Of Irises and Men

Every spring and summer I have a large fight with Darrin.

Darrin's belief about yards: If it grows, it must be cut.

My belief about yards: If it grows, let it be.

The result of Darrin's belief is that the lush current bushes which grow on both sides of our front yard have been hacked down to 18 inches and are now 25% short, dead sticks, and all the tulips and blue flax which were naturalized into our lawn are currently non-existent. I'm not okay with this, but I sacrificed those items so that I could have the rose bush retain it's great breadth and bloom abundantly each year.

We have obnoxious weeds, however, which have grown in where the current bushes have been cut back. They're not beautiful and they try to choke out everything I plant. I'm not a fan of killing weeds with chemicals, and I know that irises like to spread with a tenacity which rivals that of noxious weeds, so about six years ago, I began moving my irises to the space in front of the hacked down current bush hedges along our driveway, in the hopes that they would be stronger than the weeds and eventually discourage the encroaching plants from growing.

Year One: Darrin notices strange looking plants in front of the currents. He's in the process of hacking the hedge, so he hacks those, as well. I mention that those were newly transplanted irises and request no hacking next year. Darrin looks at me as if I don't know what I'm talking about and says, with a wild look in his eye: "Those aren't irises!" I suggest that I do know what I'm talking about, since I just planted them. The wild look subsides a bit as Darrin says, "Why?" I give up. The irises do not bloom this year.

Year Two: I guard my irises while Darrin hacks the hedges. I throw myself between the hedge clippers, my irises which managed to survive the last year's brutality, and the newly transplanted irises. Darrin asks me what I'm doing. I mention the irises to him. He says they're in the way. I remain between the plants and the trimmers until he grudgingly promises not to cut them down. I watch to be sure he keeps his promise. Later that evening, DJ, who is just learning to drive, runs over each and every one of them. They do not bloom this year.

Year Three: I forget to guard my irises. Darrin runs over them with the lawn mower. They do not bloom this year.

Year Four: I repair the lawn mower damage and transplant more irises, once again guarding them from the hedge trimmers. They're sadly in need of help. They do not bloom this year.

Year Five: Darrin is too busy to cut down anything this summer. Yay!!! My irises reestablish themselves, but do not bloom this year.

Year Six, January: I tell Darrin not to touch my irises in the spring. He says, "What irises?"

Year Six, February: I take Darrin to the side of the driveway and point out where the irises will come up. I tell him not to cut them down. He says, "I don't see anything planted there." I remind him it's still winter.

Year Six, March: My irises are beginning to grow. I point them out each time we leave the house together. Darrin says, "All right!! I get it!"

Year Six, April: Darrin tells me not to bug him; he won't hurt my irises.

Year Six, May: My irises are flourishing. Darrin gets out the hedge trimmers. A sudden freak snowstorm erupts. I tell Darrin that's what happens when he tries to cut down my irises.

Year Six, June: I take Darrin to my irises. I show him the buds. I tell him if he touches them with any garden implement, lawn mower, or hedge trimmer, I will cry and I might never speak to him again. Darrin rolls his eyes at me. One week later, the buds begin to open. Adam notices, D.J. notices. Darrin does not. Two weeks later we have a couple of large, deep purple blooms. Three weeks later, there are even more. Tolkien Boy sees them and decides that when he is king, he will have a robe made in that color. The irises continue to bloom all month.

Year Six, July: The irises finish blooming. On July 9th, 2009, Darrin says to me, "Oh. The irises aren't blooming anymore. I'll miss them." I look at him in surprise. He says, "What? They were really pretty this year."

Yup. They were. And they will be next year, I think. Darrin seems to be convinced, at least for the moment, that some plants are lovely when you don't cut them down.

Dear A.J.,

Sigh...I'm so lame. So I meant to publish your last comment, and hit the wrong button, which means it was deleted. And I'm embarrassed that this is the second time I haven't published one of your comments--so--will you please send it again if you can remember it? And if not, please remember that right now I'm just bad at life, in general.

Love,

Sam

I just took a survey

This is for anyone who is currently in or has been in a mixed-orientation marriage. Kim took it too. Come on...all the heterosexually married or previously heterosexually married SSA people are doing it...

(somehow, I don't think that's going to become a catch-phrase)

Go here: http://www.mixedorientationstudy.com/

Things I've been thinking about

1. Wondering why I like the outsides of Oreo cookies, but not the insides.

2. Wondering why, for the past four months, my bank has omitted page 3 from my monthly statements.

3. Wishing I knew when my car windsheild cracked horizontally.

4. Thinking that spraying chemicals to kill mosquitos can't be good for us, even if it does cut down on West Nile disease.

5. Wondering when my children will realize that I pretty much always know when they're lying to me--and when they'll catch on to the fact that their mom's IQ is in the top 2% of the world's current population, which doesn't really mean anything in the large scheme of things, but I actually do have brain cells in my head.

6. Wanting to eat the spinach from my garden, but it's not big enough yet.

7. Wishing people would find the landfill and stop dumping trash in the meadow where I run.

8. Thinking the green grasshopper that lives in my French tarragon and is the same color, is adorable.

9. Wishing we could find a contractor to fix our upstairs bathroom.

10. Loving my son, who wanders in and tells me he's just seen the most beautiful sunrise of his life.

Oops...

I just happened to glance through my spam and noticed there was a comment for my blog that got sent there. It won't be published because it was written for a post that is now invisible--but A.J., thank you for stopping by and for caring. I also invisibled several post where Ambrosia and Sister Pottymouth commented, but I appreciate you both. It means a lot to know you're still talking to me, and you understand when I disintegrate into self-pity.

However, I've been in the habit of simply emptying the spam without looking at it for a number of days now--so if you commented and it didn't appear, it's not because your comment was not approved. It's because Yahoo thinks you're spam. I, on the other hand, do not. I think you're wonderful, thank you for commenting, and apologize for the mistake.

Please forgive me and blame Yahoo.

On Gardening

I do not like to thin my plants. Because then I have to let one of the seeds I planted just die. They're not large enough to eat, so I just have to throw them away. It seems rather heartless to pull out the baby plants just so the others can have more room. So I'm only thinning a little bit this year. Yes, I realize the other plants won't get as large. No, I don't care. If my spinach, chard and basil are a bit stunted, I think that's okay.

Weird

Early this morning I dreamed I had a very painful headache. This has happened before--and then I wake up because the headache is real. So this time I woke up, but I had no headache. I'm very glad because starting the day off in such a miserable way is not my preference, but I still think it's weird.

Things my nephew says during church:

"Where is Jesus's sword?"

"Look at my feet! They're dirty!"

"I can't put on my cowboy boots. They have dirt in them. See? Look at my dirt."

"Why doesn't Jesus wear pants?"

"Why did Jesus take off his mustache?"

"No! It's my car! MINE!"

Waiters...

...always stop by my table when I'm talking about something awkward...like naked time...

"...you're gonna see it's our destiny..."

Until recently, in my memory, I have never had a friend leave me. Naturally, this is because with few exceptions, every relationship I had came with some sort of expiration criteria.

Expiration criteria for males (when I was between the ages of 13-21):

1. We've spent one-on-one time together more than twice in the past week.

2. I made the mistake of telling you something personal (even if it was just that I like to sleep with a pillow).

3. We went on a date alone (not with other couples).

4. You think you care about me.

5. You kissed me.

At the point when three or more of those items had been fulfilled, operation "please leave me alone because I need to be away from you" came into play. Fortunately, most teen-age boys do not have the stamina to resist such an operation, and with three exceptions I was successful in terminating the relationships, leaving the poor young men confused and a little bit angry. It wasn't manipulative on my part; I was simply responding to the fight-or-flight instinct they raised in me. And of course, I really didn't like boys very much, so if the kissing part happened, it was very possible that I reacted a bit violently. And that's all I have to say about that.

Of the three who resisted my efforts, one ended up with a bloody nose while he listened to me scream at him to never touch me again (but he was persistent anyway--he still kept asking me out on dates--I have to admire his tenacity); one became a very good friend who never knew anything about me, but was happy simply to spend time with me; and one I grew to love and appreciate and marry, because his resistance was always in the form of wanting what was best for me, supporting me in every instance, and taking me grocery shopping in his cute little car.

Expiration criteria for females (romantic):

1. You know too much about me.

2. I might be attracted to you, but you're smothering me.

3. You want to tell me what to do.

4. You're too possessive and I hate that.

Only one person resisted the expiration criteria--and she nearly made me crazy. I eventually made it clear to her that I was not in any position, emotionally, to love anyone and she left me alone. I was amazed at how much regret and relief I felt. Further study let me understand that the relationship had become dependent on her part and was on its way to becoming codependent, so my instincts in this particular case, were spot on. Interestingly, I still have intermittent contact with this person and I think we're friends--difficult to say, really.

Expiration criteria for females (non-romantic):

1. You make me want to scream when you're with me because you're driving me crazy.

2. You know too much about me.

3. We don't laugh at the same things.

4. You're too emotional.

5. I want to spend more time with you than I think I should.

6. I want to talk with you all the time.

7. 5 and 6 are happening, but I'm not romantically interested, so I find this confusing.

Oddly, every female friend I've had has resisted my friendship expiration efforts. The only way I have successfully been able to "end" those relationships is to move to a different state, or become immersed in work. But when I encounter former friends, they don't seem to think they're "former". They feel we're still good friends, want to make plans for lunches and get-togethers, and have not understood that I'm trying to be a solitary person. And my stupid need for human companionship responds to their efforts and I find us being friends once again. So...expiration efforts for female friends = ultimate fail.

I suppose I'm looking at this because every friendship termination in my life before 2005, was instigated by me. That's sort of a powerful position to be in, albeit lonely and pointless.

So, I have finally matured enough to recognize the need for life-long friends--even close, good friends who talk with me frequently and venture into the wastelands where I live to come visit me. And the amazing thing is that now I'm the person who gets left behind, or asked to leave due to someone else's friendship expiration efforts (FEE). It seems to be a common theme in human relationships.

During a conversation recently, which sort of felt like a FEE on the part of the person who was not me, I came to a decision which I have since voiced on more than one occasion. The decision is that I no longer invest in FEEs. I have come up with a new directive in my not-related-by-blood-or-marriage relationships:

1. If I've taken the time to get to know you, and allow you to know me, that must mean something.

2. If we've been friends longer than a year, I'm not willing to discard that effort simply because one of us (not me) wants to.

3. You know too much about me for me to allow you to just go away.

4. If our friendship ends it will be completely because you choose that, because I will do everything in my power to nurture, revitalize, and enjoy our relationship.

5. If you want me to go away, dropping hints or just ignoring me won't be enough. You're going to have to tell me straight up, because otherwise I'll just keep assuming we want to be friends and we love each other.

6. Even if you ask me to go, I'll keep loving you. It's not defiance, it's just the way I'm built. I've never figured out how to turn that part off.

So there it is. I have no idea what it all means, and today I definitely don't care. But it's on my mind and now it's in my blog.

Storm

I'm sitting by my window watching the wind blow petals off my roses and listening to thunder.

"It will take time and patience."

Therapist says that to me all the time, as if I don't remember in between visits. It's not that I don't remember, simply that I want it to be different.

I'm listening to blowing sand, metallic and pointed, as it falls down the pipe of my wood burning stove, so rarely used that it serves as a shelf for boxes of memorabilia waiting for Darrin's perusal and disposal.

"Remember to look at what you've accomplished."

I know. I've accomplished much--none of which is what I wanted. Still...accomplishment...

Last night I acknowledged (not for the first time) to Tolkien Boy that if my life had been different, if my life had lacked the painful experiences that drove me to seek help from Therapist, from blogging, from other people, he would not be sitting next to me on my couch. I would not have the pleasure of talking with him most every day. That same acknowledgement holds true in reference to my interactions with AtP, Jason, Kim, Ambrosia, JB, Edgy, Mister Fob...countless others whom I have met online and in person, who have taken time to follow my story, comment, listen, and spend time with me.

The leaves on my crab apple tree tremble and fret in the gathering storm. No rain yet, but the thunder grumbles its eminence as lightning licks through black clouds.

I live a couple of hours from the nearest major airport. I wanted to talk for just a moment more with TB on his ride away from my home. Instead, I sat silent, determined to manage insistent tears, not brought on because of a friend's departure (although, that would be the logical emotional progression), but simply because today I will cry. There is no sadness behind the weeping, it simply is. I find no reason, and therefore no solace. It steals my intention to chatter once more before TB leaves and makes me glad I stayed up till 2:00 this morning visiting with him--even though it left only about two hours for sleep.

This is my life--mine. I am doing the best I can with the hand life has dealt me. I have worked with every ounce of strength to improve, heal, overcome...and I'm so very tired.

What have I gained in the process?

I recognize that at some point I must accept myself without trying to change my history. I do not want to be the abused little girl, the confused, lonely rape survivor, the defiant teen. But those belong to me--they are me. But also me: the person who calls Ambrosia to ask if I can come fix dinner (and invite a thousand other people to join us); the person who loves sunshine and thunderstorms equally; the runner who stops to admire a striped spider or rescue the worms drying in the sand after a night of rain; the gardener without a green thumb, whose method is to buy any flowers and herbs that smell good or look pretty and plant them haphazardly in her front yard with no regard to the terraced, clean lines of the neighbors' flower gardens; the mom who adores her kids and is incapable of reprimanding without giggling; the friend who can't stop loving like crazy--even when I'm asked to do so.

Would I do the last four years again?

Yes, not for the therapeutic gains, but only because I have met people who have changed my life--changed me. They've helped me remember I am more than the sum of my experiences. They remind me they care about me--not because of what I can do or who I know--just me--just as I am.

It is very possible that someone saved me--more than one someone--and I forgot to notice.

It is raining.

Hello again

The three month stretches between visits to Therapist have been trying. I chose that length of time because I became aware last September that I had stopped trying to work through periods of extreme stress, and instead was ignoring them until I could talk to Therapist about them. I felt it would be helpful to give myself less of an excuse to "avoid". So when I met with him in December, I arranged to have my next appointment in March, and I explained why. Therapist was dubious (not sure I was quite ready), but very supportive (because he always wants me to be able to control what happens in the course of therapy). Because he was a bit concerned about the stretch of time, he suggested I utilize email and phone calls if I felt overwhelmed or just in need of some assurance. I thanked him and vowed that I would not do that.

During that course of time:

1. Darrin left for a month of training.

2. My job load doubled.

3. One of my best friend's son was hit and killed by a bus.

4. A key support person called to let me know he was going to stop by my house for cookies and a hug--did not come--and then did not talk to me or respond to my attempts to contact him (without warning or explanation) for three months.

5. My eating disorder became unmanageable for about four weeks.

So I ended up calling Therapist once, and emailing once, but I managed to wait until the scheduled visit to see him. And even though the major things above were complicated by PTSD and other aggravating emotional symptoms, I did work though most of it on my own, which was my goal.

I scheduled my next appointment for three months later. In that period of time:

1. My job load became even heavier as I finished tax season, added several accompanying contracts, and taught seminars and conducted ensembles during a week-long music institute at the university.

2. I found out my mother had breast cancer.

3. I accompanied my mom to her first chemo treatment.

4. Adam injured both his index fingers; one of those injuries sending him to the emergency room to have the nail removed and the nail bed stitched.

5. Darrin left for another week of training after being told he would not have to do that for the rest of the year.

6. I finished the final major step of my therapy (all that is left is learning to deal with the resulting side-effects and managing PTSD).

During the last three-month period I did not find it necessary to phone Therapist. I did email him once, and he caught me online a few times and chatted with me briefly (he instigated the chats; I did not). There has been some overwhelming residual depression in the last month which has been extremely difficult to deal with. Therapist says, given the stress load I have carried and the unexpected stressful events which have popped up, it would be unusual for me not to feel some depression. He doesn't feel medication is necessary or advisable yet, unless I want to have something to boost me through this time. I don't.

I stopped writing in this blog about two weeks prior to my appointment with Therapist because I found it was making my symptoms more intense--and causing me problems with management. I had a flashback while talking online with Tolkien Boy and had no idea how to organize the onslaught of fear and emotion while a chat screen was sending me messages. At that point TB ceased to be a person and my computer simply seemed possessed. I have had only one flashback since then. It occurred two days ago, on the way home from my therapy visit. Fortunately, I was not driving. Tolkien Boy is spending the weekend with us and he simply pulled over and let me work through the mess created by a flashback. We didn't arrive home until 11:30 p.m., but I have to say this: Sometimes Therapist is right.

Okay, Therapist is almost always right.

Having someone with me during a flashback is better than being alone (depending on the person, of course). I recovered more quickly than I do when I'm alone. And besides, we pulled off the freeway by an old abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere, and I had to recover as fast as I could so I would be able to protect Tolkien Boy from his imaginary axe-murderers and fantasies of Morlocks. At one point a van pulled up next to us and shined its lights into our car. That was weird.

I'm still feeling very tired. But Therapist said the things I already knew (even though I don't want them to be true). Mostly he reminded me that I have to allow time for healing whenever I complete a milestone, and that it's understandable that my emotional control will lessen in those moments. I don't like playing the waiting game, but he gave me some ideas of small things to work on that will help me manage stress and symptoms more successfully once I master them.

In the meantime, I took TB to our local dinosaur museum, did a three-hour walking tour of part of our small town, and talked my head off (which I don't usually do and I think is good for me). We had a wonderful dinner last night, after which I exposed him to part of my very loud family for a few hours--very fun. I'm not looking forward to his departure tomorrow.

I'm still having some difficulty managing emotions, but I'm feeling better and ready for another three-month (or longer) stint until my next therapy visit. And I think I'll probably keep blogging, too. It feels good again.

Perhaps there is only one thing on which we can agree

Him: Why do you believe?

Me: Why do you care?

Him: I don't, really. I'm just curious.

Me: Why are you curious?

Him: Ummm...not to sound rude or anything, but you say you research stuff and you're logical and all that. This isn't logical.

Me: No.

Him: So you believe some things without being logical or researching?

Me: I didn't say that.

Him: But I'm asking.

Me: Why?

Him: Okay, you don't want to talk about this. That's cool.

Me: Wrong. I always want to talk about it. I don't want to debate it. No one wins, everyone gets mad and feels defensive, relationships are not strengthened. It's a no-win situation.

Him: You think I want to argue with  you?

Me: I think you want to be right. I think you want me to agree with you.

Him: Maybe.

Me: Let me ask you this: If there was something in your life that had deep personal importance to you, something you loved and nurtured because it brought you joy and/or peace, what would be my reaction to that?

Him: Okay, I get it.

Me: You're not going to answer?

Him: If it makes you happy--you'd support me, you'd respect that it was important even if you didn't agree with my belief, or whatever. 

Me: Would I question it? Try to talk you out of it?

Him: Probably not.

Me: Unless I felt it was hurting you (examples: drug addiction, abusive behavior, destructive emotional dependency), I would allow you to enjoy that association or belief which brought you joy without criticising or commenting.

Him: But what if I joined the Ku Klux Klan, or some organization like that? And tried to take rights away from other people.

Me: Do you see me taking rights from other people?

Him: No. But the organization you belong to does.

Me: I belong to many organizations.

Him: You know what I'm talking about.

Me: I'm a U.S. citizen, but I don't necessarily support many of the decisions our past president made. I'm guessing you don't either.

Him: It's a little different to give up citizenship of a country.

Me: No doubt, but there are many countries which view the U.S. as forcibly taking rights from other countries and imposing upon them their system of beliefs. Regardless of whether or not you agree with that viewpoint, it exists.

Him: I feel like you're trying to derail us.

Me: How?

Him: By talking about something that really has nothing to do with the original question.

Me: What was the original question?

Him: Why do you believe?

Me: There are many who will present what they view as evidence, relate personal anecdotes and experiences, berate those who do not believe, and predict dire consequences for all who disagree with them. I am not one of those. Quite honestly, I don't care if you and I never believe the same things.

Him: People who believe differently can't ever be close friends.

Me: Where are you getting your information?

Him: Well, I mean, you believe in something that I believe tries to harm me, personally. An organization that tries to take away my basic human rights.

Me: Go to a poverty-stricken country in Africa and have them define basic human rights. 

Him: We're not talking about Africa.

Me: True. But my point is twofold:

1. People differ on the definition of "basic human rights."

2. It's unfair of you to assign to me all the "wrongs" you find in an large organization to which I belong. 

Again, I remind you, there are many acts people have done with the approval of our own government, the responsibility of which I'm guessing you'd rather not have assigned to you.

Him: But you can leave the church. Easily.

Me: Can I?

Him: It's a simple matter of having your membership removed.

Me: Is it?

Him: Yes.

Me: And why will this bring me happiness?

Him: Because then you won't belong to a bigoted machine that tries to keep people who love each other from having committed, stable lives.

Me: Except--I believe.

Him: In what?

Me: In what I have found to be the essence of the gospel. And regardless of whether or not you agree with what I believe, my leaving it behind will not bring me joy.

Him: So you'll stay and have joy while others are hurt by your "source" of joy?

Me: We disagree about many things. I'm comfortable with disagreement, as long as I'm not told how to act or believe. You want to be right. I don't care if people think I'm right. You want to recruit. I don't want anyone to follow me--ever. You need to feel supported in your beliefs. I need to feel supported as a person--but have no interest in having my beliefs validated by anyone else. 

Him: The church is wrong.

Me: I can see why you would believe that.

Him: It's not a belief. It's a fact.

Me: Okay.

Him: Does that mean you agree with me?

Me: Nope. Neither does it mean I disagree.

Him: You're sort of impossible.

Me: I know.

Thinking with my gluteus maximus

This is something I usually try to avoid. But lately, I just can't help it.

I got distracted when I was doing squats on Monday, and I was using more weight than I normally do, and I think I may have done more reps than I planned. And later I did some pilates moves which seem to target that area quite nicely. Probably I did a lot of them. Because I wanted to.

So yesterday, when I got out of bed, I was feeling a bit of soreness, but nothing more than normal after I've lifted...moved...whatever...

By noon my behind was yelling every time I tried to sit down or stand up. Running was fine. Walking--no problem. But sit...ooooohhh...that hurts. 

And I hope you'll pardon my saying this, but by evening I was experiencing a bit of penis envy--not because I want to own one, necessarily (although I'm certain several of you can give me dozens of reasons why I should want to), but because such an appendage would allow me to relieve myself in the bathroom while standing. And you can take my word for it: Trying to sit as the glutes scream bloody murder behind me, while feeling the discomfort of a full bladder in front is unpleasant. And it makes me say, "Ouch!" Which makes Tabitha giggle.

This is a literal pain in the butt... (a sentence created just for you, Tolkien Boy)

I'm whining--and sometimes I think I'm entitled to do that--don't worry, it never lasts long.

No flashbacks or nightmares for nearly ten weeks. That's two and one-half months. 

But then I had one on Saturday, and nightmares for the past couple of nights.

I was surprised at my reaction. I've been feeling anxiety for about a week now--I suppose it could be longer, I don't really know. I've been having panic attacks, short-lived and manageable. But Saturday I started to feel that escalating and I was feeling nauseated in tandem with that. I think I knew what was coming, but those two months without flashbacks seem to have made me slip right back into denial--I started believing they don't happen anymore. And that's not entirely true, because a part of my brain kept telling me it they weren't gone. I just ignored it.

I felt completely mortified and guilty--like I had done something unacceptable and in the process, betrayed someone I love. Those feelings did not stem from the flashback subject matter. They came, it seems, simply because the flashback happened--as though I felt I hadn't done all I could to keep it at bay, or make it go away altogether. And those feelings persist even now.

I am well-versed in flashback facts, folklore, and trivia. I understand that these are involuntary responses like blinking, sneezing, or breathing. I wonder if I somehow felt I could take credit for their absence--and when they were no longer absent, I became a fraud. Or, perhaps the feelings themselves, are involuntary. I think I might be too confused right now to know for sure.

And on top of it all, I'm disappointed. Of course I knew they weren't gone. But I wanted them to be. I'm so done with all this crap. I want to be finished!

I think I should be looking at the ten weeks and celebrating. Instead, I'm angry that I have to start over again. Ten weeks is an amazingly long time for me. I'm still upset that it wasn't longer. 

Darrin tried to hold me last night. I couldn't be touched. For the first time in a very, very long time, I wanted him away from me. He's better than I deserve. He gave me a brief hug and kiss, told me he loved me, and let me sleep. Then when the nightmares came, he made sure I knew I wasn't alone. I hate feeling like this. I hate not wanting to be with people, feeling nauseated when they touch me--even people I love with my whole soul. 

