but in writing THIS I KNOW I was free to imagine what it might be like to endure such a loss. The book opens with twins communicating their last thoughts to each other in the womb before being pushed into the outside world. What follows is the story of a prescient child who longs to harvest the pit of sorrow from her mother's heart and replace it with seeds of hope. Something we could all use a little of right now, yes?