I'm Irresistable

The only problem: I'm pretty sure Faithful Alexy sent this lovely note to more than just me. Still...it's not every day one receives passionate spam.

Hi there!

Love is the master key that opens the gates of happiness. If only you knew how my heart overflows with love for you. If only you could see the way you feel my hopes and dreams. You are the owner of my heart, the ruler supreme, no matter that we still did not meet I am faithful to you already. Even in the dark night I’ve only to think about you to feel your loving light and from this world I drift feeling as if I will never touch the ground again. If only you knew. If only you could guess how I hear your voice when others speak. It is you whom my soul seeks in every face. If only you could feel how just your image has the power to heal. I am willing to give you my all and expect nothing in return xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx (web address that I'm not posting on my blog)
But oh how I yearn for you. If only you knew...

Au revoir
Alexy G.

"I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs." ~Shakespeare

Finally, I understand. I don't like it--but I get it. People are transient beings. Circumstances change--preferences change--interests change--people change. It's unfair of me to wish to freeze time, extend moments, hold onto deep feelings.

Perhaps because, as a child there were few places of safety for me--especially emotionally--it's understandable that I would wish to cling to those people who feel safe. It's not acceptable, I know that, but I do believe it's logical.

A friend once told me something which I've reiterated here more than once: "You can't choose how other people will feel." I can't dictate thoughts or feelings or actions. And while I probably would never choose to (it's not really part of who I am to try to control another person), I definitely have an idea of what I would wish for someone to feel or think about me. Therapist asked me once what those wishes were. I didn't tell him, of course. I wasn't ready to share that part of me. But his point in asking was to expose the fact that while I wish for those things, I don't really believe anyone could ever feel for me the way I would like them to--even when they do.

I think, finally, I believe Darrin has feelings for me that are lasting and deep. But that belief has only become certain in the past five years. I've spent most of my marriage preparing for the day he would find someone else. Now, finally, I believe he was never even looking. It's difficult to accept that I've always had what I wished from him, and he had no desire to take it from me.

Therapist keeps reminding me that the things we learn from parents and caregivers from the time we're born until about age seven, provide a foundation for our beliefs about human interaction and establish our standards of trust. During that time period in my life, I learned that I was intrinsically valueless, but could redeem myself slightly by performing on demand in public and in school. I learned that I should never be touched or cuddled as I watched my parents engage my siblings in physical, loving touch, but received little, myself. I learned that my home was not safe, that words can hurt as much as a physical blow, that I needed to find hiding places and be very still when my mother was angry. I learned that strangers can and do molest, and that parents cannot protect. I learned that everything about me was wrong, and no one could or should love me. Given that platform of beliefs, I think I can be forgiven for taking a very long time to learn to trust Darrin and accept his love. I'm very lucky he has understood my background and constantly tried to help me understand that he plans to stay at my side forever. Not every husband could do that.

As we've discussed the conflict I feel as I connect with friends and try to form meaningful relationships with them, Therapist reminds me that most friendships don't have the length of time, nor the frequency of interaction that my marriage with Darrin has. Nor do the people involved have the vested interest necessary to help me through the bumps and bruises of my past which keep blocking my efforts to accept their love and trust. After all, it's a friendship, not a marriage, and Therapist laughs as I quip, "Yep--and adults usually don't have any long-term interest in someone who has no desire to have sex with them." Then he agrees that is often the truth.

The problem arises from the fact that I've had sexual interest shown to me from the time I was four years old, and that interest was twisted, harmful, and unhealthy. On the other hand, I've had few opportunities to enjoy relationships which were non-sexual, and my need for that and for the innocent physical contact incorporated in such relationships, has never diminished. I don't believe any person grows out of the need to be held, on occasion, without the experience being tainted by sexual undertones. I could be wrong, but I've heard many women express such a need, and quite a few men. The difference between them and me is that they remember being held in that way as children--I don't.

This cultivates a situation which has brought me nothing but confusion and stress. When I connect with a person in a non-sexual way--and by this I mean that I feel an emotional link which feels reciprocated--it has an impact that is intensified beyond what one might normally feel. It's deeply moving for me. I am surprised when it happens for I have always believed I was incapable of bonding with people. I am also intensely aware that what I'm feeling is not similar to what the other person feels about me and about the experience. They have multitudes of bonding moments in their past--moments which have taken place with their parents, siblings, teachers, and close friends. I have no prior experience and therefore what has become common for them is unique and exquisite for me. The awareness of this imbalance makes me feel vulnerable and uncomfortable.

I am a parent. I understand the feelings parents have for their children. Mine have told me on more than one occasion that they have always been certain that I love them. They also know I think they're the most amazing beings ever to walk the earth--because they're my children. I believe every person should have someone (at least one--more would be better) who feels that way about them. I don't believe anyone has felt that about me. Perhaps Darrin did, when he first fell in love with me, I don't know. I'm not sure how this figures into the crazy equation which makes up my emotional confusion, I only know that it does.

And so I am faced with a reality. I cannot choose the feelings people have about me. I cannot force an inherently transient relationship to remain stable. I cannot infuse friendships with the depth of feeling I experience, and thus there is no balance. Therapist suggests talking about this with those closest to me, but I don't really know what such a conversation would entail, nor what it would accomplish. I would, in essence, be asking for preferential treatment based on the fact that I don't have the emotional background necessary to cope with normal friendship. That doesn't sit well with me. I'd rather be hurt and left behind a zillion times than ask someone I care about to stagnate with me. Moving on is part of growth. I'm a huge proponent of growth.

Therapist also suggests that I learn to grieve more readily, which will help the losses feel less profound. I don't even know what that means.

So I suppose I will continue watching and learning. I've experienced a great deal in the emotional arena over the past four years. I'm not sure I want to continue adding to the experiment. It makes me tired. At some point I need to just admit that I'm not good at relationships--especially close, non-sexual ones--and move on to the next curiosity in my life. The problem is, the desire to learn how to be a good friend, as well as cultivate good friendships, is not waning. I believed it would. If anything, it seems to have grown stronger. I'm hoping this is a passing fancy and not my inability to accept defeat.

If this post made no sense to you, congratulate yourself. If you're beginning to understand what I'm saying, you should be afraid. Feeling confused after reading one of my posts is a good thing--a very good thing. Oh, and the title of this post...I just thought it was funny.

"True friends stab you in the front." ~Oscar Wilde

I suppose I've always wondered, a bit, why I've spent most of my life hiding from people. But the truth is, if you do anything long enough, it begins to feel natural. Five years ago, the thought of allowing anyone into my life beyond Darrin and the kids felt intrusive and awkward. How many times can one visit or call before it becomes mundane or aggravating? I wanted no one.

Counselor One was not my favorite. In fact, within a month I knew more about her than she knew about me. I'm not sure why I continued to see her as long as I did--I believe there was an element of control in being able to guide our sessions without her being aware I was doing so. I felt, somehow, that I obviously didn't need therapy if my counselor couldn't see through me. I also believe I was terribly afraid to address the things that were hurting me, and Counselor One seemed quite happy to listen to me talk briefly about my past, then turn it to examples in her own life. She was too willing to offer sympathy about things I hadn't yet figured out. And naturally, I didn't trust her at all.

However, she made one observation that was spot on: She told me I did not know how to connect with people. People connected with me--felt immediate warmth and acceptance from me--but I did not feel that with anyone. She accused me of hiding behind charm and humor in order to avoid authentic relationships. She further stated that many times people involved in childhood abuse were never able to have lasting, emotionally honest relationships. Because I disliked her, I decided to prove that I was not one of those people so maimed by abuse, and I set out to find likely candidates with whom I could form friendships. I failed miserably.

I set up lunch dates with friends I've known for years. They were pleasant. I enjoyed them. But there was no longing for further contact, no desire to share any part of me with them. We talked and laughed, and I went home wondering why I had gone through the motions, and further wondering if Counselor One might be right about me.

A couple of months later, I realized that I was forming blog relationships online. These were unique. The people with whom I was connecting were sharing details about their lives, and also reading about my own. They seemed genuinely interested in what I wrote. A few people were corresponding with me through email, and eventually some of us decided to actually meet in person. Within six months I was in contact with several people. As I spoke with them on the phone, online, and in person, something amazing was happening to me. I was falling in love.

This was not romantic--I'm not sure I'm even capable of being romantic in the sense that others feel those feelings. This was a true, deep feeling of love--bonding. I was connecting in a very real way with people other than Darrin and my kids. It was frightening, to say the least.

As I recognized what was happening, I had two simultaneous reactions:

1. Flight--I wanted to get out of the relationships immediately. The vulnerability was beyond my ability to cope with, and more likely to increase than decrease. The people with whom I was bonding knew about me--and I was not comfortable with that. What was more, I had no idea how long they would stay around, nor what I was supposed to DO with them. The only option was to call the experiment a success, and terminate contact with those who had participated.

2. Absolute joy--I was overwhelmed by the delight I found when I was with those who were now a part of my life. I was interested in the events of their lives, and concerned about their well being. I wished to share the joy I was feeling with them, but had no idea how to do that. I wanted our association to continue forever. When I was with them--as when I was with Darrin--I felt completely me. I didn't have to hide my past. I was given tacit permission to speak of things I had previously run from. I had found something precious and meaningful--and I had no idea what to do with it.

Needless to say, such contrasting feelings brought about great conflict. I found myself alternately trying to sabotage the relationships, and planning for the day when those I loved would tire of me and I would be left alone. The rapid succession of disconnected feelings left my head swimming. Eventually, the relationships became a burden--a delightful burden--but still, burdensome.

When Therapist came onto the scene, he began to give me insight as to why the feelings were so intense and uncomfortable. And after my stay in the hospital and subsequent PTSD diagnosis, Therapist was able to help me understand more about the conflicting emotions. His ultimate advice, however, ran something like this:

Most of the relationships in this life are temporary. People get busy and friendships aren't nourished or cherished. That's okay, because really, the only relationship you need to worry about is the one you have with Darrin. It's forever.

I found myself disagreeing with Therapist--with good reason. He didn't have a crucial part of the puzzle. In spite of the fact that I trusted him more than any other counselor or psychologist I'd seen (there were five in three years), I had successfully hidden from him the fact that I was emotionally dependent on my husband, and had been for years. I didn't mention the fact that I had never taken a trip by myself, never had my own room, never made plans that didn't include Darrin. I didn't tell Therapist that I rarely went anywhere alone--not even grocery shopping. If there was a church activity and Darrin couldn't go, I wouldn't either. If I wanted to attend a play or musical event, but Darrin didn't want to, I would stay home. I buried myself in work while Darrin was gone for the day, and came alive at night when he returned home. I was, in short, pathetic.

I recognized that I had, in the past three years, become increasingly independent--to the point that I no longer felt needy. I had taken a week-long road trip, during which I visited many people, including the cousin who raped me. I had weathered Darrin's new job which required travel and training monthly. I had learned to attend church by myself when Darrin was made bishop of a student ward. I did not NEED him, as I once had, and I was learning that not having that incessant need was making my interactions with Darrin more fulfilling and joyful. I wanted to be with him as often as possible, but when that couldn't happen, I was fine. I had become a whole person.

Because of this, I felt a need to disregard Therapist's repetitive advice. My relationship with Darrin is paramount--but it was plenty close, and we worked constantly to keep it healthy. But it was also, in many ways, easy. Working on our marriage has become a way of life. We want to do it. We enjoy it. The friendship thing, however, was not effortless. It was fraught with conflict and stress. I wanted to figure out how to make it feel like second nature.

And so I threw myself into a cycle of experimentation and research. I asked incessant questions of those friends in my life. I monitored their reactions to me. I read blogs, advice columns, and joined support groups. I wanted any information that might help me reconcile the feelings I did not understand. And three years later, I had come no closer to finding what I was searching for, nor laying the conflict to rest.

Finally, last summer, I confessed. I told Therapist about my former dependence on Darrin. I talked about my insecurity in relationships, my desire to end the friendships which was countered by the depth of joy and delight I found in them. Therapist's reaction:

1. He was surprised and dismayed that he had not picked up on the emotional dependency, especially because he had met with Darrin and I together many times when I began seeing him. I reminded him that I didn't want him to know. He reminded me that it was his job to notice such things. I reminded him of the times he's told me I'm unlike any other client he's worked with. He rolled his eyes at me.

2. He apologized for spending so much time emphasizing the need for me to disregard my friendships in order to concentrate on my marriage relationship. He said he should have asked more questions so that the situation would have been more clear to him. He thanked me for finally presenting the entire picture to him, and requested that if another situation such as this arises in our therapy meetings, I might possibly not wait three years to bring it to his attention. I suggested he try to be a little more observant and ask better questions. He rolled his eyes at me.

3. He made several leading comments which have since allowed me to make some connections between my research and my experience. He offered some suggestions of questions I could ask, or things I could do which would, no doubt, alleviate my stress in relationships--but I am, at the moment, still too cowardly to carry those through. He suggested that not only was I capable of deep, long-lasting friendships, but that I always had been; I just lacked the healing which would allow me to form and enjoy them. I mentioned what Counselor One had said about how some abuse survivors were never able to do that. Therapist used to work closely with Counselor One. He tried to stop himself, but ended up rolling his eyes anyway.

In the meantime, I have watched my friendships wax and wane. A few have disappeared. Some have become simply acquaintances, once again. There are two or three which are currently in limbo, and also a few which still feel vibrant and strong. But in the midst of all this, I'm realizing something:

1. I needed those friendships. They served a purpose as I healed, explored, and grieved. They were a source of love and support when I needed it more than ever.

2. I don't need them in the same way anymore. I've learned how to heal, explore, and grieve on my own. There will still be times when I yearn for support--but if it isn't there, I will be fine.

3. It seems that some people stay only as long as they are needed--and then they move on. These "Mary Poppins" friends are invaluable in the moment, but I don't think they understand how their presence, regardless of how helpful it was in the past, is also hurtful to one like me. Knowing they will leave does nothing to help me trust. I need to learn to trust.

4. I don't know what to do next.

And so, having finished this very confused musing about my thoughts tonight, I believe I will go to bed. But one more thing--I had a dream a couple of nights ago. I was sitting next to my best friend from high school. He had his arm around me and was holding my hand. We didn't move or talk. And I felt nothing. There was safety in the moment--and that was all. I haven't spoken with him for about six months now. He contacts me occasionally, we exchange emails, we say "I love you", and then he disappears again. It's odd to me that I would have such a dream, given the fact that I really have no connection with him anymore, nor do I wish to. I'm comfortable with our level of contact.

That's all. Any dream gurus out there are welcome to share their wisdom with me. But did you happen to notice--this was a calm, non-violent, not scary dream. I've come a long way, Baby.

Everything Changes

Things are changing--finally. My brain is putting everything together; all the research, memories, and experiences--past and present. The anxiety is receding and I am left with the feeling that, in time, I will be who I am and live with each aspect of my life without feeling that I'm drowning.

My mother--as I sort through the discoveries, disappointment, and sorrows linked to my life with her, I am understanding a number of things. When I told her in July of my miscarriage, she said very little, but before I left the room where chemicals were dripping into her body, she said, very quietly, "If your baby had been able to come--it would be lucky. You're a good mom. You've always been a good mom. I was not a good mother, especially to you."

At the time I resented her taking my personal struggle and turning it into an opportunity to draw attention, albeit negative attention, to herself. I made some comment about how it's easier to parent three children than it is eight, and I left.

In retrospect, I have come to some conclusions that I will share with her someday soon. As a child there were things I wished for--things I needed emotionally--which she did not provide. There was abuse, physical and emotional. I bear the scars still. This lasted for nearly seventeen years. However, when I turned twenty, my mother made an effort to reconnect with me. She didn't have to do that. She tried to spend time with me. She invited Darrin and I to her home often, and we spent Sundays together. She invited me to shop with her, cook with her, go on short trips with her. She wanted to mend a very difficult and hurtful relationship. I did, too.

We were able to form a rather delightful friendship. While I've never felt emotionally connected to her, I've enjoyed spending time together. I've had rare moments when we've actually talked--when I've actually talked with her. We've laughed together and enjoyed one another. I'm very blessed that this was able to happen.

When DJ was born, we continued to spend time with my parents. When he turned nine months old, I was back in school, so my mom or dad would take care of him a couple of mornings each week. I sat down with my mother before she was allowed to care for him and made these requests:
1. Only touch my son if you are cuddling or holding him.

2. Do not ever spank or hit him.

3. Do not raise your voice to him. If there is misbehavior, we can discuss appropriate discipline, but for the most part, you will have him fewer than two hours at a time. Please leave discipline to me whenever possible.

To my surprise, she listened to my requests, then humbly agreed to all of them. And she kept her word, not just with DJ, but with Tabitha and Adam, as well. She has been the best grandmother they could ask for. And I've watched her learn and use parenting techniques that are positive and helpful as she's helped me care for my kids. She didn't have to do that. She could have told me to hire a babysitter. She could have said I was being disrespectful. Instead, she viewed the opportunity as yet another way to build her relationship with me, and to indicate her need for change and forgiveness.

I have watched as my mom has tried repeatedly to make good decisions with her adult children as she supports and advises them. I haven't always agreed with the things she's said and done--but a difference of opinion is a far cry from being a victim or perpetrator of abuse. And she is no longer a perpetrator of abuse.

My mother was not a good parent--when I was a child. But she is still my mother, my parent. She still plays that role in my life, to a certain extent. And she has become a better parent with each decade. Today, I can say that even though she has more than her share of human frailties (as we all do), and she can on occasion be callous or unmindful about my feelings (which happens in the best of relationships), she is a good mom. She's my mom. And while our relationship has never been, and might never be as I would wish--it's still a good relationship, and I love her.

There's so much more going on in my head and my heart--things that have nothing to do with my mother or my relationship with her--or at least are only remotely connected. But for tonight, this is enough. I'll write more later.

My son is so weird.

Me: Adam, why were you cutting up a paper plate last night?

Adam: I dunno.

Me: Why did you leave the scissors and mess there on the floor.

Adam: I dunno.

Me: I don't either--but I DO know that you're going to clean it up--NOW!

Adam: Mom, when you talk in that voice, it's pretty scary. But when you try to yell, it just disappears. It's not scary, it's funny.

Me: Clean it up, Adam.

Adam: I still think you sound funny.

Me: And while you're there, put your socks in the laundry.

Adam: I think they're DJ's socks.

Me: They're yours.

Adam: How do you know? They look like DJ's.

Me: I watched you take them off last night and leave them on the floor.

Adam: Are you watching me all the time?

Me: Yes.

Adam cleans up the scissors and paper plate mess, then pick up the socks.

Adam (muttering): I guess they are mine.

Me: How did you determine that?

Adam: They smell like peaches.

Me: Excuse me?

Adam: The socks--they smell like peaches, so I guess they're mine.

Me: I'm going to request that you don't explain that any further. I don't want to know.

Adam: Are you sure? It's very cool.

Me: I'm sure.

Adam: But I want to tell you.

Me: You're going to have to wait. I'm pretty sure I need to go take a nap, or check the color of the sky, or think about whether or not carpet makes sounds.

Adam: That's not very nice.

Me: Neither is leaving messes for your mother.

Adam: So, if I don't leave messes for awhile, you'll let me tell you why my socks smell like peaches?

Me: I guess so.

Adam: Cool.

Don't ask me why

I am cranky and defiant and aggravated. It's possible that these feelings stem from the fact that I might have stupid-swine-h1-whatever-virus. But I'm not going to the doctor. And I'm not getting tested because it's going away and I don't want to know if I have it or not. I just want it to be gone.

As a result of the resident virus (whatever it may be), I've been waking several times nightly--certain I'm about to die because I'm unable to inhale. This phenomenon departed last night, only to be replaced by stuffiness in my head which denies description. I've been coughing for days. I'm unsure what it feels like not to cough. On the bright side, I rediscovered my voice today. It sounds like I removed it from an angry chicken--but it works.

However, add to that the fact that Darrin has been out of a job for a couple of weeks and I've been working about 70 hours a week to help make up for the loss of income...perhaps I'm entitled to a bit of cranky and aggravated.

Tonight my brain is dead. But it wants to rehash all the relationship research I've been doing for the past four years. Stupid brain. It needs to let me sleep.

As for the defiance, it seems to want to stick around with a good dose of cynicism. Such a bad combination. Ugh--even I don't like my company tonight.

Good night.

Just Stuff

Still sort of hating all men...but please don't take it personally. Therapist says one of the perks of integration is that I get to process all those feelings I didn't want to years ago. Yay. And some of those feelings were directed at men. Keep in mind that I was molested by a man in a church bathroom, raped by a man as an adolescent, and abandoned by my father (not really--but that was my perception). Now that the memories are all becoming real, there have been other things that felt traumatic, but from an adult perspective, probably were not.

Therapist says this particular bout of "past" feelings will probably not just go away, but will ease off over a period of time due to consistent positive reinforcement and love shown to me by the men I care about. May I please state how very much I hate that thought? It makes me feel that I'm not in control of what I choose to feel, and that much of what I feel depends on my treatment by other people. Therapist says most people don't choose their feelings, and they are affected by other people. Most people...ugh...

In the meantime, I'm still ultra-sensitive about everything in the world. I can't stop rolling my eyes every time I feel like someone is trying to ignore or hurt me--as if anyone has that kind of time to think of things that will offend me. So incredibly stupid. I'll be glad when this passes.

Therapist told me at some point in the near future, I would probably have to find someone (female) to talk to about the miscarriage crap. I said I'd be fine, I don't need to talk to anyone. He laughed at me. Stupid Therapist. Except he's not. He's always right, which only makes me hate him more because he's also a man. And it's totally frustrating because when all this feeling crap passes, I'll have to be in love with him again. Sigh...

Add to that the fact that he was right.

My friend, Sheila came to visit, which makes me feel incredibly guilty because I've been promising to spend time with her, and she's needed it. It's been more than six months since her son was killed. I'm a terrible friend. Anyway, I explained to her that I've been tired beyond belief with the pregnancy/miscarriage, and trying to help my parents as my mom goes through chemo. She said, "Sam, why don't you ever talk about these things with me WHEN THEY'RE HAPPENING??? Now it's finished and I can't even help you. Friends help each other--and you won't let me. You always tell me about the things you've been through, not the things you're going through." I pointed out to her that she does the same thing, and we laughed. We were with another friend, and the two of them encouraged me to tell them about the miscarriage, and asked questions, and hugged me (and Sheila kissed me--a lot--it's what she does), and I felt amazing by the time they left. I actually don't feel ripped up inside anymore. I'm okay with the fact that my mom will not be a part of my healing. I no longer cry about this particular experience at odd times.

So--Therapist was right, once again. I'm lucky to have him--but right now, he is a man and I still sort of hate him. He says he's okay with that.

I had this online chat with Therapist yesterday:

me: I had a conversation about a week ago, in which something completely unrelated to rape or anything close to it, triggered a bunch of feelings from a long time ago. The only thing I can figure is that we were talking about female anatomy and I subconsciously interpreted a comment as demeaning or malicious (so weird). Anyway, all that crappy stuff about hating my body, hating men, feeling attacked--you get the picture--suddenly surfaced again. I said goodbye to the person I was talking to, and sat and cried (ugh--I HATE crying). It felt so stupid because I haven't even been bothered by this type of thing for more than a year--I haven't even really thought about it at all. And I was surprised that it's still hanging around inside of me. And the feelings don't want to leave. They will, right? This is all part of that process you keep talking about? And probably it will happen again when I least expect it?

Therapist: They'll subside at some point--probably after you've had some positive interaction and validation by the men in your life (I can see you shuddering). Remember, allowing men to treat you with love and kindness builds strong friendships and love relationships--and you need those as much as anyone else. Yes, I think it's part of the process. Yep, they could bother you again, but I bet it won't be as big of a surprise next time. Stinks, though. I know you want more than anything in the world to be past this stuff.

I wish it were in the cards.....I do believe that one day, you WILL be past it.

Just not sure when. Hopefully sooner than later, huh?!!! :-)

me: Maybe. :)
Okay--thank you.

Therapist: You're welcome. Have the best week possible. I'll keep you in my prayers.

me: I appreciate that. Wishing you a great week, as well.

Completely new subject: My oven died yesterday. In case you were wondering, it is possible to make amazingly delicious toffee bars in the microwave, as well as Layered Tortilla Bake. I do not recommend baking bread in it, however. Or cookies.

Also, jeans do not last forever no matter how much you like them. And if you wear them after they get holes, sometimes your husband says things like, "Sam, the holes are not an improvement, and do not count as air-conditioning." And he doesn't think the holes are sexy, either. Thinking about selling Darrin on E-Bay...

Sigh...

I'm not telling Darrin...

We have a tiny spider living in the crook of our bathroom wall and ceiling. I watch it when I'm getting ready in the mornings. It wiggles around, bungee jumps from a web strand, climbs back up, and starts over again. And I'm not telling Darrin because he would swat the spider and I don't want him to.

The end.

"...Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

To those of you who commented on my last post--thank you. Your words are important to me. Some have mentioned they appreciate my honesty, and while I am being honest about the things I feel, complete honesty would have me also say, my life is incredibly beautiful.

I live in a lovely place with people who know me and care about me.

Last night I took this picture:

I was lucky to snap it. The wind was blowing the clouds so quickly that in moments this particular view was gone. So much of my life is like this. Just as I become accustomed to the view (and it is always breathtaking), it changes and I must grow and adapt once again.

Today I am grateful. I have three beautiful children who alternately delight and baffle me, who are growing into strong, capable adults. I have a husband who stands beside me in every instance, and insists that he would rather be nowhere else. I have a pile of laundry waiting for me to fold, and a kitchen which should have been cleaned last night. Neither of those chores were finished because I went to see my daughter sing in a concert--the work will wait. One day she'll be grown. I want to enjoy her now.

I've been blessed with deep, meaningful friendships and joyful meetings with acquaintances who have sought me out after reading the words I have placed here. I've learned that I have the capacity to love, to suffer loss, to recover. I understand that life will never be exactly as I would wish--but I am learning to take what I have and enjoy it to the fullest.

Life changes...and so do I...but I am noticing that there are some certainties which remain. And as I begin each new challenge, that's comforting.