Today I'm not feeling anxious--that's a good thing. Therapist would tell me to go be with people. He would remind me that I need to talk with them--let them know where I'm at emotionally--so they'll understand if I respond to them differently. He would say the recovery time will be longer if I stay alone. 

One time I asked Therapist if he had any idea how difficult it was to do the things he asks me to do. He said no. Then he gave me some crappy, supposedly-motivating lecture about how I was strong and capable. I never feel strong--ever. I only feel capable at work. 

Sometimes I hate Therapist. 

I didn't want to take her to the first chemo treatment. Since I learned of her breast cancer diagnosis, I've tried to stay far away. My family has a way of leaning on me when things begin to turn upside-down. I've allowed this because I needed the involvement. It has been good for me to give service and work out some of the sadness and resentment that have been a permanent part of me since I was a teen.

But the timing was wrong. I was in the midst of something personal that needed my entire attention. I ignored my mother's requests to accompany her to the preliminary tests, the surgery to remove an indecently large tumor, and recovery time after the surgery. My eldest sister came instead. I left her and my mother alone. 

A month later, I found myself sitting in her driveway at nine-thirty in the morning. I finished my run at 6:00, showered and dressed by 7:00, and had been trying to work until I left to pick her up. She wouldn't be ready. Chronic tardiness has always been her hallmark. I leaned my head against the steering wheel and thought about the appointments I had canceled or postponed, and wondered if she would stop talking long enough to allow me to do the portable work now sitting on the back seat in the bag that held my computer. 

I sighed, and opened the door. I walked into the house. My grandma had the door to her rooms open and was sitting in her chair, reading. I told her good morning, and waved. Her hearing aids weren't in, but she saw me and smiled. I walked down the hallway to my mother's room.

She stood in her bathroom, half-dressed, damp hair finding the tight curls a recent perm had instilled next to her scalp. She smiled, "I'm not ready."

"I know. It's okay." I walked into the bathroom and sat on the seat of the toilet, waiting for her to finish. "How are you feeling?"

"Nervous."

"No, I meant since they put the port in yesterday. Any post-surgery pains?"

"No. It still feels numb. I don't know what to wear."

"Finish your hair. You'll decide in a minute."

I watched her straighten the tight curls. She chattered aimlessly. Did I like her perm? My cousin had given it to her that weekend. Had I seen my nephews lately? Did I see the flowers brought by a family friend?

A thousand emotions seethed...anger that this was happening, frustration that my father was gone leaving me to escort my mother to therapy, confusion as to why I didn't decline the assignment when he asked me. Beneath struggled memories of my past. Three year old Samantha, watching as her mother combed her smooth adult hair, loving every movement, wanting only to grow up and be just like her. Six year old Samantha, noticing the softness of each mother curl, comparing it to those of her own, tight and unruly, wishing somehow to loosen those curls. Fourteen year old Samantha, choosing a hair style as far from Mom's as possible, trying everything in her power to be different, bristling at each well-meaning comment finding similarities between her face that the one she had grown to hate with the purity and intensity only a teen can muster.

I stood up, leaning against the wall behind her, watching as she combed and curled. My mother's eyes are turquoise, still brilliant, remarkable in depth and sparkle. Mine are brown, often blending with the blackness of the pupils, occasionally lightening to frame them. I watched her eyes, feeling once again a stab of envy, wishing for the extraordinary blue she takes for granted. The hair lining her aging face has turned stark white. It's lovely.

"Your hair is a beautiful color," I said.

She smiled, "I'm lucky, I guess. Other people have told me that."

"Yes." Once again resentment filled me as I remembered finding my first grey hair. I was thirteen. It was stress-grey--still dark at the roots, the pigment changed because of trauma. By the time I was sixteen, however, gray was shot sparsely throughout my dark curls. It was largely unnoticeable until I was twenty-one. Then I discovered Performing Preference, by L'Oreal, because "I'm worth it." From that moment on, my hair became whatever color caught my fancy on the store shelf. 

Memories of the many times I had been compared to her trickled through my head. I don't look like her. Our facial structure, bones structure--all different. Her skin is fair and freckled. Mine has rarely known a sunburn. But I am the only one of her daughters with hair as dark as hers, and I am also the only one who did not grow beyond five and one-half feet. People wish to find similarities within families. They see what they wish to see.

Tabitha is often compared to me. She looks very much like Darrin's family. She has adorable dimples in her chin and cheeks. Her face is heart-shaped. Her mouth is larger than mine, as is her nose, but still, standing side by side, people will remark at how she resembles me. My response is to thank them and to tell them I'm highly complimented because I think my daughter is beautiful. Tabitha glows. It does not bother her to look like me.

"Your hair is a lovely color, and the contrast with your eyes beautiful." I meant the compliment. It was true. Mom looked embarrassed and began, as she always did, to diminish what I had said. "I'm not beautiful. I never have been." Frustrated, I stopped her. 

I wanted to say something scathing--to hurt her for not accepting my compliment. A million thoughts filled my heads, warring with one another for expression. Suddenly, with clarity, I knew what I wished to say. Briefly, I told her about Tabitha's reaction when compared to me. Without drama, I told her my response--it was a compliment for people to say that, for Tabitha is lovely. Then I said this, "People have told me I'm beautiful. And they've said we look similar. Therefore, you are beautiful. I think you need to look in the mirror and see it."

She laughed and began to brush off the compliment one more time. I insisted, "You don't think I'm beautiful?"

The laugh left her. "I have always thought you were beautiful." The words were said softly, wistfully. 

My eyes met hers in the mirror. "Then you are, too. We look alike, remember? I'll be waiting for you in the car."

I walked out of the house, wondering what I had just done. The confusion, anger, and frustration continued to boil, but quietly, without the edge of bitterness I had felt when I entered the house. I got in my car and buckled my seat belt, still thinking. 

In becoming whole, I must own all the hurt and sadness of my past. But I don't have to live with it, nor do I have to perpetuate it. My mother has lived her entire life hearing the voices of her own abusers. I don't have to be one of them. I cannot change anything but my future. My mother will know, from this point forward, that I no longer cringe when compared to her, that I'm glad to be her daughter regardless of what that means to her, and that I think she's beautiful.

My phone does not include "chaperon" in its word recognition database

1. Samantha loves riding roller coasters.

2. Samantha is asked if she and Darrin will be chaperons to an amusement park with lots of roller coasters for a ninth grade trip. 

3. Samantha says, "Of course," then wonders if she should have asked Darrin first.

4. Samantha rides a school bus full of ninth graders for three hours. 

5. Samantha's bus rear-ends the bus full of ninth graders just ahead of them.

6. Samantha's bus arrives at the place of roller coasters.

7. Samantha meets with her group of six ninth graders and says:

a) This is my cell phone number.

b) Call me in one hour and we'll meet for lunch.

c) Otherwise, don't call or text me unless someone in this group is bleeding, broken, or dead.

d) I will be riding roller coasters. You should be, too. Don't bug me.

8. Samantha finds Darrin and they ride roller coasters. 

9. Samantha's group of six ninth graders keep texting to find out what ride Samantha is on.

10. Samantha ignores them.

11. Samantha and Darrin go to eat lunch. Samantha's group of ninth graders straggles in. So does Darrin's group.

12. Samantha tells her group of ninth graders she still expects a phone call.

13. Samantha's group, sitting across the table from her, call to check in. They don't say anything. They just giggle.

14. One of Darrin's group has lost his meal ticket. Samantha gets another plate of food to give to him, even though she's not supposed to. The server looks at her strangely. Samantha says, "What? I'm really hungry. Riding roller coasters is hard work!"

15. The menu: hot dogs, barbecued beef sandwiches, mustard and mayonnaise with a few pieces of potato somewhere inside, potato chips, soda pop. 

16. Samantha eats food she despises. 

17. Samantha feels sick.

18. Samantha and Darrin leave their groups, instructing them once again to go away and leave them alone.

19. Samantha doesn't think lunch will stay inside if they ride roller coasters.

20. Samantha and Darrin ride the Ghost Blasters ride repeatedly. Samantha beats Darrin every time. Her high score is 1019. Darrin's is 679. The mannequin in front of the ride looks like a guy in their ward. 

21. Samantha's group keeps texting her to see if she's thrown up yet. Samantha ignores them.

22. Samantha and Darrin sit at a table and drink water. The couple next to them is sharing a turkey leg. Darrin wants one. Samantha says if he eats one more bite of meat that day, she will throw up. Darrin abstains.

23. Samantha's group texts her to tell her to ride the water ride. Samantha ignores them.

24. Samantha rides the Tilt-a-whirl with Tabitha because Darrin won't go on spinny rides with her. Samantha is sad she can't find Adam to ride the Teacups with her.

25. Samantha and Darrin ride the Ferris Wheel. The couple in front of them are making out. Darrin thinks they should, too. Samantha says no. She's feeling queasy from watching the make-out couple and doesn't want to throw up in Darrin's mouth. Darrin takes pictures instead. Samantha looks at the chewed-up bits of gum on the roofs of the gondolas below them.

26. Samantha's group texts her to tell her there's still time to ride one more roller coaster before we have to leave. Samantha ignores them.

27. Darrin and Samantha go to the designated meeting place to find their groups. 

28. Samantha and Darrin board their bus. Darrin calls roll. It is ineffective. 

29. Samantha's group texts her to let her know they are all on the bus. Samantha waves to them.

30. Samantha's bus stops at McDonald's for dinner. Samantha sighs with relief and orders yogurt and a salad. 

31. Samantha's group, standing next to her in line, texts her to let her know they made it safely into the restaurant. Samantha pretends she doesn't notice her phone beeping.

32. Samantha gets on the bus again and goes to sleep while Darrin tries to call roll.

33. Samantha's group keeps texting her to wake up. Samantha doesn't.

34. Samantha arrives home, gets off a very smelly, yucky school bus, and into her lovely clean car with Darrin, Tabitha, and Adam, and goes home.

35. Samantha's group texts her to let her know they're all home safely. Samantha ignores them.

36. One week later, Samantha's group is still sending text updates. Samantha isn't quite sure what to do with them. She's ignoring them, but they aren't going away.

37. Sigh.

John Tavener: Alleluia (As one who has slept)

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...

I wanted to run forever this morning, but I had to take my mom to her first chemo treatment. My dad was out of town till this afternoon. 

My favorite flowers are beginning to bloom, as are the lilacs. These combine with the abundant  apple blossoms and it smells heavenly here. The wind has decided to be a breeze, which makes running more of a joy and less of a chore. So I enjoyed running for about an hour in the early morning sun, then went home.

Adam has been having his hand wrapped in a plastic bag when he showers to protect his stitches. He had the outer ones removed yesterday and the fake nail taken off. The doctor said he didn't need to keep the wound dry anymore. So Adam asked me this morning if he could shower without wrapping the hand and I said, "Yup."

After my run, I encountered Adam in the kitchen. His hand looked the same as it had before he asked me about showering. I asked if he had showered yet, and he said yes. Then I realized that he had showered without taking off his dressing or splint--both of which are supposed to remain dry.

Sigh.

I must learn to be more explicit with that child.

Chemo with my mom took nearly six hours. My dad arrived during the last hour, so I left to go grocery shopping. I don't want to deal with this, but one doesn't get to choose the things that make us uncomfortable. My mom told me she was grateful I was the one to take her this morning. She said my dad gets too nervous. I wanted to cry the whole time the nurse was telling us about the chemicals they'd be using, the side-effects, the process... I'm not sure why.

I think I'll make something with black beans for dinner.

"And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen Thy creatures as they be, Forgive me if too close I lean My human heart on Thee!

A young friend of mine has been in the process of leaving the church for a couple of years now. He would tell you that he actually left the church before graduating high school, but having lived longer and experienced a bit more than he has, it is my belief that leaving something that has been a major part of one's life since birth is a process, not an event. It takes time and happens in small increments some of which feel liberating and joyful, and some which can be filled with bitterness, pain, even regret.

When we first talked after his decision to take this journey, I counseled my friend to remember a few things:

1. Leave behind that which you do not believe, but remember there are some things taught by the church which have basis in pure logic and will help us to live well-grounded lives. Examples of this would be striving to be debt-free, keeping our appetites in check, avoiding promiscuity, obeying the laws of the land, getting an education, keeping our bodies fit and healthy, and daily meditation. 

2. Believe in a higher power. This might be God--it also might simply come from within ourselves or other friends and family. But allowing this belief can give us hope when we feel our lowest and can help us draw strength when we need it.

3. Allow wonder, surprise, and delight to have place in your life. Find beauty in  your surroundings and joy in all of life. Allow innocence to thrive and look on it with respect, not disdain or cynicism.

4. Remember that I love you--always.

My friend promised me he would do so. He believed it would be easy--but his journey was only beginning, and he had no knowledge of what it would entail. I was fairly certain his resolve would falter. My hope was that if he could only hold to one of the things I had mentioned, it would be number four.

Disillusion and disappointment for my friend followed in the time that passed. But with those also came enlightenment, discovery, and many moments of joy and peace. There were delightful experiences mixed with those that seemed disheartening--in short, he began to live his life, truly live it, based on his own beliefs and desires rather than those of his parents. I was grateful he chose to continue to share a part of that new life with me as we continued our friendship.

Then came the moment when his bitterness toward the church crested and everything pertaining to it in his past brought anger and resentment. The wave was all encompassing and anything and anyone remotely connected with his affiliation with the church became caught in its path. 

I was not spared.

I believe he loves me. I don't believe it has been easy for him to watch as his separation from a past that brings him pain has also carried me away from him--for I am a part of that past. Nonetheless, it is easier to believe that all people affiliated with the church are bigoted and ignorant than it is to see them as individuals. It is easier to cut with one sharp slice than it is to carve out hollows for the exceptions. It is easier to walk away from anything that might remind us of where we came from when that memory brings pain.

What he does not understand is that the treatment he has received from loved ones--treatment which allows no understanding, no forgiveness, no continued fellowship--that is what he is extending to me. And what have I done to deserve it? I cling to a belief he eschews. I live a life he does not understand. I attempt to build bridges he would choose to destroy. 

And I am left with no defense. I would not ask him to see things as I do--that is a choice he much come to himself. I cannot ask him to stay when he wishes to be free of me. I can only remind him that I love him. 

This is what I've been saying--if you wish for change, go carefully. Because change based on treading on the innocent is bought with a very high price. When you stop seeing the individuals in a group you hate, and see them only as a faceless, thoughtless machine, you have ceased to think rationally. Change--true change--takes place on an individual basis, one by one, as hearts learn to understand despite differences; indeed, as people learn to live with one another while allowing, even celebrating those differences. Any change that takes place in a mass, is based on confusion and mania and will not last. 

And so, my sweet, wonderful friend, I will keep my door open for you. There will always be a place at my table, in my home, in my family, for you. Indeed, there is a portion of my heart reserved only for you. And someday, perhaps you will understand that allowing me to believe as I choose--as I have allowed you to believe as you choose--while still allowing me to be in your life, is a sign of true love and true friendship, and there is no greater gift two people can give to one another. 

And I will wait for you. Because I believe, in your heart of hearts, you know this to be true. And someday, I think you will miss me.

Tonight I feel hopeful

I'm not sure why. It was a difficult day. 

I had random crying during Sacrament meeting--not because of feeling the Spirit--it was purely PTSD based and had no rhyme nor reason. 

I had little time to prepare my lesson for my Primary class--but the heathens are a joy to teach--always interested and full of questions. And I think they love me. Today one asked me if I'd miss him when he leaves...in December...I said, yes.

More random PTSD tears after church.

Today I heard from someone I love dearly. The words he said were hurtful to me, although I'm certain that was not his intent. Interestingly, I would rather hear words that hurt, than endure the continuous silence from him that has been in place since mid-February. At least now, I understand my place, or lack of such, in his life.

But today I was able to communicate with another friend, something I've been trying to say for more than a year. Therapist told me I needed to figure out how to talk about this with him (and others) in March of 2008. I tried then, but failed to say what I needed to say. Today, perhaps because I don't want to end up with another inadvertently hurtful friendship, I figured out how to say the words. I said them--which doesn't mean I liked the experience--and Therapist was right, once again. He had told me that unless I talk to people I love about the issue and hear their responses, I'll spend my time hiding and wondering and wishing I had the guts to be honest. He also told me it doesn't matter if the friend response is negative or positive. The real issue is my ability to express my needs and my efforts to be emotionally honest. I think I understand what he was saying.

Speaking of Therapist--I have been feeling intensely angry with him. There's no reason for this, it just is. I'm still mad at him tonight, just not as much.

My mom starts chemotherapy next week. 

In spite of all the "stuff", for whatever reason, I'm finally feeling a return of the positive feelings. In all honesty, had I received my friend's communication a week ago I probably would have read it, deleted it, and forgotten about it. I was too tired to care about or deal with any emotions such an email would incite. Today I read it, cried a lot, and then took time to respond. I don't believe it will make any difference to him but it was necessary for me. I was honest. I told him how I feel. I told him I was hurt, I missed him, and I loved him. And I do. I don't believe, when love is real, that it goes away. And someday it won't hurt as much.

I spent the entire day with Darrin yesterday. We haven't done that for awhile. I needed it.

I ran this morning--it was awful. The wind was cold and very strong. I don't know why I insist on running in such conditions--but then I notice the incredible sky and the new wildflowers. It smells wonderful. It's worth the effort.

I find myself, for the first time in a few weeks, missing the random chatting I used to do with people. Therapist promised me that after I got some rest I'd find my desire to be with people I love returning. Tolkien Boy said the same thing. I think I believed them both, even when it seemed impossible. I'm glad they were correct.

I'm understanding that it's time for me to get to know myself for the first time--the real me--all of me. It's a daunting task and not one I'm looking forward to. It's also necessary. I will be using much of what was sent to me in emails and comments when I asked for help prior to integration. I'll probably be talking about it with agreeable people. At some point I may ask for help again. I will not, however, make the mistake again of putting people on the spot--not even people I love and trust. When I did that last time I learned things about myself I was not ready to know--and I put people I cared about in an awkward position. I won't do that again. Sometimes I forget that not everyone has the emotional resources nor the desire to respond when I need help. When I ask them directly for something they aren't ready to give, it makes everyone stressed. It's a very bad idea.

In that same spirit, though, I need to say thank you, once again, to those of you who found time to respond when I needed help a number of weeks ago. Some of the responses came from completely unexpected sources, and all said things I needed to hear--things I have since used as I reassembled myself. So--thank you. I hope you understand how much you have helped me.

And no--I'm not finding something new to work on, just finishing what I began. In truth, this was what I've been working toward for the past four years. Each new task was simply a step in this direction. It was time for me to become myself. Now it's time for me to figure out who that is, and to learn to care for and care about that person.

Darrin makes me laugh

(After Sacrament Meeting)

Darrin: What's you're lesson on today.

Me: Why?

Darrin: Just wondering.

Me: Why?

Darrin: I want to come to your class.

Me: Okay.

Darrin: Really?

Me: Yup. 

So Darrin came to Primary with me, and participated in the lesson, and sang in singing time. And before the boys in my class left to go home, he did this:

Darrin: Have you ever seen this before? 

(Darrin rolls his tie from the bottom to the knot)

Boys: Oh yeah. We do that all the time. 

Darrin: Okay. We need to have a race.

Boys: How?

Darrin: Roll your ties just like mine.

(Boys roll their ties and wait)

Darrin: Okay--ready, set, GO!

(Boys and Darrin release rolled ties and watch to see whose unrolls first)

Darrin: Oh!! It's a tie!

(silence for 10 seconds...then the boys burst out laughing...they're still giggling as they leave the Primary room...so is Darrin)

This is ugly

Pictures of Adam's boo-boos:

The right forefinger after it was drilled by the doctor.

The left forefinger prior to removing the remainder of the nail and stitching the nail bed.

The left forefinger at our follow-up visit yesterday (Adam thinks it looks like a brain).

Gorgeous irises from a sweet friend who must have known I needed something beautiful to gaze at after all that scary finger stuff. Thank you!!

Half

I seem to be easily distracted today. I'll blame the weather.

I read half my emails, considered deleting the rest, thought better of it, and closed the page.

I had a teleconference, got bored midway through and decided I needed to go suddenly.

I ate half my breakfast (at 1:00 p.m.), didn't like it, disposed of the rest.

I did half a research survey which I thought was asking me about my cocoa preference. It was, instead, asking about my coffee preference. I believe they're planning on sending me some to sample, even though I closed the survey before I finished it.

I waxed one of my legs, but not the other. I'm wondering if I display the result prominantly, if it will become trendy.

I did, however, finish an hour of advanced pilates. But it was still boring.

I started this post

Joy cometh in the mourning.

Post-traumatic stress disorder.

In the past few months I've encountered more than eight sources who have let me know that PTSD is completely curable. Three of the sources seem reputable. The others had workbooks or other literary works for me to purchase, self-help guides I could download for a price, or delightful getaways/retreats specifically designed to help people like me, staffed with experts and offering amenities I would be crazy to refuse--and after all, no price is too large to pay for relief from the symptoms of PTSD...

I've been studying what the reputable people have said. I definitely don't disagree with the things they say. Some of them I know to be true, others I've either found to be less effective in my own life, or I've not yet tried them. Regardless, I'm not apt to dismiss them. I'm looking for answers and solutions so I'm certainly open to reading what others have to say and enjoy hearing their success stories...but...I'm cautious.

In the past couple of years I have formulated some of my own ideas and beliefs about PTSD:

1. Each individual experiences it differently. Symptoms may be similar. Trauma experiences may be similar. But the way in which each person responds to such trauma will be different based on individual circumstances, support people available, length of time between the trauma experience and the ability to deal with it, and numerous other variables.

2. The words "PTSD Free" make me suspicious. I'm not saying it can't happen. I'm not saying I don't want it to happen. I'm saying, I don't want to buy into something that might not be entirely accurate. I believe people can be free of symptoms indefinitely. If nothing triggers the symptoms, it's reasonable to believe one would feel "PTSD Free". That being said, I also believe that PTSD can be managed to the point that it becomes undetectable, which also would feel "PTSD FREE".

3. I believe there are certain global things one can include to make PTSD more manageable. These would include adequate rest, healthy diet, regular rigorous exercise and meditation, and healthy interpersonal relationships. These things certainly work for me. It's only when something throws those out of balance, or when I encounter an unexpected emotional snag, that I need to include other management strategies.

4. Until I have completed the necessary therapeutic stages, management of PTSD is my goal. I do intend, one day, to be free of it, but as I go through resolving the trauma of my past, managing the symptoms is enough. 

I am not making these statements to stop the flow of helpful comments and emails. Far from it. I welcome any source of possible help and advice. I'm researching constantly and comparing different stories and strategies. I want to hear what people have to say. I'm just not ready yet, to buy into anything. I need to look at all the information, make my graphs and flow charts, and decide what I keep and what I will discard.

One of my visitors has a blog devoted to helping people who experience PTSD. I will link it, no doubt, in the future, when I've decided I've watched it long enough. This blog also has a forum/discussion group available, which I've not opted to join. I'm aware that many people are helped by this. I need time to decide if I'm one of them. I'm not likely to do anything spontaneously when it comes to PTSD. 

This is all one large prologue leading up to today's whine. My lovely display of attitude in my last post signals the return of symptoms that have not been bothering me for more than a month. I'm unhappy about them. I don't like the way they seem to sap joy from me. I'm frustrated at how I seem to immediately turn to my most cherished relationships to vent the anger and insecurity those symptoms exacerbate.

Therapy is hard.

I know I'm stating the obvious. I know the end result is that I'm supposed to be healthier and happier. But it's difficult to maintain that perspective as I sort through crappy ugliness and, in effect, announce to myself that it's all real, it's all mine, it's all ME--and I can't pretend it's not anymore. 

There's a reason we pretend. It rescues us from the reality of knowing our limits. For me, pretending kept me sane when I wasn't strong enough to look at the real picture of my life. Now that I'm (supposedly) strong enough, I won't lose my sanity, but I'm terribly afraid of losing my joy. 

I did not want to be the person who was abused. 

I did not want to be the person who was betrayed.

I did not want to be the person who was unsafe in her own home.

I did not want to be the person who was raped.

I did not want to be the person who was alone, and sad, and confused.

I am that person. Years later, still alive, still sometimes alone, sad, and confused, I am Samantha.

"...and what can be the use of [her] is more than I can see..." 

I'm left wondering why. Why did I take on this task? Is it better? Am I better? 

