My name is Mickey.

Anyone who really knows me knows that I've recently been suffering from severe anxiety issues and mild-to-severe depression. Going to sleep at night and having a restful night's sleep is often difficult. Last night, however, I had a truly amazing experience.

When I was a senior in college, I was convinced that a ghost lived in my dorm room. He or she was always benevolent and I only sensed him or her at night. I'd be lying in my bed and I would feel the sensation of someone sitting gently at the foot of my bed. I don't know how to describe it -- the covers would move a certain way and the mattress would dip slightly. Wow. I haven't really thought about my Gaston ghost in a very long time...

Last night before I went to bed, I prayed and asked God for a good night's sleep. I asked Him for peace and for patience. I asked Him for a sign that I'm still supposed to be in Los Angeles, and not near the family I miss so dearly. Shortly after I climbed into bed -- calm as can be -- I felt the familiar dipping of my mattress and shifting of my sheets. And at that moment, I was overcome with thoughts and memories of my Poppy -- things he would say to me. I knew it then -- my ghost was none other than my Poppy. I couldn't see him -- oh how I wanted to -- but I knew he was there. I cried and I cried and I cried and I could hear his voice in my head telling me that it would be okay. I was taken back to sitting in his lap in his recliner, and the way he smelled like cigarettes and Brut aftershave. I remembered "Gilly! Gilly! Gilly!" and how he used to tease me about how when I got my drivers license, I'd break down somewhere between San Angelo and Abilene and have to call him to come and pick me up. And, most of all, I remembered "Mickey's Lament," the poem he wrote for me when I was a baby -- one of the last things I ever remember him saying to me before he was put in the hospital all those years ago. That was the most comforting thing of all.

He was there. And then other people stopped by, too, but only briefly to wave. My Uncle Billy and my friend Betty Fuller. She said, "Hi, Amanda Mouse." Again, it's not like I could see them with my eyes -- my heart and my brain just knew they were there. All I know is that I'm not really that interested in dying at the moment, but I can't wait to get to Heaven.

But yeah... Now I have to wonder... Was my Gaston ghost really my Poppy coming to sit with me on some of those tough nights? Who knows...

A parent's love. Denny's style.

I've spent a lot of time recently being introspective. Actually, I've spent a lot of time recently over-thinking things and freaking myself out to the point of an anxiety problem. One of the things I've thought about is if I'll ever have children. I've also worried that if I have children, I'll be a horrible mother. Lately, kids have just gotten on my nerves. There's a reason I actively avoid Target on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. There's a reason I call Target "Birth Control Central."

Despite the protests from my friends and family that it's "different" when the kid is yours, or the fact that the minute the child emerges from your womb, a love like no other overtakes you, I worry about it. Because worrying is my M.O. these days. Tonight, however, I think I got a lesson. God knew what I needed to see and He showed it to me.

My parents divorced when I was six years old. There are moments that I remember very clearly about this time of my life -- I remember the feel of their bedsheets when they broke the news to my brother, sister, and me. I remember the Mickey Mouse bubble gum dispenser my grandparents bought us to make us feel better. And I remember the absolute despair I felt whenever I was separated from my mother. (My father got custody of us.) I loved my daddy to death, but I couldn't bear being separated from my mama. I remember one particular Christmas when my mom and stepdad came to watch me sing a solo in the Christmas pageant at church. For some reason, they started to leave before I felt that I had had an adequate goodbye. As that old Chevy Malibu crossed the parking lot to leave, I remember sobbing and running as fast as my legs could carry me so that they would stop.

I remember being the child of divorce and it is something that will haunt me for the rest of my life. That's not to say that I regret anything that happened -- my life is truly wonderful now. But the hurt in my heart that came whenever my mom dropped us off -- or vice versa once I moved to San Angelo and started visiting my dad -- was truly killer (and still is).

Fast forward to tonight. My roommate Allison, our friend Lauren, and I went to San Diego for the afternoon. We crossed over into Tijuana for a few minutes, and then stopped at Mission Beach before heading back to Los Angeles. Exhausted and hungry, we stopped at a Denny's in Carlsbad. It was dark and depressing and there were crying children, which only made me want to cry because I was getting pretty tired and cranky myself. Once our food was served, a young couple and their little boy entered. The boy looked to be around four years old. I heard the mother urge him to be in a better mood "for Daddy," who apparently had not yet arrived. I figured it out -- this was either a simple visit for "Daddy" or it was an "exchange" for visitation.

A few minutes later, I see the child's face light up. He has seen his Daddy in the parking lot. He works to free himself of the high chair he was in and his mother walks him to the front door before returning by herself. In walks this man -- the epitome of "toughness" with his arms covered in tattoos and a beard and earrings -- carrying his child in what was one of the most beautiful displays of parent-child love I have ever seen. The once-semi-rowdy child had his face buried in his dad's neck, while the father held his child close, his eyes closed in the simple relief and joy of having the boy in his arms.

I've been that little boy, but I've never seen what it must have been like to be my Daddy or my Mama. It was a surreal experience to say the least, and even a few hours later, it still makes me want to cry. When we left, the little boy was still sitting quietly in his father's lap. I'm not sure whether he left with his dad or whether he went back with his mom, but I'm glad I wasn't there to find out. Because if it involved leaving his daddy again, I wouldn't have been able to watch without breaking down. That pain never goes away. It may get better and lessen over time, but it's nearly impossible not to relive it. (I can't watch a certain scene in Hope Floats for that very reason.)

On a happier note, I get to see my Daddy in five days!

You look ridiculous.