Please see note below:

Note: I don't want to write this but I am going to anyway. I don't like anything I have to say here--but it's been inside me for about three years now, and it's not getting better. I will be talking about uncomfortable things such as genitalia, rape, abuse, and other things which probably you won't be interested in or enlightened by. This is my blog. This is where I put things. Even, or perhaps especially, yucky things.

Last night I went to bed and cried--not gentle, ladylike weeping, but jagged sobbing I hate with all my soul. Poor Darrin had to sit quietly and watch because I wouldn't allow him to touch me for nearly twenty minutes. This happens occasionally, and has nothing to do with Darrin except that he is a man.

I do not want to be a rape victim/survivor. There are many reasons for this. Certainly, most people do not wish to be raped--at least not in the reality of rape. There are twisted fantasies which make rape a romantic tool which turns into a passionate sexual expression mutually delightful for both the rapist and the shrinking violet turned nympho. But that's not real. There is nothing romantic or mutually delightful about rape. It is an act of violence and only connected to sexual expression because it abuses those body parts used when connecting physically by those in love.

Probably it's not possible for one who has not experienced rape to understand all the nuances of residual feelings stemming from that act. One act of rape is more than any person should endure. Repeated acts are intolerable. Rape of an adult leaves a broken, frightened, angry, irrational victim in its wake. Rape of a child leaves the same, but also twists perceptions about self, human interaction, and sexuality. And I am a survivor of multiple rapes which occurred in my preteen years.

I cannot speak for all rape survivors but I have spoken for myself. I have told of the acts done to me. I have spoken of my battle to regain myself--all parts of me. I have worked without ceasing to find peace from acts of violence which might haunt me till I die. But there are things I have hidden from the world because I do not understand them--I do not know how to speak of them--and in this place, my blog, I will try to bring them to light. Perhaps if I am finally able to speak, they will ache less.

Someday I will have to talk about this with people I care about. It's a double-edged sword, because in speaking of this I will offend those I love and possibly destroy closeness; intimacy, which I have fought personal demons to foster, will diminish as those I hold dear recognize a dimension I have masked throughout the years of our developing friendships. I don't know if it's worth the cost. I only know I would rather not have more nights like the last one.

In the process of being raped night after night, a "truth" began to manifest itself in my soul. It was firmly entrenched with each abuse. I believed it with a fervency allowed only to those who are not quite twelve. That truth was this: I was filthy. I was foul; a contaminant. I was not fit for anything except to be used by the person who visited me with pain each night. It didn't help that there was verbal, emotional, and physical abuse from my mother. The fact that she did not know and would not protect me served to cement my "truth" firmly in my psyche.

Because the focus of the rapes was usually in my genital area, that became the most filthy part of me. My vagina was ugly, messy, repugnant. It deserved to be molested, injured, punished. My breasts were loathsome, repellent manifestations of the violent acts I endured. In time, my whole body became the reason I was being raped. I was certain if I had no body--but especially no vagina--I could never be hurt again and I would somehow stop being filthy. The logic makes complete sense to someone who is not quite twelve.

This led, of course, to self-harm in many forms. I hated my physical body. I felt deep shame that I possessed one at all, but also guilt that it had been used in ways that made me wish to vomit.

Eventually I grew up. My adult mind recognized that the feelings directed toward my body, especially my genitalia, were not healthy. I tried different strategies to block the feelings. The only thing that worked, eventually, was complete denial. I was not a rape victim. In fact, I had the greatest disdain for those who would put themselves in the position where a rape could occur. Silly people. They should protect themselves better.

Years later, I have finally taken on the task of therapeutic healing. It hurts sometimes, almost as much as the trauma, itself. I keep thinking I've made it through the irrational parts--that I'm getting better. Then they sneak up on me and remind me that I'm not whole. I'm a rape survivor. Some things that were taken from me can never be replaced. And the "truth" which I have worked so hard to disprove, still remains lodged deeply within.

So...what happened to reduce me to tears last night?

It was nothing profound. There was no malice intended. It was a conversation--a normal, everyday conversation with a friend. His colleague was grading a paper which included a reference to the female vagina. A statement was made in the paper which my friend (and I) thought remarkable within the scope of unfortunate ignorance. When more information about the paper was given to me, my friend made a comment--an indirect, amorphous comment which seemed to direct personal disdain and abhorrence toward that part of my body--and everything crashed.

My brain began this chain of thoughts:

1. He knows. He knows I'm filthy and disgusting.

2. He's correct. My vagina is repulsive. It should have been abused. It's right and proper that I was raped. I am disgusting because I have female genitalia.

3. I can't be his friend any more. I'll hurt him somehow--contaminate him. I need to not be with people.

4. Why do I have to be made this way? I have a good heart, but I'm loathsome.

5. I feel guilty that I ever let him hug me or touch me. That should never have happened, and should never happen again.

6. I don't want to feel this way. I don't know how to stop.

One tiny segment of one innocent conversation sent me backward a million years. I keep thinking that at some point I'll be healed enough this won't happen anymore. And when I recover from my hysteria and flashbacks and nightmares, I think I should talk to those closest to me--somehow let them know what has just happened. But then I decide that's a terrible idea. In talking about it, I'll supply ample evidence that I'm truly insane, they'll become uncomfortable talking with me ("I don't think this will trigger anything, but you never know with Samantha. She can get upset over something as innocent as grass. This is hard. I think I'll go talk to someone else."), there will be new barriers as they begin to see me as irrational and easily upset. I've worked endlessly to overcome the obstacles which keep me away from people. It makes no sense to present them with yet another one.

Darrin asked me last night, to tell him all the thoughts I was having--no matter what they were. He said not to qualify or temper them, just to say them. So I did:

1. I am never disrespectful or disdainful about male genitalia, and if anyone has a right to feel or speak in those ways about that particular male body part--I do. But I have worked for many years to overcome my feelings of fear and loathing for male genitalia because I felt that having such feelings diminished me and kept me from connecting with men on any level. Also, the penis is a part of the complete male person--and in his mind, a very important part. I want to honor and respect my friends in wholeness. I understand this is a weird way to think and I don't expect it of other people. I just wish it could be reciprocated by men who care about me. I think it would help me heal in many ways if I wasn't reminded by my gay friends that there is a part of me that makes them want to throw up.

2. I know it's unfair of me to expect people to know how I feel. But sometimes I do expect that. And then I get hurt. I try to be emotionally honest. I've let all my closest friends know about my background. I try to be cognizant of words I might say that would unintentionally hurt them, or trigger painful emotions or memories. My expectation is that they would do the same for me. It's not right for me to expect that, but I still do.

3. The truth is that my vagina is neither filthy nor repugnant. I know it's not filthy because my hygiene is impeccable. It's very small and delicate--easily hurt or harmed. It's lined with tissue, similar to that which is in the mouth, which can be torn or injured if not handled gently. It's the opening which allowed my children to be born and was torn and injured in that process. It's a beautiful part of me, and I'm not talking about the visual because honestly, I've never really looked at mine, but the beauty comes because it's part of the process which allows me to show physical love to someone. My sexuality, and all parts connected with it, is not obscene. It's a part of me and deserves to be honored and respected, not mocked or abused.

4. I have never known a vagina to rape another person. I have personal experience with being raped by a penis. And quite honestly, I don't know of a lot of people who, as they make love with their husbands, must pause for a few seconds to work through a thought process which says: Yes, I know he has a penis. Yes, I know he could rape me. No, I don't believe that he ever will.

Probably it was good for me to tell Darrin these things. I don't know. I'm left exhausted today. Naturally, my night was filled with ugly nightmares.

It's a no-win situation. No matter how I approach this dilemma, I look like an oversensitive, melodramatic ninny who continues to milk an unfortunate situation that happened so many years ago that it might never have happened at all.

But my feelings, no matter how inane, are real.

I hate this post.

There are occasions when I am grateful my normal teen emotions were interrupted by trauma.

This post is dedicated to blog readers past and present who keep urging me to "find the silver lining." Never say I don't take advice.

I don't know what it feels like to be a histrionic, hormone-driven, quixotic teen. By the time I turned thirteen I had refused to process emotions and while I sometimes felt things, they were ephemeral and bland, rarely translating into the emotions I see racing through my daughter's body nearly twenty-four hours daily. And she feels them all at once--conflicting, enormous, overwhelming feelings that leave her screaming with rage, laughing helplessly, or weeping hysterically all within the space of three minutes. I'm dumbfounded by her ability to process more emotions in an hour than I will ever feel in my entire life.

It's necessary to understand this current teen situation experienced by Tabitha before I begin my gratitude anecdote. Or perhaps it's simply necessary for me to talk about it because I do not understand. At all.

In the Samantha Stevens Mombook of Rules, homework is not optional. Not only that, but it's not acceptable to procrastinate it. DJ and Adam understand this and have tried to make sure they finish in a timely manner so that they make it to dinner on time, and also go to bed at a decent hour at night. Tabitha, on the other hand, believes two minutes is plenty of time to write a five-page paper. Nothing I say or do will convince her otherwise.

I'm willing to overlook one episode of staying up till midnight because homework didn't get finished on time. Two nights are unacceptable. Tabitha has been pushing me for the past couple of weeks. She's been up late and rising in the morning at 5:00 so that she can be beautiful in time for Seminary. She becomes unreasonable and melodramatic after one night of little sleep. Five nights in a row mean that Tabitha becomes monstrous.

We are now experiencing the monstrousness with a vengeance.

A couple of nights ago Tabitha was scrambling to finish her homework. I was playing on Facebook. I noticed she had posted a status update. Her not-boyfriend had replied. Knowing full well that I was breaking all the parent-child Facebook rules, I posted the following to her profile, "Dear Tabitha's not-boyfriend, Please do not talk to Tabitha anymore or she will never, never, NEVER finish her homework and we will all be very sad."

My monstrous daughter was scandalized. I had actually talked to one of her friends. In public. In a place where EVERYONE would notice. I was immediately relegated to the status of Evil-Mom-Lady and Tabitha refused to speak to me. Sigh...

The silent treatment continued into the next morning. I smiled and chatted with her as if nothing was wrong. She sent me pained/annoyed looks but did not break the code of silence.

After Tabitha left for Seminary, I noticed I had a Facebook friend request--from the not-boyfriend. I thought about accepting it, but decided to wait until she calmed down.

Tabitha entered the door that afternoon, all smiles. I got a hug and a kiss. Apparently I have gone from Evil-Mom-Lady to Coolest-Mom-EVER, and will I please, please, please accept the friend request from not-boyfriend? Oh, and several other friends also believe I'm cool and would like to be my friend...

So I am now friends with more adolescents than is humane. Tabitha slept last night. And did her homework on time. And made me cookies. And could we please go do something soon? Just the two of us? And maybe some of her friends???

Does anyone have any idea how long this adolescent/teen girl thing lasts? I can't keep up with the emotional changes and someday I would like friends my very own age--or at least over twenty. That would be nice. Yes. I think I would like that.

Time Wounds

It doesn't really heal, you know. Our brains just learn how to figure out and accept that what we wanted, and perhaps needed, isn't going to happen, and our souls become tired of hurting. And then one day we wake up and remember the loss without it jolting through us, reminding us of the injustice of life, causing us to ache with the wishing. But it's not because of time--it's because we learn how to give up.

I was speaking with a friend about Sully last month. I told him if I met Sully by coincidence, it wouldn't matter where I was, it wouldn't matter if he responded or not, I would hug him and ask how he was doing, tell him I missed him and I loved him--because I wouldn't be able to stop myself. Today, though, things are different. If I saw Sully I would probably smile, because that's what I do. I might say hello and chat for a moment, because I'm not a rude or unkind person and I've always loved being with Sully. And then I would walk away. A month ago this would have made me cry. Today it seems a perfectly natural progression. I learned a long time ago that the one thing you can trust about people is that when they leave emotionally, they usually don't come back.

I didn't want to get to this point. At the same time, there is relief in no longer hoping.

It took a much longer period of time for me to come to the conclusion that my mother was not available to me in the same way she is available to her other children. I suppose in some ways I'm still learning what this means. And I can't seem to stop hoping one day that will change. Probably I never will. Losing a sweet friend is somewhat different than losing a mother one never really had. In some ways my relationship with Sully was more genuinely loving than my relationship with my mother has ever been. He never hesitated to tell me he loved me countless times. I'm guessing I have a finger for every time I heard that phrase from my mom. He hugged me every time we were together. Hugs from my mother are, and always have been rare, and usually attached to some weird tragedy in my life. They weren't spontaneous or joyful--Sully's were.

Life is about loss, I suppose. We learn to live with it, cope with it, grow through it. And while I understand that concept, having experienced it on so many painful levels, I find myself clinging to what is currently a part of my life--wanting desperately for it to last--knowing it is impossible to stop time. Time. Not a healer--a wounder.

I comfort myself by talking about "some day" with people I love, desperately trying to shape Time into my ally, a senseless pursuit but an impulse I cannot seem to check. I make frequent contact, trying to intertwine the affection and friendship into impregnable bonds, knowing the futility of my self-appointed task, understanding that those alliances can be severed by one tiny, careless word, a difference of opinion, a misunderstanding which will nullify any impact previously inspired by the depth of my love. Time stretches in-between, sending poisonous, stabbing memories to draw out the hurt until one recovers enough to put a stop to the pain and continue to live.

The relationships which survive Time require mutual desire and commitment--rare commodities, indeed, in a world such as ours. Some would have me believe that the only relationships which can survive are those bound by marriage--and only fifty percent of those contracts survive Time's abuses--and blood, although the authenticity and honesty of relationships which continue only because of a blood connection is often questionable. My personal belief is that if the marriage/blood premise is true, it's because other, less well-defined relationships take work "and require relentless forgiveness," as one friend once told me. Few people wish to expend such an effort for someone who owes them nothing and will never have sex with them.

I would freeze Time and tuck it away, that I might enjoy my relationships unfettered by the knowledge that they will change, and in that shifting, some will be lost. In that moment, my heart sighs with wishing everyone I loved felt the same way, wanting them to see, as I do, a future where we remain concrete and strong, supporting each other when needed and sharing joys, as well as sorrows. And then I remember I'm not allowed to ask people to "feel" a certain way--that belongs only to them.

As I allow Sully to slip away, I am reminded of something I have known for a very long time: When a previously safe, loving friendship begins to feel unstable, the logical response is to cut one's losses and run--there are, after all, billions of other friendships not yet experienced and the loss will soon be replaced. It takes great courage to stay, to work through the instability, to build something beautiful and irreplaceable, and sometimes that building involves hurt and misunderstanding, self-sacrifice and forgiveness--all things I'm willing to experience and extend, personally, but not ask of anyone else.

And Time pulls each day from me, robbing me of the moments I wish to savor, pushing me toward the moment when loss will happen. I am not fooled by the disguise of the "healer". I see with eyes of one who knows. Time may escape me, but it will never deceive me.

"Glory is fleeting, but [therapy] is forever." ~misquoting Napolean Bonaparte

Therapist: Why do you think you want to keep talking about having a miscarriage?

me: I don't want to talk about it. You keep asking me about it.

Therapist: I'm not talking about now. I mean before now. Why do you think the impulse to talk about it keeps happening?

me: Because I'm irrational.

Therapist: You know that's not why.

me: Why do you ask me questions to which you believe you know the answers?

Therapist: Don't you do that? when you teach? or with your kids?

me: Maybe. But I'm not your student, nor your child.

Therapist: No. But sometimes it's a good way for you to talk about what's at the core of the stress you're feeling.

me: I think a better way is for you to tell me what you believe is at the core of the stress I'm feeling. And if I disagree, I'll say so.

Therapist: Sam, this isn't about me.

me (sighing): I know. I'm being difficult.

Therapist: Which usually means you have something to say, but it upsets you that it's there.

me: Maybe.

Therapist: So...may I continue asking questions?

me: You know, you're asking more questions than normal. And they all have to do with miscarrying. Will you please tell me what you want me to admit/say/recognize?

Therapist: Nope.

me: Fine. Ask away.

Therapist: What did you feel toward the baby before you miscarried.

me: Nothing.

Therapist: Are you sure?

me: Yes.

Therapist: Sam, you know what my specialty is. I work with countless couples who have tried, many times for years, to have children. Most have miscarried at least once. I have difficulty believing you felt nothing.

me: Well, it's really pointless whether or not you believe me. But just so you'll understand, I suspected I might be pregnant toward the end of May. I was fairly certain by mid-June. I knew for sure a few days after that, and about two weeks later I knew I was losing the baby. That's hardly enough time to develop a relationship with a fetus. I didn't feel any movement. There was really no connection at all--which I have felt with my previous babies. I didn't even have time to get used to the idea that I was pregnant before I knew it would be over soon. So--no connection. At all. And I understand where you're coming from when you talk about the many childless couples you've counseled, but I think that situation is completely different. They were trying to get pregnant--sometimes for years. I wasn't. They desperately wanted a baby. I don't. If you're trying to decide if I feel a loss, if I'm grieving, if this is difficult--yes, all those things are happening. But it's focused on an event, not an unborn child.

Therapist: Okay.

me: What does that mean?

Therapist: Well, typically, in the case of a mother who has lost a baby to miscarriage, there are a number to helpful strategies we use to aid in the grief process and allow healing. I'm guessing those might not work with you.

me: Let me guess:

1. Write a letter to the unborn child. Express love and loss.

2. Talk about my feelings with my husband. Allow him to grieve with me.

Therapist: Yup. That would be part of it.

me: Therapist, I'm not doing anything abstract. You know I won't buy into it. I'll just be mad you suggested it in the first place. And I do talk with Darrin. You know I do.

Therapist: So--this is where you come in. I trust you to find what will work. You're extremely creative and you usually come up with a solution that is successful for you.

me: Translation: "Sam, I don't know what to do. Do you?"

Therapist: Yes.

me: I pay you to know what to do.

Therapist: I'm only human.

me: So am I.

Therapist: I can give you a bunch of exercises to choose from, but the truth is, you're not typical.

me: What does that mean?

Therapist: When you told me about the miscarriage it was obvious you had shut down. You wouldn't even talk about it, except to say Darrin was insisting I be told and you had nothing else to say.

me: Yes. I don't think that's atypical. I'm guessing lots of people do that when something overwhelming happens.

Therapist: You're absolutely correct. But most don't return to the overwhelming part and deal with it unless they get help. And your MO for years was to ignore or forget. I assumed that you would return to that coping strategy. I'll be honest; I completely expected that by this time you would still be in denial. I never thought you'd be able to move on your own.

me: Well, I sort of did the denial thing. I wouldn't talk about it for awhile.

Therapist: But you DID talk about it. And you didn't ignore it. You let the overwhelming feelings stick around instead of insisting they leave. You spoke to some friends and family. Even when the responses you received weren't helpful or loving, you continued to allow the process to happen.

me: I'm quite certain you've never experienced a miscarriage before, so I'll just tell you--there are some things you cannot ignore.

Therapist: I do know that. But still--you've ignored things in your life that many people would argue could not be ignored.

me: True. But that was when I was a child growing to adulthood. I'm not a child anymore. I don't do that anymore.

Therapist: That's why you're atypical.

me: Because I grew up?

Therapist: Because you have amazing control over your emotions--not in the sense that you can ignore them (because many people are capable of that), but because when you want to ignore them, you have trained yourself in a very short time period to allow them to happen. That's a painful thing to do and it takes loads of self-control.

me: It seems to me that allowing something that is already happening to continue does not take self-control. You just don't interfere.

Therapist: No. When the interference, for most of your life, has been the norm, and you suddenly say, "Hey! I think I'll let myself feel. I'll stop heading to the numb place. I'll stop trying to forget. I'm not going to deny this is happening." And you're able to accomplish that goal after a lifetime of habitual denial and numbing--that's self-control. And it's rare. And it usually takes many years to break a life habit.

me: Huh. I thought I was just letting it happen because I'm so tired.

Therapist: Really? You've never been tired before and still blocked the feelings?

me: I probably have.

Therapist: You bet you have.

me: Okay. So I get a star on my chart. It still doesn't answer my questions.

Therapist: No. But I think you know the answers.

me: Probably.

Therapist: Why do you want to keep talking about the miscarriage?

me: Because the person I want to talk with is unavailable--and probably always will be.

Therapist: Who is it?

me: My mom.

Therapist: So what are you really grieving?

me: More than just a miscarriage.

Therapist: Yes. What will you do?

me: Nothing, I think, right now.

Therapist: You know that's okay, right?

me: It has to be. There's really no other option right now. Therapist, you believe, if I acknowledge the underlying stresses, even if I don't deal with them, that the PTSD will subside, yes?

Therapist: Yes.

me: Do you have any proof?

Therapist: No.

me: Okay, just checking.

"Conventional wisdom notwithstanding, there is no reason either in football or in poetry..." ~Archibald MacLeish

I was chatting with someone recently--not someone I've met in person, nor do I know anything about him, really, other than what I've been told. We were discussing something he had read in my blog and I was trying to explain in greater detail where my blog thoughts had come from. Chatting about things that are deeply meaningful is difficult for me when I'm not feeling PTSD. It's nearly impossible when the symptoms are riding high inside of me. However, he was a stranger, he didn't know this was the case, and his questions stemmed from curiosity, not from a need to incite more stress in my life.

After I had lamentably explained the background to the blog post in question, he responded, "I think you just need to get more support people."

Yup. It's as easy as that.

Sigh.

And I wasn't very nice in my response to him. It's possible that sarcasm laced each word--because, after all, you can just advertise on craigslist for support people. And they don't have to stick around very long because you can always find new ones. And everyone needs to feel that they're incapable of dealing with stress and problems unless someone helps them--or at least stands around and watches while they flounder and fail...

I need to stop chatting. Forever.

Over-sharing

Sometimes I do that. Then I have to work very hard to convince myself and the rest of the world who heard me, that I'm really not a scary, crazy person. I'm very nice, fun most of the time, and I laugh easily. Not hysterical laughter.

Therapist is dead wrong. Sharing how I feel when I feel the worst is not a good idea. It just makes everything awkward and weird--and when I'm finished talking I have a gut load of regret to carry around. I'm not sure what the solution is--but there has to be a better way.

I haven't been talking lately. Until yesterday, which probably shouldn't have happened. This week marks approximately twelve weeks since I miscarried a 12-week pregnancy. My body's still trying to figure out what happened. My brain keeps trying to make me believe it never happened at all. I alternate between dying to talk about it, and too afraid to even mention it in passing. No one mentions it to me anymore--and this is completely appropriate. I said I didn't want anyone to say anything. And it's over.

Except, it's not really. I've had uncontrollable panic attacks in the last couple of months. After some research, I've found many women experience this following a miscarriage. And I can't stop thinking about it. I want my mom to care--to ask if I'm feeling okay--to just give me a hug. She can't. She's barely able to make it to weekly chemo treatments now. Most of the time she has no idea what's going on. She's alert for only four or five hours each day.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself, just wishing things were different. Darrin is supportive but feels no sense of loss, which is to be expected. He only knew about the baby when it was no longer a possibility. And he's dealing with things of his own. And I don't think I want sympathy. Just acknowledgement, maybe, that something happened to me. I know. That's silly.

And the truth is, I'm doing well. I'm healthy and stronger every day. I'm teaching two of my very favorite classes to some delightful Seniors and Grad students. My kids are great. Darrin loves me.

I just wish, sometimes, that I could laugh--really laugh--again. I think that would feel wonderful.

Sesame Street: Mad Men

Best line EVER: "Good work, sycophants!"

Treading Water

Yesterday I bottomed out. When that happens I can't talk about it, so if you chatted with me and I didn't say anything, it's because I was a little overwhelmed, not because I didn't trust you enough to tell you what was going on.

I'm hoping this will signal an upward trend, or that the symptoms will stop altogether for awhile. Sleep didn't really happen last night, which isn't helpful, but I'll grab a nap today, if possible.

Someone asked me once what happens when my symptoms seem the worst. For a long time I thought the worst part was feeling afraid, incapable of trusting people I loved, and unable to feel worthy of love or companionship. Now I believe it's the incredible loneliness I feel even when I'm with Darrin, my kids, or other people I care about deeply. It's also the overwhelming desire to be held and comforted--in this moment, I feel about three years old. Add to the mix the intense belief that I am the only one who can--who should--be interested in, care about, or protect me. The three impulses/beliefs/desires do not compliment one another and in combination leave me feeling frustrated and confused.

Yesterday I recognized that what I'm feeling stems from the different stages of life in which I was abused or neglected. I'm not sure that the recognition is helpful, but at least I can pin the things I'm experiencing to a core source. It doesn't ease the intensity, nor the helplessness that comes in these moments, but a voice of reason is something to cling to, if nothing else.

I asked Therapist if I'm still grieving. He said yes, and I probably would experience moments of grief similar to this throughout my life because I am a compassionate, caring person who recognizes that the things a little girl went through as she grew to adulthood were abusive, heartbreaking and wrong--and I feel sorrow for her even though that little girl was me--or perhaps because I alone understand exactly how painful those experiences were. He didn't laugh when I quipped, "Sort of puts a new twist on 'feeling sorry for oneself', doesn't it?"

My story...I wanted so much to change it, to believe that my sick mind had made it all up, to come to the conclusion that none of it was real. Finally, today, I know that will not happen. The knowledge no longer makes me want to cry forever, or stop living, or kick and scream. It does, however, bring incredible sadness sometimes. I don't know, yet, what to do with those moments, and in them I am torn by the irresistible desire to find someone safe and curl up in his/her lap while I cry over days long past, and the impulse to run until the sadness goes away--no matter how long it takes. Neither option is appropriate for a grown woman, so I am left to smile and work and act as if nothing is wrong--hoping to steal a quiet moment during the day to be alone and regroup.

The reality is that the sad part of my story is finished. It reaches forward and forces me to remember it. My goal is to balance that with the recognition of who I have become--and who I will become years from now--and the knowledge of the love and protection offered by the many people who care about me today.

Yesterday I hit rock bottom. Today will be better.

Piles of Nothing

I haven't been writing much about this, mostly because it's the same old stuff.

Between the end of July and about three weeks ago I experienced few PTSD symptoms. Therapist believes it's because I was processing the physical and emotional ramifications of miscarrying. Probably he's right. All I know is that I was beginning to feel better and better...and then a very large bout of PTSD symptoms began.