I suppose the answer is that I had no choice. It was time. My body, heart, and mind determined that this was a necessary step, regardless of how difficult and distasteful. Therapist is concerned that I may have been caught up in the process of always having something to work on, and that I might not now understand that I don't have to dig something up. He obviously doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does. I've been begging for rest for more than a year now, and I'm perfectly happy to not start something new. 

In the meantime, it would be nice to feel happy with what I've done. In acknowledging my accomplishment it becomes abundantly clear to me that in my heart of hearts, I still pretend that that child in me was safe and happy--I don't know if I will ever be able to change that fantasy--I'm not sure if I should. 

(By the way--no, it's not a typo.)

The Truth

I thought: When I finish my therapy goals, I'll feel relief, resolution, acceptance.

What I found: I found brief relief, and resolution. I accepted that I cannot change my past. The result of such acceptance has increased my feelings of cynicism about people and life, in general. I was chatting about this with someone recently. He suggested I simply have a bad attitude and need to change it. No doubt, he's correct. Walk in my shoes for one day and let me know if you figure out how to do that, because I'm a bit stymied. Not only that, but quite frankly, I'm not sure I want to, so even if you did figure it out, my bad attitude would stop your solution in its tracks.

I thought: I'm basically a happy person.

What I found: I've been aching for a long, long time. I still feel happy most of the time. I also feel the reality that I can be hurt and I often am--usually because of stupid things that don't matter. This phenomenon has increased as I continued working on things I thought would help me. And I'm not saying they didn't help, just that they didn't make me happy.

I thought: I could learn to trust people besides Darrin.

What I found: Sometimes that was true. But what is also true is that people get bored and move on to new situations and new friends. It happens repeatedly. I thought I could learn how to do that like everyone else. I can't. I don't want to. It's a yucky cycle and I hate it. Please don't make me try to like it. 

I thought: I was strong and capable.

What I found: With each new discovery, I recognized just how broken and weak I am. Now, completely humbled, I can't even pretend anymore. And the most amazing thing is that I don't even care. I can no longer be something I am not.

I thought: I'd feel elated, excited, energized as I completed my therapy tasks.

What I found: Complete exhaustion, sadness, stark reality. I'm not saying I want to live the fantasy again, because I can't. But there was something redeeming in believing I was someone special. Now I understand I'm just another survivor of rape and abuse. I don't believe I deserved what I received, nor was it my fault, but part of me believes I may have facilitated it. I haven't yet decided if that's true, but then again, I'm not sure it makes any difference in the long run.

I thought: I wanted to live forever.

What I found: Life is good in any length. It doesn't really matter how long or how short. I intend to live while I'm alive--but I'm not sure I have any more dreams. It's an odd feeling.

Another friend, with whom I was trying to discuss this, made comments which in essence, described me as a depressed, and depressing individual. I don't feel depressed, but I'm sorry if the effect of Samantha is depressing. Welcome to the real world. Sometimes it sucks.

Finding Balance

It became obvious to me on Sunday that the principle of balance is of paramount importance to Adam. I was just starting my lesson with my adorable, almost-twelve, heathen Primary class, when Darrin appeared at the door. 

Darrin: Got a minute?

Me: Only one--I just got their attention--I want to keep it.

Darrin: What's your lesson on?

Me: Why?

Darrin: I think I should teach it.

Me: Why?

Darrin: Follow me, please.

Miffed, I walked from my classroom to find Adam standing in the hallway, his left forefinger wrapped in bright red paper towels. Darrin looked ill. Adam briefly flashed his injured hand at me, enough for me to see the top half of the fingernail had been ripped off and the fingertip was mangled. I asked Darrin if he could take Adam to the emergency room. He suggested it would be better if he taught my lesson, as he was certain driving Adam to the emergency room would be interrupted by frequent stops to allow time for puking (Darrin's, not Adam's). 

I briefly told Darrin my lesson plans, said good-by to my class, and took Adam to the car. All the way to the emergency room he asked questions about what would happen. I told him I had no idea, which wasn't strictly true, but I was fairly certain he didn't really want to know. I asked Adam how the injury happened. Apparently, as he sat in his folding chair, it folded up (no, he doesn't know how), catching his fingertip. 

When we got into the initial exam room, the nurse began looking at Adam's previously injured forefinger. I said, "No--that one was from last week." She blinked at me, noticed the paper towels were covering a bleeding finger, not the blackened weird looking one, and checked Adam into a treatment room.

At this point I was feeling aggravated at Darrin for being a wuss--mostly because I was still really sleepy. Adam asked if I'd call DJ to come stay with him. That seemed a good idea. DJ arrived within five minutes. 

An x-ray revealed a fractured fingertip. The doctor wanted to remove the remaining nail to make sure there was no laceration beneath it. Apparently, if there is, the break is considered an open fracture and prone to infection--very bad. Adam was having none of it. He pitched a fit and said he didn't want any needles. The doctor looked dismayed. She suggested they just wrap the finger and refer him to an orthopedic clinic the next day. I know Adam. If we went home, there was no way he would go willingly to another clinic. 

I said no--we needed to do the procedure, so the doctor readied the injection. Adam became more agitated. DJ and I moved to restrain him. The doctor looked at us and said to Adam, "You're a minor, which means your mom has the final say in your treatment. But you're too big for me to fight with you, and we have no means of restraining you that I will use. Unless your mom insists, I'd prefer not to treat you in this state." Adam asked what the alternative was. She said they'd just wrap the finger and send him home. He opted for that. I said nothing.

When the doctor left the room, DJ was beside himself. He spent ten minutes lecturing Adam, telling him the risks of infection, talking about how stupid Adam's choice was. Normally I would have intervened, telling DJ to back off. Sunday, I was just too tired. In the meantime, Darrin and Tabitha showed up to see what was taking so long (three hours had elapsed). I briefly explained that Adam had refused treatment. I tried to tell Darrin about the injury, but he turned a shade of green and said he needed to leave. Tabitha went with him. 

Then this conversation took place:

Adam: Mom, aren't you going to say anything?

Me: Nope.

Adam: You're not going to tell me I have to do the procedure?

Me: Nope.

Adam: Why?

Me: It's your finger. It hurts now. It will hurt differently if it gets infected. But it might not get infected, you never know. It might just heal up very nicely.

DJ: Mom! He needs to get it treated!

Me: I'm too tired to care right now. And I'm with the doctor on this one--I'm not fighting with Adam.

DJ huffed and muttered. Adam wept. The nurse came in to wrap his finger. Adam asked her how many needle pokes he would get if they treated his finger. She told him four--and she said they would definitely hurt. Then she said if there was a laceration under his nail, chances were good that his finger would become infected. Adam said he wanted to think about having the treatment. I told him we weren't playing games today. If he chose to have it done, there was no changing his mind, hiding in the bathroom, asking for time, coming up with creative treatment ideas--he just had to sit still and let the doctor do her job, even if it hurt. He agreed.

The nurse held one corner of a towel and I held the other to block Adam's view of the procedure. This turned out to be a very good idea, as the doctor was hurrying and at one point pushed the Novocaine needle into one side of Adam's finger and out the other. DJ and I exchanged horrified "that's not good" looks. The doctor quickly rectified the mistake, but Adam had been counting. He let her know there were five needle pokes, not four, and told her that wasn't fair. 

DJ watched as the fingernail was removed (not really descriptive enough, as a fairly violent ripping of the nail from it's bed was involved), and made certain part of it was saved as a souvenir for Adam. As the doctor had predicted, there was a large laceration worthy of eight stitches underneath, then they sutured on a fake nail to protect the nail bed, bringing the total stitch count to twelve. Adam was very proud. 

I mentioned to Adam that sometimes being unbalanced is much better than equalizing injuries so that both hands look the same. He gave me a dirty look and wondered if he'd be able to use his computer without his forefingers.

When we got home from the ER and Adam got some strong painkiller in him, he wanted to talk about what had happened--in great detail. We were eating a late lunch and Darrin started saying (loudly) that it was inappropriate to talk about such things at the table. What he really meant was that Adam couldn't talk about his injury at all if Darrin was around. I have allowed Darrin to insist on this every time our children have been hurt, because I understand that it makes Darrin uncomfortable and frustrated and sick. This time, however, I decided it's time for a change. I asked Darrin to leave the room with me.

Me: Darrin, he needs to talk about it.

Darrin: No. He doesn't.

Me: Yes. He does. This was very traumatic for him in many ways. He needs to talk it out.

Darrin: Not to me.

Me: Yes. To you. You're his dad. He needs to know that you understand how much he was hurt emotionally and physically. He needs to hear you tell him he was brave. And you need to listen--no matter how uncomfortable it makes you, it can't compare to what he's been through.

Darrin looked at me for a long time. I thought he was going to go into his "No, I can't stand that kind of stuff" routine. Then he said, "You're right. But can we keep the details to a minimum?" "I don't know," I answered, "but I think, once he knows you're hearing him, his need to keep talking will diminish." So Darrin and I returned to the table, and Adam regaled us with his adventure. I made sure Tabitha didn't ask questions until Darrin had gone to take his Sunday nap, then she listened raptly, as Adam and DJ (who had carefully watched the entire procedure) gave her a detailed recounting of the ER visit. 

Adam stayed home from school yesterday--and I finally got the sleep I had been wanting on Sunday. Today we get to go back for a recheck and they'll change the dressing, then I'm sending Adam to school. I have a feeling he'll have a highly appreciative audience there, and talking about trauma is often the most healing part. It will be good for him.

Two things

1. I have no memory of posting the two previous blog entries.

2. I make amazing brownies (also no memory of making them, but my kids assure me I did).

Sleep

I've always had trouble sleeping well. Sometimes I'll go months without a good sleep. I don't usually feel tired. Now that I'm an adult, I'm aware I need more sleep. I'll try to catnap during the day to catch up whenever I can. But usually the inevitable happens. At some point my body decides enough is enough and I go to sleep. It doesn't matter where I am, or what I'm doing, which can be a bit hazardous.

Usually this shutdown occurs after a long stint of work comes to a close, so I can generally predict when it will happen and plan for it. However, I'm not infallible.

Today marked my final big music performance. It was in Denver, which involves a fairly long drive. I got up around 4:30 a.m., so I'd have time to run and shower before leaving at 6:30. It was sunny and breezy when I left. By the time I got fifteen miles out of town, I was driving in fog. I though it would lift, but Colorado turned out to be cloudy and cool. 

I noticed about ninety minutes into the drive that I was feeling sleepy, and I realized I should have asked someone to come with me. My sleep switch had been engaged. 

I made it safely to the concert site, performed, declined an invitation to lunch and started home, hoping to arrive before complete shutdown. I ended up stopping several times to get out and walk around, and I think I sang every song on the radio, whether I knew it or not. I played the shouting game that my kids love (which involves saying everything one sees as loudly and as fast as possible, before someone else in the car says it: "SPEED LIMIT SIGN!" "GRASS!" "LINES ON THE PAVEMENT!" "WHITE CAR!" "WEIRD TRUCKER GUY STARING AT ME!" Naturally, I won. No one else was in the car). I thought about drinking something with caffeine, but that usually just makes me really cranky and postpones, briefly, the upcoming sleep crash.

The final fifteen miles before I drove into my driveway are sort of a blur. I don't really remember them. Nor do I remember the rest of the day. Darrin suggested I go nap. I knew if I did, I wouldn't wake up again till tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I made dinner, and Darrin and I went grocery shopping. Adam wanted to rent a movie, so I think he and Darrin went to get one. 

About 7:00 p.m. I knew it was over. I found a pillow, blanket, and couch and crashed. That's all I remember. Tabitha had been babysitting. I know she came home. Apparently, she fell down the stairs after she got home. I missed her moans, groans, and twisted ankle. There was a fire at our local girls' camp. Darrin and Adam went to help throw water on it for three hours. I neither noticed their departure, nor their return. 

Around midnight, I finally woke up again. DJ and Darrin were on their way to bed, and Tabitha and Adam were already asleep. I have a two hour window (which I'm using to write this post), then I'll crash again for another four or five hours. No doubt I'll be snoozing most of tomorrow. 

My sleep crash happened about the same time last year. I had planned for it, I knew it was coming, so I was home just waiting. When it came, I went to sleep, as usual, on the couch. I slept through a tornado and all it's resulting chaos. While my children were scared to death and unable to leave their school building--I was asleep. My neighbor called and asked if I'd like her to bring my kids home from school. Too groggy to ask why, I simply replied in the affirmative and thanked her. I was still sleeping when they got home.

The good news is, I think I'll be alert for the next six months, and I'm actually looking forward to sleeping for the rest of the night. 

I think I'll go do that right now.

Family Time

Favorite conversations from yesterday:

Darrin: Why must we talk about STD's at the dinner table?

Me: It's the only time we actually talk.

Darring: Good point.

Tabitha: Now that you two have cleared that up, can we get back to the STD's?

Later, while in the family room, watching a DVD:

Adam: Ahhh--there's something in the light.

Darrin: It's a wasp.

Me: It's not a wasp. Those aren't out yet.

Darrin: It's a wasp. It sounds like a wasp.

Adam: Kill it!

Me It's not a wasp. It's a bumblebee.

Adam: It's gonna sting me!

Me: I doubt it. It's too big to get out of the fixture. I wonder how it got in here. We've had no doors or windows open.

DJ: It's big.

Darrin: That's because it's a wasp.

Me: It's not a wasp.

Adam: Can I go up to my room?

Me: If you want to. But even if it got out of the light, I doubt it would sting you. Bumblebees aren't aggressive. 

Adam: It's scary.

Me: It's not. It's fuzzy. I think it's dying.

Darrin: Wasps don't die in light fixtures. They wait till night, then they get out.

Adam: DAD! It's not a wasp.

Darrin: I think it is.

Adam: DAD! I can see it! It's not a wasp. Mom, I think it is dying. Can we help it?

Me: If we try to help it now, I guarantee it will sting one of us. 

Adam: Ohhhh... I don't want it to die.

Me: I think it's a bit late.

Adam: If it wouldn't sting me, I would hug it.

DJ: Dude--then it would die! You don't hug bees!

Adam: But it's all fuzzy and sad.

Me: And dead.

Darrin: I still think it's a wasp. 

Adam: Mom, can you make Dad go to his room.

Me: No. But I think if we ignore him he'll stop saying that.

Adam: Poor bee.

Today in rehearsal

I accompany a choir comprised of students in grades six through nine. This is not something I normally do, but I have connections with the director who is one of the best I've known, and her choirs are usually exceptional. Naturally, I have a very high opinion of my accompanying ability--and an exceptional choir deserves an exceptional accompanist. I've been playing for them for about five years now. During that time, they've taken first place at every competition in which they've participated.

This year they're singing an a capella piece which has a rhythm section accompaniment. As I'm not playing the piano for them, I volunteered to play in the rhythm section. The director gave me a complicated part to make sure I "won't get bored". On either side of me are young teens holding a drum or other instrument. Today we rehearsed together for the first time and I had this conversation:

Student: I didn't know you could play drums. I thought you only played piano.

Me: I'm full of surprises.

Student: Your part is the hardest.

Me: That's probably fair, since I'm the oldest.

Student: Dude--I'll bet you'll be glad to get back to your easy part at the piano.

Me: Do you play the piano?

Student: Nah--that's too easy. I try to do stuff that takes a little work.

To my credit, I didn't laugh. Still, when life gets as busy as it is right now, it's good to know I'm only doing the easy stuff. And since I only have to play in the rhythm section for one song, I'll only have to exert myself for that. 

Life is all about perception.

So tired

One thing I've learned over the past four years is this: Don't panic. Naturally, I'm speaking in terms of reacting to things of an emotional nature. It's rare for me to panic in other situations.

When my emotions first began to kick in--probably it's more correct for me to say, when I began allowing myself to notice emotions--I panicked. It felt out of control and scary. I was very afraid I would begin to cry and never stop. Panicking did not help.

I'd like to say I learned my lesson, but it took nearly three years to trust that most emotional states are temporary and that I'm not really out of control, simply moving through a stage necessary to gain closure/understanding/release. I still don't like it. I still don't cope with it well. But I no longer panic.

The onslaught of intensely conflicting emotions which presented themselves as I have moved through integration was unexpected. I knew they were there and assumed I would have to experience them, but I didn't realize I'd have to accept them all at once. Each time I shelved one of the emotions I didn't wish to acknowledge, I felt strongly that I was stopping a necessary process. So I would let the feeling blend with all the others, and almost always ended up feeling confused and frustrated.

I stopped mapping my PTSD symptoms when I began my newest project. I was concerned my symptoms would become unmanageable. There were times when I think they were. My chat phobia has become problematic even at work. There have been times when I've lied to a client: "My internet connection doesn't seem to be working well today--is it all right if we talk on the phone for a few minutes?" It seemed a better alternative than: "Hey--I'm feeling a little attacked/freaked out/afraid of being online and I can't tell what's behind the words you're typing, so I'm going to go sit in a corner for awhile and watch the world go by, okay?"

At this point, I think I'm beyond tired. Yesterday I realized that there are some personal relationship things I've let lapse in order to work on my latest project. Normally this realization would be accompanied by guilt and I'd do all I can to try to contact people I haven't spoken with for awhile--or to connect emotionally with people I've been talking to but not really saying anything of substance. But I'm too tired. And I'm not finished yet. 

Therapist said this process would take awhile. I knew that before I started. I didn't realize though, how obsessed I would become with finishing--which is sort of stupid since I become obsessed with nearly everything of importance in my life. When I realized yesterday the extent of how I've checked out of life (with the exception of work and therapy), I awaited the inevitable guilt, which didn't come. In fact, I sort of felt that I was just too tired to care. My heart said if I want to maintain all those friendships I've been cultivating for that past few years, I needed to spend some quality time doing so. My head said every person I love has told me I could have time out if I needed it and they'd still be around when I'm finished. I'm not sure which to believe, but the point is really moot. I have no energy to do more than what I'm doing.

As a side topic, I want to talk...and talk...and talk...but each time I try, some things happen:

1. I feel crazy. Not a good feeling.

2. I feel distanced from the person listening. Not a good feeling.

3. I'm afraid I'm talking about something vitally important to me--something I wish to be important to the ones I love--but it's not. It's only pertinent to me, and my feeling is they'll listen, but they really don't care. They'd just like me to get on with it, get over it, and be me again. Not a good feeling.

Number three is probably the most daunting of that list. I've never been good at sharing things that felt life-changing to me--but I've wanted to. In the process of integration, I've encountered memories I've never wished to look at. Many of them involve me telling a parent of things that felt deeply moving and important in some way, only to be ignored or rebuffed or, worse, punished somehow. I understand it's wrong of me to project the expectation that this will happen now onto the people who care about me. It's also nearly impossible not to, given my current status.

As for being me again...it's not going to happen. I knew when I began that there was no going back. Samantha, present-day, was not whole. I am now in the process of becoming whole and I don't know what the end result will be. I believe, based on recent experiences, that I will begin to feel some emotions in a more authentic way, and some of the things I felt before will change. I don't know exactly how that will happen--I just know that it will. I don't like dealing with unknowns. I'm doing many things I don't particularly like, lately.

Darrin says a number of people have been reaching out to me lately. I haven't noticed as I should. I hope, if you're one of them, you'll forgive me and keep reaching out. Someday soon, I'm going to need all the help I can get. I can't explain now, but I will as soon as I have the words.

In spite of evidence to the contrary, Adam is not an Extra Terrestrial

Last week Adam shut his finger in the front door. We're all used to Adam being injured. It happens frequently. He moaned and whined and took Ibuprofen and missed seminary. Then he noticed his fingernail was black. The cosmetic ramifications of his injury upset him much more than the actual pain. I suggested we buy some black nail polish and paint all his other fingernails to match. He didn't think I was funny. When I told him the nail would fall off and be replaced by a new one, Adam thought maybe it would be a good idea to help the process along. Fortunately, pain prevented more than one attempt at ripping the nail off.

Days passed. The entire finger doubled in size. I was certain the finger wasn't broken, but I have no experience with this type of injury, other than just waiting for it to heal. We applied lots of ice and continued ibuprofen. This conversation also took place:

DJ: Dude--your finger looks sick!

Adam: I know! It's all big and knobby at the end!

DJ: Don't touch me with it!

Adam: I think it's kind of cool.

DJ: It's not. It's sick!

Adam: Look how the nail is all wiggly.

DJ: It's swollen. You have E.T. finger.

Adam: Hey! I do!! "E.T. phone home..."

DJ: Stop it. Get away from me.

Adam: Dude! We totally have to do the E.T. finger touch!

DJ: No! I'm not touching that!

Adam: Why not?

DJ: It's sick!

Fortunately, Adam wasn't phased by DJ's rejection of his finger. He just walked to the mirror and did the E.T. finger touch with his reflection. 

Yesterday the swelling had gone from the lower finger, but the tip was still bulbous and obviously filled with blood and fluid. So I took Adam to the doctor. Some have wondered why I didn't do it sooner. If you're one who wondered that, you have not been reading my record of that boy's reactions to anything involving a medical professional. Fortunately, we've been blessed with a doctor who seems to like Adam, in spite of his medi-phobia.

As we waited in our room for the doctor, Adam asked me innumerable questions about what would happen to his finger. Naturally, I had no answers. This is not something I think about often, nor has it been a research topic. Smashing one of my fingers would put me out of work indefinitely (pianist, violinist, oboist, online work, research...), so it's something I'm careful to avoid. Within ten minutes Adam had worked himself into a semi-controlled nervous frenzy.

The doctor arrived, explained that he was going to drill a tiny hole in Adam's nail which would allow the blood to drain, and asked if Adam minded if the nurses came in to watch. That was a good call. Adam's all about having an audience, and the nurses would provide restraint help, if necessary.

During the drilling Adam's nervousness increased. He became agitated. The process took about three minutes--just enough time for Adam to lose control. This was aggravated when the drill unexpectedly hit Adam's nail bed, causing him a moment of intense pain. He held still while the doctor drained out the blood and fluid, but I could see Adam had had enough. When the doctor said he was finished, the nurses left the room. Adam jumped up. I told him to sit down. He ignored me. Once more I instructed him to sit down. Adam started staggering. I mentioned to the doctor that Adam was passing out. He tried to grab my teenager, who now looked like he was doing some weird lurching dance. 

The doctor wrestled Adam's torso onto the exam table. I grabbed his legs and lifted them onto the table. Adam passed out. The doctor looked at me and grinned. "It's always an adventure with him, isn't it?" he said. I shook my head, "You have no idea..."

A nurse returned with an ice pop as Adam regained consciousness. She instructed him to keep his head on the exam table until he'd eaten half of it. Naturally, he ignored her, trying to sit up every five seconds. I just stood by his head and pushed him back down each time he tried. After about ten minutes he felt well enough to go home. And he recovered enough to sing in a concert that evening (which I accompanied).

Every day I run many miles and work more hours than I should. Sometimes I get tired. That fatigue cannot compare to how I feel after a doctor visit with Adam. Sometimes I wonder if the doctor feels the same way.

Dear Mom,

This is a letter I've been wanting to send for a very long time. It's been sitting inside me, waiting for the time when I would be strong enough to write it. Now is that time.

I remember when I was very small, you made bread every week. You always gave me some dough, helped me shape it into a tiny loaf, then giggled when I tried to eat it raw, gagging a bit as it slid down my throat. You'd warned me I wouldn't like it--but you allowed me to find out for myself that it was something a bit unpleasant. Then you would give me more dough, help me grease my tiny pans and we'd make a small loaf to put in the oven. It was much better baked. 

You read to me every day--even when you were sad or you didn't want to. You let me choose the story--even when it was the same one over and over. I think you once said you never wanted to hear or read The Poky Little Puppy for the rest of your life. But I heard you read it to my children when they were small. And you bought me my own copy when I became a mom.

You sang. You taught me to sing. You encouraged every musical impulse I had. We had eight kids and very little money. You made certain I had piano lessons and you never complained when I practiced very early in the morning. You attended every recital and concert I was in, regardless of how small my part was. I think, though you never said it, you were proud of me.

You took me on walks and showed me how beautiful our earth is. You pointed out green grass, beautiful skies, blossoms on trees. You showed me how to gently squeeze a snapdragon so it looked as if it was opening and closing its mouth. You told me to smell every flower. You put all the dandelions I brought you in a lovely vase--even though they gave you hay fever. 

The year after David left, I nearly failed seventh grade. I was so sad and sick and hurting. I wanted to die. I stayed home from school, too ill to get out of bed. I had been in advanced classes that year. The administrators placed me in remedial classes for eighth grade. You went to see them. You explained that I had been ill. You told them I was gifted and intelligent. They responded that my grades did not reflect that. You stayed three hours, trying to convince them. They shut you down repeatedly. Finally, you asked them to look at my standardized test scores. You said if the scores reinforced their view that I could not handle advanced classes, you would yield to their better judgment. They looked--I was placed in advanced classes--and I thrived. Thank you for fighting for me when I could not fight for myself.