I'm sure there's some deep psychological explanation for this, but I was humored to realize that when I go home, I always want to look as L.A. (translation: ridiculous) as possible. Big sunglasses, nice jeans, a big purse. When I come back to L.A., I'm always as "Texas" as possible. Jeans, a t-shirt/sweatshirt, sneakers. When I came back in March, I wore fuzzy flip-flops that my sister made for me -- and didn't bat an eyelash. Bizarre.

The funny thing is that I look more ridiculous than I do on a normal basis. I'm a non-hipster Silver Lake girl (whatever that really is). I'm a huge fan of my GAP jeans and Target workout britches. But I can't resist getting all gussied up for a plane ride. Now, the sunglasses thing? That won't exactly be necessary/possible anymore. San Angelo now has jetways at Mathis Field -- excuse me, San Angelo Regional Airport -- so I can't be all cool when I come down the little airplane steps. Or I can, but wearing sunglasses INDOORS would be taking the ridiculous a little too far. (And if I see you wearing sunglasses INDOORS in L.A., you can bet that I'm thinking about how stupid you look.)

It's probably a confidence thing or some attempt at defining myself to people. Who knows. It is what it is -- and trying to figure it out beyond that is giving me a headache. I think I'll just sit here and listen to Coldplay and sip on my hot chocolate.

Dancing.

I've recently come to the realization that I never liked dances growing up.

There were multiple reasons, the main one being that nobody ever really danced at those things. And if they did, no one ever asked me. Perhaps that's why I took a shining to the line dancing craze, and even La Macarena -- no partner required. But from my very first dance during sixth period on the last day of sixth grade, I found out that school dances were never like they appeared on TV. Or on Back to the Future.

Watching the most recent episode of Friday Night Lights, I was reminded of one dance in particular. It was my second dance, held sometime just before seventh grade commenced. All of the incoming junior high schoolers (Midland was not on a middle school system) were invited to a dance at the Midland High School Youth Center to celebrate and get to know one another. This was an early lesson on what junior high school was really like -- Hell.

I don't remember what I was wearing that night. I do remember what other people wore -- probably because, as a wallflower, I had ample time to observe and absorb. The predominant outfit for girls was a pair of plaid "dress shorts" over tights with either loafers or Mary-Janes. I felt so uncool, especially since my sixth grade girlfriends didn't greet with me as much enthusiasm as I had expected. I distinctly remember being ignored for the better part of the first hour I was there, which is probably an overdramatized version of what really happened considering that everything is dramatic when you're 13-years-old. I remember standing in the phone booth crying, trying to hear my parents over the strains of whatever M.C. Hammer song was popular at the time.

My daddy came to pick me up in his blue and silver Chevy truck. We drove out to the Kettle on Wall Street and talked over Cokes and a plate of french fries. I remember a lot of tears. I remember him telling me that I was beautiful and that I looked like my mama. I remember feeling so safe. I didn't need those stupid freckle-faced girls back at the youth center -- at least for the hour we sat in that coffee shop booth.

Sadly, I can't just call my dad to pick me up anymore. Living so far away makes it difficult for me to just drop by his office and lounge on his cool pleather loveseat while he runs joke after cheesy joke by me. (Where in the Bible was a car first referenced? "They all came in one Accord.") But I can still call him and he can pretty much talk me down about anything. Whether it's on my most homesick of days when all I want to do is pack my car and head east, or whether it's more of the same "why don't the boys like me?" stuff from junior high, Dad's got my number. I'm blessed.

(And for the record, I still don't like dances.)

Why no, I'm not involved in film, television or media.

And no, I don't know anyone who works in media research. At all.

So, tonight I was invited to a screening of the upcoming rom-com License to Wed. It was really pretty freaking adorable. Okay, so maybe the ending was a wee bit over the top, but NOT BAD. I learned two things tonight:

(1) I need a cute guy a la Ben in the movie.
(2) I need to make a million zillion dollars so I can go to Anthropologie and buy Mandy Moore's wardrobe from the movie.

Okay, there's a possible third thing. I need to learn how to make my hair purdy. But purdy in that, "Oh this was a piece of cake! I just rolled out of bed and pulled my hair up and doesn't it look good with my perfect glowy skin?"

S.O.S.

Am addicted to House. Stop. Please send help. Stop.

(Image borrowed from Wounded-Hearts.)

Insert witty blog subject line here.

I am up 21 minutes past my bed time. I am a rebel...against myself.

So this afternoon, I up and done it -- I rejoined Weight Watchers. I'm doing the whole online thingy and I'm already whining. How in the hey hey am I supposed to keep it under 19 points in a day? Frickin' Cheerios and skim milk is 4 points in and of itself. I can do this. I just want my size 6's back. And as sick and twisted as it sounds, I miss seeing the outline of my sternum and my clavicles. Oh, and I miss the "glow" that I had, but I suspect that will only return with a regular exercise regimen. Note to self: FIND NEW NON-OUTRAGEOUSLY-EXPENSIVE-AND-SCENEY GYM TO JOIN.

In all seriousness, though, I'm determined to make this work -- to stop the madness, if you will. At least when I was "acting," I looked good all the time. I was obsessive about the gym and what I ate. And I did not have schoolteacher arms. Oh to be that messed up again.

In other news, is it just me or is buying eye cream depressing? Not only is it expensive, but it's to treat LINES AROUND MY EYES. I'm all crinkly anymore. But I do have to say that this All About Eyes Rich stuff is awesome. I think awesome is their secret ingredient. It's what makes it "rich."

Pay no attention to the cranky woman at the computer.