Incidentally, I talked on the phone last night to a friend who is also learning to manage PTSD--but only about six months into it. When I described to him the things I feel in these times, he was astounded. He said it was as if I was describing his own feelings exactly--and he had felt like a freak for being so overwhelmed by such feelings. Needless to say, it was a relief for us both to talk about similar experiences--but also alarming for me. I don't know why.

The regular crappy feelings are happening, but there is a slight twist this time. I'm feeling a bit detached from the "overwhelmed" part. The feelings are real and intense, but I also know they will pass. I'm not running about, trying to shut down relationships or dig holes to hide in. I'm not baiting loved ones so that they'll be forced into telling me they never really loved me in the first place. I'm not making plans for my future so that I can cope with the inevitability that everyone I care about will use me and abandon me. I'm simply waiting for everything to simmer down inside, and if I'm right, and people do end up hurting me simply so they can watch the side-show (which they won't--I don't make friends with cruel people), I'll deal with it when PTSD has subsided and I'm stable once again.

The twist also involves a recognition that I have developed some unhealthy attachments, perhaps, to people and places in my online existence. A close friend talked to me about closing his blogs and eliminating his blog persona. I questioned him about that, said good night, and had a panic attack--a full-blown, shaking, crying, cannot-breath-anymore panic attack. Yup. I've truly gone insane. And the stupid part is, this still makes me cry and I have no idea how to get past it--through it--whatever--and it doesn't really matter because NONE OF THIS IS REAL!

I never cry at movies. I watch the parts that are supposed to grab your guts and twist them around, and marvel that the people around me are feeling so connected to a flat screen decorated by 3D images. But somehow, I became connected to "people" and blogs and I'm crying at the thought of losing them. Who does that???

So as I recognize the folly of what has happened to me, I'm not quite sure how to deal with it. I'm certain Therapist would say to cut everything off and go live in the real world with real people, stop the daily chat and blog interactions, and just become a person in reality--no more virtual living. But I'm not ready for that. I don't know that I ever will be. Ward Cleaver did that. I talk to him occasionally. He's no better off now and he lost a large support system when he cut himself off from the people he communicated with online. He tells me he misses me. After two years, he still misses Samantha.

Perhaps that's all part of the psychosis. We form bonds with people we've never met--might never meet--and give them undo emphasis and importance.

The friend who was talking about ending his blogging days and disappearing his blog persona made an interesting comment as we discussed it. He said he (meaning the corporeal person) is a different being than the blog persona. It made me wonder if I (meaning the corporeal person writing these words) am a different being than Samantha. I don't believe I am. I think if you met me, every word I have placed in this blog would support the real person I am. In fact, I believe in our first meeting you would recognize the person I have drawn here, warts and all. I don't know this for certain, of course, because I have never met myself after meeting me here...this is becoming very confusing...

Anyway, back to PTSD with a twist...

As always, with this round of PTSD there is a feeling that I'm somehow failing simply because I'm experiencing PTSD feelings once again. But beneath that feeling is a belief that one day I'll notice the feelings without being caught up in them. They'll be bothersome but not consuming. And eventually, if they continue to occur, they'll have become so slight I might not even notice anymore. It's a nice thing to ponder and hope for--and that's another thing--this time I feel hope.

Unfortunately, I'm also completely embarrassed about the topics of discussion I've shared with friends, the self-pity I can't seem to shake, the feeling of being stretched too thin, the belief that I'm all alone and no one can/wishes to help me. I'm not going to escape this bout of PTSD without making a complete fool of myself, as I usually do. I actually called Tolkien Boy a few days ago because I was having a panic attack about the construction going on in my bathrooms. It's not unusual for me to have panic attacks about this (stupid, stupid, stupid phobia!!!), but Darrin usually gets to hear my paranoia and insanity, so it stays in the family and no one else has to know. But Darrin wasn't able to answer his phone that particular day. I waited until I could not deal with the panic any longer, then texted Tolkien Boy to see if I could talk with him. And he was very sweet and listened to me rant for as long as he could.

Upside: I called someone.

Downside: Now he knows exactly how unbalanced I am...panicking about remodeling does not figure highly on the mentally stable scale.

Okay--I'm done. I need to go run this morning. When I get home, I'll think about everything discussed here and try to put it into some semblance of order. Until then, it will just have to stay all jumbled up.

"This isn't your grandfather's post office." ~John Payne

Of late I have been baffled at the intricate workings of the U.S. Postal Service. I'm not talking about the way each employee dresses in military-esque clothing, nor about the way they show their arguably white teeth in what is supposedly a smile. This has nothing to do with the miracle of putting one's package of goodies on a counter in Milwaukee and having it end up in Timbuktu in a matter of days. No. I'm talking about the fiscal adventure of mailing packages.

One expects there will be a fee. Certainly, if the package is going to disappear from sight and magically reappear in the hands of the intended recipient, money must somehow be involved. It's the American Way.

Last Tuesday I mailed a package. Cautiously I approached the overly-friendly counter postman. When I laid my offering on his scale he asked me if I was a terrorist sending a bomb somewhere--not precisely in those terms, but that was what it amounted to. I looked at him, baffled. Did he really believe a bomb-sending-terrorist would say, "Yes, sir. It's a bomb accompanied by several hazardous, explosive liquids. I'm sending it to my 80-year-old grandmother who works at the Pentagon so that she can attach it to her back and become a suicide bomber. That jihad stuff...you know...and she can get her forty virgins, or whatever...because she's finally become comfortable with coming out but she's sort of old, so she figures that's the only way she can find a partner...pretty ingenious, if you ask me..."

I admitted to the can of coconut milk but not to the two jars of jelly in the package. After all, one should always be allowed a bit of privacy, especially when jelly is involved. The counter postman gave me what I assume he believes is his warm, trust-me smile but which actually amounts to exposing more of his yellowish teeth behind thinning lips and has no warmth to it whatever, and quoted me the rate required to make the package disappear. Then he asked if I wished to buy insurance. I blinked at him. Insurance? Do you mean to say that you charge me an exorbitant amount, then extort more money from me just to assure the package will actually arrive? The smile became yellower and thinner. It's just that the USPS cannot be held accountable for breakage or non-arrival. Insurance will reimburse me after 250 years of whining, complaining, and trying to prove that I sent a package in the first place, and it's such a nominal fee, it's certainly worth it in the long run.

Sighing, I left my package on the scale and went to the wall filled with expensive add-ons sold to all but the most courageous, reckless senders of mail. I grabbed a likely looking green label, filled it out and returned to the rapaciously smiling postman. As he took the label and affixed it to my package, I asked if I'd be able to track the package to its destination. He murmured something about being able to check when it arrived, quoted me the new and improved extortion price, and asked if I needed stamps or other mailing paraphernalia. I declined the offer, paid the amount asked, took my receipt and left the building, muttering.

Friday, I decided to see where my package had disappeared to. I checked my receipt, only to find I had not selected mailing insurance, but had instead bought delivery confirmation. I called the post office and asked what I would get for my purchase. I was told that I could check online to see when the package was delivered. I asked what would happen if the delivery was made to a person other than the addressee--and then never given to its intended recipient. With a near-audible shrug, the post office person told me that wasn't his concern. I had only purchased assurance that delivery would happen, not that it would be given to the person on the address label. I asked the post office person if that wasn't exactly what my postage money paid for in the first place? Delivery to a destination written on a label? Yes, he answered, but they couldn't confirm that happened unless I paid for delivery confirmation. Of course, had I purchased insurance, that includes delivery confirmation, in a way...

I looked online. The package had supposedly arrived the day before. Now I started to panic--which was not unfounded as I've sent a package to this same address on a previous occasion and my friend did not ever receive it. Obviously, I used to be one of those reckless mailers who actually believed whatever was sent would arrive where it was intended. I'm much older and wiser now. I emailed my friend, asking him to let me know if he had received the package. He was busy and I got no reply.

Yesterday, I was fairly certain the package had been delivered to someone other than my friend, and I was frustrated. I caught my friend online, finally, and asked if he'd received it.

me: I have to ask again because my record in sending packages to you has a large black mark in the form of a package that was lost last year--did you get the package I sent this week?

Friend: Yes, I did. I was just about to thank you for it. But now it's awkward. So I'll just say...um...felicitations....

Sigh...

If I seem ungracious, and say things causing discomfort, I blame the post office mafia. Still, if I brave the machine in order to send you a package with coconut milk and a jar of jelly, I believe I'm entitled to a bit of ungraciousness, and perhaps might be forgiven for a smidgen of uncomfortable.

Sometimes I just want to know.

I want to know your favorite color. Not just the basic name, but the shade and intensity. For instance, yellow might appeal to you, but a pale, lemon yellow--not a bright sunshine, or a neon yellow. So--please tell me your color and describe it as accurately as possible. And if you have more than one favorite, please feel free to describe multiple colors.

Yes, I'm collecting information again. It's what I do.

How many Congressmen does it take to...

I'm thinking DJ, Darrin and I should hire out our bat-catch-and-release service. How much do you think we could charge the U.S. Congress?



BREAKING NEWS: BAT LOOSE IN CONGRESS

I am just not good at this

I have an infrequent blog visitor, who likes to make threats and say unnecessarily rude things in my comments boxes. Because of this slight annoyance, I enabled my comment moderation function. But I keep clicking the wrong boxes and losing comments, or forgetting to approve them altogether. It's a small thing, but it's making me nuts. So for anyone who happens to actually visit my blog, who is not the ill-mannered person with the potty mouth, I'm disabling comment moderation. And if you happen to run across a comment from the aforementioned person before I have a chance to delete it--feel free to let me know so I can disappear the comment.

That's all. Thank you.

Phantasaliberaphorism

I stayed up too late last night. When I finally crawled into bed, three hours remained before my morning would begin. I closed my eyes, blocked out Darrin's raucous snores and drifted into an incredibly lively dream world--only to be jolted wide-awake one hour later. Hail is noisier than Darrin's snores.

The long-winded hailstorm stole another hour of sleep and I dozed until my alarm scared the crap out of me at 5:00 a.m. Wearily I got ready, chauffeured Adam and Tabitha to seminary, drove through lightly falling snow to the deserted grocery store (my preferred shopping time), picked up necessary edibles (which means half the store because I have teenagers), and went to my 7:00 meeting.

At this point I must confess that I have no recollection of the business transacted at said meeting. I'm hoping nothing was assigned to me. I'm fairly certain I made up at least twelve four-syllable words, used them with alacrity, and glared disparagingly at anyone who looked the least bit confused by my speech. I'm hoping none of the imaginary words rolled easily off the tongue. I have one colleague who uses such words simply because he likes to say them, but never has any idea if his usage is correct, nor does he seem to care. And I'd prefer to have my fanciful solecism forgotten forthwith.

I believe I attended and participated in (at least in the corporeal sense) two or three rehearsals and lunch meeting. All recollection of these events is spotty, at best. I returned home, spent one hour playing Solitaire (yup, got lots of work done in that hour), then taught piano lessons for the remainder of the evening. Naturally, the lessons went well, as I am an amazing teacher and can mesmerize any student with my prowess, even if I catnap during the lessons--which I did not.

In spite of the zombie-esque feeling which led me through this day, somewhere between lessons and 6:00 p.m., I made delicious chicken noodle soup with hot bread for dinner. It is immaterial whether I remember making it or not. Clearly, cooking is something which requires no conscious thought. Also, a rather lovely chocolate cake appeared later. I remember telling Tolkien Boy I was making one. I do not recall actually making it. Regardless, it tasted very nice.

The obnoxious plethora of imaginary but most creative words, followed me throughout the day. It's a mercy that tomorrow I will remember none of them, and should anyone remind me, I will simply fix that person with my haughty, super-heroine I-can't-believe-you-would-even-consider-such-trumpery gaze, and the accusation will be immediately forgotten. And if that doesn't work, I plan to look confused and be a little embarrassed for the person who is so obviously mistaken in their memory of our conversation.

In the meantime, if I said the word phenolanolin in a previous conversation with you--don't look it up. It's not a word. It means nothing. And it's definitely not the chemical in turkey which makes you feel sleepy, nor is it a hormone produced by the thyroid which regulates growth.

And now I believe I will go get a drink of water.

Dear Contractors working on my bathrooms,

I do not like the untimeliness of your arrivals. If you say you will come at 8:50 a.m., I expect you to be here at 8:50 a.m. If you come later, I am tardy for my rehearsals--not good. If you come earlier, it is likely someone will be in the shower or frantically trying to get ready for work--not good.

I do not like the incessant mess you leave behind. I understand you are deconstructing and reconstructing my bathrooms, but I see no reason for there to be construction mess in my living room, bedroom and kitchen.

I do not like it when you leave your Mountain Dew bottles on the back of my one surviving toilet, and on the floor of the upstairs bathroom. You brought a HUGE trash can with you. Surely you can put your bottles in that.

I do not like the way your power tools make a very loud noise, followed by moments of complete silence, followed by muffled maniac giggling. It makes me very nervous and I would like you to stop that.

All this, however, I will continue to endure without complaint if you will please, please, please, turn off the country music. Seriously. Three weeks of it has nearly driven me mad. It's time to listen to something else, my friends.

Love,

Sam

P.S. If you do not honor my request, I will be forced to start practicing while you are here--and I can practice for hours...I'm not kidding...

Thoughts I have while contractors work on my bathrooms...

According to my profile, I began blogging in March 2006. That's a long time ago.

Three and a half years later, I suppose I have accomplished most of what I set out to do, although not in the way I desired, which is to be expected since what I wanted was impossible.

Today I am different.

-I'm not as strong as I used to be--but I've been using that strength almost non-stop for the past three years.

-I'm not as stubborn as I used to be--but that tends to happen when you are repeatedly wrong about nearly everything you encounter.

-I'm not as funny as I used to be--probably because humor was one of my strongest walls to keep people distanced from me, and part of what I've been working on is allowing them to be in my life and to truly know me.

-I'm not as focused as I used to be--which could simply be a side effect of working without breaks for three years.

-I'm not as logical as I used to be--years of not crying are beginning to tell on me as I make up for lost time, crying for no reason at all and cursing my lack of common sense.

I'm more certain than ever that I don't really know anything at all, and sometimes I wonder who have become. I no longer make plans when it comes to my life. I'd like to say it's because I'm ready to just take what comes and live life to the fullest, but mostly it's because I'm too tired to plan, and they never seem to turn out as I'd like, anyway.

My quest to learn about people and relationships has left me with more questions than those with which I began, and as time passes I find myself becoming less certain in my friendships--knowing that the longer they last, the more painful they'll be if they end. And I'm not saying I expect everyone in my life to leave (at least I think I don't believe that anymore), but I just know if we've been friends a long time, and they decide we shouldn't be friends anymore, I'm not going to be doing a happy dance about it.

When I began my friendship experiment, this was what I envisioned:

1. Connect with several women about my age.

2. Find two or three with whom I clicked--people I love to talk to and laugh with.

3. Go on lunch dates and walks and maybe even shopping.

4. Make sure I share things about myself.

5. Stay in regular contact (meaning, do something at least once or twice in a three-week period) for more than a year.

Clearly, the end result was different from the vision.

To begin with, although I made contact with several women who live near me, only one remained in contact with me. And to my credit, I did complete each item on the list for at least a year. In the following year, we were both travelling a lot and we didn't contact each other as often, but we still touch bases with each other. And we still go walking two or three times a week when we're both home. So--not a complete failure.

What I did not envision was connecting with men. I want to say more about that, but really, there's nothing left to say. I never considered the possibility--so when it happened, I was not sure what to think. Sometimes, that feeling still comes.

So I made friendships with men (mostly with single, gay men), and learned mountains of knowledge about how people interact. And many of those men have left my life--some have left permanently. But a few remain and I still don't really know what to think about it.

And while I was navigating friendships with men, other women came into my life and allowed me to interact with them, again, not in the way I expected, but in more creative, beautiful ways, often because we were separated by long distances.

Here is the thing I learned which surprised me the most. Sometimes it's okay for me to talk to a friend, even if I just talked with them the day before--and sometimes I can even talk with them twice a day and it doesn't bother them. I'm not always intruding, or stealing time they need to spend with someone else. I'm not being a problem. In fact, sometimes they like it when I chat, or call, or spend time with them. And often, they call me or instigate a chat or a visit themselves. I don't always have to be careful not to overstay my welcome. It sort of makes my brain hurt to think about myself and my role in the lives of others, without tainting those thoughts with the belief that I must not bother anyone--and in fact, sometimes they want me to bother them.

Ambrosia made the idea that it's okay for me to visit sometimes, a reality recently. I needed to start my long drive home, but I hadn't slept well the night before, and I was exhausted. I was still recovering from post-miscarriage/post-natal fatigue and I was worried that I wouldn't be able to make the drive. I'd promised to stop and see Ambrosia because I wanted to meet the newest member of her family, but I was so tired. I don't like visiting people when all I want, really, is an hour of sleep. But I visited anyway.

I don't really remember what happened after I got there. I know Ambrosia's grandparents stopped by. I know I got to hold a very cute baby. I hope I said nothing stupid, but I have a feeling I probably did. Finally, I asked Ambrosia if she would mind if I took a short nap before I drove home. She let me sleep on her incredibly comfortable guest bed, and when I woke, she didn't act unhappy that I'd been sleeping instead of visiting. It's probably something everyone would do for a friend--but not something I've thought could be extended to me. How about that, I've spent my life opting out of basic kindness. Weird.

This is one of those rambling posts in which I draw no real conclusions. I simply wander through the thoughts in my head, hoping at some point I'll find clarity. The truth, though, is that with few exceptions, every person who has wished to be a part of my life in the past three years, has treated me kindness and respect. And they've never acted as though having me in their lives was burdensome--in fact, they seem to be as happy to spend time with me as I am to spend time with them.

So, armed with the information gathered in my great experiment, I must rethink much of my ideas about me--about how I fit with other people--about my importance in their lives. Because I think, maybe, I do have some importance. And I'm not sure exactly what that means, but I think my idea that if I disappear no one will really notice, might be wrong. I'm starting to think more than one person actually would notice. And I think it's possible they might even miss me a little.

It's an odd thought that doesn't quite fit in my head yet. I'll work on that.

Moving on

So, the "mad" is fading. Guess I just needed to whine about it. However, when I'm truly calm, I will address it with the involved parties. Not because I want to make them miserable or feel guilty, but because I will be establishing boundaries.

Boundary 1: I will not discuss financial matters involving my Father-in-law's resources with anyone except him. And I will make that clear any time the conversation with someone else even hints that it might swing that direction.

Boundary 2: You are always welcome to visit me. I expect you to have good manners and make me glad you came. Should a complaint-fest begin, I will show you the door. You may come back when you're ready to behave yourself.

Boundary 3: You may not treat my children like pets. They have been raised to become responsible adults. They are accustomed to being treated with respect, having their opinions heard and never belittled, and will extend those same behaviors and responses to other people. They do not exist to babysit or entertain the children you are tired of. Their expectation is that they will be treated as intelligent, interesting teens, and that you will behave as an enlightened parent/adult. (This has reference to Darrin's sisters treatment of Tabitha and Adam and I've not supplied the details, but I'm guessing one can surmise what happened, based on the boundary statement)

Darrin once told me no one ever argues with me, which is not true because Tolkien Boy does it all the time. However, people of lesser intelligence than Tolkien Boy (who would include Darrin's siblings because during the pre-earth life, I'm certain they opted to let Darrin have all the logic, sanity, and brain power in the family) usually do not. I'm banking on that. Should they choose to argue, I'll simply remind them that we live far enough away that we don't have to agree and/or associate with one another. I'll also let them know that I'm finished quietly accepting insults and insinuations which are unkind and untrue.

We'll see what happens. My guess is they'll whine that I'm making a big deal out of nothing for about six months, and then let it go. I also think it won't happen again--at least not to my face. They'll probably talk behind my back for the next decade, but as long as I don't have to deal with it, I'm okay with that.

Update: Just spoke with my Father-in-law, who was apologetic and very sad that I was hurt. He asked me to let him talk with his daughter and allow her the opportunity to apologize for the misunderstanding--which I will do. However, I also made the boundary statements clear to him (even though he's not necessarily trespassed them) and requested that from now on, any communications about gifts and/or his money come directly from him and not through his dauther. He agreed. He also told me he loves me and was glad I called to talk to him.

Sigh...if I wasn't so stubborn I might feel silly about getting so upset.

I'm very, very, very, very, very upset...and I'm pissed off, too.

This has been hanging around for more than a year and has yet to wane, which is highly unusual for me. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I find anger exhausting and unpleasant, and if you offend me (which is difficult to do), I usually look for a reason why you might act in such a way. I'm willing to shoulder any blame belonging to me, and I try to come to a mutual understanding so we can continue to enjoy each other's company and be friends. That's just the way it is.

But...

Last year when DJ graduated, Darrin's eldest sister decided she would visit. Darrin's aunt, who is a very close friend of mine was planning to come out from the East coast and had called to ask me to book a hotel near our home, which I was happy to do. I said nothing, a couple of days later, when Darrin's sister called to let me know she had already booked the hotel and that she would be coming with her daughter and son. We haven't seen them for a couple of years and I thought the visit would be nice. Somehow, in all the back and forth conversations, it became known that Darrin's aunt was footing the bill for flights and hotel accommodations. That's none of my business, so I made no comment and asked the family person gossiping about it to us to please let that topic remain between Darrin's aunt and sister.

The visit turned out to be miserable. Nothing was good enough for Darrin's sister. She complained about the flight, the hotel, our home, the food, and incessantly talked about how bored she and her children were (which was untrue--her kids were absolute gems and enjoyed themselves the entire time, playing with Tabitha and Adam and entertaining my three young nephews). I was unhappy with her rudeness, but the straw came when Darrin's aunt asked me to accompany her to the grocery store. We left together, glad to take thirty minutes of friend-time. Darrin's sister was very angry. She told my husband that the only reason I wished to spend time with their aunt was because I was trying to get the aunt to buy food for us.

Yup...you heard correctly. I must take a moment to ask all people who possibly read my blog, who have met me and spent time with me, to please cast their minds back on all the times I've tried to take them to the grocery store, that I might extort food from them, as it seems to be a well-known habit of mine, at least in the mind of Darrin's sister. When I heard her words, I was livid.

Darrin and I have been married a very long time. In that time period we have watched his siblings ask parents and Aunt/Uncle for money. Darrin and I never have. Not even while paying for three very expensive, premature babies. Nor when I became uninsured and had to foot the bill for chemotherapy out of my own pocket. We didn't ask when Darrin was unemployed for nearly a year. We have never asked.

Under normal conditions I would have cornered my sister-in-law and asked what she had up her rear to make her so insufferably rude. But it was DJ's graduation and he would have been deeply upset if I made a scene, so I didn't. But I did let Darrin know she is not welcome to come visit again. That edict has yet to be lifted.

All this happened more than a year ago. I'm still aggravated. But to add to my aggravation, in December, Darrin's other sister gave me a call. My Father-in-law visited all his children about three years ago with the intent of buying a home with them so he could be cared for until he dies (he suffered a stroke about five years ago). We told him he was welcome to live with us, but suggested he have private quarters so that he wouldn't be bothered when I teach piano lessons. He chose instead to live with Darrin's second-oldest sister.

When they purchased their home, Father-in-law made certain to talk with me and let me know the home belonged to him, not to his daughter, and at his death the home would be sold and all proceeds put into his estate to be divided among his four children. I looked at him and said, "Why? Second-sister-in-law and husband are unemployed and deeply in debt. If you sell the home they'll have nowhere to live. We have no interest in your money. Please--give it all to them. We don't want it."

In spite of my delightful speech, about two weeks before Christmas, Second-sister-in-law called me. This was the conversation:

SSIL: I just wanted you to know that for Christmas this year, Daddy is giving you games.
me: Okay. Maybe next year you can NOT tell us and we can be surprised.
SSIL: No, you don't understand. He's giving you games.
me: Yes. That's what you said the first time.
SSIL: No. He's not sending a check. You're getting games.

At that point, I nearly hung up on her. Instead, I rather curtly thanked her for calling and suggested we talk another time (when I wouldn't say very mean things to her or call her unfortunate names). She made certain I understood there would be no money this year from Daddy, and hung up. And we got games for Christmas.

Here are my problems with this:
1. We have never expected anything for Christmas/birthdays/any-other-gift-giving-holiday from Father-in-law. He is unpredictable at best; unreliable at worst. One year I got a card for my birthday, but Darrin's birthday was completely forgotten by his father. Another year FIL gave us a check for $700 and said, "That's for all the birthdays and Christmases I've missed." Darrin told me to take it and shut up or I'd offend his dad. Otherwise the check would have been torn up and thrown back at the man.
2. Christmas never has been, for us, about gifts. We spend tons of time with family and friends. We make yummy treats and share them. We sing. We call people we love. It's a beautiful time. To have Second-sister-in-law insinuate that I would even care about the gift-giving habits of her father is insulting, to say the least.
3. Bottom line: it is inappropriate for my sister-in-law to bear messages to me about her father's money. End of story.

So I talked with Darrin about it and told him I was upset with his sister. He suggested I let things ride and enjoy Christmas with friends and family--which I did. I even visited Father-in-law and Second-sister-in-law and said nothing about the incident.

And today...

Well, I saw them again over the weekend. And I'm still feeling malice. Lots of it. There is a very good chance I'm going to have to address this, and soon.

At this point, everyone reading this should give a sigh of relief that they're not the party to whom I will be speaking. It is not going to be pretty.

The End.

Sigh...

Okay, my post about anonymity in the blog world generated a response I was not expecting. Since that time, a few more people have let me know that they've stalked and found me, which is fine. I, myself, have been known to participate in the pastime. In fact, I'm actually very good at it when I'm interested enough, which I haven't been recently. So in the interest of being completely clear, believe it's time to publish some guidelines about Blog-Stalking etiquette. If one follows the guidelines, the bloggers you find might think you're nice and friendly, rather than sort of creepy:

1. Keep the information you uncover to yourself. Chances are, people have good reason for blogging anonymously, and those reasons deserve respect. Sharing information an anonymous blogger has not revealed about himself with any other person is just creepy.