You took care of me when I was very ill. I had contracted strep and tonsillitis and my fever would not go down. I was too sick to do anything but sleep. You thought I would die. You did not sleep for three days while you placed ice bags on my body and prayed for the fever to go down. You did this while caring for a six month old baby and four other children. I'm certain I've never said thank you.

You wanted the best for me. You didn't know how to communicate that to me. Your interactions with your parents did not give you the necessary tools to be a successful mother. You experienced trauma which kept you from bonding with me as most mothers bond with their children. But I know you wanted me to succeed. And though I couldn't understand much of what happened in my years in our home, I believe you loved me then. I believe you love me now. 

Someday, I think we'll figure everything out. Until then, I hope you know I love you, I appreciate you, I acknowledge you did the best you could given the circumstances of your own life and experiences. I can't ask for more. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Thank you for helping me become the person I am today. 

Love,

Samantha

Life's Tender Mercies

My basement flooded last night. It was my fault, but I'm not going into that except to say that Darrin is completely wonderful and I love him forever because instead of being upset that I'm a nimrod, he just cleaned up the mess while I taught piano lessons and got ready for a recital, and his comment to me when I confessed was, "Whew!! I'm so glad! I was afraid we had some horrible plumbing problem." 

Also, in spite of having three inches of water on my bathroom floor, the toilet paper in the package I had left on the floor stayed completely dry!!

Yes, this is a big deal.

This is just another friendship maundering--for those who only want to read my posts about bodily functions and obnoxious teens

Tolkien Boy: Things seem as if they've been easier for you lately. Have I been receiving the wrong information?

me: Not easier, necessarily, but maybe less confusing.

Tolkien Boy: I suppose that's a start. :)

me: Or maybe I'm just not afraid anymore.

Tolkien Boy: A good feeling?

me: A sad feeling--which doesn't make sense, I know.

Tolkien Boy: No, it makes sense. At least in my mind.

me: There was something so beautiful and pure about letting people come close, and trying to trust them, learning to believe they might love me--not hurt me. But the discovery is over now.

Tolkien Boy: What discovery is that?

me: I think I understand now, that in the human need to connect there is joy and frailty, waxing and waning of interest, life and death. It's like a small soul with a short life, although some last longer than others. But two people don't usually want the same things--even two married or committed people. I haven't yet figured out how I fit in the framework of all that, and I still have things to think about.

Tolkien Boy: That makes sense. There's a lot to develop in the cosmology you propose there.

me: I wasn't wrong, you know. People do get tired of one another. Or they're distracted by someone newer, brighter, more intriguing. And I think the only way people have long-term connections is if they allow hormones to bond them physically, somehow, and if they can't imagine life without each other, which would be an emotional/spiritual/cerebral desire, I suppose.

Tolkien Boy: So, no such thing as long-term platonic friends? Or that emotional desire takes the place of hormones?

me: Have you ever watched long-term platonic friends?

Tolkien Boy: Like, through their blinds, at night? ;)   I don't know that I have. I haven't stayed in one place to see many long-term friendships.

me: I've been studying them--long-term friends who see each other often--people who spend time together. So far, I've only been able to find same gender long-term friends. That's probably because I've only been studying heterosexual people. It's not considered appropriate for them to have close friendships with the opposite sex. Although, my dad does.

Tolkien Boy: Yes, that's pretty socialized against.

me: Anyway, the women are very physically affectionate. They touch, hold hands, hug--if they're sitting next to one another, one often has her arm about the other. Depending on the culture, they kiss when they greet each other and when they leave.

I've noticed similar physical touch among the men. They'll shake hands--and continue holding hands as they pull each other close and embrace. When sitting next to each other, one will put his arm about the other--not usually embracing, just lying there, but as they talk, if they laugh or share something that draws them close, that casual arm will pull the other person into a small hug. In the culture Darrin comes from, all the men kiss each other in greeting.

The friendships that have lasted the longest always involved touch, which I believe has caused the hormonal bonds to form. I could be wrong, of course, but I don't think I am.

Tolkien Boy: Touch is pretty important, I'd say.

me: Yes. So--I'm trying to decide what that means for me. Because I still have difficulty with it. I can count on one hand the number of people whose touch does not make me nervous or uncomfortable. And I can eliminate more than one digit when doing so.

Tolkien Boy: Well, perhaps its importance and your nervousness are interrelated.

me: I don't think so--because, in general, I don't seek it out and I don't like it.

Tolkien Boy: I mean, perhaps you don't seek out friendships, on some level. Those types of friendships, anyway. Or perhaps I'm looking at it backwards.

I'm not sure what TB meant by his last comment, and I didn't have a chance to ask him, because at that point we got distracted by a beautiful typo (not unusual for me), and then I had to leave for a rehearsal. But if he meant that I don't seek out long-term friendship, nothing could be further from the truth. 

My father once told me that all people enrich our lives. He's correct, of course, but he considered each person who touched his life a friend. I do not. 

I've come to realize, as I've explored relationships, loving people, and accepting love from others, that I don't have any interest in someone who passes through my life with no intention of returning. I like them. I enjoy them when present. But for me, a friendship consists of give and take that lasts a very long time. I suppose the only relationships I'm truly interested in are those which will be long-term. 

This sets me up for failure, naturally. I understand completely the transient nature of non-contractual relationships. What I understand beyond all else, is this: Healthy, loving interaction does not constitute friendship. In spite of my recent post where I agreed with dear Shakespeare that "most friendship is feigning," I have a healthy respect for it and I certainly wish I knew better how to make it work in my head. But for me, friendship takes awhile. I'll probably fall completely in love with a person, be delighted every time they talk to me or spend time with me, but if they've become scarce within a few months, that's not a friendship to me. It's an association, and a good one, and I think those types of interactions are part of everyone's sociality. But that is not a person I'll refer to as a friend, nor is it someone I'll confide in or ask for help when I'm in need.

Unfortunately for me, I just described 99% of my relationships with people. 

I'm not sure what that means, exactly, but I guess in answer to Tolkien Boy's statement I would have to say this: Friendship = long-term relationship. That's my definition, of course, and no one else's. And I'm not talking about the person who drops out of your life, then returns and you feel as though no time has passed...because lots of time has passed. That person has missed out on many key events which have made you who you are today. For me, a friend would be part of that, so in addition: Friendship = frequent contact. Also, I need to be able to feel I'm allowed to give help and support to that person, and I'm allowed to ask for support when I need it, myself. If those two things aren't present, you're just fun to talk to; nothing more. Add to my definition: Friendship = two-way personal involvement.

I'm beginning to understand why friendship is difficult for me. I expect a lot. On the flip side, I think I also give a lot. 

Obviously, I still have more to figure out. I'll go think some more.

This needs to be said:

Jalepeno peppers burn.

The heat that comes when they go in is rather pleasant.

The heat that comes when they go out is not.

And now you know.

You're welcome.

Lemmings

Yesterday I had the worst run of my life.

If you've experienced a distance run (you can decide whether that means 100 yards or 25 miles), you know there is a threshold at which you begin to feel you might die if you take another step. The body seems to be fighting all motion, breathing is difficult, and your brain is asking what you were thinking when you said a nice run seemed like a good idea. Physiologically, in that moment your heart rate is increasing, your cardiovascular system is being called upon to work a little harder, and the blood is pumping to your muscles in greater volume. The negative feelings associated with this are explained in Newton's Principle of Inertia.

This dreaded threshold used to make me horribly frustrated. Now I barely notice it. I usually experience the feeling about five minutes into my run and it lasts about one minute. I know it's coming, I know it will pass, and then I feel as though I could run forever. However, I will also admit it's not a pleasant minute and I'm glad it doesn't last.

Yesterday the rain/wind/cold forced me to run inside on my treadmill. I had just passed the nasty-zone, when Darrin needed my help with something. Obligingly, I stopped my run, went to the kitchen and helped him. Unfortunately, my cardio fitness allows my heart rate to return to normal rather quickly, so by the time I got back on my treadmill I had to go through the zone one more time--not fun. 

Fifteen minutes later, Adam needed pain killer (he is not allowed to medicate himself, as we cannot seem to convince him that more is not always better), and Darrin was in the shower. I stopped my run and went upstairs to find the ibuprofen. It was missing. A five-minute search revealed it in the dregs of Tabitha's desk. I administered the medication and got back on my treadmill, only to find I was going to have to make it back through the stupid threshold again.

The third time was grueling, and I was beginning to think I should just end my run when I heard a loud crash behind me. Tabitha lay in a heap beside the treadmill. She had been trying to pass behind me, caught her foot on the conveyor belt, and lay moaning about her bruised arm, shoulder, thigh, and hip.

I stopped again, made sure she wasn't broken, got her some pain killer, suggested she try to finish getting ready for school so she wouldn't be late...she stared at me blankly. I could see she was trying to decide if this was a good time for a meltdown, so I went upstairs and made her lunch. DJ offered to take Tabitha to school for me so I could finish my run. Tabitha informed both of us that, as she was now tardy, only Mom could take her to school. She also let me know that she was certain she was in way too much pain to go to school at the moment.

I phoned the school and, to Tabitha's chagrin, told the secretary Tabitha would be late because she tripped over a treadmill. I believe in honesty, especially when my children are being difficult. Then I went to get dressed. Tabitha followed me, explained she really was hurting and suggested I finish my run and take her to school when I went to work. I decided to take her up on the offer.

The fourth time I hit that dreaded threshold was miserable. I ran for thirty more minutes and called it good. I have no idea how much distance I covered, and at that moment all I wanted was to shower and stop thinking about running. This has never happened to me before. 

So--I did. I took a shower, got ready for rehearsal, and drove Tabitha to school. The secretary wanted a condensed version of how the treadmill accident happened. To her credit, Tabitha told it in her own words, without embarrassment. She must have worked through all that during my phone call. 

Today, Tabitha has many bruises and I feel more tired than I've felt in a long time. However, I still ran this morning--outside, in spite of the cold and wind. I refuse to deal with interruptions again. One minute of that awful I-have-to-stop feeling is more than enough. 

Oh--the title of this post has nothing to do with anything. It was simply the word on my mind when I began writing.

What I saw today

A young man wearing a metal collander on his head strapped on with a scarf.

Guess where I was.

Rain

It rained today. Soft, wet...the kind that soaks into the ground and urges every worm and night crawler onto the sidewalks. This is unusual. A rainstorm in May normally wells up in the clouds, bursts all at once, and sends everything lying loose on the ground at least a mile downhill. If I wait for about an hour after a rainstorm, the ground is dry enough for me to run without getting into any mud. That won't happen with this rain. And it's supposed to continue till tomorrow afternoon. This is the rain that will make everything green and encourage the flowers to grow. 

I've always loved rainy days that last. When I was growing up, cloudy days made my mom tired. She was usually found napping. I would grab the book I was currently reading and hide in the top of the shed where we kept farm vehicles no longer in use. I had squirreled away pillows and blankets and formed a sort of loft using wood slabs to bridge the beams. Sometimes my little brothers and sisters would join me, but the climb into the top of the building was difficult and required monkey maneuvers that they weren't always happy executing. The place was almost exclusively my own.

I had built a bookshelf in the loft, with hinged doors to protect my treasures from the weather. I kept my favorite things in there--not just books but items meaningful to me...autumn leaves, a pretty rock, pressed flowers. Mixed in with all the "stuff" I was hoarding, was a picture of me as a toddler. I placed it in the bookshelf when I was twelve. I had found it in a family photo album. There was a large copy of the picture, and a smaller duplicate in wallet size. It was unsecured, just stuck into the spine. I pulled it loose and kept it. Something about the way I smiled and the innocence of my eyes was disturbing to me. I remember sitting cross-legged on the counter top in the bathroom, before the large mirror used each morning by four teenagers trying to become presentable for school, and comparing the tiny person in the picture to the young lady I had become. 

I looked at our eyes--still the same shape and color, yet completely different. I tried the smile--it belonged only to the photograph. Finally, I jumped down, left the house and took the photo to my loft. For awhile I used it as a bookmark, but I found that looking at the photograph felt unsettling. It seemed a tangible reminder that I was no longer innocent, but I yearned to be. I remember looking at every part of me the picture had captured. I tried to remember being the person I saw. She seemed very sweet and vulnerable--two things I no longer felt were a part of me. The picture haunted me.

When people were introduced to me as a child, a common remark made was, "What beautiful, dark eyes." As I had always wished for blue eyes, I could never understand why they would say that. The comment has been repeated many times in reference to my Tabitha--and now, as an adult, when I see her eyes, I know why the people of my past found my own eyes remarkable. When I was sixteen I had a Laurel advisor who saw more than most. She would often comment that I "marched to the beat of a different drummer." She was standing beside me in church one day when an older man made the comment that my eyes were lovely. When he left, she turned to me and said, "You do have beautiful eyes, Sam. But to me, they seem sad. Are you sad?" I laughed and said I was never sad. She knew better.

The day my Laurel advisor voiced her observation to me, I walked to my loft after church. It was rainy--very much like it is today. I took the picture from the bookshelf and looked at it a long time. Then I walked carefully along a wooden beam to the edge of the building. The roof was open on both ends. I placed the photo in a crack between two pieces of wood, exposing the image of toddler Samantha to the gentle rain. Then I climbed down and went back to the house. When I returned to the loft two days later, a clean white piece of stiff paper, warped from being left in the rain, was all that was left of the picture.

I sat for a long time, holding the piece of paper. I cried a little bit. It felt as though I had left something precious and irreplaceable where it had been destroyed. At the same time, I was relieved. Finally, I placed the blank photograph back on my bookshelf and left the loft. It seemed symbolic, somehow. 

The loft is gone now. I don't know who dismantled it, nor when it happened. I don't know what happened to my books or my treasures. None of the books had my name on them and there was nothing in the bookshelf to identify the objects as mine. But sometimes, when it rains, a part of me wants to hold that small rectangle of stiff, blank paper one more time. I don't know why.

Spring

Tiny white wildflowers are blooming on the prairie where I run. That means in about three weeks, my favorite flowers will be here. 

I no longer have bunches of pansies in my garden. A bunny ate them. 

Everything Old is New Again

I finally accepted today, that when this integration thing is finally finished I won't be the same. Perhaps a more correct way to state that is: My perception of me will be changed. 

I don't know how I feel about this. 

I love...

...Whatever Martha.

I rarely watch television, but when I do I want this show to be on all the time.

Update

My mother:

It turns out one of the harvested lymph nodes had a very small spot of cancer on it. All the others were clean, so the doctors are assuming they removed the only cancerous one. The cancer came to within 1 mm of the edge of the removed tissue. The doctor said he would have preferred 2 mms of clean tissue on the biopsies. The cancer is an aggressive strain. Last week the suggested treatment was radiation therapy. Now that the results are in, there is discussion of adding chemotherapy. My mom is feeling well, in good spirits, and ready to accept whatever treatment program is recommended. Treatment will begin early next week.

Darrin:

Finally made a followup appointment with the doctor to have his meds recalibrated. He's only five months late on this. His blood tests are showing improvement (with medication) of his cholesterol levels, although they're still not stellar. His thyroid and renal functions continue to have unacceptable numerical results, and his blood pressure is still much too high. As there is no doubt he has sleep apnea, I'm guessing we'll be adding a machine to our bedroom in the next couple of months. This is bad news for me, as noise is a sleep deterrent, but also good news, as Darrin will probably not die in his sleep now. Let's see...lack of sleep vs. alive husband... I think I'll sacrifice the sleep.

Weirdness:

About ten minutes ago someone adult and male was weeping audibly beside my front window. I didn't look to find out if I knew the person. It was a little frightening. I hope it doesn't happen again.

Also, never assume that just because you're in your car people cannot see you. They can. If you pick your nose or yawn so wide your face disappears, someone will notice. It will probably be me.

DJ:

Went grocery shopping with me last night. Decided one should never eat anything unpronounceable.

Adam:

Still has no drivers permit because he can't seem to be reliable in any area of his life. Our deal is that when he is eighteen, he's welcome to buy his own car, purchase his own insurance, and get a drivers license without my consent. I'm okay with that.

Tabitha:

Is surviving one typical teen crisis after another. She and three friends have been attending practices for the past two weeks so they could audition for the high school dance team. The three friends made the team--Tabitha did not. The next day she and another friend had some sort of weird fight over a boy which led to no speaking and lots of tears. However, I insisted that continue to attend school and she's weathering the storm with a fair amount of grace and maturity, which sort of surprises me. Yesterday the fighting friend made up with her, so I'm assuming life has taken a very slight upswing.

Samantha's integration attempt:

Is in full swing once again. It's not fun. There are a whole bunch of unforeseen side-effects. For about a week I was in misery because of all the emotions that felt beyond my control (even though Therapist assured me they were not), and because I didn't feel that I could talk about what I was going through to anyone. But yesterday some things clicked into place and I'm experiencing some relief--it's definitely better today. I'm still aggravated that I have to do this in the first place. It still makes me feel that something is "wrong" about me. And I still feel borderline insane. But at least there's progress. 

Dear Safeway,

Please find someone else to come up with spiffy names for your cookies. I understand "Tuxedoes" references the black and white of your Oreo wannabees--but naming a cookie after a formal men's suit does not sound appetizing. And "Duplex"??? 

Duplex (adjective): 

1. (used technically of a device or process) Having two parts

2. Allowing communication in opposite directions simultaneously

Duplex (noun):

1. A house with two units sharing a common wall

2. An apartment having rooms on two floors that are connected by a staircase

Seriously, this is a problem.

Sincerely,

Samantha

In which our heroine makes a true confession about her sex life...

Sigh....

Seriously, some people think way too much.

Today marks the fourteenth email I've received from someone who reads my blog who is quite convinced that I am not homosexual. Emailer provided such sound reasoning as:

1. Homosexuality is a disorder and does not really exist (sic.).

2. Homosexual people do not marry opposite gender people and become biological parents of offspring.

3. Homosexual people who marry opposite gender people do so for the sake of companionship and the marriage does not involve a sexual relationship. Such marriages are not monogamous.

4. Homosexual people who marry opposite gender people and try to raise children present said children with a warped view of life and those children grow into resentful, nonviable adults which is why there are people who have various panic disorders, depression, and OCD.

5. Homosexual people do not have sex with opposite gender people unless the homosexual person is a woman and the opposite gender person forces her to have sex with him.

So, against my better judgment, I am going to lay all my cards on the table (except for the ones I choose not to).

1. If homosexuality does not really exist, then numbers 2-5 are immaterial.

2. Yes, they do.

3. Companionship is a vital part of any marriage. It's possible to have a companionable, monogamous relationship if the companions have sex regularly with each other.

4. Are you saying that everyone who experiences depression, panic disorders and OCD has parents of mixed orientation? I had no idea there were so many of us.

5. Well, I've had a non-homosexual force me to have sex with him. It was certainly unpleasant...but that person was not my husband.

Let me be completely clear about this. I have had opportunity to hear from a number of women who are the homosexual members of their mixed-orientation marriages. Many of them have indicated that they rarely have sex with their husbands and they don't usually enjoy it. Some have said they feel violated or attacked. Some have said it's just yucky. I have also spoken with a few couples where the man is the homosexual partner of the MOM. There have been some instances where the man has said that fantasizing about another man is necessary for him to procure the erection necessary to complete the sex act with his wife. Some have also indicated that sex with their wives is not interesting nor pleasant. And I know of at least one situation where two opposite sex homosexual people have married each other. They had sex to procreate and now do not because they "just don't like it." 

This is not my situation.

When I think of something erotic, in general it involves something/someone feminine. If I am attracted to someone--count on it--it will be a woman. When I was much younger, my happily ever after involved a very beautiful companion who was physically fit, funny, compassionate, and possessed a set of very nice breasts and no dangling parts between the legs. Call me crazy, but in my mind that sort of sounds homosexual.

However, I chose to marry Darrin. I've repeatedly explained why, so I won't go into that in this post. This choice of mine means that my happily ever after involves a hairy chest in place of breasts, and parts much different from my own between the legs of my companion.

This is not a marriage of convenience, nor companionship. We did not copulate for the purpose of procreation--in fact, when we married, we were told that procreation was probably not something that could happen due to some unusual problems in my procreative parts. Darrin said that was not a problem--he wasn't marrying me because he wanted a baby machine. Each of our three children was sort of a delightful surprise. DJ was conceived in spite of what the doctors told us. Adam was conceived after a year of chemotherapy which supposedly had made me sterile. Tabitha was conceived in spite of the use of birth control--and anyone who knows me well will believe me when I say, no, there was not an "oops". Those don't happen to me.

The truth, if I must state it delicately, is that my libido is very healthy. Bluntly--I like sex. A lot. And I like having sex with my husband. It took several years for us to figure out what works best for both of us, and we had to navigate both my non-attraction to men, as well as the pain I sometimes experience in sexual situations as a result of being raped multiple times. But the motivation for that came from a couple of things:

1. I refuse to allow my life to be determined by the actions of someone who abused my trust. He does not deserve that honor.

2. I want to have sex with the person I love most in this world--who happens to be a man.

So, Email friend, you do the math. I'm attracted to women...and I have sex with one man. Only one, and only him (read: monogamous). I don't look for opportunities to have sex with women. I don't dwell on random attractions that pass through my life (and I believe this is normal behavior for any married person who wishes to remain married--homosexual or not). And I have sex often with my husband. Mine is not simply a marriage of convenience nor companionship. There are some love messages that can only be conveyed through physical expression. I want to send those messages to Darrin so many times that he forgets they can come to him from anyone except me. And I want to receive the same from him. 

Notice my choice of words: I want this. I do not feel obligated in any way. This is what I choose.

Please. Stop telling me who I am, what I can do, how I can feel...

In case you hadn't noticed--I'm magic. I can do anything.

Dear Adam,

Getting into the shower, lying down in the tub, and going back to sleep is a bad idea. It makes you late for seminary and everyone in the family hates you because you used all the hot water. It really doesn't matter whether you mean to or not. Stop it.

Love,

Mom

Afraid to Talk

See, it's like this.

Samantha grew up in a place where she was encouraged not to talk. Needing to talk about anything was viewed as weak, unnecessary, and boring. So...she didn't. Sometimes when she was very young, she would go on walks and talk to herself. She would tell herself the things that were making her hurt, and she would answer and say, "Someday, Sam, it will be different." And she was right. She grew up and made certain her life became very different from what it was.

But when it came time for Sam to talk to people other than herself about the things that were personal and important, it was difficult, even though she was grown up. She kept trying and it became easier, and she used this blog to help her figure out the words she wished to speak out loud. And within a year or two, she was probably saying much more than people wanted to hear, more often than they might wish.

And now?

Now I've said everything. I've said it to people. I've written it in blogs and email and chats. I've repeated it several times for emphasis.

Well, maybe not everything. 

As I work on this integration thing this is what I'm afraid to say:

1. Just talking about it makes me feel I'm using filthy language. I don't know why. The word itself makes me feel less than human. Therapist told me yesterday, that everyone dissociates to some degree in circumstances when they don't feel in control. He keeps telling me that it's a normal human response--I just took it a bit farther than most because my circumstances were a bit extreme. But even though dissociation might be normal--integration is not something everyone has to do. It makes me feel like there's something very wrong with me because I wasn't able to just dissociate a little--then process everything and go back to "normal", which is my perception of how other people do it.

2. As I sift through the shelved emotions of each part of me, I understand why I put them away. They hurt. They're ugly. They're powerful and real. Right now I'm trying to cope with feeling the hate that teen aged me felt toward all men and most women. Let's see...she hates men and women...that leaves dogs, cats, snakes and bats for available companionship. Those feelings come through with intensity when I'm with Darrin, my sons, or talking with a friend online. And yes, the hatred is directed at them personally. I'd like to say it's not coming from me, but that would be untrue. It's coming from my past, and really has nothing to do with how I feel in the present, but the feelings are definitely my own. I tried to talk to Darrin about it. He just looked at me speechlessly and hasn't really talked with me or touched me since then. That was last week. I must have explained it badly, but I'm not quite sure how to say, "I love you--you know I love you--but Samantha hates you. A lot." So I haven't really tried to tell anyone else. Therapist suggested I try, so that if my behavior seems unusual or combative, they'll understand I'm just working through past emotions and they got in the way. But I don't want anyone else to become distant. It's difficult enough with Darrin being inaccessible right now. On the other hand, it might be inevitable. I completely understand why people might not want to be with someone who feels hatred toward them.

