When you hear the name Crazy Horse, many people conjure up images of the Oglala Lakota war leader fighting at such places as the Battle of the Rosebud, Battle of the Hundred-in-the-Hands (Fetterman Fight), and the Battle of the Greasy Grass (Battle of the Little Bighorn) to retain the Lakota way of life.
I’m sitting at work watching a marathon of Star Wars movies. It’s quiet at the youth shelter on the overnight shift and I can get a lot of things done. My only real distraction is the ticking clock on the living room wall. Clocks should be made to be silent, but it’s not my home and it’s not my clock, so I try to shut the noise out as best I can as I continue to think about the direction my life is now headed toward and how I’d like to get there.
The first visitors to the area called the sandstone slabs resting upon their clay pillars, toadstools. The name stuck. Each year, thousands of people are drawn to western Nebraska to see the unique landscape known as Toadstool Geologic Park.
One of the coolest things I attended as a spectator this summer was Panhandle Pride. Each year, for the past five years, friends, family, and strangers gather to celebrate old and new friendships and support the LGBTQ+ community.
I have turned in my key. I have made my peace. I am no longer a reporter and photographer for the Star-Herald.
For the past five and a half years, I have written on a variety of topics and always put my best foot forward. That time has come to an end.
I got to thinking the other day and I concluded I have done a lot of stupid things in my life so far. I’m willing to try anything once. I do things without thinking of the consequences because it seems like a good idea at the time. I’m also dumb.
Each year, the members of Nebraska Press Women gather in the spring for a convention to announce the winners of their communications contest and to provide continuing education in areas members would like to learn. This year, as things have been extremely rough for me, personally and professionally, I debated skipping the event.
When Friday morning came, my husband, Paul, asked me if I still wanted to go. “Yes and no,” I said. I wanted to attend, but am so wiped out from the ever-increasing assignments at work that four days hiding in my house instead looked promising. However, a promise is a promise. I gathered my things and began my journey to Broken Bow, the site of this years convention.
Spike and Ralph in black and white.
Since it was Spike’s birthday and I know he loves opossums, I called in all my favors at the zoo to arrange a visit from Ralph the Opossum. The zoo does not do this kind of thing for anyone and I am eternally grateful they made a one-time exception to make my friend smile. I hope you had a good one, Spike.
I often tell people that just being me is an overwhelming experience on the best of days. Most people have an idea of what I’m going through, but they never truly know.
I write the words I do here because I’m not ashamed of my diagnosis. I am one small cog in a giant wheel talking about mental illness to help remove the stigma associated with it. I am here for that one person who reads what I write and says, “yeah, me too. I get that.”
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