2. Make sure your reasons for searching for information are clear--both to you and to the people you're researching, should you choose to let them know you're stalking them. And understand that some people might think you're creepy regardless of your reasons.

3. Should you choose to contact the person once you've pinpointed an identity, it's only fair to disclose your own. If you choose to remain behind your own blognym, there is nothing you can to do reduce the threatening tone of your disclosure, and you can count on the fact that your motives will be questioned. Any "friendly" search revealed to an anonymous blogger, which is not followed up by allowing the searchee to know the blog-stalker's identity will be perceived as creepy. In short, if you plan to find out more about an anonymous blogger, without revealing equivalent knowledge about yourself...well...yeah...that's just creepy.

Any questions?

I have always wanted to have a neighbor--just like you!

Yesterday I cried. A lot. For no reason.

My suspicion is that my body is still adjusting after nearly four months of pregnancy, my emotions are still a bit skewed from losing a baby at July's end, and nearly losing a son last week. I've also been experiencing more panic symptoms than normal--mostly light-headedness, which I've disregarded, knowing it will pass...except yesterday I really did black out for a few seconds while teaching a piano lesson. One moment I was standing up, pointing out something in the music, the next moment I found myself on the floor. Fortunately it was Adam's lesson. I think I'd be more distressed if I had to explain why I passed out to someone outside my family.

So in spite of a general feeling of well-being and strength, there are still little things floating around, reminding me that I've had a bit of a stressful year and I still need to work through "stuff".

The crying had me worried. I've experienced random crying in the past couple of years, but this did not want to go away. I emailed Therapist, probably just to get some reassurance. His response:

"That's how deeply psychological things are dealt with - EVENTUALLY. Some can be dealt with immediately, some take weeks to process, some are dealt with in spurts and then find closure. I believe you had healthy defenses block so much stuff out because you were 'handling' other issues, that you're now finding some of the 'left-overs.' I think it's a signal that 1) you are truly in a much healthier, stable phase of your life right now, and 2) you are finding that those traumatic issues didn't really just go away - they sort of 'waited around until you were ready.' The key is to accept the feeling, allow yourself to deal with what comes up, and be grateful for the stability you've earned.

:-) I'm impressed by your innate sense of knowing what's happening. Once again, you're right on it."

So apparently, now that I've gone through all the weird stuff, I get to learn how to deal with life as everyone else does. I suppose that's what I wanted in the first place, once I got past trying to be magic and change everything about me.

In moments like yesterday, I find myself missing people--and along with that feeling, also very certain that I must not bother anyone. Naturally, the conflicting thoughts and emotions which result only serve to intensify the stupid crying thing. But maybe everyone goes through this. Maybe I'm finally learning that I've had a lot of personal issues to work on, but perhaps that's a natural human condition. I don't know...there is so much that I don't know.

Today the emotions are quieter--but still lurking. I have to finish prepping for my classes, and then we're leaving for a family trip this weekend. We'll see one of my sisters, and some of Darrin's family. I'm also trying to meet up with friends. I think the break will be good for me.

In true Samantha style, I will belabor this point: I think part of this has to do with my birthday. I'm still not used to celebrating my life--nor understanding completely why others might wish to do so, as well. I think this concept feels emotionally charged because part of me believes I really am worth knowing, but another part of me still balks at accepting love from others. So in celebrating ME, I experience emotions I don't quite know how to process.

A friend called me on my birthday and I talked for a very long time. This is not unusual for me if I'm speaking with someone I deem "safe" and I feel a need to talk, but the motive for talking so long this time was simply because I wanted to talk on my birthday. I'm not sure why that felt different from other conversations, but it did. And it left me with a bit of fall-out...I still feel a huge spectrum of emotion:
Joy--because I love the person who called.
Delight--because there were some wonderful parts of the conversation, as there always are.
Guilt--because I know I talked far too much, and far too long.
Sadness--because I miss that person and rarely have the luxury of an in-person visit.
Longing--to give and receive a hug.
And in the midst of it all is an odd sense that everything in my life is somehow ending--that relationships are waning and soon I will have worked through all I set out to do and will recede into the background once again, because I really don't have anything to say. I'm sure I'll still talk, though. And Darrin, as always, will listen.

Perhaps the melancholy that has settled will go away soon. It does seem secondary to the feeling that my life is swinging into balance once again, and only bothers me when I look at it closely. I did that yesterday, and I spent some time with it this morning. Now, I believe it is time for me to enjoy this glorious day and spend time with people I love.

Oh yeah--the title--just a Mr. Roger's song, stuck in my head today.

I always seem to forget to renew my driver's license until it expires.

Which means, of course, that I get every bit of worth out of that necessary item. It also means, usually, that there is one day every four years that I can't legally drive.

I called my dad and asked him to take me to the DMV yesterday. While we were driving we had this conversation:

Dad: I didn't call you on your birthday.

Me: Nope.

Dad: Well, we were out of town. I took you to lunch though, before we left.

Me: Dad, that was a business lunch.

Dad (laughing): True, but still--free lunch.

Me: Thank you.

Dad (still laughing): I'm wondering if I should feel guilty that I can't remember your birthday.

Me (not laughing): I think you should.

Dad: Why?

Me: Well, the message I receive when you don't remember is that my entrance into your life is not worth celebrating. Is that the message you're sending?

Dad: No, of course not. Now I do feel guilty. Have you felt that every year?

Me: For a few moments, yes. Then I go celebrate anyway.

Dad: You don't usually invite us.

Me: Yes, I do. Every year. And you come. And I make you a very yummy dessert.

Dad: I need to start remembering, don't I?

Me: Yes. I'll bet, if you want to remember, Mom will put some reminders on your computer. Then you'll see them when you're at work. It's fun to get a birthday email and that doesn't take very long.

Dad: I'm sorry about the Kindergarten thing. Your teacher was sort of stupid for putting you in time out when you had your birthday right, and I told her the wrong one.

Me: It was a long time ago.

Dad: Thanks for letting me take you to get your driver's license today. It makes me feel a little less guilty about not remembering your birthday.

Me: I appreciate it. And I'm glad you remembered late. It's better than not at all.

He won't remember. I know this. But it's nice to know he's thinking about it. It's a step in the right direction.

“Most of us can remember a time when a birthday - especially if it was one's own - brightened the world as if a second sun had risen.” ~Robert Lynd

I was born on this day.

I've blogged about how my birthday was mostly forgotten as I grew up--then remembered when my sister's rolled around, five days later. When I married Darrin, his family always made a fuss of me with phone calls and cards and gifts. It was a difficult thing for me to navigate that kind of attention, but also kind of nice to be remembered. And after all these years, they still remember me. Birthdays are--my birthday is--important to them.

Still, I wanted my day to be important to my parents. Therapist told me I would have to talk with them about it. Difficult though it was, I did. To her credit, my mom has been trying to remember. I don't believe she ever forgot on purpose. Last year she made sure she bought me a card and stopped by to wish me a happy birthday. My dad just looks bewildered about why I'm making such a big deal out of it.

But it is a big deal. I prefer to believe that my presence on this earth has brought joy to more than one life. Because I was born, three other amazing beings have joined me here--and I think the world is much better with D.J., Adam, and Tabitha in it. I like to think some people's lives are better because I'm a small part of those lives. And I'm quite certain that no one makes the sunrise/sunset, flowers, crawly critters, birds, grass, sky, clouds, and other amazing things in my surroundings, feel half as appreciated as I do. Also, I have a lovely giggle and I do a killer cartwheel, so it's a very good thing that I was born.

Three years ago, I decided to let people know about my birthday, just to see how I would feel if people acknowledged it. And it was nice--but it was also uncomfortable. I didn't like it. So I went back to quietly celebrating on my own for the next two anniversaries, but in the back of my mind I kept thinking how unhappy I would be if people I cared about didn't allow me to celebrate their special days. I decided I would work on some self-esteem issues with Therapist, and one day I would have a strong enough sense of self that I would be able to declare September 6th as my day, and invite people to be happy with me. That day is today.

Today I celebrate the happy fact that Samantha Stevens was born: six pounds, lots of thick, dark hair, destined to become someone very special. Don't forget to think of me today--and send good wishes. You know I would do the same for you.

Anonymity

Two people have emailed me in the past month to let me know they've identified me. I haven't responded to their emails, because, quite frankly, I don't really have anything to say. I'm not really hiding here. I began using a blognym because when I started blogging a few years ago, I wanted people to know what had happened to me--but I didn't want anyone to know that I was the victim/survivor. That time has passed.

I continue with the blognym for a few reasons:
1. Some members of my family are unaware of my orientation. If I'm ever comfortable with them knowing, I'd like to tell them in person--not have them accidentally stumble across it on the internet.
2. There are still people in my life with whom I'm not willing to discuss the details of the abuse and rape I have experienced.
3. I would prefer to have some control about when and where my sexuality is discussed. It's appropriate here, on my blog. I would prefer that it not be used against my children by a school bully, or a bigoted teacher or administrator. I understand that such a thing might never happen, that everyone in their schools including students, teachers, and administrators might be open and accepting. I also know that the opposite might be true. I am not a gambler when it comes to my children.
4. While I'm not hiding (if people ask me questions, I answer them honestly), I'm also not advertising. My private life is not something I want on a billboard. Do I discuss it here? Yes--but this is MY blog. And I don't discuss things here that might be uncomfortable for people I care about, nor do I disclose private information about other people which might be traceable.

In short, I don't really care if people who read my blog find out who I am in reality. But there are plenty of people who know me in reality, with whom I would feel uncomfortable if I knew they were reading my blog. Unless I invite them, or mention my blog to them, I probably would like them to stay away. And so I continue to blog in this place, anonymously. I do have other blogs which are written under my real name. Those blogs don't discuss topics deeply personal, nor do they contain personal information which might not be suitable for anyone in my life to know.

So--if you find me, I'm glad if you let me know, but that's about the extent of it. I've made no effort to be incredibly secretive. There have been plenty of times when I've slipped up and used real names. And if you've read Darrin's blog--well, he doesn't do anything at all to maintain anonymity.

And on that same topic, I did something a bit daring yesterday--I came out to a friend from high school. He's the first in that group of people to whom I've disclosed that information. Naturally, once I told him I went through all sorts of regret and feeling like I shouldn't have said anything. But his response was lovely. He's wonderful and I look forward to sharing our friendship authentically. Perhaps, with his permission, I'll post our email conversation in the near future.

Sigh...I need to go to bed.

Calendar

January: I decide to take the preliminary work I've done and finish the integration process.

February: My friend, Sheila's, six-year-old son is killed in an accident.

March: I keep encountering miserable self-resistance in the integration project, make little progress, and become discouraged.

April: My mom is diagnosed with breast cancer and will undergo two different types of chemotherapy, plus radiation in the next 18 months.

May: A close friend leaves my life and asks me not to contact him. Adam loses the nails on both his index fingers and fractures the tip of his right one, in a couple of freak accidents. I get pregnant--although I don't know that yet.

June: I'm weepy and tired all the time--too tired to run, often. I am feeling suicidal daily, sometimes several times a day. I begin to suspect the pregnancy and confirm it in mid-June. I decide the pregnancy test is lying.

July: I continue to battle thoughts of suicide. The pregnancy ends in miscarriage--total duration: 11-12 weeks.

August: I navigate poorly the need to talk about pregnancy and miscarriage. Adam is hit by a truck and miraculously escapes without being seriously harmed.

I believe it is safe to say that the first eight months of this year have not been easy. I'm not comparing my life to anyone else's, because I'm certain there are many who have experienced far worse things. I'm just saying that for me, this has been a difficult year.

There have been wonderful things, too. I continue to enjoy spending time with my kids and husband. I've had visits from friends and family. I get to teach the heathen-almost-twelve-year-olds in Primary. Our spring and summer were gorgeous (I want them to happen again) and I've loved being outside and planting my haphazard gardens. I spent time with friends in Utah. A couple of friends there, who have been more than generous with their home and allowed me to stay there many times when I come for therapy, had their first baby and he is beautiful. I made salsa with kiwis--and it was yummy. I made cookies with S-Boogie, and managed to dump a batch inside Ambrosia's oven drawer. I planted mutant tomatoes. I saw butterflies and baby birds and very amazing insects and spiders. We had tiny frogs in our lawn.

I'm not trying to dwell on the miserable or unpleasant, by any means. I just want to say, though, that for the next four months, I'd like to avoid unpleasant and miserable. I think that's a reasonable ratio: Eight months of high stress/four months to de-stress.

In the meantime, an update on the stressful things above:
1. I believe the integration process is finished. This doesn't mean I won't have relapses, nor that I don't have to work on it anymore. It just means that I've found ways to overcome nearly all the obstacles which have presented themselves and I think, for now, I'm done. I'll work on the small things later, when I have more energy.
2. Because of the barrage of unexpected events which followed the death of my friend's son, I've been unable to spend time with Sheila. I still intend to, probably toward the end of this month.
3. My mom has finished her first set of chemo treatments and will start weekly treatments of the second, beginning in about a week. She seems well, all things considered. We're hopeful her choice of treatment will keep her well for the next forty years.
4. I do not expect to hear from my friend again. It still aches. I still wonder and worry about him. I still wish we could spend time together. I still love him. I don't expect those things to change, but I think in a few months they will hurt less. Adam's fingers are nicely healed and he has two new nails almost completely grown in. This is good because now he has to heal from the bumps and bruises of his truck accident.
5. The pregnancy hormones are all gone. My stamina is back to normal, which means I have trouble sitting still again. I'm running every morning and loving the back-to-normal feeling. I think Darrin and I will probably be a little more careful in the future.
6. It has been awhile since I've felt suicidal. I don't expect that to return. I'm still having some emotional difficulties which I've not blogged about because I'm trying to determine exactly what's going on (not easy to write about something when you haven't yet found the words). Therapist has said I can begin spacing out my visits once again. I will see him again in October, about six weeks from my August visit, and then we'll discuss trying three-month intervals, once again.
7. I'm still trying to figure out how to talk about my recent pregnancy/miscarriage experience. It does seem to be one of those taboo topics, right up there with rape and abuse. Hurray! Now I have three things of paramount importance to me which are uncomfortable to talk about. I have had exactly zero, of the six family members I told about the miscarriage, ask me how I'm doing. And while I don't expect anyone to care, necessarily, it would be nice to be disillusioned. I have had more concern shown me by people who live far away, who aren't related to me, or even whom I have never met in person. However, it is what it is. A year from now, things will feel better. As for Adam, he's still in mourning that his carelessness will cost so much money, but he's well and whole and back to riding his bike. I'm very grateful that he's alive.

Problem Child

Adam was sent to Earth with a Guardian Angel...or perhaps several.

I suspected this when he was a toddler and I left him to watch a video while I took a quick shower--and I do mean quick. When I emerged from the bathroom exactly seven minutes and forty seconds later, Adam was no longer watching the video. I found him in the kitchen on top of my refrigerator. He had pushed a chair to the counter, stacked my largest pot upside down on top of the counter, then climbed from chair to counter to pot to fridge. There he sat, looking down at me. I sighed, pulled him down, and hoped he didn't die before his climbing phase was over.

A few days later, following my seven minutes and forty seconds of bathroom time, I found Adam playing with Duplos in his bedroom. I was surprised. Usually I was forced to spend at least a few minutes locating him. I shrugged, finished dressing and getting ready for the day and went to get him for his bath. While I was undressing him, I noticed bright red welts in a line on his throat. Shocked, I examined him more closely. The welts formed a band all the way around his neck. I asked him to show me what happened to his neck. He took my hand, pulled me to the living room and showed me the cords to my blinds--the ones I had very carefully tied up and tucked out of sight to avoid toddler strangulation. To this day I have no idea how Adam managed to climb up to the hidden cords, become entangled, and free himself. Thus, the only conclusion I can come to is that Guardian Angel thing.

Adam's Angels continued to keep him from dying as he grew from toddler to teen, although there seemed to be no way to prevent regular stitches and an occasional broken bone. One particularly bad accident involved a bicycle and a very steep gravel road on which Adam decided to become the world's fastest cyclist. Naturally, he lost control and flew over the top of his handlebars. He ended up with road rash from his neck to his behind and a fractured arm. Interestingly, in spite of the fact that his helmet ended up split in half, there were no head injuries. By rights, he should have had a severe one--since that was the body part which received first impact.

There is not enough room in cyberspace to retell all of Adam's near-death experiences. Suffice it to say, the Guardian Angels have been well-occupied. In keeping with his quest to make certain the Guardian Angels never become bored, yesterday Adam cheated death again. While riding his bicycle home from the store (no helmet this time, regardless of my nagging), Adam failed to stop at a stop sign and rode directly into the path of an oncoming truck--a full-sized Chevy pickup. It had no time to do anything more that swerve a bit, so Adam hit the front fender rather than the grill. A police officer parked nearby witnessed the accident. He told me later that one of the most amazing sights he has ever seen was my son, standing up and checking to make sure his bike was okay. By rights, Adam should be dead. Instead he sustained bumps and bruises with a few scrapes on his shoulders. The large pick-up truck, however, has several large dents in it.

The EMT's examining Adam at the scene pronounced him alive and whole and incredibly miraculous. Given the size of the truck and the impact with which it met Adam, he should be in the hospital with numerous internal and external injuries, at the very least. Instead, he rode home with me, weeping a bit, and mourning the amount of money his carelessness was going to cause our budget. I reminded him that $3000-$4000 in truck damage and EMT fees is less than a funeral would cost--and this way we get to have our son with us a bit longer.

This morning Adam will stay home from school. He aches all over and hurts in places he didn't know he had. Pain is sometimes a good thing. It means we're still alive albeit uncomfortable. And I'm thinking The Big Guy really knew what he was doing when he sent Adam to us in tandem with those Guardian Angels. Perhaps, with their help, my son will live another fifteen years...and maybe another fifteen after that...and then fifteen more...

In the meantime, I think they've been working pretty hard. It's time for Adam to give the Angels a bit of a rest.

Most Awkward Post Referencing My Sex Life--EVERRRRR!

I'll try to talk about this in the most delicate of terms.

There are some things one simply does not like to hear when one is in the throes of ecstasy--or just about to get there. One of those things is the pitter-patter of feet which passed up "little" years ago, the size of which more than doubles my own and is significantly larger than Darrin's. So last night it was a bit disconcerting when, around midnight, during a moment of passion, I heard DJ rise from his bed and begin descending the stairs toward my bedroom rather quickly. There was no question about his intended destination. There was really no time to disengage from our current activity, so I tried to disappear into Darrin, and when that was dismally unsuccessful, I began praying that he wouldn't turn on our bedroom light.

He didn't. Instead he said, "Mom? Dad? I need your help."

I have no idea what was going through Darrin's mind, but I kept thinking I must not giggle nor move--and feeling a bit disappointed about missing out on the best part of having sex. Darrin said quietly, "What's the matter, DJ?"

"Well, there's either an animal or an extremely large insect in my windowsill. I don't know what to do."

Darrin lay in silence for a few moments, then said, "Okay, I'll come up in a minute."

DJ stayed in our doorway for what seemed hours, but was probably only about ten seconds, then made his way back upstairs. I looked at Darrin. He looked at me. Then I giggled and we decided to finish what we had started--quickly. So we did, which was a very good choice, since frustration is never pleasant.

Darrin left me in bed, which was kind of him since he had awakened me from a lovely sleep about twenty minutes before DJ arrived. A couple of minutes later he was back.

"You should come see," he said.
"Why?" I did not want to leave my bed.
"I think it might be a bat. Or a mouse."

I knew it wasn't a mouse. That critter would have been long gone the moment DJ got out of bed. So I grabbed my robe and wandered up to his room.

The bat was between DJ's blinds and the window pane, clutching one of the slats with its tiny claws--which were all we could really see. I went closer and looked through the side of the blind. Sure enough, it was a furry, very frightened brown bat. Then I noticed that the majority of my kitchen utensils and large mixing bowls were strewn over DJ's floor.

"What were you planning?" I asked, pointing at my salad tongs.
"Uhhh, we hadn't gotten that far yet." Darrin looked sheepishly at DJ, who shrugged.

I figured, as long as we were using my kitchen utensils, we should find something that worked. Darrin accompanied me back down to the kitchen and DJ stayed to guard the bat--or at least follow it wherever it might decide to fly, should it choose to do so.

I grabbed my largest mixing bowl, Darrin located two large round spatter screens with handles and suddenly became very excited about using his newest finds to capture the bat. I suggested we join forces, using both the bowl and one of the screens. He agreed.

Back in DJ's room, Darrin and DJ discussed different ways to get the bat off the blind and into the bowl. Both were fairly anxious to handle the bowl and splatter screen, but neither one wanted to pull the blind away from the window, which they agreed must happen, but also deemed the most dangerous job. I still haven't figured out why.

So it fell to me to work the blind while Darrin got ready with his bowl and screen and DJ guarded the closet--just in case the bat wanted to fly in there. Darrin slid the bowl easily over the bat, but the little rodent did not wish to relinquish its death grip on the blind slat. Darrin tapped the slat with the handle of the spatter screen, to no avail. Finally, Darrin slid the screen slowly toward the bat, being careful to keep the bowl edge tight against the blind, blocking any attempted escape. As the screen came toward it, the bat suddenly let go of the blind and hooked its claws into the circle of mesh. Darrin pulled it out from under the blind and plopped the bowl, bat and all onto DJ's carpeted floor, barely disguising a shudder.

I mentioned that the screen did not completely cover the bowl, and if the bat wished to do so, it could easily fly out. We needed to get it outside. I went to pick it up, but Darrin was determined to finish the job. The poor bat was squeaking.

Darrin went outside. And stayed there for a long time. After about five minutes, DJ and I stuck out heads out the front door to see why he hadn't returned. Darrin was sitting on the front porch. The bowl, still covered with the bat adorned screen was sitting in front of him on the lawn.

"Is something the matter?" I asked.
"I can't get it to fly away," Darrin sounded tired.
"Oh, that's easy. You have to tip the bowl upside-down and then remove it. Once the bat is out in the open, it will leave."
Darrin looked up at me. "I don't want it to fly at me."
"Darrin, it has one of the best radar systems in the world. It's non-aggressive and it wants to eat something significantly smaller than you. Do you want me to do it?"

Darren sighed, turned the bowl over and lifted it off. The bat took off in the other direction like a bat out of...well..you know...

DJ said good night and went to bed. Darrin came in the house, went downstairs and got into bed. I put the kitchen paraphernalia away, then joined Darrin. His hand closed around mine and I started giggling. Then I said, "By the way--thank you for making DJ and the bat wait." Darrin just kept laughing. Minutes later he was snoring and I was wondering how I would ever get back to sleep. I walked to the bathroom, turned on the drier to help drown out (or at least blend with) Darrin's snores, got a drink of water, and went back to bed. I'm certain I eventually fell asleep because we all overslept this morning.

Interestingly, Tabitha and Adam were happy to hurry getting ready for school. I wouldn't talk about the bat until they were completely ready to go--and they wanted to hear about it. So Darrin and I regaled them with the drama sans the prologue. We let the story begin when Darrin arrived in DJ's bedroom the first time. Sometimes it's okay to edit for content, especially when children are involved.

"Dreams are illustrations...from the book your soul is writing about you." ~Marsha Norman

I came home from work to find Darrin practicing ballet. This, of itself was enough to make me raise my eyebrows, but seeing him in a leotard was not my idea of beauty in motion. I left him at the barre, mysteriously installed across the length of our living room but attached to nothing I could see, and went to cook dinner in my kitchen which had somehow doubled in size and was now equipped with stainless steel appliances. Tabitha and Adam were in the refrigerator playing Uno. DJ was showering, fully clothed in our rather large kitchen sink.

Welcome to my latest dreamscape.

While I'm grateful not to be entertaining nightmares filled with ugly memories, I find myself wishing for more logical dreams. Each night brings disjointed scenes filled with people I love in unlikely places, doing or saying things completely out of character. And I can't stop thinking about them.

Sometimes they bother me more than others. I'm aware that my mind is sorting through a large amount of information and experiences, but it would be nice to have a relaxing dream, perhaps one that involves me lying in a shady hammock as it sways above a sandy beach while gentle waves lap at the shore.

Instead I find myself at a pro-baseball game with Tolkien Boy. We are screaming with excitement, while everyone else in the stadium watches our display with surprise and a bit of embarrassment, probably because nothing is happening in the game. The teams aren't even on the field yet. Still, one can't fault our enthusiasm, especially when neither one of us really likes baseball.

Or AtP and I are in class taking a test. It seems to be the global-every-topic-taught-at-this-university test, as there are questions about math, religion, culinary arts, anthropology, and agriculture. Those are the only questions I remember, but there is also an essay question requiring us to build something with legos--and the legos are in a large Ziploc bag, neatly stapled to the page. I keep finding myself trying to cheat off AtP's answers, and each time he catches me doing so, I begin to recite nursery rhymes while the rest of the class chants along with me.

Recently, I was riding a motorcycle equipped with a steering wheel and windshield wipers. And I had a police escort. I'm not sure where I was coming from, nor where I was heading, but eventually we stopped at a red traffic light. The light stayed red for a very long period of time. The policemen chatted as they waited. One of them brought me an ice cream cone and asked if I'd like my neck massaged. Then he took off his helmet and became my friend Jason. He ate the ice cream cone himself.

It does seem that at some point my dreams will become boring, or I'll get used to their unlikeliness. And it's much better than screaming until Darrin wakes me up. Still, I awake from every dream at some point, sitting up in bed and thinking in capital letters, "WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT???"

I talked to Tolkien Boy about this yesterday. Naturally, because his imagination eclipses mine in the most staggering manner, my dreams seemed perfectly logical to him. But perhaps, if one only hears about the dreams rather than experiencing them, they don't seem strange.

Okay, the bottom line is that I refuse to find meaning in my dreams. I don't want to know what they're telling me. It's like having a built-in parent nagging me when all I want to do is rest. And there's no way to make it stop. However, what I haven't added is that in each of these dreams the person says something he or she would never say in real life. Even without the weird settings and circumstances, the words they speak would be enough to cause me confusion.

Perhaps the solution to all this is to come up with conscious thoughts even more strange and confusing than the dreams. And if I fill my head with those before I sleep, the dreams will seem tame, mundane, soothing. However, my infinitely practical brain does not seem to be able to do this with out the aid of sleep. So...any suggestions? Surely someone who stumbles onto this post has a lively imagination and can offer some scenarios to me. Seriously, I need some uninterrupted sleep.