3. Therapist says this process could take awhile. He keeps promising me I'm doing the right things, for the most part, and I'm making progress. But he doesn't suggest ways to help things along--instead he tells me I must discover those things for myself. Did I mention that sometimes I despise him? And yesterday, when we talked on the phone, I actually cried because this is stinking hard for me and it feels incredibly lonely. Then I was embarrassed that I cried about it, and he witnessed it. 

4. In spite of everything, I want to talk about this. And I've had people who care about me ask questions and offer to be a listening ear. But I feel crazy when I talk about it. And the words leave me. And then I have nothing left to say. And the real truth is, I don't want anyone to leave. Even if that means I have to wear my happy face and tap dance all the time. I don't want to make them uncomfortable because my life has ugliness in it. I want to prove to those parts of me who doubt all people, that trust is a good thing, that even when problems happen some people will want to stay and work them out, that it's okay to love and expect it in return.

Someday this will be over and I will think logically again. 

A man laughed at me today because I stopped to watch a butterfly. He told me if I wait a couple of weeks there will be so many butterflies I won't even notice them anymore. He doesn't know me, obviously.

It's very simple, really.

Someone grabbed me today at church to ask about my mom. She wanted details (I have none) and prognosis (there is none--yet). She wanted to cry with me and mourn and talk about how difficult things were. I let her talk, then I said, "You know, it is difficult. But it's not really horrible. We don't know yet what her cancer treatment will entail. But we'll get through it. She's not dead. I have great hope that she'll make it through all this. And honestly, I don't want to cry about it right now."

The sister looked me in the eye and said, "You really aren't sad about this?"

Am I sad? I'm sad my mom has to go through this, yes. It's going to be hard, and uncomfortable, and it might claim her life--if it does, that will make me more sad. But at the same time, it's a side note to my existence. Sad things happen all the time. 

I said, "Yes. It's a sad thing. But there are many more joyful things. I think my mom would rather have us look at those, and just support her when she needs us."

The sister said something about me being a bit callous and went to find her kids. Someone who had been standing nearby admitted to eavesdropping. He said, "You're not callous. In fact, I'd say you have a large capacity for happiness in any circumstance. That's a good thing." It was my bishop.

I have a "large capacity for happiness in any circumstance." 

I think that's true.

I think it's why, when my piano students are having a bad day, they don't feel embarrassed telling me about it, even when it makes them cry while sitting on my piano bench. 

I think it's why friends who haven't interacted with me for years are still happy to hear from me when I write or call.

I think it's why my kids talk to me even though, by rights, the teenage years should have made them clam up and avoid me.

I think it's why Darrin stays with me and loves me even when I'm difficult or frustrated.

I think it's why, regardless of what life throws at me, I can't give up...because I know, in spite of the difficulty, that my life is wonderful and happy.

My roses are leafing out. In about four weeks the crab apple tree will be fragrant with blossoms and buzzing with fuzzy bumblebees. My lawn is green. At the end of May, I will fill the garden plot where my pansies have been stubbornly blooming since February 2nd, with more flowers, fresh herbs, spinach, and various varieties of tomatoes. 

My children are healthy, smart, and beautiful. We laugh together--play games together--love each other. My husband watches for ways to make my life easier (replacing my windshield wiper blades, taking out the trash, loading the dishwasher occasionally, helping with dinner each night), and remembers to tell me he loves me several times a day.

I have sweet friends--some I have met, and some I have only conversed with online--who show concern and interest in my life. They send support whenever they can and they welcome me when I chat/email/comment/respond to them.

I live in an incredibly beautiful world. I live. Sometimes life brings difficulty or sorrow. Sometimes it brings suffering, unfairness, cruelty. Sometimes I cry--but I do it in private. That's not something I'm comfortable sharing with people. If you've been with me on the phone, online, or in person in a time when I've wept, that's unusual and you are someone I trust. But always, beneath it all, I am so grateful to live and breathe. I have a large capacity for happiness...because my life is happy.

If you are with me, my greatest hope is that you'll walk away feeling lighter, lifted, filled with the joy I experience every day, and being absolutely certain that I love you. Because I do--and I think that is the real reason I am happy. Loving life--loving my surroundings--loving people--all these things make me happy.

DJ

Today is DJ's birthday. We had a family dinner for him. I made a fruit salad with kiwis, blackberries, cantaloupe, and pineapple. During the blessing, my four-year-old nephew decided to taste it, got a piece of kiwi, chose not to like it, and spat it back in the fruit bowl--all in the space of about three seconds. He dressed the fruit with abundant saliva in the process.

My family is all about meat. They choose the meat course, then add some token side dishes (usually bread and potatoes). My kids don't quite know how to eat when we gather with my parents and siblings. They're good sports and try the meat/potatoes/bread, but we've learned to eat dinner at home before we go to dinner with the family. Darrin, on the other hand, is in heaven at family dinners, eats beyond capacity, and spends the next few days feeling ill--not because he overate, but because his system is trying so hard to clean him out. The cholesterol pills are pointless for about a week as he undoes all my healthy hard work to keep my husband alive.

But we go, and we visit, and we have a good time in spite of the downsides. Sometimes, when she feels she can handle the noise level, my Grandma joins us. In honor of DJ's birthday, she did so tonight. Yay!

DJ has a natural warmth about him that begins with his smile. He describes himself as, "Definitely not hot, but still interesting looking." I think he worries sometimes that he won't find someone to love him except in a platonic way. It's possible, I suppose, but I doubt he'll be alone long once he decides he wants to find someone. 

DJ decided when he was about three, that he needed to take care of me. It might have something to do with the fact that I was ill from the time of his birth until he was nearly four. I had multiple surgeries to remove recurring tumors from my bladder, then had chemotherapy for about a year afterward. The treatment was worse than the ailment. DJ would come to me in the moments when I was the most miserable. Sometimes he'd read his favorite book to me (embroidered with details only he could add), or he'd write me notes which only he could read (and the same note could have many different messages, depending on his mood), or he'd sing to me. Sometimes he'd notice I wasn't eating and he'd bring me a snack: a large chunk of cheese (about half a pound) and a box of animal crackers. 

When Adam was born, DJ was completely disinterested in his new brother. He held the baby for thirty seconds, then said, "I'm done." We had discussed how the new baby might take up a lot of my time. I had made DJ a coupon booklet before Adam's birth. He was able to present me with a "time" coupon when he felt he needed alone time with mom, and I would arrange to spend a few hours with just him. The coupons were used up within the first month after Adam arrived. 

Still, DJ tried to be a good brother. He helped with bathing and changing--as long as the task required no more than two minutes of sustained brother-time. DJ turned four when Adam was three months old. About a week after his fourth birthday, I found DJ reading to his brother. They were sitting next to each other on the couch, Adam propped on a pillow so he could see the pictures, and DJ reading one of his easy readers. The books only had three to five words in them (used repeatedly), so DJ could manage most of them simply by recognizing the first letters of the words. He read to Adam, then said, "Don't worry if you're not as smart as me. Most people aren't." Adam responded by cooing and smiling, and DJ read the book again. They had bonded.

A few days later, I went out the front door of our apartment to retrieve something from the car. As I walked down the porch steps, I heard the front door slam behind me. This was bad. I always kept my doors locked--a normal habit for someone with my background, but I left the door standing open on errands such as this, as our car was parked about 15 feet from our front door. I turned around and saw DJ standing behind me, the front door closed firmly behind him. 

"DJ! You just locked us out! Adam's alone in there!" I didn't say it loudly, but my shocked/panicked tone made him start crying. I ignored him and looked in the front window to find my four-month-old baby lying contentedly on the couch, oblivious to the fact that he was by himself. I heard DJ whining, "What are we going to do? What are we going to do?" over and over. I took him by the hand and went to a neighbor's home, asking if I could use the phone to call the campus police. DJ began to wail.

Continuing to ignore my four-year-old, I contacted the police, explained the situation, and asked them to come let me into my apartment as soon as possible. Then I carried DJ--now sobbing helplessly--back to our front porch to wait for the police. After about five minutes his crying stopped short and he turned his tear-streaked fact to me. 

"Mommy, I'm really, really sorry I locked Adam in the apartment alone." Then his voice sank to a whisper, "Please, call the police back and tell them not to come. I don't want to go to jail. I promise, I'll never do it again."

Suddenly realizing why his sobbing had been so intense, I pulled him into my lap and hugged him. Immediately, he began crying again, repeatedly apologizing. I shushed him, explained why the police were coming to help us, promised him he wasn't going to jail, told him I knew it was a mistake--I was just worried that Adam might fall off the couch and I wouldn't be able to help him. I told DJ he wasn't in trouble. 

He turned to me, threw his arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. Then he said, "I love you, Mom."

As soon as our door was opened by the helpful police officer, DJ made a beeline for his bedroom and closed the door. He wasn't taking any chances that I might change my mind and let the policeman take him away, after all. 

Adam, naturally, was fine. He was still on the couch, cooing and calm. The policeman suggested I carry a key in my pocket, just in case this happened again. I looked at him as though he had six eyes. Obviously, he had never been a mother before. Moms don't think about spare keys--they think about diapers, and feedings, and baths, and cuddling, and skinned knees, and vacuuming, and laundry, and doctor visits, and in the midst of all that, they wonder if they'll ever get to sleep again...

DJ has changed drastically since then. He's much larger than I am--I don't think I could hold him on my lap if I tried. He's independent and capable and still very smart, although it's anyone's guess if he's smarter than Adam. But one thing that hasn't changed is his concern and care for me. And he still has a very sweet, gentle heart. He's no longer afraid of police officers, but I think he'd still prefer to stay out of jail.

Happy birthday, DJ. I love you.

I'm thinking...

I should just accept the invitation in my spam folder and become a Federal Agent.

The Chickens Come Home to Roost

I'm doing too much.

This morning I spaced an early morning rehearsal--an important one. I'm accompanying the band kids for festival. We have limited time to run a bunch of solos. This is bad.

I don't think, in all the rehearsal filled years of my life, I have ever forgotten a rehearsal before.

Then, this afternoon I forgot a piano student. The biggest problem: the student is the band director's son. Yup. Very bad.

Time to slow down--soon.

Today

The sunrise this morning was beautiful. I left at 6:30 a.m. to drive to a city about an hour away, where I accompanied students in a competition for four hours. My mom's surgery was scheduled for 11:30 a.m. I knew I wouldn't get back in time to see her before she went in, but Sister 4 was here. I ran some errands, and got home around 1:00 p.m. I worked until 3:30 when my first student arrived. 

Sister 4 called me at 4:30 p.m. to let me know how Mom's surgery went. I was still teaching and couldn't talk with her. I returned her phone call at 5:30. The tumor had been removed. It was larger than expected, but the lymph nodes came back clean. The surgeon removed a couple of centimeters of tissue in the entire area where the tumor was growing, and all the tissue down to her breastbone. We'll know in a couple of days whether the cancer has spread to those areas and a treatment program will begin.

I can't seem to focus anymore. And I'm tired. I don't want to wait to find out about the biopsies. I want to know now.

I was supposed to go visit my mom tonight. I didn't. I left--got to the hospital--turned around and drove to the place I go running every day. I parked my car and watched the sun set. 

I know she wants to see me. But Sister 4 will stay until 10:00 tonight, and Sister 1 arrived around 8:30 p.m.  She'll be okay if I wait until tomorrow.

A Request

For my information, please tell me who linked my blog on their Facebook page? I keep getting hits from there, and I'd like to be sure that my own Facebook page cannot be traced back to this blog. 

Please? Let me know?

Thanks.

We are Good-bye

My DJ was a precocious child. He walked at eight months--causing me to completely redo the child-proofing I had finished in preparation for crawling. He began talking in complete sentences of more than five words by the time he was fourteen months old. We had wonderful conversations. He mimicked me beautifully at eighteen months. One day, in the store, he pitched a fit because I told him we were leaving before he could visit the gum ball machines. I picked him up, carried him kicking and screaming to the car, strapped him into his car seat and waited for the tantrum to cease. After about seven very long minutes, he stopped suddenly and asked me why I wasn't driving.

"I can't concentrate when you make so much noise. It's not safe to drive if I can't concentrate," I told him. He thought about it for a moment, then said, "I thought it was because you wanted to give me a second chance." "For what?" I asked him. He said, "To use the quarter machines."

I told him, no, we weren't using the quarter machines, but more than that, behavior such as that which he had exhibited would never deserve a second chance. As I was explaining this in toddler terms, he piped up, "Because it's inappropriate?"

I looked at him. "Do you know what that means?" 

"Yes," he answered. "It means I'm not obeying the rules."

"What are the rules?" I asked.

"You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit."

"Who told you that?" 

"No one." DJ answered. "But I think it sounds right."

This wasn't the only time DJ made things up to suit a situation. We had neighbors who had a very cute, very sweet little girl. She and DJ became inseparable at two years old, and remained fast friends for nearly two years. One day, just before DJ's fourth birthday, his friend came to visit. She told him she was sad because her family was leaving to live in a different place. They wandered about our apartment alternately holding hands and playing with Duplos. After about an hour, her mother came to find her. She stood reluctantly with DJ, not wishing to leave. Mom insisted, and DJ's friend looked at him tragically. He hugged her and I heard him whisper, "We are good-bye." She nodded solemnly and left with her mother.

I asked DJ what he meant when he said those words. Once again, he told me they just sounded right. Then he added, "Sometimes people go away. They are good-bye." I think he meant that some good-byes are different from others, and he understood that this separation between he and his friend was a permanent one. It's a difficult concept for a four-year old to grasp, and he was describing it in the only words he could think of.

I think, in our current world of constant communication, it's much more difficult to lose people. Many friends I never thought to hear from again have found me through Facebook, Classmates.com, and Whitepages searches. As I've pondered my son's words, I realize that the only time one truly loses someone, is when they don't wish to be found. And I'm hoping my heart never utters or hears from a loved one, words which translate into, "We are good-bye."

I don't know why this is on my mind tonight...just thinking, I guess.

Oh...my...

Adam: Are shoes edible?

Darrin: No! You are not a goat!

 

(thirty seconds later)

Darrin: Stop chewing on that!

Adam: It's my shoe.

Darrin: It's not. You did not pay for it.

Adam: Want it back?

Darrin: No. I want you to stop eating it.

Adam: It's just rubber.

Darrin: It's not food. Our rule is that you may only eat food.

Adam (sighing): Fine...

me: Adam--here--chew some gum.

Adam: Okay. By the way, gum has rubber in it. I saw it on How It's Made.

Dinnertime

DJ: Let me see your tongue.

Adam: Why?

DJ: Just let me see it?

Adam sticks out his tongue as far as it will go.

DJ: Dude! If you ever make out with a girl, she'll die. You'll suffocate her with that!

Adam: Will not.

DJ: That's just sick.

Tabitha: Ahem! Trying to eat over here!

Darrin exchanges a look with me.

Darrin: Well, at least they're not talking about vomit or poop.

Me: This is better?

Darrin: It is, to me.

Tabitha: Ahem! Trying to eat over here!

Me: Do you require complete silence in order to eat?

Tabitha: I'm thinking when you guys are around, the answer is yes.

Okay...

Today I was asked by another person if I would tell her about what I have decided to do concerning the integration attempt/process. This question was tucked into several others, so it sort of sounded like an "Oh, by the way, what about..."  I'm not really sure if it was true interest, or more along the lines of, "I know this is important to you, so I'm asking about it, but it's not that big of a deal to me."

So, for those who want to know, I'm still keeping a log of things I've been doing in regards to integration, and other, more emotional things, in my other blog. It's still public. It's on my profile.

But please, if you comment, remember that the things I say there are emotional not practical. I don't need wake-up calls, or demeaning comments, or things said "for my own good". Be sensitive. When you go there, you're walking on my soul.

Time is Relative

No story ever really ends. We simply lose interest because the characters grow up and are no longer young and beautiful. Or they no longer need to pursue a love interest because they found one. Or evil is vanquished so there seems to be no more conflict. But even when no one cares any longer, the story continues through daily routine, joys and sorrows, sleeping and waking, until one day death takes the characters from this earth and it becomes anyone's guess what happens next. The difference is, once the audience is lost, no one knows the details of the story except the characters, themselves, and the few people with whom they share those details.

Personally, I believe the stories remain compelling. The challenges faced as people grow older are no easier than the ones faced by youth. Case in point: I watched my grandmother care for my grandfather as he developed Alzheimer's Disease. It began when he was fifty-seven. Grandpa was obsessive compulsive when it came to how his tools were cleaned and placed. But one day he arrived at our house, accusing my father of borrowing, but not replacing. My father had his own set of tools, purchased out of self-defense because he is the opposite of obsessive compulsive and actually enjoys a bit of creativity when it comes to tool arrangement. Not wanting to address my grandfather's odd behavior, my dad simply told him to go to the garage and take whatever tools he needed. Instead, Grandpa left angrily, riding his motorbike back home much more quickly than his normal fifteen miles per hour.

As time progressed, lost tools morphed into forgotten chores, lost books, and non-existent joke punchlines. At first, Grandma was embarrassed. She lectured her sweetheart, assuring him that he did know the things he had forgotten, if he would only take time to think. He would look at her with absolute trust, agree that he must know, and laugh at himself for his memory lapse. 

By the time Grandpa was seventy, he became disoriented easily. Grandchildren had baptisms, graduations, marriages. Grandpa wanted to attend, but as soon as he left his home he became frightened, questioned Grandma incessantly about their intended destination, how long they must stay, and how soon the could go home. More than once I watched my grandmother surreptitiously excuse herself from our family group and allow herself to weep for a moment as she watched her husband wander from person to person, asking who they were, wondering why he was in that particular location, and requesting a ride to his home.

Grandpa eventually lost track of time and seasons. His goal was to make certain they had enough firewood. He spent his days splitting the wood and piling it in the garage. When that became full, he stacked the chopped pieces in the horse barn, hay shed, along the outside wall of the house--anywhere he could find a likely place to store his winter fuel. It seemed a harmless pursuit, and a good way for him to work off the abundant energy his genes passed on to me.

My grandfather turned eighty. He had become frail and dependent on my grandmother. Often he forgot where the bathroom was. When the need to relieve himself became desperate, he could be found squatting in a corner of whatever room he happened to be in. Grandma was beside herself. She was not in the best of health, often troubled by shingles and other types of chronic pain. Having to clean up random messes--and often discovering the messes in unfortunate ways--was unpleasant, to say the least. My father began talking with her about the possibility of placing Grandpa in a nursing home.

I remember visiting them when Adam and Tabitha were still babies. Tabitha was six months, Adam was 20 months. DJ stayed with Darrin at my parents home, and I drove the other two for as long as it took to get them to sleep (a routine we followed for nearly three years). As I drove toward my grandparent's home, I noticed Tabitha and Adam were snoozing peacefully in their car seats, so I decided to stop for a moment. I knocked softly, and opened the door. My grandparents were seated on the living room couch. Grandpa was holding Grandma, gently smoothing her hair as she napped with her head on his shoulder.

I smiled and whispered hello. Grandpa looked confused, thanked me for visiting him, and asked who I was. I explained that I was his granddaughter, and he smiled and told me he was lucky to have such a beautiful granddaughter. My heart ached as I realized he still didn't remember me. Then we had an amazing conversation:

Grandpa (looking down at Grandma): This is my wife.

me: Yes. My grandma.

Grandpa: She is the best, most lovely woman in the world. I need to take care of her.

me: You do a wonderful job.

Grandpa (looking ashamed): No. Sometimes I do bad things that make her tired--that make her cry.

me: Never on purpose, Grandpa. I think, most of the time, you just make her happy.

Grandpa: Do you think so?

me: I do.

Grandpa: You're a nice girl. Who did you say you were?

me: I'm Maurice's daughter. I'm Samantha.

Grandpa: I didn't know Maurice had a daughter as grown up as you are.

me: Yes. I'm a mom now. I have to go. My kids are asleep in the car. I just wanted to stop by and say hello. Tell Grandma I came? And I'll be back later?

Grandpa: I will. 

As I walked to the door, I heard him say, "Stop!" I turned to him as he continued, "You're the little girl who used to walk in the mountains." I nodded and he smiled. "We've missed you." "I've missed you, too, Grandpa," I whispered back. Then I closed the door, got into my car, and drove away.

A few weeks later Grandma could no longer take care of my grandfather. One day, when she was doing laundry in the basement, he found the key to his tractor, started it up, and drove it through the wall of his garage. Realizing that Grandpa had become a danger to his wife, my father made the necessary arrangements, and my grandfather left the home he loved for the last time. Once in the care center, he became unmanageable, frightened, frustrated. His health failed rapidly. He slipped into a coma toward the end of the first week, and three weeks later he died.

Darrin only remembers the man who couldn't recall where he left his shoes, but I remember my grandfather working harder than any other person I've met in my life; laughing uproariously as I beat him at cards; driving his matched team of horses as they pulled a sled--even though tractors were so much more practical for feeding cattle; delighted at the wild strawberries I gathered for him in the mountain behind his home; giggling for days at the joke it took him fifteen minutes to finally get; shuddering as he watched me holding a spider or snake; gathering wildflowers for Grandma; holding hands with her as they walked together; listening intently as I played the piano or violin; reading--always reading--some new book of poetry or prose and quoting to me the passages he found most beautiful...

I don't know what he's doing now. But I began missing him years before he finally passed away. I miss him still. Sometimes, when you miss someone, it helps to share their story. No one can care about the one you love in quite the same way you do, but somehow talking about them brings that loved one continued life, and the separation seems less sharp. I never knew my grandfather when he was young and dashing--when he cleared 180 acres of land to provide for the family he would one day have. I didn't know him when he still had all his hair and fewer wrinkles around his eyes. His story is still compelling to me, told from my vantage point and in my own words. And someday, when my own life is over, and I see him again, he'll remember me not just as the little girl who used to wander in his mountains--but as me, Samantha, in all the phases of my life. Because even though he's been gone for a long time, I like to think that occasionally, he peeks in on me, just to make sure I'm doing all right--and that I'm properly taking care of any tools I might own.

My mom has breast cancer.

Done

In spite of the fact that I had to redo an entire return because my dad closed it before I saved it (he finally confessed on April 15, 2009, at 11:52 p.m.). I have a couple of loose ends to tie up this weekend with a finance client, and then I'll be finishing up festivals (3) and recitals (3, as well) in the next couple of weeks. 

I should sleep, yes? Unfortunately, my stress level is high and I'm too tired to do the work I need to do to avoid what dreams may come...

Wishing a night owl friend was up to talk to, but in lieu of that, I'll find a good book.

Sleep well, everyone.

Obsession

Yesterday's conversation with a friend:

Friend: How have you been?

me: Nothing's different from the last time we spoke. Let's talk about you.

Friend: You're still doing the same stuff?

me: I'm not finished yet. I can't quit until I'm finished. You know that.

Friend: You're kind of obsessed.

me: Yes.

Friend: Not in a good way.

me: Maybe.

Friend: Take a break.

me: Can't.

Friend: Someday, Sam, you're going to find the thing you can't do. And you'll keep trying till it kills you.

me: That's okay. Sounds like a good way to die.

Friend: I think you're mad at me.

me: No. I think you're trying to help me. But you can't. No one can, probably.

Friend: Frustrated?

me: Very.

Friend: Sorry.

me: Me, too.

There was more. The friend gave me loads of sage advice about how to have a better life and stop being so self-centered. As this friend is not a blog reader of mine, I'm comfortable saying that I wish the conversation had not taken place, as now I feel more inadequate and frustrated. And I probably won't talk with that person again for awhile. However, I also understand where all this was coming from:

1. Friend would like to have a conversation when we don't discuss my current obsessions (note to self: correct answer for "How have you been?" is "Fine, thanks. You?").

2. Friend believes I've come as far as I'm able, therapy-wise, and would like me to learn to be happy and find joy in my current state.

3. Friend was bored and just wanted to find someone to chat with--not to discuss anything thought-provoking or real, but just to kill time.

4. Friend is tired of Sam not being happy all the time like she used to be.

Unfortunately for me, I get the vibe that many people in my life are feeling similar feelings toward me. I think part of the reason this has happened is because, as I space my therapy visits farther apart, my need to talk has not decreased. I've chosen to talk with people close to me as I feel overwhelmed or sad. In the beginning they seemed happy to hear my words--some even said they were grateful because it's a bit unusual for me to share the things that are deeply felt by me. But no one can listen forever. It uses them up. My conversation with Friend is one example of someone who is ready for our relationship to return to its normal state--we enjoy each other, talk of relevant things in Friend's life, I say funny things, we giggle, Friend leaves feeling buoyed up, and I go home wishing my friendships had more authenticity.