There was a little girl who had a little curl...

Today my hair is insanely curly. I'm lazy and I don't want to flat-iron it, even though it takes less time to blow-dry and straighten. I have time to catch up on Facebook, play a few mindless games, work a bit, do some laundry and vacuum, before I have to go to the office today. But I'm focusing on my hair.

My niece stayed with us for a few weeks in July. During that time she saw me for the first time in her memory without my hair straightened. She couldn't stop staring. Finally she said, "You look like a different person." Hmmm...I've heard that before from other people.

There's really nothing I can do about that, so I don't plan to expend much thought on it. But what I am thinking about is this: My hair is getting long.

Anyone who has read my nattering since I began blogging in 2006 (pausing now to catch my breath from laughing too hard--good one, Sam!), knows that in November of that year I became tired of the flat-iron, I had received a bad haircut which required straight hair, so I tried that chemical straightening thing--and fried my hair. Thankfully, I found a good hairdresser, who gave me an excellent cut which hid much of the damage and continued to touch it up over the next eighteen months. I have lots of hair, fortunately. Well, I did at the time of frying. Afterward there was much less hair for awhile, and the new growth curled, naturally, but the damaged hair was straight and straw-like. Ick.

When I went in for my most recent damage-control cut, my hairdresser let me know that the thickness is back and my hair is healthy again. Translation: curly.

So I'm thinking of taking the long stuff and getting it all chopped off. I haven't had short hair for nearly six years. But I like the straight option, and I'm not sure I'll like using a flat iron on short hair, so I can't decide.

I think if Tolkien Boy ever shaves his beard that will be my cue to cut off all my hair. I feel fairly secure in this because I don't expect the beard to disappear any time soon, which allows me plenty of time to ponder.

And now, back to regularly scheduled blog posts that have nothing to do with my shallow blathering about my hair.

Today

For the first morning since June 1st, I woke up ready to be alive--not wishing I could stay in bed and sleep forever or feeling like crying because I was too tired to go run.

For the first day since February 1st, I didn't feel that I was drowning, didn't have to manage feelings of panic, or wish I could live in a cave.

For the first time since March 1st, it has been seven consecutive days with no suicidal feelings--not even fleeting ones.

For the first night in three years, I am feeling no trepidation about nightmares, and I haven't even done my dream direction prep yet.

I feel strong again. I can run without wanting to go to bed when I'm finished--which I've been doing each morning around six o'clock. In the past four days I've been walking to work; I mowed my lawns and weeded my garden; I did seven loads of laundry, loaded the dishwasher, and made dinner; I braved the Walmart crowds three times; I taught my classes at the university, my students at home, and worked on a tax return for a tardy filer.

And since I'm feeling back to normal again finally, it does seem that it's time for me to start picking at my emotional self once again. I've already begun scrutinizing friendships and other relationships, with the intent of making graphs and flow charts.

I'm back. Did you miss me?

Dear Tabitha,

You should probably listen to your mother if she steers you back toward the restroom door and says, "We need to go this way." Because she probably just had this thought go through her head: Why are there urinals and men in the women's restroom?

Conversation with Therapist about miscarriage--Graphic and weird post

Therapist: Tell me how you think things are going.

me: I don't know.

Therapist: Why do you think that is?

me: I don't know.

Therapist: Sam, what's going through your head right now?

me: I'm so finished. I've decided not to have any more tragedies or deaths or crises or odd twists of fate for the next four months.

Therapist: You've definitely had your share this year.

me: More than my share.

Therapist: Tell me how you're feeling about the miscarriage.

me: It's over. I'm better. The end.

Therapist: Would you rather not talk about it?

me: I don't know. Maybe.

Therapist: We can talk about it next month, if you'd rather.

me: Let's talk about that "next month" thing. How about this: I'll work on no more deaths, tragedies, crises, and odd twists of fate for the rest of the year and we can meet again in April 2010.

Therapist: Sam, this is always your call. And if you need a break from therapy, that's also your call. I'll probably still check in with you during the times I'm not seeing you, if that's okay. But I think you have some things that are bugging you right now, and I also think you might be able to ease some stress if you talk about them.

me: I'm getting tired of talking.

Therapist: That doesn't sound like you.

me: Or maybe I'm just tired.

Therapist: Yes.

me: Okay. The miscarriage: I started out dealing with it badly--as in, I didn't want to talk about it or even acknowledge it, which turned out to be impossible because the physical evidence cannot be ignored. So I told a few people, starting with Darrin.

Therapist: What was his reaction?

me: He thought I should back up and take thirty seconds to tell him I was pregnant before I let him know I was miscarrying.

Therapist: You hadn't told him you were pregnant?

me: No.

Therapist: How advanced was the pregnancy?

me: At that point we were clearing the 10-week mark.

Therapist: I can understand his need to back up a bit. That's a lot to deal with all at once.

me: It's just news. Try dealing with the reality.

Therapist: Well, I don't mean that this was more difficult for him than for you, just that it's sort of enormous when you find out your wife is pregnant--and more enormous when you learn that she won't be in about a week.

me: Yeah. Anyway, I told more people. And most of them were busy and didn't want to talk about it. Although, in fairness, there were some who said I could call and talk with them. But they were women, and I'm lame and worry that if I try to talk to a woman, she'll want to talk instead. It's the curse of my upbringing. I don't think my mother has ever heard what I was saying because she was too absorbed in thinking of what she would say next. And there's always the risk that the woman I'm talking to has had a miscarriage, as well, and mistakes our conversation as an opportunity to "help" me by telling me of her own experience, in which I am neither interested, nor emotionally equipped to deal with. And actually, it's not that I'm not interested--it's just that the timing for that is wrong. I was sort of self-absorbed at the time, of necessity. I didn't really want to feel I needed to be empathetic to someone who had experienced something similar. I know, this makes no sense, because I should be grateful that a) someone would be willing to let me talk with them, and b) I can learn from the things that person has already experienced. Add ungrateful to self-absorbed.

Therapist: Sam, it makes complete sense that you need to sort through your own experience before hearing of someone elses. It's not self-absorbed nor ungrateful. It's you recognizing the potential of a seemingly helpful situation which might end up not being helpful. Although, had you given it a chance, you might also have encountered a good listener who simply wanted to allow you to talk.

me: I probably would have. But I was sort of mixed up and afraid. I've never had a miscarriage before. And most women probably go through it and understand what's happening and mourn and get help and all that--but for me, it was scary.

Therapist: Two things--first, no, they don't. It's not easy for anyone and every woman I've spoken to (and because of my therapy specialty, I've actually spoken with many) has had difficulty making it through the emotional upheaval which happens with miscarriage--even when they were planning to place the baby through adoption. Second, I don't believe other women don't feel some fear with their first miscarriage. It's new and stressful. But I'd like to know where you think the fear came from.

me: Well, okay, but it's sort of graphic, and you can tell me to stop if you want.

Therapist: Sam, I'm the therapist. You're not supposed to be trying to protect me from your words.

me: Oh yeah.

Therapist: You keep forgetting.

me: Yeah. Bad habit.

Therapist: So--what made it scary?

me: Well, there was a lot more blood than I'm used to in a regular menstrual period.

Therapist: But this wasn't a menstrual period. It was a miscarriage.

me: I know. But somehow I had it in my head that it would just be like a period and then be over. And I was supposed to watch for the fetus to pass--which seems sort of stupid because I don't really care what caused the miscarriage since I'm not planning to get pregnant again and it would have been about an inch long and fully formed and I didn't want to see it anyway.

Therapist: That makes a lot of sense.

me: Besides, if I saw it, then I couldn't pretend it was just a period anymore, which is also dumb because I couldn't anyway.

Therapist: Sam, it's an overwhelming occurrence. Most people would try to link it to a common-place, similar occurrence to help manage the stress.

me: I'm not most people. I look at things the way they are and I try to deal with them in reality. Except that's a lie.

Therapist: No. I think, when difficulties present themselves in your life, you do exactly what you just said. However, you've had difficulties in the past year which have caused you to go on emotional overload. The way you tried to cope with a new and frightening situation is healthy and normal. You looked to your experience base to find something similar, then tried to fit the new experience into that framework. It was a good, healthy idea and prepared you, initially, for what would happen. When the new experience would no longer fit into that framework, you became stressed and frightened. That's a completely understandable and logical reaction.

me: Well, I did see the fetus pass. Sort of. It was in a mass of other tissue, and I didn't look very closely. And it didn't look real anyway. And probably most grown women wouldn't panic, and feel sick, and shake uncontrollably, but I did and I didn't keep it. I flushed it.

Therapist: Sam, are you feeling guilty about this.

me: Sort of.

Therapist: Because you didn't keep the fetus?

me: Because I flushed it. I wanted it to go away. And anyway, they were just going to dissect it and incinerate it and I didn't want them to.

Therapist: No wonder you've been feeling stressed--and like you couldn't talk about it.

me: I'm not really a monster, you know. I just didn't think flushing it was more yucky than incinerating it--only it probably is. I don't know.

Therapist: Sam, it was not a viable fetus, not a human being. Chances are, if you hadn't been watching for it, you would have flushed it unknowingly anyway. Your brain is wired to look at it as your baby--but that inch of tissue was simply the possibility of a baby, just as the unfertilized egg that gets flushed or thrown away during a menstrual period is a possibility. The difference is that your pregnancy activated all those hormones which prepare you to grow and nurture a child, so you're having difficulty looking at it clinically.

me: I know. It was just sort of horrible.

Therapist: I can imagine so.

me: And I wanted to talk about it. I wanted someone to say it was okay. But I was afraid they would say I was awful.

Therapist: Well, you never know what people will say. So it would be risky to tell them. But I can understand the need to talk about it.

me: You don't think I'm monstrous?

Therapist: No Sam, you're not monstrous.

me: Even though I just wanted it to go away, so I flushed it?

Therapist: It was the remains of a pregnancy that was unable to continue. It's okay, Sam.

me: I still think, if I talk about it, people will look at me like I'm inhuman.

Therapist: What will Darrin's reaction be?

me: He'll probably say that it sounds like a logical move, since I didn't want to pay for testing or disposal.

Therapist: Will he think you're inhuman?

me: No.

Therapist: I don't think you need to worry about other people's reactions.

me: Well, maybe I don't need to talk about it, either.

Therapist: That's something you'll figure out over the next few weeks.

me: Okay.

Sometimes Life Just Doesn't Make Sense

That's all.

And now I'm going to bed because I think it might make more sense tomorrow.

But before I do, today (well, actually yesterday because it's after midnight) is Tolkien Boy's birthday. I'm guessing that most of the people who stumble onto this post probably haven't met him. But I just have to say, if you didn't celebrate the fact that he was born on this day, I think you should mark your calendars so you don't forget next year, because the world is a better place with TB in it.

If you don't know this from experience, you can just take my word for it. And if Tolkien Boy read my blog I would wish him a wonderful, beautiful birthday (even though it's all ready over).

Sigh....

I would write more but I'm too tired. Good night.

With apologies to Alex

I believe most bloggers have had the experience of a well-intentioned comment rubbing them the wrong way. Infrequently, I encounter this. Most of the time I simply decide I'm being oversensitive, or reading more into the comment than I probably should. Then I wait until I'm sane and read the comment again, realize I was being neurotic and let it all go.

But occasionally I feel the need to voice my reaction. It's risky to do that, for fear of offending the commenter. So, Alex, I'm going to just say a couple of things about your most recent comment. I'm hoping you'll understand that I'm not trying to argue or attack, and I truly appreciate what you've said. I just don't agree with it.

The comment states: "...you wouldn't really be who you are without your past experiences."

This has been said to me on a number of occasions and rates right up there with "...you'll learn so much from this..." and "...everything happens for a reason..." And quite honestly, although I believe I do learn and growth happens, I don't believe my experiences change who I am at the core.

Because of my past experiences:

I have learned to be neurotic, and self-protective, and to watch for rejection and pain.
I have learned that if I trust people I love, they will abuse me.
I have learned that no one is interested in me or what I have to say.
I have learned that my parents cannot protect me, nor do they wish to.
I have learned that sometimes physical pain is far exceeded by emotional pain--and very little will ease the depth of such pain.
I have learned that my mother approves of me when I do not eat.
I have learned that I am not safe in my own bed.
I have learned that people only care about me if I am the best at what I do.

These things I have learned are not who I am.

Because of who I am:

I have refused to accept that everyone in the world will hurt me. To prove this to myself I have sought out relationships which cause me to be vulnerable and allow others to get close to me. It's been difficult and very painful. But I have also been astounded by the joy that has followed, and I am surprised by kindness and love in all of these relationships more often than I expect.

I have refused to accept that I must be afraid. I invited the man who raped me to join me for lunch and spent an hour chatting with him. I have spent much time talking with my mother and trying to redefine and deepen our relationship. I have confronted the demons of my past in the forms of my dissociated parts and integrated them into the person I am today.

I have refused to succumb to emotional pain and instead have found healthy alternatives to sort through the sources of such pain and seek for peace. This is a journey that continues today and will probably last throughout my life--for pain is a part of life. I will simply deal with it in positive ways rather than use the destructive alternatives I chose in the past.

I have refused to be emotionally dependent and reclusive. Regardless of the times I believed that would be safe or preferable, I must be independent and interact with people because I need more in my life than just me--and more than Darrin and my children. I need people.

This is who I am. I choose to challenge my own beliefs and past experiences. I did not become this way because of my experiences--I have always been this way.

I understand that I have become strong of necessity--because of my experiences. I believe that would have happened without being abused or raped. I have never been one to run from a challenge.

I understand that I have compassion--but I believe only the empathetic part of that is linked to my experiences. I have always been compassionate. It is part of who I am.

I understand that I may view beauty in sight, sound and experience with a depth that might not have occurred had I not endured the types of pain presented to me. I am willing to sacrifice such depth if I could have been loved and nurtured as a toddler and child, and been safe as a pre-teen.

I will never believe that I have become a better person or that the person I have become is anyway influenced by the trauma of my past. My choices might be influenced, as may be my impulses, thoughts or fears. But I am who I am in spite of those traumas. This belief allows me freedom from victimization and does not give credence or worth to acts that should never happen in any person's childhood.

I know many people might believe I am splitting hairs and that in the end this small belief makes no difference at all. But that small belief has saved my life more times than I can count. Please allow me my delusion.

"It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness." ~Tolstoy

There are worms on my crab apple tree. I suspected as much last year, when I noticed the bulk of the apples were spotted and misshapen. This year a small branch is covered in yellowing and dead leaves and the neighboring rose bushes seem less healthy than they used to be. One would think, given my passion for roses and living things, that I'd be right out there with some sort of spray, eradicating the vermin and restoring my yard to its rightful greenness...

Except...

A few nights ago I thought I'd watch the meteor shower for a moment. It was dark, but the stars and moonlight illuminated my yard, seeming to focus on that crab apple tree. I noticed tiny sparkling threads dangling from the limbs, swaying in a gentle night breeze. At the base of each strand, a tiny green worm squirmed and spun about creating a rather lovely dance ensemble. I must admit to missing part of the meteor shower as I fondly watched those destructive invaders.

They will kill my tree--and my rose bush--and it seems they've also begun to destroy my currant and lilac bushes. But they're fragile and tiny and I sort of love them.

It does seem to be the story of my life. For many, many years I clung to beautiful dreams, certain that if I ignored my past with insistence, it would somehow disappear. And as I watched my illusions sway and dance in the moonlight, I was missing star bursts of opportunity streaming across my night sky and disappearing on my horizon. I was entranced by tiny green worms of illusion, steadily weaving their way through my life, undermining my ability to perceive life honestly, express authentic emotions, and enjoy healthy relationships. I attempted to hide the horrifying parts of my life in tiny apples which could not contain them and only ended up bumpy and scarred, making obvious the need to attend to the problem and, if possible, eradicate it.

Soon, probably when autumn comes, (for that seems to be the recommended time) I will find the necessary spray and rid my yard of its infestation. It may take two treatments and then my night dancers will be gone.

For nearly four years I have worked to rid my life of the illusions which sustained me when I did not have the necessary maturity or strength to look at reality. Those illusions have a beauty and comfort I needed desperately for a very long time. I do not need them anymore. I am finally able to see that at this moment in my life they provide destruction rather than sustenance and they block my efforts to become whole. They encourage doubt as I strive to learn to trust key people in my life. They remind me that if I don't protect myself I will be hurt. What they don't mention is that I will also heal.

I believe on some nights, when it seems particularly dark or discouraging, I will miss the dancing illusions. I hope, when that happens, I will have the courage ask someone I love for reassurance and a bit of encouragement. I hope I'll dig deep inside and remember who I really am. I hope, in the end, my reality today will prove more beautiful than my desire to change my past.

In the meantime, until I have to destroy the little critters in my yard, I believe I will watch them dance in the moonlight for a few more nights. They're very lovely.

If I know about something, surely you do, as well...that's just the way things work.

It's a huge problem with me. I simply assume everyone knows exactly what I'm talking about. And if it's a topic I've researched, I believe everyone in the world has researched it, as well. Darrin has become used to it, and has spent hours practicing in the mirror his I'm-absolutely-clueless-and-you-should-probably-provide-me-with-more-information" look.

With this in mind, I am answering a recent comment in this blog post. MNJ said: Why are you so concerned with appropriateness? Could you ever allow yourself to NOT be appropriate? What would happen? This is not a mud sling in any way shape or form. Just a question to unravel some layers. Sometimes I find it helpful to find the reason I see things a certain way & then figure out what I'm in need of. Why are you not allowed to be sad?

Actually, early on in the miscarriage I indulged myself and allowed a conversation about it with a good friend who has talked with me over the past few years about pretty much everything. That friend gently reminded me that probably it would be better for me to talk with someone else. Naturally, I was embarrassed that I'd intruded and devastated that my need to talk had made someone uncomfortable.

But overall, I was just glad it was brought to my attention so I wouldn't repeat the mistake. I'm very careful what I say to people in live conversation now, and mostly, I just talk about the event and its aftermath on my blog. And as for being sad, I allow myself--I just don't like it. It's inconvenient and yucky and usually involves a bit of crying which always makes my eyes itchy.

Sometimes though, it just seems like I should be able to say, "Hey! This hurts. You love me, so I think you should listen, even if it's not comfortable. And when I'm finished talking, I'd like a hug, please." I would never do that, of course, especially after being made aware that such a thing would be unwelcome, and I've always believed that a good friend will never allow her needs to overshadow those of another person. But there are moments when I wish I could.

It feels a bit like I'm going through something profound and difficult, but anyone who might not be able to understand or identify with it would rather not talk about it. They care...they just don't want to think about this...sort of in the same way many straight people would like to ignore the fact that gay people exist, let alone a gay person who might be their friend...

I'm not doing that thing again. And unlike homosexuality, having a miscarriage is a temporary part of life that will pass and be forgotten. I'm okay if those closest to me would rather talk about subjects more pertinent to them. In their shoes, I might even do the same thing.

Okay, that's a lie. I wouldn't, because there are few things that make me feel uncomfortable and I've never felt that a sincere conversation involving something that is hurting one of my loved ones was inappropriate. But I understand that might not be the norm, and it's okay if this is one topic I need to monitor and avoid in live conversations. I value and respect the people I love and would never push them to listen when they don't have the necessary understanding or emotional reserves.

And as I said, a year from now this will all be forgotten, which is as it should be.

So Confused...I blame the Ice Cream Man...

I know this is my fault, and I take complete responsibility. But I had no idea. I've never done this before.

I said, in essence, "Don't feel sorry for me!! This is not a big deal!! Do not make it a big deal!! Everything is fine!!"

But it's not fine.

I told my parents about the miscarriage. It was necessary. They asked me to go with my mom to her chemo treatment, which was fine. But toward the end, my dad arrived. He's been in poor health for awhile and recently injured his knee and hip. Walking is difficult and he's in a lot of pain. I live three blocks from them. They need help. They began asking me if I'd be willing to do some cleaning, perhaps help with meals...shopping...a bit of laundry...

My mom has no energy and is nauseated much of the time. My dad is having difficulty walking. I want to help...

but...

I asked them if they could let my kids help in the evenings a bit. Then I explained that I'm still recovering from a miscarriage. I'm better, but it's all I can do to take care of my work and my family--adding more would be too much. I'm very tired.

They said nothing. Then my dad changed the subject. I thought that was okay. After all, the pregnancy is over and done with. It's all for the best...

Today I was in my dad's office, working. My sister was on speaker phone with my mom. She just found out today that she's pregnant. My mom is excited--isn't it exciting? she asks me.

Yes. It's wonderful. Truly.

Mom--is it self-indulgent of me to wish you were a little more sensitive to what I might be feeling?

I understand that I have set all this up. Samantha does not feel anything personal. She's happy for everyone under any circumstance. She isn't allowed to be sad. And why would she feel sadness? She's going to have a niece or a nephew in a few months.

But the truth is, something sad, regardless of whether or not it was planned or wished for, happened to me. And sometimes I cry a little bit. Perhaps it's only hormones and will pass in a week or two.

And I told everyone who reads this not to feel sorry for me under any circumstances--and I meant it. But tonight I talked with Ward Cleaver, briefly. I've never met him. He was the first person to read my blog and comment on it, and he left Blogland about four months later. I still catch him online occasionally. Tonight he asked me how I was doing. I told him things were sort of difficult and why.

Twice he said, "I'm so sorry." Then he commented that in perspective, some of the things which had been consuming his life seemed a bit less important. I have no idea why, suddenly, I wanted that commiseration. While I understand that probably the challenges he faces are every bit as difficult as mine, hearing him say it meant he understood that no matter how many times I tell him it's okay, he knows it's not. It's sad, and exhausting. And then he was gone. He never stays longer than a few moments.

Why am I so adamant that everything is fine?

Because I feel a bit foolish for becoming pregnant in the first place--and I'm certain my family, friends, everyone who loves me agrees that I was careless and inept to allow that to happen.

Because there has always been a part of me that has felt inadequate and wrong because I've never had a healthy pregnancy, nor carried a baby beyond 35 weeks.

Because in the ten weeks I was pregnant, I was only aware of it for about five weeks. That's not very long and after the third week, I knew it wasn't going to last, so it's not like this is a long-term loss.

Because it feels obscene for me to even mention the pregnancy--let alone the miscarriage.

Because I know it's not appropriate to talk about it with the people I usually chat with. They're not comfortable and I don't like to make people I love uncomfortable.

Therapist would tell me I'm assuming things that may or may not be true, and rather than assuming, I should ask. But it feels so intrusive and wrong to say to someone, "By the way, can I just talk about how I feel about losing a baby I didn't plan on or even really want?" Not a nice conversation topic at all.

In the meantime, while I try to figure out what to do with all the stuff inside me, I find myself clinging to Ward's expressed sorrow--and I have no idea why that's so important to me--but it is.

Everything is not okay.

I am feeling some sadness and a great deal of confusion.

Perhaps the only appropriate place to talk about that, outside of Darrin, is with Therapist.

Sometimes, appropriateness sucks.

Oh, what do you do in the summertime?

I'm panicking, just a little. I realized while walking with Darrin this evening that I have two weeks before school starts and I haven't even begun looking at my text, or thinking about the syllabus or assignments. In fact, I wasn't even intending to begin this for another three weeks. I'm not sure where I thought that extra week would come from, but I was fairly certain it was there.

I have a tax return I've been putting off for three weeks from a client I know will not pay, but who is a personal friend of my dad's. Probably I shouldn't have put it off--but I'm excusing myself because the client put it off for three months. I honestly don't believe I should have to hurry when I have other things on my mind--like playing Facebook games, or trying new kinds of chocolate, or thinking about whether or not kiwis go in salsa--or I might want to spend the last few weeks of summer just being lazy with my kids.

Somehow I ended up with two more piano students than I wanted. I'm not sure how that happened but it means I have to teach four afternoons each week instead of three. I've tried to limit my after-school teaching to three days weekly so I can spend more of my day with DJ, Tabitha and Adam. Also, they need practice time, as well. If I'm teaching, clearly they can't be practicing. And I haven't ordered studio music yet. Usually I have it ordered, delivered and shelved. Right now the energy which drives my annual inventory is stalled and there is music all over my floor.

I let one of the companies with whom I contract know that I'm sort of having a personal crisis time. When I spoke with them, I thought I was being over-dramatic and a week later I'd regret asking for less work. I was so wrong. My brain feels as though I lent it to a cat.

I want to eat more tomatillos from my garden, but I don't know how to tell if they're ripe.

I told Darrin on our walk tonight that I think I'm overwhelmed, even though I don't really feel it.

I have a million things to do and no plan--except Tolkien Boy suggested I ride the train to Seattle and play with him. That sounds like a good idea, except the only trains that go from here to Seattle are cargo trains. I'm wondering, at this point, if I'd be a good hobo. I do like beans.

And in the midst of it all, for some odd reason, I want people to come visit me. Not that I've made any grand entertaining plans, but we could make brownies and watch very, very old Scooby Doo cartoons. Any takers?

I turned cartwheels today--seven of them in a row. I'm wondering if this means I've lost my mind. While Darrin and I were walking home a woman stopped us and displayed a picture of her lost cat. I'm wondering if it's the one I loaned my brain to. Perhaps, if I find it, everything will fall into place and I'll be ready for life to become a blur two weeks from now.

Tomorrow, I think I will look for that cat.

Belaboring the Subject

This weekend a wonderful friend of mine had her first baby. We've been so excited for her. New babies are wonderful.

But, to my surprise, as she told me about the birth, about his hair, his weight, the name they have chosen, I found myself weeping, overcome with incredible sadness and joy simultaneously.

Regardless of whether or not it was planned, in that moment I realized that I had been pregnant--and I no longer was. While I do not wish to have another baby, the loss is still a loss. Still, I understand it's not logical, even sort of silly for me to feel sad at all.

I read her words as we chatted, so grateful her baby is healthy, certain that he is beautiful, and I affirmed to myself that things were better this way. She is beginning her family--mine is finished.