I'm not sure I'll ever return to my role as the warm-fuzzy fairy. It has nothing to do with desire, and everything to do with fatigue. Not that it takes a lot of energy to listen and buoy up a friend, but continuing to suppress my need to express has become an overwhelming task--and when my words are met with resistance or, worse, a response itemizing every reason I am lacking and giving advice about how to be a more wonderful person, my desire to suppress becomes stronger. So it seems easier to avoid situations where I'll wish to talk--but won't.

On top of this, as I receive more responses such as the one Friend gave me, or interactions where its obvious the person has no interest in me at all, and only wishes to receive my attention and empathy, I find myself reverting to former behaviors: avoiding telephone calls, not answering my front door, immersing myself in work/reading/running...

So, somewhere there is a happy medium. I know there is a place where I can manage the PTSD impulses and symptoms driving my desire to avoid people and intensifying my emotional reactions to what I perceive as rejection. Perhaps that means only talking with people when I don't feel the need to tell them that I had a bad night--or maybe that's all I need to say: "I really appreciate your asking. Last night was rough. It happens sometimes. I'm sure it will get better with time." That way I've offered a bit of personal information--but not too much--and I've reassured them that I don't really expect anything of them. And the bonus is, they feel they really helped me because I got to talk about something that bothers me a bit. Everyone wins.

I am haunted by the image of a makeshift sailboat on the ocean in southern Florida. It's where my aunt's ex-husband goes when PTSD becomes too much for him. He gets in his car, drives cross-country to Florida (sleeping in his car at night and eating when he remembers), rents the least expensive and least seaworthy boat he can find, and sails onto the ocean until he feels he can return to life again. I've mentioned him before--I can't get him out of my mind. I told my dad a couple of months ago, "I think I'm becoming Uncle D--." He assured me I was not...but I think he's wrong. I completely understand why my uncle does that. He's not crazy (at least, not in the way people think), he's just hurting. And he's found a place to heal.

Talking. Being with people. Sharing my life with others. Being emotionally honest. Letting people love me back. These are the things Therapist keeps telling me will make me better. Seriously, being alone in a leaky sailboat on a stormy ocean seems so much easier than the things Therapist tells me to do. 

In all the judgments and advice I received from Friend, one thing is unquestionably correct. I am obsessed about finishing what I began. Even though I whine in the setbacks and heartaches, even when I'm so tired that I say I'm quitting, even when I'm sure Therapist is wrong and there is no one interested in me--nor should there be, I can't stop. In the midst of saying, "I can't do this," I'm making a plan of how I'll take my latest setback and make it work for me somehow. Even while I proclaim I'm a failure, I'm researching what to do to get back on my feet. And I firmly believe that in all my charts, graphs, and time lines, I'm going to find a solution.

And today, I will admit that in the tiniest corner of my mind (but a large part of my heart), I'm admitting that Therapist might be right, and the solution may lie in the melding of my hard work and my acceptance of human fallibility amidst occasional empathy and love. Maybe.

Keeping Things in Perspective

To do list:

1. Finish three tax returns (business), and two tax returns (personal) before noon tomorrow (I know the deadline is midnight--I refuse to work that long.

2. Take a break from taxes for two weeks. 

3. Finish two extended tax returns (business) before June 1 (provided they send the information before May 15th--if they don't, they can wait until August and pay the penalties and interest).

4. Accompany 17 soloists for competition--includes rehearsals, recital, and actual competition (finished April 21st).

5. Accompany 24 soloists for festival--includes two rehearsals, festival, and honors recital (finished May 5th).

6. Finish studio lessons and recital for spring semester (last lesson/recital--May 7th).

7. Prep for and teach summer music institute at university (finished June 12).

8. Do annual "throw-it-away" party with kids (I love it--they hate it) before June 7th.

9. Plant flowers/herbs/tomatoes by June 15th.

10. Run in local 5k, May 16th.

My huge schedule is winding down. During the summer I take two weeks off--but I don't tell anyone when that will be. Those weeks are mine--to play with my kids, meditate, read, run--just enjoy life for a very brief moment. If I invite family/friends to be with me during that time, it's because I feel renewed when I am with them and because I feel I contribute something similar to them. I keep the dates of this vacation a secret because when I allow people to know, somehow Darrin's family manages to insert themselves into my time--and they drain me. Occasionally, my siblings or parents do the same. This year, I feel a huge need to avoid that.

There are a few students I'm accompanying for the competition who are playing challenging pieces, ensemble-wise. I rehearsed with them last Tuesday. We had a four-day weekend coming up, and I told them I would be available for additional rehearsal time on Friday, Saturday, and Monday between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Yesterday, at 6:15 p.m., a student called. She said she had just gotten back from a trip, and could we please rehearse that evening? Normally, I would have made time for her. Rehearsals usually last only about 20 minutes. But yesterday my schedule looked like this:

6:30-9:30 a.m.: Work for film archive company

9:30 a.m.-1:30 p.m: Tax preparation

1:30-3:30 p.m.: Rehearsals

3:30-6:00 p.m.: Lessons

I was tired. And I had given the students specific times when we could rehearse. It was not my problem if they chose to leave town for the weekend--and I simply had no more energy for rehearsals. So I told her I was sorry she had arrived home so late, but my time was booked until Tuesday night (large rehearsal for all competitors). Then I sat with my family and ate for the first time that day.

Last night a few friends hailed me online. I was too tired to chat. I realized, if I'm going to make it through the next few weeks, I need to budget my time a little more carefully. Unfortunately, the schedule above has been my norm (with 3-4 hours more of work added before bed) for the past two weeks. I have a feeling that's been adding to some of the stress I've felt about doing therapy work. 

Work has always been the place I immerse myself when life feels out of control. I can choose the jobs I wish to do, regulate the hours I work, I'm good at it, and it gives me an almost immediate reward in the form of money. I forget, however, that it's not life. It's only a part of life. My kids have been reminding me that even though I'm at home much of the time--I'm not really present.

So, today I'm canceling a morning rehearsal and I'm going to spend some time outside enjoying the beautiful day. I'm not going to start work until around 10:00 a.m., because I know I'll be at the recital tonight until at least 9:00 p.m. And I'm going to take an hour break in the middle of the afternoon, because not eating all day is a bad practice. I think I'll read a book then, as well.

I've always had abundant energy--but I'd like that to last the rest of my life. I think it's time to rest and regroup a bit, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Physical rest, to me, means adequate but not excessive exercise, and more than four hours of sleep each night. Mental rest means flooding everyone's Facebook feed with all the quizzes I've been taking--as well as playing copious amounts of Scrabble, Wordscraper, Lexulus, and Scramble. Oh, and constantly losing to Tolkien Boy in Attack. Emotional rest...that one I'm still working on. I don't yet know how to do that. But I think it might have something to do with this direct quote from Therapist:

"Sam, people don't feel emotionally renewed when they isolate themselves, because the deepest emotions we feel are almost 100% connected to other people. You feel relaxed, emotionally, when you receive what you need from people you love. That might be a hug from a friend, or physical intimacy with Darrin. Or it might simply be a phone call, a lunch date, or a long conversation with someone who is important to you. But what I'm trying to say is that you can't do it yourself. If you try to, you'll become even more stressed, your needs will increase, and so will your emotional fatigue. You have to be with people--safe people--and you need to remember that as they meet your needs, you're meeting theirs, too."

So, I'm trying to believe him, and understand how all this works. I could definitely use some emotional renewal, and if Therapist is correct, in the process of gaining it, I'll also be giving it. I like that idea. I just need figure out how to fit it into my schedule...I'm not sure I left any lag time...

On this day of days...

Since I began blogging, I have always taken time to talk about my Savior on this day. My relationship with him is one of the most precious things in my life. There have been many, many times when he has sustained me when no one else could, loved me when I was certain I did not deserve it, and filled my life with peace when I was unhappy and frightened. On this day I celebrate his willingness to atone for the deficits in my life, and the miracle of his resurrection. And with all my heart, I love him.

I have always made it a point to allow other people their beliefs without comparing theirs to mine unfavorably, without disparaging what might seem to me pointless, unusual, or even silly, and above all, without mocking. I may not worship a patron saint, or light candles, or participate in a ceremonial dance, but I honor your right to do so, and I speak of your beliefs, rituals, and practices with respect. I understand that a faith system, whatever it may be, is an important part of any person--even if that faith system is simply a process in which traditional beliefs are discarded and new knowledge and ideas are sought out.

Not only that, but when I have been invited to participate in religious celebrations outside of my own faith, I have done so, not because I wish to change my beliefs or because I'm exploring alternatives, but because I want those I love to know I'm happy when they are happy, I want to be a part of their lives, and I want to be a part of the things they hold dear. I have taught my children that this is a way we can show love to those who might believe or worship in ways different from our own.

I suppose I always wanted to believe that others shared this same idea. I hoped that my beliefs, however strange or unbelievable they might appear to others, would be given credence and respect by people who care about me. Instead I find that some have gathered for the sole purpose of mocking my God on the day I celebrate his life. I have encountered bigoted statements aimed at Christianity, in general, and at my religion specifically, as I read through Facebook updates, or glance at some of the blogs on my reader. And I wonder--if you no longer believe, or have never believed, why do you feel the need to disparage a belief that has sustained me (and no doubt many other people) in my darkest times--times when you were probably unavailable for support--indeed, perhaps there was nothing else to hold my head above water when I felt I was drowning. 

I know, some will tell me it is their right to not worship, just as it is my right to choose to believe. Some will say it is therapeutic for them to take the mythology of their childhood and make it common--even laughable. Many will tell me it was all in good fun and I am overreacting. A few might say that as I remark upon their behavior, I am disparaging and mocking their beliefs. That is not my intention.

I applaud your right to question and explore. But in doing so, I ask you to proceed thoughtfully, carefully. I will never insist you believe as I do. I will never join in a cause or quest I believe will hurt another. I will never allow differences in our beliefs to interfere with my love and respect for you. And my actions and speech will reflect this. I suppose I just wish for you to grant the same to me. 

In the end, however, it will not matter how much my beliefs are mocked, scourged, or crucified. They live still, in my heart, and continue to sustain me when no mortal person can. There are times when I doubt, when I am weak or overwhelmed. Again and again I am renewed as my faith is resurrected while I watch a vivid sunset, wonder at the beauty of the blue sky, delight in the blooms in my flower garden, quietly watch a rain or snow storm, or when I am surprised by an act of kindness shown to me by another person. And I understand that people are human. Sometimes they make choices I find hurtful, and that's all part of living. Just as my Savior loves me in any condition--even when my acts and words hurt him--so I wish to care for those I love under any circumstance. 

Today, with gratitude, I worship Jesus Christ. He taught me, when I wished to hate, that I could forgive and learn to love. When I wanted revenge, he taught me that it would canker my soul and destroy me. When I chose life, but I did not know why, he taught me that to love and to seek for understanding would be a quest that would fill my life with purpose and joy. This is the day when, traditionally, the Christian community celebrates resurrection and eternal life--both things I hope for one day. But in addition, I celebrate my own life, because I live today--I am the person I have become--because of my belief in Jesus Christ and adherence to his teachings. 

I invite all who love me to join me. You do not have to believe as I do. You do not have to worship what I worship. I ask you simply to have joy in my joy, because we love each other.

Happy Easter.

It's my blog...

...and sometimes, for reasons I cannot fathom, it attracts visitors who are slightly unbalanced. 

When I opened up my other blog to the public I had an unwelcome visitor who, no doubt, wished to help, but offered her advice in an abrasive and ugly way. This has happened before, but not for quite awhile. When I mentioned to her that she might not have enough information to judge my situation, she became abusive and nasty--again, it's happened before. 

In the past when this has happened, I've left the comments public and allowed anyone who wished to talk with the aggressive person. This time I removed her comments, leaving only my responses to her. A couple of people have asked why I was commenting to no one--now you know why.

I didn't leave her comments because, although they were extreme and abrasive, it's obvious to me that she's still working through a lot of pain and she was overreacting, yes, but probably responding to what could only be perceived as my rejection of her words. And I suppose, in my heart, I didn't want her to have anymore hurt.

The problem with this is that my blog is the place where I say the things that rankle--where I leave the crap that bothers me. I suppose the thing that bothered me about the whole situation is that I was accused of something(s) entirely untrue by someone who doesn't know me, has no wish to find out if her accusations are founded by searching through my years of entries, but simply wished to spout off about how much she knew of the task I was attempting (and failing). I'm intolerant of ignorance--especially when, rather than admitting that they know nothing, the person resorts to comparing our situations with the goal of garnering sympathy for their personal situation as a means of distracting me away from the fact that their accusations might be groundless, but they have no intention of researching the background readily available to find out.

I'm a researcher. If I make a comment without completely reading a blog--I'll admit it. And if I'm wrong, I'll probably admit that, as well. I know it's probably asking too much, but I expect anyone who makes a judgment call about me to do the same. Never pretend you've read everything I've written when you have not. I track every visitor. I know how much time they spend, and which of my blogs they visit. I know where they come from geographically and virtually. Some can hide from me--but not many. And most don't care that I watch them, as they have nothing to hide. My blog is public. They're doing nothing wrong by visiting a public blogspot.

And now, as this is my blog and I feel the need to do this, I will address the accusations leveled at me last week (working backwards chronologically):

1. I'm pathetic. 

Actually, I've admitted to this many times. I often become aggravated at what I perceive as weakness in myself. I'm very aware of my shortcomings. Stating the obvious is not the most eloquent way to make a point, but neither will this particular accusation bother me in the least. 

2. I'm a drama queen.

Obviously you've never met me. It's not even a possibility that I would buy into this. In fact, I'm guessing that the number of people who have actually seen me milk any situation for attention or sympathy can be counted on one hand. So--again--probably you should spend some time getting to know me before you attack me. You'll be able to find much more effective and authentic weaknesses if you know who I am.

3. I'm a loser and a total fuck up.

First of all, the moment you employ profanity or crass language, I pretty much stop listening and assign you an IQ of less than 100. I've been known to use that kind of language a couple of times when describing what my cousin did to me. But for the most part, I figure people should be intelligent enough to find more accurate words to describe their feelings. As for being a loser...well...I'm not dead yet. I've lost much, but I figure life will balance out in the end and everything will be a wash.

4. I'm sarcastic.

Occasionally, but in general I avoid it. It's ineffective, for the most part. However, I'm fairly straightforward, and I'll probably tell you what I'm thinking most of the time. Some might consider that abrasive, but it's not sarcasm. I'm not trying to garner a laugh at someone else's expense--and I usually mean exactly what I say. I've been known to banter with my friends and trade gentle sarcasm with them occasionally, but you're not my friend, so it's unlikely that you were the recipient of any sarcasm from me.

5. I'm angry.

Actually, this one was said repeatedly, so I'd like to request, if you plan to accuse me of the same thing over and over--use some synonyms, please, and an occasional metaphor would be delightful. If I must read the same old hackneyed words, I'm likely to skip over them. But if you use a bit of innovation and imagination as you describe the same accusation in many different ways--then I'm hooked. I'll read your words regardless of content. Just a hint if you decide to come back and yell at me again. As for being angry, again, you really have no idea who I am. Anger is something I don't really feel. Even when Dear Martin threatened to off my children when I wasn't looking, I wasn't necessarily angry at him, I wondered what was causing him to be so mentally disturbed as to think I would buy into that. But to make certain my kids remained safe, I just tracked that particular bully to the place where the threats were being transmitted, notified the local sheriff's office, and Martin has been scarce for awhile now. I mention this because I'm dovetailing it with accusation number

6. I'm not being very good at tracking my visitors. 

I believe I've said enough about this.

7. I think I know everything.

Well, the truth is that I know lots of things. I store useless trivia in my mind for no known purpose. I surprise Tolkien Boy occasionally when I know a work by an obscure author. I remember addresses and telephone numbers from when I was three-years-old. And thanks to the Facebook application "Geo-Challenge," I'm learning amazing geography facts, including which flags belong to which countries. So, I think I know quite a bit--but not everything. I'm hoping, though, that someday I will.

8. I know nothing of your life.

This may have been true before you wrote your abbreviated biography in my comments box. Now I know what you have told me. I don't know whether or not it's true, and I care only in the sense that I believe people should be treated kindly. But I have no vested interest in you, as I don't have any real connection with you, but thank you for sharing. Those were pretty personal details you listed. It's not always easy to share personal information with the general public, but perhaps it's easier for you than for me. Regardless, because you so generously spent at least one paragraph listing facts about your life as you see it, your accusation is no longer true.

9. I'm  judgmental.

Actually, I think I'll let this one go. My life speaks for itself. People who know me--really know me--can decide whether the accusation is valid or not. Honestly, I'm getting tired and I really don't care.

10. I enjoy pain and do not wish to heal/integrate.

This, I suppose, is the accusation I wish to address. I've never enjoyed pain. Certainly, I manage it well. That becomes a necessity in any abused person's life. But I don't seek it out, and I definitely don't enjoy it. And as for not wishing to heal--that's just crap--which was why you were directed to read my blogs. I've devoted most of the past three years to doing whatever was necessary to heal. Sometimes I've been more successful than others. Those familiar with my situation understand that I'm tired and discouraged. Their comments and support were incredibly helpful because they understand that they play a vital part in my road to healing. They give me space to recuperate and then when I begin my journey once again, they accompany me. You said you spoke words of hope and kindness...you have much to learn about inspiring hope, and your definition of kindness is definitely not found in any dictionary I've read. Attacking a person who already feels defeated never breeds hope and it is, without question, unkind.

Finally, to those of you who have staunchly supported me as I work to become whole--thank you for showing me love and kindness as I regroup, research, and prepare to begin once again. You know me well--I don't give up. It won't be long now. When I spoke with Therapist yesterday, letting him know of what has been happening, and proposing my newest plan, this was his response: Patience is the key, here.  I know....not too easy for you, but it's the key.  This process WILL take time.  You are in control.  Take bits and pieces, as you can, until it's all put together.  Those are my thoughts.  I'm proud of you.  I'm happy for what you are doing.

Naturally, if Therapist thinks I can finish what I've begun, I probably can. After all, he's one of the smartest guys I know.

Today

I saw a butterfly.

All that eulogizing of friendship....it's a bunch of crap.

I know I'm being irrational, so please don't waste your time telling me just how much. I understand that everything I'm about to say in this post is inane and pointless. However, it is still pushing against my sternum, causing me breathing difficulty, and interfering occasionally with my thought processes--all of which mean I'm a living, breathing human being who finally allows herself to feel things in the moment they occur, which has not always been the case. So...congratulate me.

Anyone who has had the opportunity to speak with me at length has, at some point, become aware that friendship and I do not understand each other. Indeed, I have long been a proponent of the theory that friendship is an imaginary relationship thought up by people to explain the need to make short-term alliances, the severance of which invariably ends in pain for one party, while the other is blissfully unaware that the former "friend" is feeling any discomfort as new "friendships" and alliance opportunities present themselves. Yes. I am a cynic.

Somewhere, however, in a corner of my heart, I wished for friendship to be real. Perhaps I wished for it more than the average person. Friendship: a relationship where two people care for one another, enjoy time together, and protect each other's interests. A safe haven where no sexual response or attraction is required. A mutual sharing of desires, problems, joys and sorrows. Unconditional love? Impossible, of course, but I wanted it--needed it to be a true entity, and if it existed, I intended to find it.

So I embarked on a quest. My intention was to invest fully in possible authentic friendships, pour my energies into them, and see for myself if it was possible for them to exist beyond a year or two. At times I was hopeful, occasionally I was certain, but more often than not, in the corner of my brain which always contradicts the soft spot in my heart, I knew I was setting myself up for heartache. 

One year passed...two years...now well into three years...I was beginning to believe I might be wrong allowing myself to hear the cynical voice that told me not to trust people. 

Don't misunderstand me...I wanted to be wrong.

But the undeniable truth is this: People do not stay in a situation, employment, relationship, or business deal without a contract. They might linger for awhile. They might even relish the moments for a long time. But they don't stay. Life happens. A more advantageous situation, better job, more exciting relationship, or new business deal comes along. Out with the old, in with the new.

I have known this all my life. I have watched it happen time and time again. In the friendship arena, I've not involved myself personally in such a relationship. I've been very careful to draw the lines. We enjoy each other. We laugh and talk together. We have fun. We discuss your life/goals/ambitions. We drift apart. The last part is imperative. If I try to keep it from happening I end up with an aching heart.

But I forgot...or I tried to forget...my reservations as I speculated that there might be more. If I allowed someone behind the line of scrimmage, perhaps he/she would love me enough not to sack me? Silly Samantha! What were you thinking?

And so, I tried out the "close friend" thing. And I am one week shy of the day two months ago when one "close" friend last spoke to me. Six phone messages have been ignored. Four emails are still unanswered. "Close" friend absented himself from a previously accepted dinner invitation--which would have been fine if it hadn't been Tabitha's birthday. Now we're getting beyond rudeness. A close friend will not hurt my daughter on her birthday, but...

I understand there is an explanation--always--there is an explanation. I understand that "close" friend's life became a place where there is no longer any room for, or interest in me. I understand that I trusted and invested unwisely, and now it's time to cut my losses and get on with life. If I enter the true friendship realm, I,  myself, should be scouting out the next friendship prospect instead of mourning the loss of the previous one. Unfortunately, I don't work that way.

So...this is why, for many years I was the one to initiate the friendship wane. If I anticipate and facilitate such an end, it never hurts. It's expected, proper, orderly. But now I am left wondering when the next close friend will become silent--and who will it be? And I can't return to my former practice of moving things along, I can only wait and see. This is not what I want. At all.

I told AtP that we are not friends. We're something else. I'm hoping that way we can keep saying hello every day. And maybe, when I come his direction he'll keep taking half-days off work, so we can talk and laugh. Or he'll keep visiting me when he gets a few spare days. And maybe, if we're not friends, I can always count on him for a hug, and he'll drive my car for me when I'm too upset to concentrate on anything except what's going on in my guts. Maybe I won't have to face silence, suddenly, unexpectedly, and without explanation. Since we're not friends, perhaps the need to phase me out won't exist.

Not friends. Honestly, I think it's better this way. 

You have been warned.

Adam: So DJ, when we go on our huge-mega-road trip four years from now, I think we just need to follow old guy bands...like Journey and Toto...and see about six different concerts all over the country. We can start saving money for gas now, 'cause we'll probably need at least $150. 

DJ: Are you crazy? More like $500. And that doesn't include concert tickets, or food, or places to stay.

Adam: Nawww...it won't be that much.

DJ: Probably a lot more.

Adam: Well, we don't have to worry about places to stay.

DJ: I'm not camping.

Adam: No, I don't mean that.

DJ: Or sleeping in the car.

Adam: No--we don't have to. I've got this all figured out. We'll just go visit Mom's friends, and we'll knock on the door and say, "Can we stay with you tonight? We're Samantha's kids." And maybe if we cook the dinner, they'll provide the food, so we won't have to pay for that either.

DJ: That's not a bad idea.

Me: Excuse me?????

DJ: Well, it's not. You let everyone come stay with us. I think they'd let us stay with them.

Me: I don't like the sound of this.

DJ: Why not?

Adam: Come on, Mom. You know it's a great plan.

Me: I'm telling on you. On my blog.

Adam: Good. Then they'll be ready for us.

DJ: Yeah. In four years. That means you have to stay friends with them for at least that long. This will be good for you, Mom.

Me: You are not my children.

Adam: We're your favorite children. You love us.

DJ: A lot.

Freakishly Fascinating

I spent last Friday evening/Saturday morning at Ambrosia's and Bawb's house. Friday was delightful. I got to meet JB finally (YAY!), and Edgy, Dec, AtP, and AtP's boyfriend (needs a name AtP--and soon), came for dinner. I love you guys! And after all the guys left, Ambrosia, JB, and I stayed up way too late talking--not good for a pregnant lady, and JB's husband let it slip that she skipped a phone call home so that we could talk our heads off--so sorry to monopolize her, but I don't know when I'll get another chance...so maybe I'm not as sorry as I should be.  :-)

Then we got up the next morning to cook yummy stuff that is not good for us and talk more (joined again by AtP and companion-with-no-blog-name)...so much fun!