Perhaps, even when the loss concerns something one does not desire, it must still be mourned. If this is so, I'm grateful that I may mourn under such circumstances, acknowledging my loss as I experience great joy for my friend and her husband.

And in about a week and one half, AtP and I intend to visit that new little guy and harass him for awhile. I'll keep my eye on AtP. He keeps talking about stealing a baby. I have a feeling, should he choose to do that, my friend will know exactly where to find him.

"The acts of people are baffling unless we realize that their wits are disordered." ~Edward Dahlberg

I don't understand how Darrin can sleep all day.

Okay, that's not strictly true because after I've had insomnia for a couple of weeks I usually spend one day sleeping. But Darrin does it whenever he's home. I understand he has sleep apnea, but still, it baffles me.

I don't understand how Tabitha's clothes make up half the laundry.

There are four others in this house, and she is the smallest. She's not home most of the day, so she can't be changing clothes every hour or so. This is a mystery.

I don't understand why people insist they've called the correct number when I am obviously not the person they meant to call.

I understand asking twice when you're taken off-guard. But still--it's like they believe I've moved into the place where someone else is supposed to live and they expect me to magically find the person they intended to call. And they become miffed when I suggest we just chat then, since they don't wish to hang up and try the number again. Strange people.

I don't understand why, midway through making dinner, Darrin comes into the kitchen and begins making suggestions of what we should have for dinner.

This would be more understandable if I didn't ask him before I began cooking--which I do whenever he is home. As it is, I just want to throw things at him. Perhaps I will make a sign:
"Caution: Meal in preparation. Any attempts to change course at this point will be met with antagonism!"

I don't understand why the roofers blast their music so loudly.

I understand they're using power tools that might cover the tunes momentarily, but they know the songs anyway. I know this because they're singing along...loudly...off-key...

I don't understand why sometimes, unexpectedly, happy feelings just come and stay.

They don't stay forever. There usually is no reason. But it happens quite often and I like it.

"There are days when spelling 'Tuesday' simply doesn't count." ~Winnie the Pooh

Few things happen suddenly. One sees the Inevitable, watches as it grows closer, shoves it away repeatedly, substitutes more desirable scenarios, pretends it does not exist, and then one day, when fatigue overwhelms and the wish to fight has waned, one takes a very good look at the Inevitable and recognizes there is no way to change it, that it has been present all along and the only person who was blind to it is oneself.

Unfortunately, for me this seems to be the only way I can find acceptance. It's a very long journey, fraught with inane attempts to be something or someone I'm not. I can't help it. I must try every avenue before finding the only possible path.

The suicidal feelings began to subside four weeks ago. Within days, the intensity and frequency had waned. And although it has only been about 48 hours since I last felt them, they seem a haunting memory I can no longer imagine. The part of me which was the source of such feelings has become quiet.

My most horrifying thought as I finished integration was that now I will have to be the people from whom I dissociated. Some have told me I do not have to do this--as those parts of me are in the past and all people change, grow, and become different people as they mature. I understand this. But the difference is that I have been without past memories--not that they did not exist or that I was unaware of them, but simply that I would not own them--for a very long time.

I am the child who longed to be held by her mother. That longing grew into a desperate need to be held by anyone. I am the child who became certain such feelings were wrong, that those longings made her unworthy of love from any source, and who learned to suppress and deny the feelings even when such physical manifestations of love were offered. I am the child who came to believe physical touch, which I needed so badly, was frightening and evil. I am her.

I am the adolescent who was courted by an older teen, the eleven-year-old convinced by him that she must never speak to an adult about the things he was doing to me--for those adults would not protect me, but would be angry and punish me. I am the young girl who cried with despair and loneliness after enduring the physical pain of rape, while I cleaned up the mess left behind. I am the little girl who ran in the mountains to escape confusion and fear. I am the person who wished for parents she could trust, friends she could talk to, siblings she did not feel she must always protect. I am her.

I am the teenager who refused to die. I am the person who decided if no one would care for her, she would rely on herself alone to succeed in this life. I am the young woman who hated herself with each external cut made to relieve the incomprehensible pain inside, who made food an enemy and only ate to survive, and who presented herself to the world as charming, talented, and perfectly happy. I am the one who felt debilitating fear as I performed in public, obsessed by the belief that I would not be defeated by it. I am the girl who trusted no one--ever. I am her.

I am Samantha. I have experienced things I would rather not think about, but must because those experiences belong to me. I am the person who chose to marry a man--my best friend--the one I wanted to be with always, even though I wanted to fall in love with a woman who would be my soul mate and companion. I am the mom who chose to stop the cycle of abuse, who held my children every day and who continues to let them know through loving touch just how much I love them. I am the person who works several jobs in various fields because I love learning and music and teaching and reading and numbers and logic and science and nature...and everything. I am the person who refuses to hate. No matter what life has given me, I will love with my whole soul and I will show that love to all who will allow me to do so. I am her.

One day I will be the person who will acknowledge the sadness of past harm but will no longer ache with it. I will be able to share my story without feeling the need to run for cover when I have finished. I will be someone who can listen and empathize. I will look at all that has happened and own it. There will be a person who is whole, and kind, and courageous and strong. I will become her.

Or, and this is quite probable, I will die trying.

Therapy...again

Therapist: Sam, what is it about accepting yourself as someone who has been hurt by others that bothers you?

me: Well, I know that's a common experience--to be hurt, I mean. It's not that I think I'm someone special that should never be hurt. There have been times when I've allowed myself to be hurt in order to protect a person I love who was younger or more innocent.

Therapist: So, what is it?

me: I think it's just difficult to fathom that there are people--ones I love--who would supply damaging or constant hurt. And I know it happens to others who are vulnerable or innocent. It hurts my head to think about it.

Therapist: What is your response when people hurt you?

me: I suppose I just want to put them in a box and mail them to a desert island. Except, there's no mail service there. And they might get hungry or dehydrated, and that's not good. Also, there aren't any showers. I think everyone should be able to shower.

Therapist: I'm being serious.

me: You're always serious.

Therapist: Sam--how do you respond?

me: I don't know. It probably depends on the person?

Therapist: What was your response as you tried to work through the fact that someone you cared about raped you?

me: Well, it was pretty confusing, because I don't understand how he could get anything out of such an act. But mostly I just wanted to know why he did it.

Therapist: And you researched him.

me: Yes.

Therapist: What did you find?

me: We've been over this before. Is there going to be a point? Because I think I'm finished talking about him.

Therapist: You don't have to, of course. But yes, I'm going to make a point.

me: How about we skip all the rehash and you just tell me what you're thinking.

Therapist: That's my line.

me: Yup.

Therapist: Okay, Sam. Your response to hurt--in the time that I've known you--is to try to figure out why people feel motivated to act in that way. Then you absolve them because you usually find that they've had intense hurt in their lives, you care about them, and you understand that they were acting out of frustration and pain.

me: Yes. It's the most logical thing, I think, and the only way to stop feeling angry and used.

Therapist: Except, at some point, Sam, you just have to say that person was wrong.

me: I've sat right here in this office and acknowledged it.

Therapist: I don't think so. You've said the act was wrong. You've said their treatment of you was wrong or their feelings toward you. But you don't say the person was wrong. I don't think I've heard that. You listen to me say it, but you don't respond.

me: What's the point?

Therapist: You have some feelings with no direction still.

me: And I need to direct them at the people who inspired them?

Therapist: Simply put, yes. There is a part of you that still feels you need to take responsibility for the things that happened. You don't.

me: Probably. But we went over this two years ago. I don't want to do it again. And besides, I really think the things I'm feeling, in that regard, have more to do with integration side-effects than how I actually feel.

Therapist: Look me in the eye, Sam, and tell me you can place blame on the creep that raped you.

me: I don't think he's a creep. He's an old man with a rather sad life. Compared to mine, his is horrible. His wife committed suicide and his kids hate him. His current wife married him so she could come from povery in the Phillipines to a better life in the U.S.--not because she loves him. That's really sad.

Therapist: We're not talking about now. We're talking about the young man who raped an eleven-year-old girl in her own room, night after night.

me: Yes. That was wrong.

Therapist: He was wrong.

me: Therapist, I don't think my brain can do this right now. Because there is a voice inside me screaming that I should have told someone, and we've done all this before.

Therapist: Sam, at some point you're going to have to let that little eleven-year-old girl know that the entire blame for that situation rests with your cousin. Even if she believes she somehow encouraged him, that thought would have been reinforced by things your cousin said and did. Samantha Stevens cannot be manipulated now, but when she was eleven and trusting, and innocent--she could be and she was. She has no blame. Even if she had participated, she would have no blame. She was eleven and completely at the mercy of her attacker.

me: Okay.

Therapist: This is important, Sam. If your daughter came to you today and told you that when she was eleven she had participated--meaning she kissed or touched or gave verbal or tacit compliance--in a sex act with an older teen, what would your response be?

me: I'd probably hug her.

Therapist: Why?

me: Because she would need to understand that I loved her. Then we'd talk about what happened.

Therapist: And what would you tell her.

me: Probably that at eleven, she didn't have the physical or emotional maturity to cope with such a situation, that the older person knew that and took advantage of her.

Therapist: And can you convey that to the eleven-year-old in yourself?

me: I thought I had.

Therapist: How many times do you need reassurance about the things in your life that make you feel vulnerable.

me: Good point.

Therapist: Sam, you need to tell her again--tell you again. Remind yourself that you have no blame. Allow yourself to stop obsessing about the ways you could have stopped everything. You couldn't have. Even if ways existed--they weren't emotional or physical options for you. You didn't have the necessary knowledge or skills to cope.

me: No. That's all part of it, you know. It's not just accepting that I was hurt, it's accepting that there is a reality of hurt out there that happens all the time. It happens on the streets, among friends, and in our own homes with our own family members. My head can't comprehend that it has happened and continues to happen and it's not stopped, somehow.

Therapist: That's the problem-solver speaking. She just wants to somehow make everything go away.

me: Yes.

Therapist: I suggest before you solve the world's problems, in regard to this, you take care of the things inside of you.

me: I will.

Therapist: Can you look me in the eye and say the name of the person who is to blame?

me: Not today.

Therapist: Okay. We'll work on that, right?

me: Yes.

A place for everything, and everything in its place.

One should never have to explain titles. Although I've been known to post entries with titles which seem to have nothing to do with the content, the connection is obvious to me, which is why I chose the title in the first place--unless I note that I simply put something random up there because I wanted to.

Today is better--much better. Although I still feel weeping in my throat and behind my eyes, my heart is no longer knotted in anguish and confusion.

Sunlight is magic.

Physically, I feel strong and calm. It will take a little longer for my emotions and mental stamina to catch up, but still--I am better.

I am not sentimental. I believe there was a time when I was; long ago, before I even knew what the word meant. The events of my life made certain all of that was purged before I met my teen years.

I am not sentimental...

But I cannot help wondering, when January begins to wane, if I will remember that there could have been a baby...

Probably I won't.

But should that unlikelihood take place, I might cry just a little. Even people who aren't sentimental do that sometimes.

Lunch Date

Today I met with Lydia. We went over information for the classes I'll be teaching in the fall and then went to lunch...and I unloaded. I talked about everything. For nearly two hours I talked. In fairness, she did too. But I don't think I've ever left so much baggage with one person in such a short period of time. I drove to and from the restaurant, and when I took her home, she fairly ran from the car. She was exhausted from listening to me. Poor lady.

I don't know why I did that. Usually when I rant to someone I monitor it. I allow myself one or two things to say, then I back off and allow the unfortunate listener an opportunity to regroup and recover from their bout of TMI. But I've been stifling such a need to talk. And I keep feeling that anything I say will be inappropriate or obscene or unwelcome. I think I just snapped.

My doctor told me I look wonderful and healthy and I can try to get pregnant again any time. I blinked at him and asked if he had not noticed I'm old enough to be his mother. This made him laugh because he's older than I am, and I got that lecture again about many women starting their families in their 30s and 40s and I have plenty of time to do so. I asked if he'd not read my chart--my family was started and finished while I was in my 20s. He glanced down, grinned, and said he still thought, if I wanted another baby, I have plenty of time. I made it clear that I don't--nor do I want any surgery messing with my body to prevent it. I've had enough crap happen to my body already. He suggested maybe Darrin...

Darrin is not keen on anything medical. We're already trying to convince him to treat his severe sleep apnea along with several other conditions. Obviously, those conditions are not affecting his ability to reproduce. I left the office frustrated at my doctor's insensitivity and my own unreasonable reaction.

So Lydia had the misfortune to encounter me after this and to go to lunch with me. At some point I must regain control of my rant reflex.

But the day was lovely. My tomatoes are ripening and I'm sure good things are happening all over the world.

I have noticed an extreme dearth of phone calls lately. Smart people-who-often-call-me. I give them full marks for their good judgment.

And when I'm finished writing, I believe I should go eat chocolate chip cookies.

Everything seems to be back to normal again. After a week and one-half in which my body went through amazing weirdness, my physical strength seems to be back. I ran about six miles yesterday, then came home and did laundry and housework. My body feels fine.

My emotional stamina, however, is nonexistent. I feel beset with conflicting impulses, one of which wants to cry and seek sympathy. Yet another impulse is guarding my experience with miscarriage fiercely. It wants no one to speak of it--not even me. And of course, there is the prevailing feeling that I must simply pretend it never happened. Some moments I'm certain it didn't.

I am a creature of habit. While my head understands that what I've just been through is normal and commonplace, my heart feels as though yet another trauma has been experienced. It's not true. This is simply a part of life. And I'm not sure what will appease my soul. And true to form, I have clicked right back into my self-assured, nothing-is-ever-wrong, please-don't-feel-sorry-for-me-or-I-might-have-to-remove-your-spleen mode.

I think I may have been nudged toward that by a tiff I had with a family member who kept saying unkind things because I wasn't joining in all the festivities last week while a sister and her family were visiting. I finally told her about not feeling well because I was miscarrying. My "excuse" was met with more anger because I hadn't told anyone about the pregnancy in the first place, and apparently I never say anything about the things that are going on in my life, so I can't expect anyone to really care about that...those are her words, not mine. I wasn't sure how to respond, so I didn't.

She's right. I don't tell anyone. What she doesn't understand is that I never expect anyone to care. It's not about them. It's about me. I'm always surprised when someone responds with genuine concern and love. I don't quite know how to accept their response, nor how to respond in return. Because it makes me feel a bit inadequate, I avoid situations when that might happen. Therapist says my avoidance behavior has given me a skewed view of people, in general. Because I run from allowing them to care about me, I believe they don't--or at least, if they do, it's a temporary thing.

I'm talking about all this as if it is "Samantha-now". It's not. These are things I have worked on fervently for the past three years. I've experimented with allowing myself to accept love and concern. I've tried to remap my impulses, and rewire my thinking. I keep reminding myself that those "natural" impulses to discount or avoid love are unfair to those closest to me--that they would be frustrated and insulted if they felt I didn't believe their assertions that they care about me and my life. For me, this is not easy.

The point of talking about all this is that I think I made good progress as I worked on trying to retrain myself. I tried to be honest, and tell people closest to me not only of my progress but of the trust and hope I was developing as we built friendships. Until February of this year, I truly felt positive about this aspect of my life, in spite of brief feelings of doubt and inadequacy.

I suppose one cannot really know if change or growth has taken place until it is tested. My testing came a few months ago when someone I cared about made it clear I had no place in his life. I was prepared for this. He was young, impulsive, emotional. Our friendship was something I enjoyed, however, and I loved him. I hoped he would mature and see the value in our differences. Instead, they made him angry. He is still of the belief that those who do not agree cannot be friends. I will not argue with him or try to convince him otherwise.

Since that time there have been other occurrences which have left me wondering why I tried to change in the first place. Those have taken place with members of my extended family, as well as within my friendships. I find it frustrating because there is no blame where feelings are involved. If one person loves and the other does not, no course of action, no well-meaning words will change the situation. It simply is.

I was talking with Tolkien Boy about this. Someday he'll get tired of me always saying exactly what is on my mind, but until that time, he'll probably hear it. Right now I'm not exercising a lot of self-control in that department--but I suppose that could change. Who knows?

Tolkien Boy: Let me ask this question: who would be the three people in your life whose leaving would hurt you the most?

me: Why three?

Tolkien Boy: Random choice. :) You don't, of course, have to answer if it's an upsetting question.

me: It's a difficult question. Mostly because even though I'm much better than two years ago, there is still a part of me that fully expects everyone to leave--and feels that action would be right and proper.

Darrin, of course. Then there are a few people, any of whose leaving would be hurtful to me. You are among them. But along with that feeling is the belief that I have no right to ask anyone to stay. Not even Darrin.

And while I'm on the topic, the friend we were talking about wants everything to be back to normal again. But I can't go back. I don't know how. And I feel something must be wrong with me because he was simply being honest when he told me what he was feeling. I should be grateful. Instead I'm all dramatic and upset. Like he somehow broke my heart and I don't know why. Ack! And I'm telling you all this and feeling that I need to just be quiet again.

Tolkien Boy: Sam, you shouldn't be quiet, you should say what you're feeling, and he did break your heart even if he doesn't know it.

me: Is that how it works? Everyone ends up hurting people even when they don't mean to? And then they walk away as if nothing has happened because they don't recognize they just harmed someone who loves them? Do I do that?

Tolkien Boy: Sometimes that does happen, yes. Yes, I'm sure you do. It's part of being a human being. We can't always know everything that's going to hurt someone and sometimes we're egregiously wrong. Sometimes, the biggest things we need to forgive each other of are the things that we do in ignorance.

me: That's the thing. I'm completely forgiving--but I'm no longer stupid. If you let the person into your bedroom after he's raped you once, chances are, he'll do it again. As much as I try not to allow that defense to snap into place, it does anyway. If the impossible happened and the friend who wants me gone came to see me again, I would hug him, I would be thrilled to see him, I would talk with him--but he would not get into my heart. It feels like I'm doing the same thing to all my other friends, though, when they do or say things that unwittingly hurt me.

This is probably not a good time or place to talk about this--I'm not sure one exists, actually. I feel like I'm talking about something obscene.

Tolkien Boy: You're not talking about anything obscene. It is perfectly right and natural to require someone demonstrate repentance and if they don't, then there is nothing wrong with not allowing them too near.

me: Well, I suppose the sum total of all this is that it ends up mattering only to me. One friend is clueless, and the other has what he wants. It does seem a bit unbalanced, but logical.

Tolkien Boy: It matters only to you?

me: But part of me wants it to matter to those who have told me they love me.

Tolkien Boy: What if it matters to me, too? I want people to treat you well.

me: I suppose I know that--or I wouldn't talk about it with you. But Tolkien Boy--they didn't treat me poorly. They did exactly what I asked. I asked them to be honest with me. They were.

Lol-- I can't handle the truth! Which isn't strictly correct--I can handle it, I prefer it, but it still hurts sometimes.

Tolkien Boy: Yes, it does hurt, and if you find that the truth is something that, for you, is unsustainable, then you've discovered a very important thing. I mean, the truth of someone--their attitude, or perspective, or whatever.

I'm looking back at our conversation and trying to understand what we were both trying to say. Clearly, I'm too overwhelmed to be sane or logical. But still, I want to understand. I don't want to feel I have no options, which is pretty much where I'm at right now. I'm playing a game in which I do not understand the rules and am completely at the mercy of another person. That doesn't quite seem fair. Or prudent.

Things I learned tonight

"One should never turn from knowing, however the knowing comes..." ~Mary Stewart

1. It is a bad idea to leave one's car window open when a rainstorm is pending. This is true even if you don't remember you put the window down in the first place.

2. Sometimes I make really tasty food for dinner.

3. If one asks Adam to make biscuits, and he does not wish to, he will make biscuits enough to eat at every meal throughout the month of August.

4. If I go shopping with Tabitha during the day, I am too tired to go on a date with Darrin that night.

5. Mini M&Ms for baking are fun to eat but really do not taste nice.

6. Sometimes allowing my children to run out of towels teaches a very good lesson about why they should bring down their laundry. Especially if they have to go to work in the morning and there is no way the towels can be washed and dried before they are needed.

7. If I am in a hurry to go somewhere, one of my children will inevitably bar my way, excitedly saying, "Mom! Guess what?!"

8. If Darrin has the T.V. remote, he will fall asleep after putting on Swiss Family Robinson, and wake up only to growl at us when we try to change the channel.

9. I love the flowers in my garden.

10. Someone who reads my blog believes I write millions of posts so people won't notice the ones I feel are whiny. He might correct. Then again, perhaps I'm talking and I can't shut up.

"God help me. I'm so tired. I need my sleep. I make no bones about it. I need eight hours a day, and at least ten at night..." ~Bill Hicks

Today, at this moment, I'm experiencing a horrifying sense of loss and grief. It is, of course, partially connected to miscarriage and lingering pregnancy hormones. But it seems deeper and encompasses my entire life. I have no notion of what the specific loss(es) might be, but I have a pretty shrewd idea of why I feel this way right now.

I went shopping with Tabitha.

It wasn't the shopping trip, itself. But spending hours in the company of my daughter wears me out. She talks non-stop. She is alternately elated and horribly depressed several times within the space of thirty seconds. Her shopping list grows exponentially based on the amount of time she spends on the store. She fills her cart, does a mental tally of how much everything will cost, then returns most of what she has selected.

I am patient. I love her. I adore spending time with her. But now I am exhausted and I still have hours of work before me.

I have never experienced morning sickness or heartburn or other discomforts of early pregnancy. The only side-effect I've noticed has been debilitating fatigue. When I was seven weeks pregnant with Adam, my mother asked me to come help tie a quilt. I walked into her home, sat next to the quilt, picked up a needle and began to weep. I was too tired. I couldn't even tie a quilt. Naturally, everyone thought I was insane. I simply said I wasn't feeling well, went back home, sat on my couch and stared at the television I was too tired to turn on with the remote in my hand.

This overwhelming fatigue has been present with each of my pregnancies. It's one of the reasons I was glad Ambrosia had an upcoming soiree when I went to Utah a few weeks ago, so I had an excuse to ask people to meet me at a restaurant instead of cooking dinner--which I absolutely love to do, but I didn't have the energy. I don't know why I expect that it will suddenly go away simply because I'm not pregnant anymore. It takes time to rebuild stamina.

So I need to plan a little better--several short trips to the store, rather than a marathon, and perhaps I need to ask Darrin to take her next time. He's a shopping fanatic, as well. I'm thinking I can afford the absence from my bank account better than I can afford feeling like this because I'm trying to be a good mom and spend quality time with my beautiful daughter.

I haven't told my kids about the miscarriage and I don't plan to. I know how they will react:

1. DJ will become bewildered. He'll try to fix everything. He'll hover and ask me every three seconds if he can do something for me or how I am feeling. He'll call from work to check on me and try to make me sit down all the time. I do not need a mother right now.

2. Adam will try to figure out how the heck I got pregnant in the first place, then he'll hole up in his bedroom while he tries to recover from the obvious fact that his parents have sex. Then he'll have a list of questions I won't want to answer--but will because I believe in making sure my children have accurate and appropriate information. I don't need that kind of inquisitiveness or discomfort.

3. Tabitha will weep for weeks. She has wanted a younger sibling for most of her life. She loves babies and will mourn the fact that we're not having one. Then she'll ask me for the better part of a year if I'm sure I don't want to try just once more. I don't think I have the strength to be a support person as my dramatic daughter mourns, and I definitely do not want to address the question of trying again--ever.

So they will remain in blissful ignorance. And I will continue to try not to be overcome by the weariness I now feel. In six months everything will be back to "normal".

Why not take all of me?

Therapist: Talk to me about "her". The one you have to be.

me: What do you want to know?

Therapist: You said there has never been a time when you didn't know what happened to you. You wouldn't allow yourself to think or talk about it. You pretended it wasn't real--but you told me you've always, in the back of your mind, known it was real.

me: That's true.

Therapist: So what's different now? What's changed?

me: You know, when I became Samantha Stevens--or perhaps even before, when I was an older teen--I would not allow myself to be the person who was hurt in my home; the one who was abused and raped. Somehow, in my mind, and I truly believed this, I was no longer that person. I was strong and capable, and people were drawn to me. And that's kind of funny, because I didn't really want to be around people very much, but there was something I got from being able to feel I was controlling my personal situation when other people were present. I'm not sure that makes sense.

Therapist: It makes complete sense to anyone who knows you. You purposely allowed yourself to be in situations which felt dangerous because you refused to be afraid. You do that repeatedly.

me: I'm not sure I do. I'm not really a risk-taker.

Therapist: Sam, you absolutely are. You challenge yourself constantly. When you identified your cousin as a person you were afraid of, you invited him to go to lunch with you. When you understood that you were harboring resentment and confusion about your mother, you met with her several times to talk about those things. Even though you knew you those situations wouldn't have the result you were looking for, you still did them. You married a man because you loved him and wanted to be with him, even though you understood what that would mean in terms of your attraction to women and fear of intimacy with men. You take risks every time you perform on stage, teach a student, meet with a client. You seem to thrive on risk.

me: Well, probably because those things don't seem risky to me. They're tasks I need to accomplish and I usually prepare myself well in advance to do them.

Therapist: They're still risks.

me: Define risk.

Therapist: Well, I'm talking about things that are difficult, things you don't have to do--but you choose to do them anyway. I'm talking about doing something that could possibly have a disastrous outcome mentally and emotionally. Things that put you and your reputation on the line.

me: Okay. Because to me, risk is something like skydiving or Russian roulette. You could die in those situations. The things I do rarely involve the possibility of accidental death.

Therapist: It doesn't have to be extreme to be considered a risk.

me: Then, possibly, according to your definition, I'm a risk-taker in a controlled environment.

Therapist: Yes. So--back to my original question--what is different now?

me: Oh. I got sidetracked. Sorry.

Therapist: You don't have to answer if you're not ready.

me: I am. I really did get sidetracked. So Samantha Stevens became a new person who was strong and confident and separate from the person who was raped and abused. I became so separated that I remember conversations with other people where rape was the subject. My contribution was to say that I didn't understand how a woman would ever be a rape survivor. If I ever encountered that situation, the person trying to rape me would end up dead or wishing he was--or I would end up dead. Basically, I could never see the viewpoint of the victim--which is weird, since I knew exactly what that was like, but I refused to be that person.

Therapist: I can believe that.

me: On top of that, I refused to talk about the abuse that happened in my home. I championed my mother any time someone put her down. Yes, I know that's a typical reaction for a victim of abuse. But my words always described me as someone who would never allow herself to be in an abuse situation. Ever.

Therapist: Well, I think in that period of your life, those things were, and still are true. You won't allow yourself to be abused. You're an adult. You understand how to use good boundaries and how to walk away from someone who wants to hurt you. You weren't being dishonest.

me: No. That's the thing. I wasn't. I completely believed I had never been abused or raped and never could be. I believed it with all my heart even though I knew it wasn't true.

Therapist: Yes.

me: So the difference is, I can't do that anymore. I am the person who was raped. I am the person who was abused. That makes me vulnerable and means I have to walk through the memories and feelings of those experiences. And I don't want to. I'm not ashamed. I was a child, defenseless and confused. And I'm not a victim; I've grown beyond that. But I can't walk away from it anymore. There was peace in being able to pretend I was something I'm not. That peace is gone.

Therapist: Sam, you weren't pretending to be someone you're not. You are capable and strong. You've grown into that. It's an authentic part of who you've become.

me: Maybe. But I'm also vulnerable--still. I don't like that. And I can no longer say I would never allow myself to be raped or abused--those things have happened. I'm the person people talk about and feel sorry for and go home glad they're not me.

Therapist: You know, I'm sure no one would want to go through the things you've been through, but I'm guessing plenty of people admire you and wish they could be like you in many ways.

me: Then they're silly. They're not seeing who I am. Not that anyone ever takes time to do that anyway. They see what they want, then they quit looking. No one should be like me--ever.

Therapist: Why not?

me: Look at me!! I'm a grown woman admitting I spent most of my life pretending to be something I'm not! I'm supposed to be having a career, and being a mom, and instead I'm in therapy! I can't sleep most of the time. I have difficulty eating. There are times when I'm not sure what's real and what's imagined. I don't know how to feel safe in any relationships. I never know where the lines are between asking too much and asking too little. I love people with all my heart--fully expecting they'll hurt me terribly because that's what they're supposed to do. And all this happens in my heart because my head is telling me I'm wrong about everything.

Therapist: Look at you. You've experienced trauma most people can't bear to think about. You grew up in a home where you were not nurtured or given the loving touches children absolutely need to thrive. You waded through thoughts of suicide, an eating disorder, cutting, no self-esteem--and look at you. You're a talented musician. You have a stable, beautiful marriage. You've stopped the family cycle of generational abuse with your treatment of your children. You're in the process of raising three well-adjusted, bright kids. You never give up. You go out of your way to love and forgive people. Look at you, Sam. The things you've mentioned are true. I know you feel them. But the things I've just said are true, too.

(long silence)

Therapist: Sam, you're right. You have to be her. And no one would ever wish for that. You don't have a choice. But you have to look at the complete picture. You have beaten the odds in nearly every situation in your life. It's why, when you say to me that you will one day be free of PTSD, I believe you. And that "her" you speak of is part of that. She's the one who coped in any way she could find, but as she grew stronger, she chose healthier, happier ways. And she is you.

me: I still don't want to be her.

Therapist: Because it hurts?

me: So much.

Therapist: I promise, Sam, it won't hurt forever.

More about nothing

Because I have curly hair, sometimes when my leg hair grows in it stays under the skin making a very tiny circle which must be pried out with a needle. It's annoying and I dislike it.

The end.

P.S. Also, I have a lovely tan on my legs as long as you don't look far above my knees, which is where my jogging shorts end and my farmer tan begins. If I decide to go swimming I may have to use fake tan, except I'm afraid it will turn my skin orange and I won't be able to visit AtP because he'll laugh at me. And this story has nothing to do with the one above, except they both have to do with my legs.

The end again.

Random

I ran inside today because of mud. This never happens in July. We have flash floods and rainstorms, but our arid soil dries out in a matter of hours. Last night around midnight we had a gorgeous thunderstorm--very loud and bright. This morning the dirt path I run on is mud. I usually run further on my treadmill than I do outside, mostly because it's boring and I don't stop to look at anything.

I once told Jason he should move here because we have at least ten minutes of sun every day. I can count on one hand the days when we haven't--and I've lived here a very long time. Today's sunshine, however, is trying to make a liar out of me.

It's fifty-five degrees outside; sixty degrees inside my house. I am cuddled up with a sweatshirt, blanket, and hot chocolate. Adam keeps insisting we close the windows, but I like the fresh air. I've been reminding him that four months from now we won't get any. He's not buying it. Whiner.

I always buy flowers for people in my family on their birthdays. Last year Tabitha opted for a potted rose bush covered with tiny blooms, rather than cut flowers. The roses were beautiful for about two months--then all the leaves fell off. I was busy and ignored it. Tabitha continued to water it. Three weeks later there were more leaves growing. Those fell off a couple of months later. Tabitha continued to water it all winter. It limped along, growing leaves and losing them. This spring she transplanted it into a larger pot and placed it in direct sunlight. The plant is covered in leaves now and is budding out. Soon she'll have roses again.

Email

Therapist sent me an email. He says it's okay if I don't talk with him right now, but I should ask him any questions I might have when I feel like talking. I don't have any questions. Tonight I'm tired. I don't want him. I don't want anyone. And if you're someone I love, grant me the latitude to feel this way and don't take it personally. I still love you, I'm just tired.

On a brighter note, however, one of Darrin's nephews sent this to me today:

Dear Sam,
I just wanted to thank you guys again for allowing us to spend the night with you last week. We really appreciated it. The best part was re-discovering how cool you guys are and that not all of our family is... well let's be honest... crazy. The rest of the trip went well. We stopped in South Bend, Indiana and saw Notre Dame University and the College Football Hall of Fame. We then spent the following day looking around at Kirtland, Ohio and the NFL Hall of Fame. But we enjoyed ourselves the most with you guys. And don't forget--when Uncle Darrin kicks the bucket, I still get first dibs on marrying you. Thanks again.

Love,
Darrin's Nephew

If you chat with me, he's the adorable person with me in my profile picture. I'm considering this as proof that even when I'm not at my best, I'm still charming and hospitable. And it's nice to know I have a suitor in tow, should I ever become a widow. I'll answer his email tomorrow.

"...doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do--for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing..." ~Shakespeare

It is an unfortunate fact that if you talk to me frequently, I'll probably tell you what's happening in my life. It's not that I plan things that way, it's just that sometimes I'm caught off-guard and I say whatever is on my mind. This happens more frequently when I am under stress--especially right after I've had a therapy session. Also, I should not drive after therapy, which is why I've been known to take AtP with me several times. He's actually the perfect person for this, because he'll let me talk nonstop while he drives, but I'm talking into his non-hearing ear, which allows him selective hearing--a very good thing because in those moment I rarely screen what I say before I utter it.

Therefore, those who chat with me often have been aware of my current situation for a couple of days, which is about as long as Darrin has known, as well. I'm not good at telling people when I'm pregnant. When Tabitha was expected, I told Darrin's mother in February. Tabitha was born three weeks later. I'm not sure my mother-in-law has ever forgiven me for that. She believes everyone knew before she did. The truth is, she was the sixth person to know. I told Darrin, of course, when I hit week 28 and was put to bed for pre-term labor. He sort of needed to know at that point. I told my parents shortly after that because I needed help taking care of Adam, who was not yet a year old, (DJ was easy--he really needed very little supervision). And I told my bishop who told my RS president, because I asked to be released from all my callings, including visiting teaching. So it's not like I was excluding my mother-in-law. I just don't tell people.

Part of that, however, is because when I was pregnant with DJ, Adam, and Tabitha, I rarely talked with people about myself. And they didn't ask. So I figured it was important only to me and said nothing. It's sort of how I've always viewed the things that have importance in my life--relevant only to me and not to be spoken of.

But because there are a couple of online people who speak with me almost every day, they were told about the miscarriage. And I talked of other things that were deeply personal. And finally, last night, one of them mentioned that perhaps I should talk with someone more appropriate than a young gay man. And he would be completely correct if I actually wished to talk. I need to talk, but I don't want to talk, which are two different things. But I was glad he said something, because it reminded me that sometimes I forget that the things I say make people feel uncomfortable, which is is not my intention.

So--unregulated blabbing to poor unsuspecting chat friends will now cease, and I will dump the rest of what I need to say right here, which is why this blog was created in the first place.

This pregnancy was the result of a condom which, for some reason, malfunctioned. I suppose I could chalk it up to human error, because sometimes Darrin is tired and not circumspect when he dresses himself, and I do not do my part by inspecting the end result. I give us both full marks for negligence. I state this because I want to be clear that we were not trying to get pregnant, nor is that a possibility in the future. I do not enjoy pregnancy, I'm not good at it, and since DJ, Adam, and Tabitha were all preemies (Tabitha was earliest at 34 weeks), it seems prudent to agree that I've done more than my share to help populate the earth and now I'm finished.

I do not want another baby. I experienced an infinite amount of guilt, knowing I was pregnant in a time when I was experiencing suicidal feelings, when I was trying to work through difficult emotional obstacles which pregnancy hormones could alternately mask or exacerbate, and I did not want to have a baby. I wanted to finish what I started. I'm honestly admitting here that I am selfish and I'm not apologizing.

When I noticed signs of losing blood, I didn't really think much of it. I lost small amounts of blood throughout all my pregnancies. It was inconvenient but ceased to be alarming mid-way through my pregnancy with Adam. However, when my uterus began small contractions after seven weeks, I was fairly certain this pregnancy was not going to last. That certainty was confirmed a short time later.

I was relieved, and completely unprepared for what happened next. I've never miscarried before. I found myself feeling angry that Darrin could sit by and be comfortable and dry, as a large contraction sent me running to the bathroom to clean myself up and find a change of clothing. I found myself confused as I sought him out a few moments later to ask him to hold me and tell me I was going to be okay. I tried not to be alarmed by the amount of "stuff" passing out of my body. I don't experience cramping or discomfort during my monthly cycles--so this was obviously something different.

I had become extremely tired when the pregnancy went into its fourth week--the type of fatigue which leaves me in tears simply because I don't know what else to do. This increased, to my amazement, as the baby miscarried. I found myself falling asleep at the most inopportune times. I fell asleep while visiting with Darrin's nephews who stopped by last week to spend the night. I blogged about falling asleep at the dinner table. In those moments, my excuse to everyone is that I'm simply not sleeping well at night--which is true.

I thought I would finish the miscarriage, do a final check with the doctor to make sure everything is okay, and life would continue as normal. It's not going to be that way. Physically, everything seems fine. I started running again yesterday. I have no appetite, which for me is perfectly normal. I'm working a zillion jobs once again. But...

I find myself wondering what it would be like to touch that silky baby hair again, to have a tiny hand curl about my finger, to feed and cuddle and bathe and dress...

Why must I think about this? Why do I wonder what color my baby's eyes would be?

I know some women believe, and have been told that even pregnancies which end in miscarriage are children who belong to them. For myself, for this pregnancy, I do not believe this. I have no desire to have another baby. Why, then, am I caught up in the wondering?

I suppose it's because being able to bring life into the world is a miraculous thing. A baby, innocent and beautiful, and completely vulnerable--even the very brief possibility of a baby which I experienced--awakens thoughts I rarely dwell upon.

And now I've said it all. Those of you I chat with can breathe sighs of relief. We'll go back to talking of regular life. I'm not scary anymore.

I've been very, very tired...

Ground rules if you read this post:

1. Please do not say, "Surely you know how to avoid this." I do. I was. Everything does not always work perfectly.

2. Please do not use this as an opportunity to let me know the details of your similar experience. Although I do want to know, right now I'm still processing my own feelings which are confusing and overwhelming. If I have to throw yours into the mix, I'll probably spontaneously combust, and that's just messy.

3. Please do not tell me this is all for the best. Allow me to be the judge of that.

4. Please do not find the silver lining for me. I'm still trying to digest the facts without making a value judgment.

5. Please do not wonder why I'm talking about this here. It's my blog, and right now there are very few people with whom I feel comfortable discussing it. But I still need to say it. I'm saying it here.

6. Please don't be concerned. I'm fine. Really. And if I'm not, I will be soon.

7. Please don't call me a "poor thing" or any other related endearment. And don't feel sorry for me. I'm doing that in such great abundance, there is no need for it to come from any other source.

So, in case you hadn't already divined this from the ground rules, I have recently been in the process of miscarrying a baby who needed someone less stressed and more prepared than I am in order to grow properly. I've never carried a baby to term--in fact, the longest I carried was 36 weeks. Each successive baby came earlier. This one made it about ten weeks.

Darrin suggested I tell Therapist, which I think was a bad idea. Now he's asking questions about how I feel and other stuff I don't want to go into right now. And I honestly don't know how I feel, so I'm not answering him.

Tomorrow I think I will be finished with the physical stuff. I have no idea how much longer the hormonal/emotional stuff will last.

And, once again, the gospel according to Samantha, age appropriate for my Heathen-almost-12-Primary-class

I'm saying it. Sacrament meeting programs can be boring. Especially when the bishop chooses a "monthly theme". Ick. By the third week the theme has been thrashed beyond belief. Usually the speaker during the fourth week was absent at some point during the previous three weeks and simply reiterates one more time what someone else says--but that's okay because everyone has stopped listening and is updating their Facebook statuses and playing Solitaire. Heaven forbid there is a fifth Sunday...

Yesterday our speakers were brief. I believe they were finished speaking about thirty minutes before the meeting was scheduled to end. Our bishop decided to pick up the slack and lecture for the remainder of the time. Normally this wouldn't bother me, but the lovely theme this month is "ADVERSITY". I've actually missed the two weeks prior to yesterday (so very glad to have been traveling), but I gave thanks as I walked out of the chapel that next week marks a new month, and therefore a new theme...sigh...why must we have themes....

By the time the bishop finished his tirade about how adversity happens and there's nothing we can do to avoid it, I was ready to go home. It's been a very rough year so far. I don't really need to be told more about adversity. Unfortunately, the lesson I was supposed to deliver to my turning-twelve-in-2009-heathen-Primary-class also dealt with adversity. I hadn't really prepared it because I've been sort of under the weather. I don't usually do that, but occasionally I slack off.

So I got to class--a very subdued, depressed class which had actually paid attention during Sacrament meeting, more's the pity. I decided this would never do. So they got a dose of the gospel according to Samantha.

I first allowed them to reiterate the message they heard in Sac. Mtg. Naturally, they regaled me with doom and gloom, complete with personal experiences and predictions of Armageddon. I finally said, "STOP!"

Question: What are the root causes of adversity?

Heathen Primary Class (HPC) answer: God zaps us.

Samantha answer: Wrong!

HPC answer: But that's what the bishop said.

Samantha answer: Possibly. If so, he's wrong, too.

Short lecture in answer to question one: Adversity happens to everyone and occurs in many forms. To someone who believes they should be able to fly, gravity is adversity. It happens, but God does not necessarily cause it, although He is omnipotent and certainly capable of it. But God doesn't have to zap us, because we're good enough at causing problems to zap ourselves. He simply has to sit and wait for us to provide all the adversity we need.

HPC interruption: But the bishop said adversity comes from Satan.

Short lecture, continued: Certainly, yielding to temptations stemming from Satan can bring about adversity. But my guess is that we don't need his help. Don't even begin to tell me that Satan is responsible for your actions the last time you punched your brother or trashed his X-box. That was all you. So, yes, certainly Satan can have a hand in adversity, but once again, we mostly create it for ourselves, so he can sit and wait, just like God, for us to be stupid or act unkindly.

HPC interruption: Are you saying the bishop is wrong again?

Samantha: Yes, it's certainly possible, and in this case, probable that he is wrong. Yes, I know he's your uncle. Be sure to let him know I said this--but also include what I will say next.

Long lecture/discussion begins:

I. Adversity is a natural consequence of life. It can come through making poor choices that hurt us or other people. It can come through illness. It can come with the weather. It's simply a part of life.

II. Adversity can make or break us. Each of you Heathen-almost-12-Primary-kids has to decide how you'll handle the inevitable adversity. I suggest taking a moment to feel sorry for yourself, cry if necessary, complain to your parents, then figure out the best way to deal with it. Try to choose solutions that will bring happiness to you and others, and keep you healthy and strong. Doing the opposite will simply make you weaker which will make the next bout of adversity seem even more unfair and difficult.

III. Satan does not make us have adversity. He can, however, entice us to believe we're the only ones who experience it, and encourage us to remain immobile and self-indulgent. Discouragement is a grand tool which keeps us from learning from difficulties and growing into better people. Satan would also like us to believe we are innocent bystanders picked on by bullies. Try to have a little more self-possession than that. Don't be victims. That's just stupid and makes people hate being with you.

IV. God does not zap us with adversity. He does, however allow it to happen.

HPC interruption: Why?

Because each of us, even the most heathen almost-12 members of my Primary class, was given the gift of choice. If He interferes, he takes away that gift and God doesn't go back on His word. He promised we could choose--even those who choose to hurt innocent people.

HPC interruption: I think that would be hard for God to watch. I think He wants to help the people who need help and stop the people who want to hurt.

I think you're right, to a certain extent. But even those who hurt usually have a background none of us would want to own. My guess is they're reacting to things in their lives that are painful to them. But instead of taking away their right to choose, God does something else.

HPC interruption: He makes big storms that kill the bad people!!

No. He doesn't make storms.

HPC interruption: What then?

Do you remember when we talked about Christ in Gethsemane? What happened there?

(dead silence...blank stares)

Um...the Atonement? Do you remember?

HPC: Oh. Yeah.

Kind of an important thing--try not to forget it? Anyway, do you think that feeling all that we've felt, suffering the penalty for all our sins, and learning everything he could about the pain and sadness we and everyone else who has lived, and will live, has felt...do you think that might be considered adversity?

HPC: Yes!!

You're very enthusiastic today. Okay, so when Christ had his greatest adversity, do you remember what I told you Heavenly Father did for him--to help him?

(yet again, blank stares and silence)

Sigh...He sent an angel...

HPC interruption: He did?

Yes. And the angel stayed with Christ and gave him help and support so that our Savior could complete the atonement for us.

HPC: So if we have adversity, God sends us angels?

I think he does. Sometimes the angels might not be seen by us, but we feel strengthened or comforted. Sometimes the angels will be family members or friends, or even strangers who help us out when no one else can.

Young man member of the HPC: I think that's happened to me before.

Do you want to tell me about it?

Young man member of the HPC: Yeah. Once when I was really sad my dad came and asked if I wanted to go with him for a ride. And we didn't go anywhere. We just talked. And then he hugged me.

That felt like an angel visit to you?

Young man member of the HPC: Yes.

(sudden clamor as HPC starts talking at once--all of them have seen angels, apparently)

I'm sure you've all had experiences where someone has helped you when you were sad or in trouble, but we need to continue. So, what God does when we encounter adversity, is not to do anything to stop the adversity, but he helps us learn how to work with others to overcome it. And in the process we learn to love those we help and those who help us, which is one of his commandments. In addition, He sends as many blessings as we will receive. He's blessed us with a beautiful earth, with capable bodies, with talents and brains. And He loves us. All you have to do is ask Him--He'll let you know. But remember, God can bless us until the earth explodes, but if we don't allow ourselves to receive the blessings, if we're certain we can live our lives without His help, we never benefit from them.

(short whispered discussion as HPC wonders how the earth explosion will happen, nipped in the bud by yours truly)

Troubled young woman of the HPC who has been abused and molested by both parents and is now in foster care: Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I feel really happy. But by the end of the day, everything seems sad and awful. That seems like adversity.

I think it is. And so I'm making you a promise. As you experience that adversity, your Heavenly Father, who loves you more than anyone else does, is sending blessings to you like crazy. So I'm sending you on a treasure hunt. When you start to feel like the day is sad and awful, look for the blessings. Go outside and find something beautiful. Take a walk. Help with dinner. Ask if you can fix a yummy dessert. Read one of your favorite books. Go to the bathroom, lock the door, and spend some alone time just with you--and make sure you look in the mirror and notice how pretty you are.

Troubled young woman of the HPC who has been abused and molested by both parents and is now in foster care: I like that idea.

Good. Be sure to do it. And if there are any questions from Mom, Dad or other family members, have them call me. We're out of time. Any questions before we say the prayer?

(large amount of noise as every member of the HPC tries to ask a question)

Well, good. I'm glad you have nothing more to say.

(more noise as they ask their questions more loudly)

Okay--how about this. You write your questions down and bring them to class next week. We'll have a brief question/answer time. And remember, I don't answer the questions, I just tell you how to find an answer yourself. And if one of you writes down the question: "May we have treats next week?" I'll bring them the following week--but only if you write it down. And only one of you can write it.

Interruption from HPC: How will we know if someone's already written it?

I guess you'll just have to communicate a little bit. And I expect a question from each of you, or no treats the next week.

And just in case you were wondering...

1. Today I cried for a very long time over something that has nothing to do with therapy. I think that's a step in the right direction.

2. An eleven-year-old young man from my heathen Primary class told me I was the prettiest teacher he has ever had. I think it was my very cute skirt that made him say that.

3. My seven-year-old niece told me I'm the most fun to talk to of all the old people she knows.

4. I ate a brownie for breakfast/brunch. I think that's a privilege every grown-up should have.

5. I sang, "Can't Help Lovin' That Man of Mine" three times very loudly because Darrin was hogging the bathroom and wouldn't let me in. It worked. He left. But he kissed me as he went out the door, so I don't think he was completely aggravated by me.

6. I jumped on the trampoline as the sun set.

7. I harvested fresh basil and mint from my garden for use in various wonderful foods I made for my immediate and extended family.

8. I sat with my two-year-old nephew under the table and ate mini m&ms that were left over from making rice-crispy treats. We were hiding there so his mom wouldn't tell me not to spoil his dinner.

9. I fell asleep at the dinner table--sort of embarrassing to wake up and find everyone clearing up and giggling at me, but I was pretty tired.

10. I practiced my someday-I-will-be-a grandma skills by crocheting several rows on a teal-green afghan. I used saving-the-world yarn. Each time I use one skein, I recycle three 2-liter bottles. At least, that's what it says on the label. Captain Planet would be proud.

The very appearance...

Awhile ago I received an email questioning my interaction with young, single men. It went like this:

"Even if you're gay, and they're gay, it seems weird that your husband is okay with you being with them. You go to lunch and dinner with them. If your husband was with you it would seem better. But he's not. You're alone with them. If nothing else it has the "appearance of evil" which I would think you want to avoid."

I ignored the email. I just wasn't in the mood to answer it. But tonight, because of a conversation Darrin and I had recently, I am.

First, I have to state unequivocally, that Darrin is aware of everything I do. He knows the people I'm with--and cares about them in the same way I do. He also understands why I choose to spend time with them.

Second, they're not just men--they're gay men. And some of them are not single. They have partners and boyfriends. Add to that the fact that I'm not straight, and you end up with no sexual tension--none. Not even a little. That says something, mainly that I'm perfectly safe in that situation and Darrin has nothing to worry about.

Third, I have always understood that we are to "avoid the very appearance of evil" not because it looks bad to someone else, but because we are staying away, personally, so that we don't feel tempted or compromised. If I'm wrong, and it's all about keeping up appearances, I'll probably have major repenting to do one day because I don't intend to alter my behavior simply because someone chooses to spend their time judging what I do and planning better choices for me. If that person has nothing better to do, well, I'm happy to allow my sinfulness to fill their pondering time, but I might suggest such time would be better spent taking care of abused and neglected children, volunteering in a homeless shelter, or weeding a garden.

Fourth, these are my friends. I choose them. I've never chosen friends based on social norms. I don't believe now is a good time to begin. I spend time with people for the following reasons:

1. I want to get to know them better.

2. I enjoy their company.

3. They make me laugh.

4. They bring me joy.

5. I love them.

6. Occasionally, I spend time with Tolkien Boy just so I can cuddle with him. We do try not to do that in public--not because it might make people believe we were doing something untoward, but simply because Tolkien Boy would rather not have strangers believing he's a straight guy.

Finally, Darrin is completely aware of all my interactions not because I report to him, but because I adore talking to him and I tell him everything. And just in case you were wondering--the only thing that causes him discomfort is the fact that he wishes he could play with my friends, too.

Oh, and I was kidding about number six...sort of...

Yellow Water Lilies

I have two in my kitchen. My nieces brought them to me last night. They're lovely--the lilies and my nieces.

Life is utterly complicated

And if you don't believe me, just wait a little while. The trick is to learn how to navigate the complications and remain afloat while dodging the next obstacle in order to embrace someone you love. I lost the ability to do that somewhere around September 2008 and I've been treading water, trying to get my bearings ever since. And the obstacles are varied and plentiful. Just when I though I'd gotten the hang of my current situation, something else popped up. Lately, I've just been waiting for my head to explode. Once again, I made a bad call as my head still seems to be intact.

In the midst of all this, because I cannot help it, I continue the project I've been working on. Integration. Today I can say the word without wanting to throw up. Finally, I can recognize the positive parts of my work, even if I'm not yet able to find words to describe them.

One thing became clear to me over the past week. The parts of me which I have integrated are aligning emotionally. It's been almost five days since I've had to fight an inner battle each time I feel love for someone in my life. I no longer hear the voice that tells me to be afraid. It no longer warns me not to trust. Two nights ago I told a friend I loved him, and felt completely whole as the parts that are rapidly becoming "me" concurred and echoed the sentiment. That has never happened to me before.

I continue to feel that all this is insane. While I, as an adult, understand the feelings and fears of my past, I had no idea that at some point it would seem as though they understand my need to foster healthy friendships and have come to believe as I do, that there are some people I can trust, some who will not hurt me--indeed, at times they have gone out of their way to protect me and help me heal.

I understand that these parts of me are not living beings. They are neither conscious nor cognizant. Still, they have whispered to me from my past for my entire life, reminding me of their experiences and of what kept them alone and isolated. They are not real people--they are real memories. We learn from our memories. They shape us and predict how we will behave in future situations. I have cut mine off enough times that I had forgotten who I am. I was my own imaginary creation. In the process of integration, I have accepted those memories and allowed them to influence me--but regardless of whether or not this is real, in the process I somehow feel that my reality today has reached backward through time and somehow influenced them, as well. I know. That's not possible.