I don't want to minimize the social experience, but I was sort of distracted the whole time. I'm adding pictures here, so you'll understand. These were on Ambrosia's kitchen counter:

Yes, those are tomatoes, and you are seeing something protruding from the top of one. I couldn't stop messing with it...so within fifteen minutes it looked like this:
Yeah...starting to look really weird...but we're not finished yet...I had to poke and pry a bit more:

Admit it--you're freaked out. We all were. And no, the tomato is not infested by maggots. Those are sprouts growing inside the tomato. Lots of them. I find it amazing, and very cool, and sort of nauseating all at the same time.

After the guys (except for Bawb--I'm not forgetting him, he was just sort of scarce, working in his room) left, I had to dissect the tomato, so Ambrosia got a planter box and we planted the sprouts that didn't fall victim to my knife. They sort of look like they're sprouting in some weird little pools of blood:

Anyway, I think we planted about twenty of the little critters. I'll be interested to know if they survive. Darrin thinks they're not going to be regular tomatoes, but some sort of mutant thingies that will mature and eat everyone in Ambrosia's neighborhood. Naturally, she and Bawb will be safe because they have two huge rottweilers to protect them.

By the way, I tasted one of the sprouts, just to see what they were like. The verdict? Bitter...and nasty. I don't recommend tomato sprouts. But I think everyone should see what they look like inside the tomato. So amazingly disgusting and kind of miraculous at the same time. I could not stop looking.

Thank you

To those who have sent email and good wishes and encouragement. 

But the truth is I can't do this. I thought I could...but once I thought I was magic, too.

Those of you who took the time to write when I asked for help--you're lovely and sweet. I appreciate everything you have said. And I'm sorry. 

Going to take a little break from life for awhile, because I'm tired and I have no more words. 

Ugh

Therapist was right, of course (he always is). On the topic of finding a remedy for dissociation, I've been thinking and planning and wondering for probably close to a year now. I have settled upon three plans, none of which make me very happy.

Plan 1: Ask for help. 

As I've mentioned in previous posts, the thought of "integrating" is overwhelming. Therapist made the observation that perhaps I've been waiting to do this until I had built a large support base. I was insulted, naturally, because the thought of leaning on others to remedy something I did to myself is abhorrent. He pointed out that it wasn't the "fixing" part that needed support, but rather, the need for emotional help as I waded through the feelings and memories of each dissociated segment of me--which would, of necessity, happen in the process of becoming whole. I suppose (sigh...) he's right again.

The flaw in this plan stems from a core belief that was formed long ago by Child Samantha. She was not shy about tattling on the people who harmed her. She let her parents know when she was molested. The problem is, she believes nothing was done to help her. She has no memory of being comforted, no memory of protection, no memory of resolution--which does not mean it didn't happen, just that those things don't exist in her memory. As a result, I believe in my heart--with all my heart--that those closest to me will not help me when I need it the most. 

As a child and youth, this belief caused me incredible pain. As an adult, I had to come up with ways to interact with people on levels which caused no pain. In time, a new belief evolved: The people closest to me will not help me when I need them the most--therefore, I will not need them. And they will not help me, not because they do not wish to, but simply because it is not possible, therefore they are not culpable. 

This new belief has allowed me to stop feeling a need for help, and to stop feeling angry or hurt when I had to do things for myself when I would have liked support from others. It has also stopped any evolution of trust in its tracks. Trust was not something I bought into--it did not exist. Even poor Darrin has known, in all our years together, that I fully expected him to leave me for someone better--I have never trusted him. Fortunately for me, he also understands where those feelings come from, and for whatever reason, is willing to stay with me in spite of the difficulty I bring.

I explain all this because I fully expect Plan 1 to fail. And because I expected this from the outset, I implemented Plan 1, Phase 1: Ask for help from people who will probably say no. I did this because the need for me to stop dissociating myself has become a major priority. It might be the most pressing need I have right now. It is one of the most important things in my life--and because of its importance, I needed to know how I would react if those from whom I expected and needed support could not help me. So I chose two people (those who live near me--people I interact with often and who are aware of my background/situation, but who are not necessarily close friends) whose opting out would not scar me for life, and one other--Tolkien Boy. As I suspected, the first two were quick to let me know that the task I set before them was too abstract, odd, or would take too much time. It was disappointing, but not unexpected, and I was able to sort through the feelings it stirred up without feeling a need to just give up.

I chose Tolkien Boy because he, himself, has been going through an emotionally taxing time for the past four months, he is very busy, and he has little time online--and when he is online, he's usually at work which limits the activities in which he can participate. I suppose I expected his response to be: I would very much like to help you, and were my circumstances different, I certainly would. But now is not a good time. Perhaps when things slow down a bit I can be of help to you then. You know I love you, and I will hope all turns out well for you. 

Because I expected Tolkien Boy to decline my invitation, it was important for me to include him in this first "experimental" group. If he responded as I predicted, he would be the first of my "inner circle" of support people to withdraw his support--or, rather, to not be involved in this particular endeavor. Again, because this "integration" thing is incredibly important to me, to have anyone close to me not involved would be difficult (huge understatement). I needed to know how I would react. This was also important because that core belief of mine from a long time ago decreed that every other person close to me would also decline my request. Again, I needed to prepare for that.

Of course I was wrong. Tolkien Boy did not respond as I had predicted, but rather, indicated that he wished to help me--but as I knew already, his life is complicated right now and the timing will not allow immediate response. I am ignoring Child Samantha who believes TB will always be too busy, Pre-teen Samantha who doesn't understand why I asked in the first place, and Teen Samantha who thinks I'm a weakling and an idiot, and remembering that the things which consume me are fairly insignificant to those who are not living my life. And now I know how I will react when I must wait indefinitely.

And so I went on to Plan 1, Phase 2: Ask for help from those closest to me. I sent an email to those who have been very close to me as I've worked through emotional stress over the past three years. Two responded immediately--asking for time to think things through before they answered the email. One has yet to respond. Child Samantha says he won't respond at all. I think she's probably right.

What I was unprepared for was the stress that waiting brought. Sunday brought a panic attack and other uncomfortable symptoms which accelerated to the point that I was ready to write to everyone I'd mentioned the project to, and tell them to just forget it--I wasn't doing it. Indeed, I did say that to a couple of people--but they were the ones who had indicated they didn't want to be involved in the first place, so I lost nothing in telling them I was quitting.

I had to decide if quitting was the best option at that point. I decided, instead, to implement Plan 1, Phase 3: Ask for help from anyone who feels they can give it. The parameters for this phase was limited blog readers who felt they knew me based on our interactions online (blog entries, comments, email, and chatting). I hadn't planned to start this phase for at least another week, but the stress I was feeling demanded that I do something to move the plan forward, or forget the entire thing and move onto something new--like learning a new hobby...perhaps tole painting...shut up, AtP.

I was surprised at how quickly I received responses from phase 3. Those of you who emailed me need to know it's because of you that the entire earth has not been covered by tole painting by Samantha. I was completely ready to say, "This is impossible. I'll just let things be the way they are. I can live with flashbacks, and nightmares, and an eating disorder for the rest of my life--I'm doing it now and doing just fine. There is no need to go through this crap. I'm done." But reading what some of you said reminded me why I'm attempting this, why I need people, why it's important for me to accept all parts of me. You also reminded me that I'm not alone, and that my story--past and present--is important. And some of you shared parts of your own stories, which I needed to hear. I'm really grateful to those of you who took the time to write to me.

Yesterday was difficult. I still don't want to do this. Part of me still feels alone. Most of me is tired and trying to figure out who I can trust. In the process of trying to integrate myself, I am questioning all that I once thought I knew, certain that no matter how much I love them, the people closest to me will abandon me, and feeling pain I do not wish to experience. This is all coming from the stowed-away segments of Samantha and no matter how much my brain tells me that it's stemming from a long time ago, my heart feels the immediacy of each emotion and fear. I'm left confused, frustrated, and exhausted.

This morning I awoke and resolved to just stop. The night was miserable, I have huge amounts of work ahead of me, and in spite of help from loving blog friends, I'm feeling defeated.  

So--I'm looking at Plan 2: Learn to live with the progress I've made currently. It means I'll have to stop complaining to people when I have flashbacks. And I'll probably need to establish a quiet place where I can regroup in times of PTSD crappiness. Honestly, I really do have a wonderful life. Spring will be back next week (by the way, Ambrosia, don't forget to water your tomatoes). I have beautiful kids, a wonderful husband, and a very busy schedule. I'll simply be doing what I've been doing...

So why do I feel sad about that?

Therapy Session Number Three Billion Twenty-two, Part II

Therapist: Sam, you've talked about each of the parts of you in detail. It doesn't seem as if you dislike them at all, in fact you've told me before that you love them.

Me: I don't dislike them. I do love them. I admire them. They did some amazing things under difficult circumstances. I just don't want to be them.

Therapist: Why?

Me: I don't know.

Therapist: No?

Me: No.

Therapist:  Are you sure?

Me: Fine. I do know. I am Samantha Stevens. My life began when I got married. I have become the person I want to be. I am strong. No one who knows me would ever believe Samantha Stevens could be raped or abused--and they're right. I would not allow that. But the Samantha-before-Samantha-Stevens was raped and abused. She didn't have the ability to stop those things. I feel badly for her. My friends and family feel badly for her, and rightly so. But nobody wants to be her. My friends don't. My family doesn't. You don't. And neither do I. She hurts too much. It scares me.

Therapist: As an adult, you've been in many situations where you experienced pain. 

Me: Yes. But I wouldn't choose to do it again. In essence, that's what integrating those parts means to me. I have to feel the things that were the purpose for dissociation in the first place.

Therapist: Yes.

Me: I don't want to.

Therapist: I know.

Me: No one should have to do this. Not anyone. Ever.

Therapist: You're right. Sam, there are many people, myself included, who would take a part of that pain if they could. Not all of it, for sure. No one wants that. And no one wishes for you to bear all of it alone. It is too much. It's why, when people suffer that kind of pain it damages them sometimes for their entire lives. What you're talking about doing--this integration thing--it can keep you whole and help you heal. It will keep you from feeling damaged for the rest of your life because once it's done, you will continue to work on healing the parts of you that you've been ignoring. Two years ago you would never have shared the things you're going through with anyone. In fact, if you had even tried, you would have felt guilty for months. Look what you've done! You're talking with people about one of the most overwhelming things you've taken on--and you've asked for help.

Me: Yeah. But mostly I asked people I knew would say no, or who were too busy.

Therapist: Sam, why did you do that?

Me: Because I wanted to see how I'd feel if they said no. I wanted to know if it would be so overwhelming that I couldn't continue. I wanted to know that I could be strong even if I was disappointed by people I relied on. 

Therapist: That's why you didn't sound upset or surprised when you told me they hadn't responded to your request--except to opt out or to put you off. 

Me: Yeah.

Therapist: Will you ask others? People you think might have time, or wish to help?

Me: Probably. Because I really can't do this alone. It's too much.

Therapist: It is. You're right. 

Me: You want to tell me use the Atonement--to let Christ get in on the action.

Therapist: No, actually, I don't.

Me: You don't? That's not like you. Why not?

Therapist: I have learned something from Samantha Stevens.

Me: What?

Therapist: The Atonement is often best applied when it has been modeled by Christlike people who love us. It bridges the gap between physical and spiritual understanding. You often act in Christlike ways with people you care about deeply. This is definitely a time when you need the same thing given back to you.

Me: Maybe.

Therapist: Definitely. And once you receive what you need from human beings, you'll know how to ask for what you need in regards to the Atonement.

Me: I'm really tired.

Therapist: Sam, I think you're probably going to get even more tired. This task you've taken on will use up a lot of energy--physical and emotional.

Me: I still just want to be me--not the parts of me that came before. I can't, can I?

Therapist: I don't think so. I could be wrong, but I think this is what needs to happen.

Me: It might take awhile.

Therapist: Sam, I've known you for quite awhile. I'm guessing if we're talking about this now (and this is backed up by the fact that you've already thought of, and acted on a plan), you've been thinking about it for a few months at the very least. You know what will help you, you know what to do, you know the scope of every part of it--which is why it scares you. It's big. It's enormous. But once things start falling into place, I don't think it will take long at all.

Me: May I ask you how it feels to be a spectator? 

Therapist: I'm not a spectator, Sam. Everyone who cares about you, including me, is involved and doing everything they know how to help you. And the outcome will matter to me, and to them, just as it matters to you--because you matter. I know you don't always believe that, but you do. 

Me: I hope you're right.

Therapist: Didn't you say once that I always am?

Me: Have you been reading my blog?

Therapist: Nope. But you did tell me that once.

Me: That's no reason to be smug.

Therapist:  You're my only card-carrying-member-of-Mensa client. If you tell me I'm always right, I think that's a good enough reason to be smug.

Me: Except that sometimes I'm wrong.

Therapist: I think, this time, you're not wrong.

Maximizing my odds of success--key word here: odd

I realized today that emotionally, I cannot stay in the state of being I created when I asked for help in my latest endeavor. In fairness, I have afforded none of the people I asked to help me, a proper amount of time to accomplish what I asked. And I told each of them that I had no need for them to comply--and it was fine if their schedules/psyches/desires could not accommodate my request. What I didn't tell them is that while I wait to see if they will respond to my request, my emotional distress is increasing exponentially. Today I left church in the throes of a panic attack, and spent three hours in bed, physically ill, and frantically thinking of ways I can accomplish this stupid, stupid integration thing without involving anyone but me. I shot off an email to Therapist (yes, I know it's Sunday), asking if there wasn't some other way. He (answering even though he's not really working today) said he was pretty certain that, for me, there wasn't. I don't believe him.

So I'm moving on to phase 4 (yes, there were three other phases, I just haven't talked about them here, but the visit with Therapist on Friday was phase 2, and phase 3 happened last night). This does not mean I'm reneging on my requests in phase 1 and 3, so if you received an email from me--I'm still hoping you'll be able to carry through with that. You are, after all, my first line of defense. But I need to gather all the resources I can, as quickly as possible, so I'm hoping you'll understand and not be offended. But if you are, I'm sorry.

Phase four: I'm opening up my request to anyone. I need perspective. I need to see my situation through the eyes of other people. I'm hoping this will enable me to become mobile, to have the resources I need to allow some things to take place without being afraid and stopping the process.

First note: Don't worry if you don't understand all that I'm asking. This is an abstract request and has no concrete basis.

Second note: This request is not directed toward anyone who is unfamiliar with my background. I'm only asking this of people who may have been visiting here long enough to know where I've come from and why I'm working on this now. I don't wish to be analyzed, handed a lot of advice, or given direction. I'm simply asking for information.

Now, if you're still reading, this is my request:

I need to know how others view Samantha--each part of her. I need to know what they think about the life she lived, the abuses she received, and who she became as a result of it. I need to know why other people believe she is lovable and valuable, or if they don't believe she is.

This request refers to the following Samantha segments:

1. Child Samantha--abused and neglected by her mother. Bright, giggly, and energetic. Loved to climb trees, sing and dance, and play with bugs. Also enjoyed dressing up, eating green apricots, rolling down grassy hills. An avid reader from the time she was three. Molested by a woman in a church bathroom at age four, by a man in a different church bathroom at age 8, and by a cousin at age 9. Believed that life's greatest pleasure was turning in a circle as fast as possible until she fell to the floor and watched the room spin about.

2. Pre-teen Samantha--experienced escalating abuse from her mother. Raped repeatedly over a three month period of time by an older cousin. No longer giggly. Enjoyed very little. Became quiet and withdrawn. Continued to read avidly. Rarely spoke or smiled. Lost all respect for parents--felt abandoned and betrayed by them. Practiced the piano constantly, or wandered about outside (day or night--time didn't matter). Found a niche at school with a group of friends who didn't seem to care if she didn't talk. 

3. Teen Samantha: Angry, vengeful, hateful. Refused to believe in the possibility of a God who would passively watch a child be repeatedly abused in nearly every possible way. Became intensely involved in any kind of extracurricular school activity which would preclude time at home. Built up a persona that would allow her to interact with others, charm them into treating her with kindness, and allow her to achieve without being distracted by fear. Survived an eating disorder and suicidal depression. Left home at age seventeen to try to figure out what she wished for in life. Believed that people were generally selfish and evil and not to be trusted.

I would like any who feel they know me well enough, who believe they can, to look at each of these segments, write down their thoughts about each entity, her experiences, and express in words if they believe she has worth or is lovable. And if you choose to do this, please email those thoughts and words to me. I need to have them accessible and do not wish to read what others might say about them, therefore, this particular post is closed to comments. My email address can be found on my profile.

Due the the difficult nature of what I'm attempting, I will not be able to respond to any who email me. I'll try to make sure updates continue here. But to those of you who take the time to do this--thank you for your willingness to help. To those of you who cannot--thanks for reading anyway.

Therapy Session Number Three Billion Twenty-two

Me: Let's talk about dissociation.

Therapist: You've been avoiding the topic for more than a year. Are you sure you're ready to talk about it?

Me: Yes. 

Therapist: Okay. What's on your mind?

Me: Well, a former counselor, who shall remain nameless because she used to be a colleague of yours before you left me for another job...

Therapist: Hilarious, Sam.

Me: Anyway, she talked with me about it. She said it was a normal coping mechanism, and pretty much everyone does it during stressful times. 

Therapist: Yep, that's true.

Me: However, we both know that I've segmented myself into different parts because that was the only way I could deal with the pain in my life.

Therapist: Yes.

Me: So aforementioned counselor told me that it's not necessary for me to integrate the parts of me that I've dissociated from if I don't want to. But I think she's wrong. I do have to.

Therapist: I agree with you. What made you decide that?

Me: Well, I think I knew she was wrong when she said it. But I didn't want to address the problem, so I pretended she was right. But I have to be able to stop separating myself into segments, or I'm not going to stop hurting. In essence, I'm abandoning myself--just as I felt abandoned by my parents--and I have to stop the cycle. And yes, I know this sounds crazy.

Therapist: It's an unusual thing to discuss. It's not crazy.

Me: Fine. 

Therapist: So...have you come up with any ideas of how to accomplish this?

Me: No. I want you to do that.

Therapist (laughing): No, you don't.

Me: Okay. No, I don't. But even though I know I have to do this, I don't want to. It hurts. I'm afraid of it.

Therapist: Well, remember when we talked about nurturing yourself--stop looking at me like that.

Me: I'm not doing that "nurturing" thing. It's silly.

Therapist: Okay, the "nurturing" thing doesn't work for you. How does "inner child" resound?

Me (rolling my eyes): I can't do this.

Therapist: You've come so far, Sam. You've talked about how you've learned to love and respect the strength and resourcefulness those parts of you have shown as they dealt with horrible situations and loneliness. You can do this.

Me: I don't want to. 

Therapist: I know.

Me: I have to.

Therapist: Yes.

Me: It hurts. I feel sick just thinking about it.

Therapist: I think that's understandable. You're talking about allowing some pretty hurtful parts of your life to become...you. But, I'm guessing you've looked at this for awhile, thought of some options and scenarios, maybe even tried a few things.

Me: I made flow charts.

Therapist (laughing): That sound more like the Sam I know and love.

Me: Stop laughing at me.

Therapist: Oh, believe me, I'm not. 

Me: You are. You think it's funny that I have to map every possibility before I try anything.

Therapist: Okay. I do think it's a delightfully funny, and very effective way of working through things--and I love the fact that you do it. What conclusions did you draw?

Me: I have a .0000015% chance of surviving this particular assignment.

Therapist: I'm guessing the odds of survival are a bit higher.

Me: In my flow chart, all conclusions end with me reintegrating myself.

Therapist: What do you want to do?

Me: Well, I've already tried something, sort of.

Therapist: You have?

Me: Yes. I asked for help.

Therapist: You did? Who did you ask?

Me: Tolkien Boy, and a few other people.

Therapist: What did you ask of them?

Me: Basically, I asked them to take a good look at the segments of me, tell me how they feel about those entities, and what they feel/think of the things those parts of me had to endure.

Therapist: Samantha, that's awesome! Did they respond?

Me: Nope.

Therapist: They didn't??

Me: No. One person said it was too much to deal with--too difficult. Another let me know he was a little bit overwhelmed with other things right now. And another said he'd do it later. It's okay. I told them I understood if they couldn't do it. But I think it's a good thing that I asked for help, even if I don't get it.

Therapist: It's an amazing thing. And you're understanding that you, yourself, are unable to fill the needs those "parts" of you have. They need to hear that other people care, that they're not forgotten, and that they're important. You did exactly what needs to be done.

Me: Maybe. But I don't know what to do if I get no response. 

Therapist: You'll figure something else out. I'm guessing  you'll ask other people. 

Me: I sort of don't understand why this asking other people thing is so amazing to you.

Therapist: You've said repeatedly that as a child, in the abuse situations and in the rape experience, the physical pain was small compared to the emotional need to be held, comforted, not left alone. In essence,  you are reaching out to people and asking them to step in and fill those needs with the words they say. They will be helping you carry the burden of the pain each of those entities feels, so that as you integrate them, it won't hurt quite as badly, nor will you feel that you're doing it all alone.

Me: Okay. Probably I knew that.

Therapist: Intuitively, I believe you know it. Logically, it won't make sense, because the exercise isn't concrete. But you are on the right track. Spot on.

Me: I still don't want to do this.

Therapist: I know. But you will.

Me: Yeah. 

To all of you who have asked

Since I began talking about PTSD on my blog, a number of people have asked me questions about it. I've not been able to answer them adequately because my experience and what I've read are my only references, and the truth is that information about the condition is still being gathered. So I've been hesitant to offer a lot of information because often I'm unsure how accurate it is. But after a couple of years of monitoring the symptoms, I've decided to write a post that will, hopefully, provide a more satisfactory and understandable response to some of the questions people have asked me. 

There are many symptoms which are obvious and don't really need explanations:

1. Nightmares.

2. Panic attacks.

3. Flashbacks.

4. Depression.

5. General feelings of anxiety and fear.

6. Distrust of loved ones and friends.

7. Physical responses to above symptoms, such as tremors, colds sweats, lack of appetite.

There are others, but I believe those are unique to me and my situation and mostly consist of body memories in which my body responds as if it has been abused/raped (intense physical pain and bleeding).

The symptoms which can be confusing are the emotional ones. My responses to the feelings are actually more problematic than the feelings themselves, so I believe the best way to describe these would be in a situational comparative response scenario. I will probably use actual conversations, so if you speak with me often, you may find some things that seem familiar.

Friend: I'm sorry times are stressful for you. It's my wish that things will get better soon.

Normal Samantha hears exactly what has been said and feels gratitude and love for a friend who listened while she sorted through some difficult feelings.

PTSD Samantha feels confusion and suspicion. She hears, "Thank goodness it's time for me to leave. All Samantha ever does is whine about her life. It drains me to listen to her."

Friend: Hey--I'm busy right now, but I'll be on in an hour. Can we chat then?

Normal Samantha checks her schedule, arranges for a different time if she's busy in an hour, or makes sure she can be online to talk--she misses this friend!

PTSD Samantha hears, "You're bothering me. I'll put you off for an hour so I can prepare for talking with you." She then responds, "It's okay. We can talk another time," and goes offline indefinitely.

Friend: How are you?

Normal Samantha thinks about it for a moment and usually responds with, "I'm well!" and says something about how beautiful the day is, or talks about something fun happening in her life.

PTSD Samantha wonders why Friend is asking that, wishes desperately she could say, "I'm miserable. I've been crying most of the morning and I think I'm insane. I love you, but I'm certain you don't love me back. I know if I say any of this you'll go away forever and I don't want you to." Then she responds with, "I'm well!" and says something about how beautiful the day is, or talks about something fun happening in her life...but inside she feels dead.

Obviously, there is no way to win with PTSD Samantha--especially online. She can't read body language, there are no vocal inflections, she feels unsafe and afraid...read: IRRATIONAL. And there's no way for me to really modify my responses yet. They are what they are. Occasionally the symptoms become so intense that I feel I must disappear for a few days since my interactions with people are so frustrating to me. Of course, that only makes everything feel worse, especially if no one tries to contact me during that time. It reinforces my belief that no one misses me and everyone is relieved I'm absent.

Someone asked me once, "So--is there anything I can do to help when you're feeling this way?" First I have to say: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ASKING!!!! It's difficult to express how I feel somehow "saved" when a person reaches out when I'm less than accommodating. It's what I need more than anything else. That simple question seems to pull me back, remind me that people really do care. I don't always respond--because PTSD Samantha often doesn't know how to respond. But here is the answer to that question:

1. Phone calls help. Sometimes, if the symptoms are intense, I will say I would rather not talk. But simply offering is tremendously healing. I hear someone saying they care, they're willing to take time for me, they want to be involved and help me. That's often enough to turn the tide of emotional destruction.

2. Emails help. I've received short emails that made my day. Often nothing more than just a "Hello--you're on my mind today" sort of thing. But it says to me that I'm not invisible, I'm not troublesome, and people aren't relieved when I'm not present--they even think about me sometimes. Those are things I need to hear and believe.

3. Checking in with me helps. It doesn't need to be often, and can be in any form--a blog comment, a facebook hail, a text message... This says to me that I'm not alone--and I don't have to be alone. 

But truthfully, simply asking the initial question does so much good.

Normal Samantha's response to the above paragraph about "help" is: See how far I've come! I can tell people of my needs, I can talk about wishing for help and support, I can become stronger through learning to involve other people in my life.

PTSD Samantha's response: I'm pathetic. I have to ask people to notice me--and tell them how to do it. This is stupid and ridiculous.

On a scale of 1-10, my PTSD symptoms have hovering around 8 for the past two months. It feels awful and I worry about the quality of my friendships deteriorating because of my negativity. But I'm trying to manage the feelings. If you're my friend, please remember, I'm trying. Someone once told me that real friendship is a mutual act of constant forgiveness. 

I can't write anymore about this.

If this post makes sense to you, please let me know, because it makes no sense to me.

I had lunch with a friend on Monday. She has known me for nearly eight years and we've been good friends for the last two. She's a decade older than I am, but her children are younger than Tabitha. I commiserate with her as her daughters pass through phases Tabitha has already finished, and she gives me advice about how to live life. It's a nice friendship, and easily accessible as we live across the street from one another. 

About this time, two years ago, I met with my cousin for lunch. I recall the dread and fear I felt as I prepared for that moment. I remember telling Tolkien Boy the day before, "I'm scared," and feeling silly for being afraid. I remember stopping in the restaurant hallway as I caught sight of the man who had raped me, only to be prodded forward by Tolkien Boy's hand. I remember wanting to throw up as I hugged my cousin hello. I remember feeling exhausted when everything was over. I think I believed that would be the last thing I would have to do in order to bring peace to my life. It was just a beginning.

Since that time I've had to do many more frightening and daunting tasks. Some have been purely mental or emotional, others involved physical action. I don't really know what I expect at this point. I only know that what I have to do now is more difficult, to me, than eating lunch with a rapist, or learning to trust people, or asking my mother to talk about my childhood with me. 

When I met with my cousin, I knew when it was over I would eventually feel more powerful. After all, I had accomplished something I never thought I could do. And I planned every moment of that visit in such a way that I had complete control--something I did not have when my cousin raped me as a child. I knew the final outcome would be worth the emotional agony, the fear, and the nastiness of the encounter. 

I don't feel the same way about this particular task. I tried to explain to my neighbor friend why it is so difficult for me. I think, maybe, she understood. She admitted that if her past mirrored mine, she wouldn't want to be faced with the necessity of embracing all parts of it. She told me it seemed overwhelming. Then she asked me if I thought I would be able to do it. My answer: I have to.

I have to.

I don't like it when there is no choice--but the reason I have to do this is because I decided I have to. I decided. Therapist has not told me this is the next step. None of my research tells me it's necessary. In fact, a couple of years ago I talked of something similar with counselor 2, and she suggested I would be fine living my life without addressing the problem--apparently many people do.

I find counselor 2's theory problematic because I spend my life looking for answers, and many of my questions about myself can only be answered if I look at what I have done to myself in order to survive--and if I wish to become Samantha, I have to include all parts of me--not just the ones I've created for the world to know and love. I don't really care if this makes sense to anyone but me. I simply know that, in this case, I'm right.

When a loved one dies, those who are left behind who continue in the most healthy ways are the ones who continue to remember. The people who survive the loss, even become stronger and more amazing because of it, are those who allow the loved one to continue to be a part of their lives--they talk about the deceased in their families and with friends, remember birthdays, visit grave sites on memorial days. They don't forget, separate, or push away the memories, but they embrace them.

In essence, I have allowed certain parts of me to "die". I once told Darrin that my life began when I was twenty. I felt that deeply. Everything prior to that time was finished. The truth is, every thing was finished, but Samantha wasn't. I tried to bury her alive. I didn't want to talk about her, remember her, live with her. I wanted to be reborn--completely new--at twenty.

But here's the thing. I've talked often about how I can't bear the thought of hurting other people. Even when someone is unkind, my first impulse is to wonder what unkindness in their own lives they are responding to. And then I worry about them, and wish I could help ease what hurts. It's an odd response, and probably not rational, but something over which I seem to have no control. But I realized that part of the reason I'm still hurting after three years of therapy, is because I am hurting myself. I'll try to explain.

Little Samantha remembers experiencing physical abuse as early as age two. Her life is filled with memories of loving someone who abused her emotionally and physically. One of the things that gave her the most pain was not being allowed to touch or hug her mother. The other thing that hurts most is wishing to be rocked and held, wanting to be celebrated, and longing for love and praise. When I disregard her--refuse to accept that she is part of me--I add to those feelings of being unwanted and unloved.

Pre-teen Samantha was thrown into a situation where she felt betrayed and unprotected by her parents. Her love for a cousin was twisted by him and used for his own purposes. She was harmed physically, emotionally, and mentally--for she had no words for the acts forced upon her. She wanted someone to save her. She wanted someone to hold her, touch her in healthy ways--prove to her that she wasn't tainted and evil. She wanted someone to help her when she was left alone to clean up a mess for which she had no explanation. Most of all, she wished for someone to make her pain go away, for it seemed beyond her ability to endure. When I separate myself from her, I reinforce her feelings of being unworthy of human companionship. I intensify the pain she continues to feel. I make her even more certain that, somehow, the only place she has in this world is that of being misused by adults and pedophiles--for now, I am the only adult in her life.

And because these parts of me are also me, I feel the sadness and longing they feel. I know this isn't going to stop unless I can understand how to integrate and accept them. It sounds easy enough...it's not. 

Accepting them means feeling with authenticity what they perceive about life and their experiences--and I've already been through that once. The Samantha today is joyful. She has a wonderful life. She has no desire to incorporate a past filled with sadness and fear. In other words...I don't want to do this.

And if Tolkien Boy were here right now, I'd probably say, once again, "I'm scared," and this time I don't think I would find anything silly about being afraid.

Motherhood

It is no secret that I am not a typical mom. I do try occasionally, but I find it very taxing. Cleaning up after four other bodies, solving problems with the flair of a 30-minute family sit-com, and driving to various dance lessons, soccer games, and gymnastics tournaments for three hours every afternoon, are not things that come easy to me, and most of the time I refuse to do them. I prefer to teach the people with whom I live to care for themselves, and I get quite aggravated when they expect me to to what they can do for themselves. I think this is pure and simple common sense.

I have, however, been accused of being somewhat extreme in this "please take care of it yourself" quest. For instance, when DJ turned fifteen-months-old, he believed that 4:00 a.m. was the proper waking time each morning. I am a morning person, however, for me morning properly begins somewhere between 5:30 and 6:00 a.m.--and occasionally I even sleep until 6:30. DJ would come into our room, walk to his father's side of the bed, tap him on the shoulder and yell into his ear, "G'up, Dad!"

I would start to giggle, Darrin would moan, and DJ would repeat the process with a slightly more forceful tap and a bit more volume. Darrin would cover his head with his pillow. DJ would try to remove the pillow, and each time he encountered a bit of Darrin's face, he would repeat the two syllable command. At this point the bed was shaking, not because of their tussle, but because I was laughing helplessly, relieved that Darrin was the focus of DJ's attention, and wondering how I would ever get back to sleep before the alarm went off. 

Finally, in frustration, DJ would bellow with all his might, "G'UP, DAD!!! BREPBRUST!!" At which point, Darrin would give in, fix DJ up with some "brepbrust" in the form of Cap'n Crunch (yes, we were quite the health food fanatics at that period of time) and milk, and come back to bed, grumbling that any real mother would take a turn at feeding the little darling and not laugh as her husband had to do it every morning at 4 a.m.

I suppose my conscience began to bother me after about a year of the ritual. Also, DJ's verbal skills developed rapidly, and rather than the two or three word demands, he was now lecturing us about the deadly sin of sloth in between forceful requests for food. And lack of sleep was beginning to make Darrin cranky. So I told him one night that I had everything taken care of. DJ would not be bothering him the next morning. Darrin raised his eyebrows at me, cleared his throat in disbelief, rolled over and started snoring.

What he didn't know was that while he was gone to work, DJ and I had been practicing. I had cleared out a lower shelf in the kitchen and put a sticker of a bowl of cereal on the cupboard door where the shelf resided (we drew it ourselves on an Avery label, and DJ colored it). Then we put a sticker of a cup of milk on the fridge (found in a box of fun stickers compliments of my mother). I filled DJ's bowl with cereal and showed him how I placed it inside the cupboard with his spoon. Then on a lower shelf in the fridge I showed him a half-full glass of milk covered with a lid with a small spout. 

Now it was his turn. He had to put the bowl of cereal onto the table without spilling it (Not an easy task for a two-year-old), then get the cup from the fridge and pour in the milk from the spout (a very slow process--but what else did he have to keep him entertained?) into the bowl. We practiced this for three days. Three boxes of cereal and numerous milk dribbles later, he finally got it. DJ is fairly tenacious when food is involved.

The morning after I told Darrin he would not be awakened, I heard DJ walking into the bedroom at 4 a.m. (such a prompt child). I jumped up and grabbed him before he could get to Darrin, and reminded him there was breakfast waiting for him in the kitchen. I also told him he could watch t.v. as long as it was so quiet I couldn't hear it (he was a master at putting in favorite videos). DJ gave me a long look, then quietly turned and headed for the kitchen. I sat on the bed and listened. Sure enough, the cupboard and the fridge opened. I heard the thumps that told me the bowl and cup had made it to the table. Then I curled up and went back to sleep.

When Darrin found out what I had done, he asked, "What kind of a mom lets her two-year-old get his own breakfast?" I said, "A tired one?" He was not amused. He said he'd be fine getting DJ's breakfast at four in the morning--he didn't want his baby eating all alone. And I think there was more about breakfast being the most important meal of the day and parents spending time with their kids and not leaving a toddler unattended...all very good points. I said I thought DJ would be fine; after all, everyone needs alone time. Darrin didn't think I was at all humorous, nor did I get credit for training our son how to fix breakfast. 

However, the next morning DJ came to our room, whispered, "Hi, Mommy," and went to the kitchen on his own. Darrin didn't even stir. And a week later, Darrin seemed to think it was right and proper that his son was alone for a couple of hours each morning. I guess sometimes you just have to get used to an idea (or have the luxury of a bit more sleep) in order for it to feel normal. And I was no longer accused of being an unnatural mother. 

I suppose I'm thinking of this today because DJ is not feeling well. He woke at his former morning time (4 a.m.) with a big headache, so he's in bed trying to get some sleep right now. He's no longer two, wandering around the house looking for food in the wee hours of morning. He outweighs me by more than a hundred pounds, and has at least eight inches more height. He takes care of himself--completely self-sufficient, and sometimes he takes care of me, too. But sometimes, when he's not feeling 100%, I remember how cute and little he was--and so very sweet. 

I guess, in many ways, regardless of what Darrin says, I really am a typical mom, because DJ is still my baby. Sigh...

Not Getting It

Will someone please help me understand how lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, constitutes getting ready for school?

It's time to start moving again.

Yesterday someone said to me, "...you've been working on this abuse stuff for more than three years. And you're not just talking to a counselor so you can feel better--you actually do things (which I never understand but they always seem to work). Do you know how many people can do that? Not many. I know I couldn't. So calling  yourself weak, when you've been doing that for so long, is sort of selfish and a little prideful. Quit it."

And yes, the comment irritated me.

However, I understand what my friend was trying to tell me. Translation: Look at what you've accomplished. See how much determination and strength you've employed to make it through the past three+ years. Stop degrading yourself.

But it's not easy when I feel that all the work may have been just an exercise in futility. Because my goals from the outset were impossible. If I am honest, I will admit that somehow I expected to be magic enough to make my mother admit that I was wonderful and she has always loved me, that the physical and emotional abuse were figments of my poor, sick imagination, and that somehow I also imagined being raped by my cousin. I wanted to be wrong. I wanted to learn through therapy, how to address my silly imagination and embrace the reality of a normal, healthy childhood. 

And there it is. I wonder how many victims of trauma have felt similarly. They would rather be insane than face the reality of such treatment.

But I'm not insane. I can't pretend my life was normal. I have been "blessed" with an incredibly sound mind that has always embraced what is real--no matter how awful. Sometimes, after seeing the reality, I have employed ways to separate myself from it, so that I might continue my life without being destroyed mentally and emotionally. But I've always known it was there, waiting for me to one day address it.

So--friend of mind, you're right. I'm not weak, I'm just tired. No one in their right mind would want to do what I've done and continue to do. And I'm not giving up, although there are certainly days when I wish to. I've accomplished much in my three years, and I still have more to do. I believe I'm at the end--the really difficult part is now. It's unfortunate that I'm facing this stuff when I'm worn out and discouraged, but I am facing it. I'm doing all I can to finish what I started. It involves asking for help sometimes--that's why I feel weak and inadequate. I would really like to not involve people in this part of my life. But I appreciate your pointing out that whining about it makes me look like an idiot. I will curb my whining impulse.

In the meantime, I have a feeling that Therapist will work no magic next week. He will listen to my plan, he will comment on the efforts I've made to bring it to pass, and he will say, "Sam, you know best." It's a cop-out, and I'll probably tell him so. It's his way of saying, "You don't like me to make the rules. You need to feel in control. You like to be the one to say what you'll do and when you'll do it. I'm just here to make sure you don't destroy yourself in the process, and to check up on you periodically. So--take charge, and have a ball."

In spite of my cynicism, I'm aware that Therapist is probably as smart as I am, and he knows the best ways to help me succeed at the things I start. He has said, more than once, that I might consider running my plans past him before I put them into action. I never do. I don't want anyone telling me the chances my plans have of succeeding. I'd rather just find out for myself--even when the failures hurt me.

I spent a few months...well...a lot of months recently, just thinking, letting myself feel miserable, wishing for things that cannot be. Many of my posts reflected that. Some have been removed because I don't want to look at them anymore. But stagnation is not a natural state of being for me. I needed to think things through. I needed to ask some people certain questions. I needed to gather as much strength as I could. Now that I have done that, I'm ready to make it through the next big "thing". I've asked some people for help already. One has let me know this is not a good time to be a support for me. Another has told me, for reasons of his own, that this particular part of my journey causes him emotional stress. He's happy to stand by my side, but would rather not be involved. The rest have not yet responded. 

It's okay, though. I'm working on a Plan B, even at this very moment. I will succeed. I have decided this.

Hmmm...

I have an overwhelming sense that my life is being disassembled part by part...and someday I will lie in pieces all over the ground. This is very scary because I live in a windy place. Who knows where I will scatter to?

And someday I would like to be reassembled...but better...stronger...faster...

Someone should make a television series about that.

Imagine that!

As I approached the automatic doors at Walmart this afternoon (which store my brother assures me is owned and run by the anti-christ--yay!), I realized that, without meaning to, I was aiming my car key and pushing the unlock button. Sure enough, the Walmart doors opened right up. I had no idea my key was so powerful.

Dissociation

A week from Friday I will see Therapist. I know I could have benefited from seeing him sooner. I also know that it's time for me to learn to manage my life without living from visit to visit. He needs to become someone I can turn to for help when I've exhausted my own resources--not someone I depend upon to make me feel the world is no longer upside-down and sideways. 

The truth is that the world is upside-down, and I need to adjust my expectations accordingly. For nine months I have known what I must do to help myself finish what I began years ago, and I have been resisting with every possible part of me. 

Dissociation is a normal response to trauma. It happens when the brain says, "That's too much. I can't figure out what it means, how to respond, or what to do next." Obviously, I've allowed an abundance of dissociation to occur in my life. No child can logically process the physical and emotional abuse I experienced. No eleven-year-old can understand how to deal with sexual acts she has no words to describe. Someone asked me once why I felt compelled to describe on my blog some of the sexual trauma I've experienced. I suppose the answer is that now, years later, I finally know how to say it. Does it need to be said? I don't know. I only know that I finally can.

Wikipedia, of course, is the ultimate resource for all topics. While it's not scholarly, necessarily, it is accessible. According to this article, my life makes me the poster child for dissociation and related disorders (read the section entitled "Relation to trauma and abuse"). Along with most things I have denied and ignored, dissociation as it affects my life is something I don't want to deal with.

I need to be clear that I do not experience Dissociative Identity Disorder. While I have segmented my life into distinct parts, I have simply put those parts away from me until such time as I could look at them and learn about them. I do not have alternate personalities. Each "segment" is me at different stages of life. What I have done is simply separated who I am presently from feelings of connection to the child/adolescent/teen who experienced trauma too difficult to cope with at that time.

The past four years have been spent sifting through information, emotions, and memories. I have physically visited places and people who were connected to the abuses in my life. Knowledge and acceptance are not always joyful. I suppose at some point in my life, I came to believe there was nothing beyond my capacity to achieve. I have learned that, in truth, there is very little over which I have control--I simply deluded myself that as long as I could succeed in some outward aspect of my life, all things inward could be manipulated as I saw fit. I was wrong.

Which brings me to dissociation. Many people dissociate themselves from events, usually the things that have caused them overwhelming stress and/or pain. This can be accompanied by denial or amnesia. I realize to some extent, that I have done this. There was overwhelming relief in being able to say what happened. It felt as though I had been waiting a very long time to do so--and I had. But I have also dissociated myself from the segments of me. I can look at them, talk about them, understand them, but in all of that there is a part of me which says, "Sam, that's not really you. That's imaginary. You don't have to deal with it, really." And that's just one more delusion.

As is normal for me, as I try to talk through the things that are most distressing, I am not good--at all--at finding words to describe what is happening. I know that in order to become whole, I must embrace the parts of me I have pushed aside. I must be able to say, "Yup--that was--is--me." I'm encountering all kinds of resistance as I try to make that happen. The only comparison I can make is to that of an eating disorder. My brain says, "Everyone eats. You just open your mouth and put in the food. You're hungry. Just do it." My body says, "If you even think of placing food in my mouth, I promise I'll die." In that same way, my brain says, "It's not like you have to DO anything. These are parts of you already. All you have to do is accept them and move forward." My heart and soul say, "There is no way I can do what you're asking."

Tolkien Boy asked me, in essence, if the acceptance wasn't happening because I was hung up in what others think of me, or if I was somehow embarrassed that those "parts" of me went through so much trauma. I don't know that I've ever really cared about what people think of me. I've always believed that they weren't capable of loving me (judgmental and unfair as that may be, I'm being honest) because I simply felt that there was too much crap in my life. No person could love me and all that I bring with me. But I wasn't looking for approval, nor have I ever been embarrassed about who I am. There is a defiance about all of this--I'm aware I'm unlovable, but the world is missing out because loving me is an amazing experience. None of this makes sense, but the upshot of it is, no--I'm not hung up in the least in what others might think of me.

I'm also not embarrassed about the trauma. I have hidden it away for many years because I was afraid even knowing about it would hurt people I care about. The thought of my life--me-- bringing pain to loved ones is intolerable. And so I covered it up, lived in ways I thought would bring happiness to others. But the events don't embarrass me. They are what they are. If I have been embarrassed about anything it would be the fact that the trauma affected me--that I wasn't superhuman and couldn't rise above it--and that, in spite of everything, I could never make it disappear.

So what makes the act of accepting the dissociated parts of myself so terrifying? 

I have never been able to calmly accept that sometimes people hurt each other--badly. I have never been able to reconcile in my head and heart the reasons one person might harm someone small, innocent, and defenseless. Knowing those things happen causes me incredible pain. Understanding that it happened to me--not once, but many times--hurts with an indescribable intensity making it difficult to breathe. And above it all is my brain saying, "But it's over. No one hurts you like that anymore. All you have to do is say what was, embrace the parts you have put aside, and move on. It's simple really. And I think you're imagining all that "pain" crap. It's not real anymore."

But it is real. And I am afraid.

Dear New Student's Mom,

1. Your daughter will not be given new pieces unless she practices. The minimum requirement is five days, weekly. Three days in two weeks does not constitute practicing. This has nothing to do with whether or not I like her, and everything to do with optimum learning. Furthermore, if the situation has not dramatically improved in the next three weeks, I believe it will be time to discontinue lessons until you both have grown up a bit.

2. Actually, you pay about 25% less than my going rate. I gave you the rate I was charging when you were put on my waiting list two years ago. If you keep complaining and asking for discounts, however, I will be happy to remove that discount and charge you my current rate. Also, if you are able to find another piano teacher with credentials equivalent to mine who charges less than what you're paying, I think you should switch. You would definitely be getting a bargain.

3. I am your child's teacher, not her child-care provider. If she has to wait during her father's piano lesson, perhaps she could bring a book to read or some other activity which will keep her occupied for 30 minutes. No, I don't think she could just watch some television during that time. We keep the TV off while I'm teaching.

4. I don't really like you anymore, and quite frankly, I'm teaching your daughter and husband only because I feel slightly guilty that you've been on my waiting list for so long. If you plan for me to continue teaching your family members, don't push me any further. 

Wishing you and yours a lovely day.

Sincerely,

Samantha

I'm not really paranoid...

...just curious. I've been having large amounts of visitors from the Segullah blog, and I'm wondering why. So if that's you...tell me what's drawing you here? 

Thanks!

Every once in awhile...

I get a zit. I don't like it at all.

The End.

P.S. I'm glad they go away the next day.

Dear Edgy,

I love you. Thank you for writing on my wall. This morning it was just what the doctor ordered (although, I'm not really seeing a doctor, so he'll have to be imaginary--but for you, I will also make him very cute). 

Love,

Sam

Seriously! What is this all about!?

Non-malignant skin cancer runs in my family. My grandfathers had it, and my mom is currently treated for it on a regular basis. My skin type is different from theirs, but when I found a tiny discoloration beneath my eye, my mom insisted I get it checked out. So I did. This was three years ago. The discoloration was not cancer, but simply a pigmentation from sun exposure (running outside nearly every day will do that, especially at my altitude where the ozone is very thin). My doctor prescribed daily sunscreen, which I have never before worn in my life, and some sort of prescription cream. So for the past three years I've been paying about $90 annually to keep my skin intact and protected from all the sun it gets. This includes doctor visits and prescription refills. 

In December, Darrin finally talked me into being added to his health insurance plan. I've been free of tumors and had no chemo treatments for nearly fifteen years, so I'm no longer considered uninsurable. Thinking it would be prudent to use the health plan we pay for every month, I tried to fill my prescription through CVS mail order (they kept sending us letters telling us that is would save us mucho dinero). Two weeks later I still had not received  my prescription.

I went online to see what the delay might be. The order was all set to be shipped--in February of 2010. I called to see why it might take a year for my prescription to be filled. Customer Service Representative was, against all odds, a native of the USA, which meant I could understand every word she said. CVS gets points for that, for sure. She was very helpful, tried to find me an answer, and eventually called their pharmacy directly to find out why the prescription had been held up.

Pharmacy Tech did a little research and found out that there was a problem finding the tube size the doctor had ordered (problem number one), then mentioned that the cost needed to be approved by the customer (me) before shipment could be made (problem number two). However, no one had called or notified me of this (problem number three--points being rapidly lost by CVS). Pharmacy Tech then told me that the cost for one tube is $793.00 (big problem number four). I suggested that we might use the generic equivalent. Pharmacy Tech said CVS does not make substitutions for this product (problem number five). Not only that, but my insurance would not be covering any part of the cost (apparently, my plan does not cover this medication--problem number six). 

I asked to cancel the order. There was some disgruntled commentary from Pharmacy Tech, at which point I let her know I had been using local pharmacy and paying about $30 for a larger size than the one for which they wanted to charge me $793, and there was no way I would be purchasing the prescription from them at that price. The order was cancelled.

Suddenly concerned that the drug price had somehow become incredibly inflated in the past six months, I called my local hick-town pharmacy to find out. Sure enough, they can have it filled for me in the next hour and it will cost me all of $21.55. Apparently the price has actually gone down since I last purchased it. Fancy that!

I've decided it's just less expensive to be healthy and not use insurance plans. Except, apparently I'm locked into the plan for the next nine months. So, since I have to pay for the plan, and I don't really get sick ever, maybe I'll get brave and schedule a mammogram (...wondering how many flashbacks that might trigger...). Anyone want to come with me when I get one? I might need a hand to hold.