I cannot explain what has happened, and today I don't want to. I have tasted of peace for a brief moment in reference to my love for and relationships with others. I think, right now, that's enough. And I have no desire to research or graph or ask questions. I just want to have this moment--a memory of caring for the people in my life shared by Samantha-past and Samantha-present...and who knows, perhaps Samantha-future? I don't care about the why. I'm simply glad that, for now, it IS.

There has been a battle raging inside of me for nearly four years. Today it is quiet. It is not a victory, it's a consensus, which is the only way for all parties to win.

In the still of the night...

Everyone is in bed. It's very quiet. I've been dying to talk to someone all day, but the day was too busy. I worked this morning, then had a business meeting that lasted a couple of hours. Darrin's nephews came to visit on their drive back home to New York. They went shopping with me and helped me make dinner. One said he loves visiting me because he never has to ask to help, I just give everyone jobs to do. I suppose that's true--I'm a born delegator. We visited until 11:00 tonight--and I'm still up because the words are finally ready to be said. But no one's here. It's funny the way that always seems to happen to me.

On my mind tonight is a quote from a book I read today in a blog that I follow: "Asking for cuddling wasn't the same as asking for sex." It sticks in my head and repeats incessantly. I'll have to figure out why later.

Am I finally getting better? Sorting through the emotions that were drowning me? I don't know, and progress so rarely seems to take place in a straight line. No doubt my good days will continue to alternate with down days. I hate that, but it's important to understand the reality of healing. It doesn't just happen, and more often than not, there are huge setbacks.

I'm hoping the talking can happen sometime soon. I don't know if it will. The timing has to be right. And sometimes just when I believe I can get it all out, my brain turns off and I have to wait a little longer. Still--two months ago I didn't believe I'd ever find words to express what has been happening. This is progress.

And that's one of my therapy assignments. I'm supposed to chart my progress. If you see him before I do, be sure to let Therapist know I'm doing it. He likes it when I follow directions.

I need to go to bed. I'm hoping for pleasant dreams.

"...to influence a person is to give him one's own soul." ~Oscar Wilde

I have always had a feeling that while some people enjoy spending time with me, when I am gone they forget I was ever there. And while I am storing up memories, they have none of me, and if I'm remembered it's as some amorphous entity working endless hours online--faceless, flat, two-dimensional. "Out of sight, out of mind" seems to fit me perfectly.

I know this is not true. I have ample evidence to the contrary. I just don't feel memorable. And yes, I understand the inanity of that statement. Although, when I remember people I love, there is a tangible quality to the memory. I remember how they feel, or rather, how I feel when I'm with them, how they smell, the sound of their voices. And as visual as I am, I rarely remember how they look.

Therapist believes this is a defense mechanism. Many of my past visual memories are terrifying. He believes, when memory is involved, I'm afraid to look. Perhaps one day that will change. But I have difficulty believing others have such tangible memories of me, and I'm always genuinely surprised when someone mentions they had a thought of me, or something reminded them of me. Again, Therapist believes this is somehow linked to abuse--my need to not draw attention to myself for many different reasons. At this point I assume his conclusions are correct since I'm sort of tired and don't feel like researching their validity.

I'm thinking of this because of events that transpired at my class reunion, which were somewhat odd. It's important for me to note that I did not seek out popularity in high school. That would have made me very uncomfortable. I did have many friends--mostly those who were considered brainy or nerdy, although I will admit to some of the more male people who were involved in sports showing unwelcome interest in me, and at times they were quite insistent about it. I think that's probably enough said. Probably I was well-known, I don't know. It wasn't something I cared about.

Odd events at my class reunion:

1. Everyone was more friendly that was comfortable to me. They wanted hugs and to talk with me and to say nice things to me. This is a good thing, right???? Except--I didn't really know most of them and I had no idea why they were so interested in chatting with me and "catching-up" now. However, I was accommodating and friendly. I hugged them and talked with them. At some point we all grow up, and perhaps that's all there is to it.

2. The photographer suggested we make a guy pyramid and a girl pyramid (okay, scratch that last sentence about growing up), and someone suggested I be on the top row since I was so good at it as a cheerleader. Except, I was never a cheerleader. I wouldn't be caught dead yelling stupid chants about ballgames, smiling like a crazy woman, and twirling pompoms. And I was sort of insulted that anyone assumed that about me. I honestly do not believe I look like an aging ex-cheerleader. And I ended up on the top row of the pyramid anyway, much to my chagrin.

3. A classmate told me I was "so beautiful!" This was admittedly, a person with whom, had she been more interested in girls than guys, I would have been very smitten. As it was, she liked boys--lots of them--and they liked her. She's still lovely, though, and the compliment made me happy. But still, it was weird.

4. One person who was the past recipient of a bloody nose and had to listen to me scream at him for kissing me when I didn't want him to, sought me out to visit with me. He has a lovely family and an equally lovely wife. She's very self-possessed and it didn't bother her a bit (although it bothered me) when he hugged me more than once, and for a little longer than I found comfortable. He gave me his card and told me to be sure to call when I was in Utah next. Who knows? Maybe I will.

5. A woman (past cheerleader/drill team person) I didn't like very much when we were in high school, said hello to me. We chatted a bit. She made a comment--I quipped back--she laughed and said that sounded just like me and I hadn't changed a bit! Except, she had no idea who I was in high school, so how could she know? And why would she feel the need to say that? Weird.

But then something happened that led me to the train of thought I discussed at the beginning of this post. A man appeared--one I spent lots of time with at the end of my senior year of high school. I've not seen him since I left home when I was seventeen. But we did many things together for about three months. We toilet-papered several homes. We drove in his new car. We talked nonstop. He spent about seven hours sleeping beside me from about 3:00 a.m. till 10:00 a.m., the morning after graduation. He called and wrote to me a couple of times after I went to BYU.

I walked up to him, hugged him and told him I was happy to see him...and he had no idea who I was. This might seem to be in the "weird" category, except for one thing--he was always stoned or drunk when I was with him. The truth is, I knew his background. He had a very sad home life. Something hurt inside me whenever I saw him. He was not the sort of person I would normally approach. He was well-known, an athlete, and intelligent but often very stupid. And he liked to fool around with girls. But I couldn't help it. He was sad. And he was acting in risky ways.

So I spent some time just being with him. When he would show up at dances, obviously not sober, I would make sure he got home okay. Sometimes, when I knew he had been drinking, I would take him to the park, or I'd drive him up to the mountains, or we'd do something else. There was a helpless drive to not allow him to destroy himself--or at least, if he was going to destroy himself, to make sure he wasn't alone.

He stayed near me during the reunion. I could tell he was mystified. I knew much about him; he had no recollection of me. He asked questions of others, but got no answers. Interestingly, he didn't approach me or talk to me, he just watched me. I hugged him again before I left, and he said, "I don't have any stories about you." Then he waited for me to tell him what I knew and he did not. I simply said, "I think that's okay."

On the way home I was telling my foster sister, who was my reunion "date", about this and I said, "I don't know why I tried to help him." She said, "Because Sam, it's what you do. You did it with me, you did it with him. You still do it today. You can't stand to see people hurting." I said, "Yeah. It's a problem." And she answered, "I don't think so. You saved my life."

I saved her life. I'm not sure how that works. I provided a place for her when her parents were drinking and abusing her, but we were eleven, and it was my home--which was better, but still abusive. She says I was the first person who didn't want to do anything but give--I wanted nothing in return. Everyone else in her life was using her in some way. But I did want something in return. I wanted her to love me and be my friend. I wanted her to spend time with me and play with me. I wanted her to laugh with me. She says I never asked questions--and that made her feel safe.

So maybe there are times when I make a difference. The interesting thing to me, is this: While I was busy trying to help my friend as we ended our high school years, he also helped me. He didn't hurt me. He didn't ask questions. Even though he doesn't remember it, there were times when he told me he needed me. I wanted to be needed, but not used. He was one of the first men I trusted--and I trusted him when he was at his least accountable. It's all very odd, and I still can't make sense of it all. But it's an interesting juxtaposition. On the one hand, I believe I kept High School Friend alive on more than one occasion, and he doesn't even know it. On the other, my foster sister believes I saved her, when in reality, it was she who saved me.

I do believe a man is designing my feminine protection

Warning: If you are male, this post will be meaningless and possibly revolting. That possibility exists for females as well, but is less likely.

Recently (translation: over the past couple of days) I have noticed that the width of the feminine protection I use seems to have become wider. I am not able to wear tampons...something about having my insides a little messed up at a very early age...as they are very uncomfortable and sometimes they just hurt, so that's not an alternative.

Honestly, how wide does the feminine protection designer speculate my crotch to be? This current state of affairs is not acceptable. I find myself needing to adjust often, as there is bunching and weird edge feeling against my thighs.

I am not a giant. And while I will admit to losing a small amount of weight extremely recently, neither am I tiny. And yet, I find myself now seeking out the "petites" pads marketed to teens which my daughter wears. I refuse to be petite.

The only answer I can come up with: The feminine protection companies forgot that women are probably better suited to design their products. This is not sexist, it's pure and simple common-sensist.

The end.

Two and a half hours of therapy lasts a good long time

Therapist: How much time do you spend with kids eleven to thirteen years old?

me: Moderate amounts. My heathen Primary class is the one that's turning twelve this year. I have a few piano students in that group. Tabitha's been there for the past three years.

Therapist: And when they're trying to figure things out, how do you help them?

me: I don't.

Therapist: You don't?

me: Well, if they're piano students, I teach them how to play the piano. But I don't go beyond that. I've learned my lesson. I don't get involved in their personal lives.

Therapist: Even if you know they don't have anyone else to talk to?

me: That's a fairly sweeping assumption. I see them for about thirty minutes each week. I don't really know them very well.

Therapist: Okay, this isn't working. Why are you trying to stall me out?

me: I know where you're going with this. I don't want to "nurture" or "guide" or "whatever" my eleven-year-old self.

Therapist: Why not?

me: No one else wants to. Why should I?

Therapist: What makes you think no one else wants to.

me: Actually, that's not true. When I asked people to comment on the segments of me, more than one talked about wanting to love and protect that part.

Therapist: Why do you think they said that?

me: A natural response, I suppose. An unprotected child who was in danger and in distress.

Therapist: And you? Do you feel the need to love and protect her?

me: I am her. I'll always be her. I've loved her and protected her the best way I know how for my entire life. It wasn't enough, obviously.

Therapist: There seems to be a little defiance behind that. Am I wrong?

me: Maybe. Probably not.

Therapist: So what's going on there?

me: It's stupid. I realized that all my life I've taken care of myself. I've done whatever I could to continue my life and protect myself from more hurt. And I've done so in such a way that no one noticed. I'm pleasant and accommodating when I'm angry and hurt. I go out of my way to be understanding and kind when I want to scream and cry. I try to see the other person's point of view when they don't care even a tiny bit that they just kicked the crap out of me and I'm dying inside. And now you're telling me I'm the one who needs to love and nurture the hurting adolescent. Is it completely audacious of me to say that I'd like someone else to do that for a change? All this talk about how people are here to take care of each other...how does that work? In the end, I take care of myself. It sort of sucks.

Therapist: Well, I'm not sure how anyone else can reach that adolescent.

me: They can't. I'm just complaining.

Therapist: I think it's understandable that you wish for someone else. You didn't have a mother in the traditional sense. Moms fill an important role in their children's lives.

me: Yes.

Therapist: So what's the conclusion?

me: I was talking to Tolkien Boy one night and I said, "I have to be her." He said something about me learning to love myself--but the truth is, I do. I always have, in some form, but in the past few years I've learned to love all the parts of me and appreciate how they helped me become who I am. But the problem is, when you love someone who has been through something awful, you can talk to that person, offer comfort, hug them, maybe--and then you go away, grateful that burden belongs to them and not you. You regroup, and maybe later, help them once again. But the point is, the "something awful" doesn't belong to you. I, on the other hand, can love and nurture that hurting adolescent, but I can't go away. She's me. It's my problem, my pain, my sorrow. I have to be her. Forever.

Therapist: Yes.

me: So--what's the point? I take care of myself, just as I always have, just as I always will. It seems sad that no one was around to do so when I needed them. And now that I've grown up, the adolescent is locked in my past--no one can get to her anymore. She can't be hurt. But it does seem she can't be comforted either. I don't know how to give her what she wants.

Therapist: Do you know what she wants?

me: Yes. She wants to be held. She wants to be protected. She wants to know someone cares not only about what happened to her--but about her personally. Because for awhile seemed as though no one did.

Therapist: Sam, I think you've encountered people who have told you they want to do those things--and they do care what happened.

me: It's true.

Therapist: You doubt them?

me: I don't know what to think anymore. And I'm not sure what they mean. Of course, they're appalled that something like that could happen to a child. But...then what? I'm grown up now. I don't need people.

Therapist: You don't? Because I'm grown up, and I still need people.

me: To nurture you? To protect you?

Therapist: In many ways, yes.

me: This is very complicated.

Therapist: Sam, you're very set on chasing people away.

me: I'm not. I had lunch with Edgy before I came here. I'm having dinner with AtP tonight and spending the evening with him. I'm spending the morning with FoxyJ, and I'm thinking about visiting Tolkien Boy's mom, because he says I should and I think she's lovely. Then I'm meeting about ten people for dinner that evening, and visiting with Ambrosia Saturday morning before I leave to go to my class reunion where I will mingle with people I used to know and stay with my sister that night, and in the morning I'll go home.

Therapist: That's quite an agenda.

me: Therapist, I'm doing all I can to fight against these feelings. I really am.

Therapist: They're insistent?

me: Yes.

Therapist: When are they easiest to manage?

me: When I'm not alone.

Therapist: How often are you alone?

me: Every day, probably.

Therapist: What do you do when they come?

me: Call Darrin. But he can only talk for a minute or two. So then I look for people online. But there aren't that many. People seem to have jobs, or some nonsense like that.

Therapist: Is there someone you can go visit? A neighbor who will take a walk with you?

me: Not usually, no.

Therapist: Sam, I don't want you to tell me all the reasons I don't need to be worried--because your situation is worrisome. You're alone much of the time. You have feelings that seem to be overwhelming--some which come with thoughts of suicide--on a daily basis. You talk yourself out of contacting people because you're certain they're tired of you, or because you don't want to bother them. This is a problem.

me: I don't think so. It's been going on now for at least two and a half months. I'm still here.

Therapist: That's true. You're here. That's a good thing. However, that's also a very long time to be living with such feelings. They're not anything to ignore.

me: I know.

Therapist: Tell me who is aware of them.

me: My dad. Darrin. My bishop.

Therapist: Is that all?

me: I told three online friends, and asked if they'd be willing to check in with me periodically. But then I told them to never mind.

Therapist: Why?

me: I don't know. I'm not their project. They're all busy. They don't need to worry about the stupid old lady who can't figure out how to live her life like a real person.

Therapist: What did they say when you asked them to never mind?

me: Nothing.

Therapist: Nothing?

me: Yes.

Therapist: Are you sure?

me: Yes.

Therapist: What exactly did you say?

me: I told them we should just carry on like everything was fine--because it is--and they can contact me periodically, if they ever think about it. And if they don't, that's okay.

Therapist: Sam--that might not have been the most helpful thing to say.

me: Probably not.

Therapist: I'm uncomfortable with your current level of support.

me: I'm not.

Therapist: You're not?

me: No. I'm not a child. I'm old. I don't need people checking up on me.

Therapist: Actually, you're not old, you're sifting through child-like emotions from a very traumatized childhood, and you DO need people to help you through this.

me: Can we talk about something else now?

Therapist: We can. We have to come back to this, though, before you leave.

me: Okay.

"...let's make the most of this beautiful day..."

An easy, long run this morning...

Fun lessons with delightful piano students...

Fresh spinach and basil ready to harvest from my garden...

A thunderstorm followed by a double rainbow...

Tomatillos ripening--and I have no idea what to do with them, but I like them a lot...

Crabapples turning faintly pink...

Waiting for Tabitha and my niece to come home from work because we're making gnocchi tonight...

Gorgeous warmth, but not too hot--a high of 76 today and a lovely breeze...

I think for dessert I'll make a chocolate cake.

People are funny.

In my interminable therapy session, Therapist brought up my insecurities in relationships and problems with trust. He rarely does that. I was surprised. He's concerned because I seem to be gravitating back to trusting only Darrin. I'm not sure that's a valid concern. I seem to be in a transitory state, currently, and I have no idea what the end result will be.

Therapist: Sam, there's nothing wrong with having good boundaries. That's not what I'm talking about. It's just that you seem to be wrestling with that old belief that it's "bad" to love Samantha.

me: Maybe.

Therapist: That can put some strain on friendships, if one person is always doubting the other.

me: Yes.

Therapist: You've felt some of that lately?

me: Sort of. But maybe it's all coming from me.

Therapist: Do you believe your friends care about you?

me: Not always, no.

Therapist: Is there something they do to send that message?

me: No.

Therapist: How would you feel if every time you told Darrin you love him, he acted as if he didn't believe you?

me: I don't know. I'd stop saying it, though.

Therapist: And things would feel strained and stressful?

me: Probably.

Therapist: Real friendships are much like love relationships. They're built on trust. They need trust to thrive.

me: Yes.

Therapist: But?

me: But they don't last. You've been telling me this for four years. You say to concentrate on my relationship with Darrin because that's all that really matters in the long run, and probably the only relationship that will endure through my life anyway.

Therapist: I probably did say that. It was my mistake. I didn't realize, because you are very good at masking it, that you were trying to branch out and make close friendships because you needed help and support in addition to Darrin, and also because you felt those friendships would help you feel less dependent on Darrin. Looking at things right now, you absolutely need both spousal support from Darrin, and a network of friends who are aware of you and wish to have contact with you, as well as support you when you need it.

me: I don't.

Therapist: You don't what?

me: I don't need them. I don't want to need them.

Therapist: Sam, we all need people.

me: No. I don't.

Therapist: Where is that coming from?

me: My gut.

Therapist: No. What part of Samantha is saying that. Because I don't think it's the Sam of the past four years who has told me how much she loves the people in her life.

me: I don't want to do this.

Therapist: Okay.

me: Besides, you're actually the only dependable person in my life right now. Through no fault of their own, all those people decided to have lives and problems and other things--I'm not a part of all that. This is not me feeling sorry for myself. This is me being realistic and addressing true life. If I'm completely honest, I have to say that I'm amazed anyone spent as much time as they did with me, and I have no idea what motivated them to do so. I'm an anomaly? a curiosity? and now their curiosity is satisfied and they must attend to their own lives. It's just how things work. And the reason you're dependable is because I have to make an appointment with you.

Therapist: Is that how you interact with others? Stick around until your curiosity is satisfied, then move on?

me: No, but I just said, I'm a freak.

Therapist: And what about Darrin?

me: He's still around, of course. I mean, he lives with me. But he's too tired to really pay attention to what's going on. He works about 60 hours a week. So do I, I suppose. It doesn't leave much time for socializing.

Therapist: Sam, you are in the process of isolating yourself.

me: I'm not. I still talk to people.

Therapist: And what do you talk about? Have you told them how much you're hurting lately?

me: Sometimes.

Therapist: Really?

me: Well, I try. But I know they don't want to hear. They're tired of me always being miserable. They just want me to be happy again.

Therapist: Did they say that?

me: They don't have to.

Therapist: But, did they say that?

me: No.

Therapist: Sam, I think this is all you. I think if you asked them, they'd say they still love to talk with you--about anything--but they're truly interested in what's making you sad. And even if you can't tell them, I still think they'd want to know so they can say they love you.

me: They don't!

Therapist: They don't want to?

me: They don't love me. They think they do, but they don't. They can't.

Therapist: Why not?

me: It's just a bad idea.

Therapist: To love Sam is a bad idea?

me: Yes.

Therapist: Do you know why?

me: No.

Therapist: Samantha, I think this is all part of what we talked about when you first got here. You're confusing emotions and judgments of the past with what is happening now.

me: I know you're right. I don't know what to do about it. I'm really confused.

Therapist: It won't last forever. Remember that. And it wouldn't hurt to ask some straight-forward questions. Ask Darrin if he wants to spend time with you. Ask the friends who talk with you online if they enjoy hearing about what's honestly going on emotionally. Ask real questions and allow them to answer, instead of deciding for them how they feel.

me: Therapist, I know you're right, but I'm very tired. I just want to go somewhere all by myself and stop worrying about navigating feelings that hurt.

Therapist: You have reason to be tired. You've been barreling through all this for a few years with no breaks. And now you're in the really hard part. But this is the time when you need people to help you through. You're pretty amazing, Sam, but I don't think you can do this alone.

me: I want to.

Therapist: I don't think you can.

me: Maybe I can?

Therapist: I don't think so. I think you should talk to them.

me: They're all very busy.

Therapist: Too busy to spend a moment with you?

me: Yes.

Therapist: Have you asked?

me: A few times, yes.

Therapist: And they've said they're too busy?

me: Sometimes.

Therapist: Well, that happens. But I think, if you asked when a good time to talk would be, they'd tell you.

me: Can we talk about something else now?

Therapist: If you want to.

me: Thanks.

I would like this to be a post about climbing Mount Everest but it's not.

So what has been happening to me?

Therapist tells me that everything I've been encountering emotionally, makes complete sense. The problem is, I'm in the middle of it and can't think straight.

I knew that.

Therapist says I've become overwhelmed and depressed because I'm not feeling emotions chronologically, but instead, from all parts of my life, sometimes at once. It's confusing and difficult, even impossible to manage.

I knew that.

Therapist believes I am strong, I can learn to identify what I'm feeling and where it comes from, I will eventually learn how to understand each part of my past, and in the meantime, I definitely need to stop trying to back out of therapy. I need to come more often even if it just allows him to check up on me and ascertain that my stress levels are not becoming dangerous.

I knew that.

In truth, I understand everything that's happening to me. I know it's logical. I believe it won't last forever. But in the meantime, I'm caught up in it. Sometimes it colors my judgment, my conversations, my reactions, my interactions, my beliefs about myself. I am not choosing this. It just is.

Therapist is concerned because thoughts of suicide attend me every day. When I notified him that I was troubled by such thoughts, he was under the impression that this was an occasional occurrence. It's not. I'm sort of becoming used to it, at this point. That concerns him more. His belief is that I'm currently feeling the emotions I shoved away after my cousin left. I'm certain he's right. It would be normal for a barely twelve-year-old, who had spent a summer being raped and abused to feel a need to escape that pain permanently. Naturally, at that age I was unable to process suicidal thoughts, and did the next best thing--I dissociated.

Therapist spent some time talking about how many mental health care professionals view dissociation as a negative thing. He views it as an amazing coping device the brain uses in order to continue its existence. My brain used it especially well, basically deciding that if I could not deal with the overwhelming emotions and events, they would no longer exist--or at least, if they did, they belonged to a person I would no longer be. The downside of the amazing coping device is that it's not healthy and it simply puts off a difficult emotional task. Writing about this makes me tired.

According to Therapist, I am becoming distracted. Some of the emotions are so strong I forget they stem from long ago. I find myself thinking in terms of a teen or pre-teen, especially as I draw conclusions about my interactions with other people. Guilt is a common feeling experienced by survivors of sexual abuse. Mine is back with a vengeance. Therapist says the feeling that I have let people down is part of that, and also the feeling that I must not talk about anything negative stems from misplaced guilt. All of this makes sense--I simply do not know how to manage those emotions. It's frustrating.

Somehow, I'm supposed to figure out how to utilize the people in my support system. I'm supposed to encourage them to ask questions. I'm assigned to tell them what I'm feeling. That's simple enough, yes?

It's not simple at all. No one likes to feel they're forcing someone to talk. And I'm very good at sending out signals to leave me alone. Also, I'm likely to talk if someone forces the issue, but not about what I need to. I'll talk about something--most likely something boring--until whoever is talking with me has to leave. I'm sabotaging myself and I don't understand why.

I'm overwhelmed by the thought that people are tired of me. Therapist says they're not. He also said, even if he wasn't my therapist, he'd want to talk with me often. And he says he's never tired of talking with me about this particular issue because even though it feels like it, I'm really not circling at all. Every step is new, although it might reference something I've done previously. My instinctive responses:

1. He has to say stuff like that because I'm paying him to listen to me.

2. He only talks with me once a month, not every day.

3. He's lying.

Therapist says those responses are stemming from my past, not my present. I'm having difficulty believing him.

I have a very strong belief that I am no longer the person most of my friends know and love. I feel that I've become less lovable, somehow, and no longer someone they want in their lives. Therapist says these feelings are resulting from the recent loss of a key support person and friend, who was blatantly honest about no longer wanting or needing me in his life. Therapist says, under the best of circumstances that would be difficult, and I am not operating under the best of circumstances. He urged me to believe that the remainder of people who know and support me would be unhappy and insulted to be compared to the person who is now gone. I'm trying. This is not easy. Therapist assigned me to ask people if they feel I've become a different person--someone less likable than the one they used to know. That's not a fun question at all.

I feel I have lost my sense of self, and I have no self-esteem. Therapist believes this taps directly into how I felt after my cousin left, which makes sense. But he offered no remedies, and I can come up with none on my own.

Therapist says I will eventually have to learn how to address the parts of myself I have integrated. I mentioned I'm concerned that in the process of addressing them, I'll keep them as separate entities, rather than portions of my past. I talked about my feeling that I need to own them--to be them. Therapist said that's a good point and he'd think about it. Translation: Therapist doesn't know how to respond to that and he'll forget it as soon as I leave.

I have some assignments. I can't remember most of them. I think they'll come back to me when I get more sleep. I suppose the up side is that I'm getting help. That's a good thing. Someday, I don't want to need that kind of help anymore.

Therapy was sort of unusual. For one thing, the session lasted two and one-half hours. That's a long, long time.

I'm still tired from talking with him. I'm not going into details tonight because I need to sleep. It's been awhile since I've done that.

Was it helpful to talk to Therapist. Yes, it always is. It was also aggravating. I could see him dying to say, "I told you so." He did warn me that I might end up a bit confused and overwhelmed by the integration process. A bit. Huge understatement. He did suggest I make more frequent therapy visits as I worked through integration. He did say he was concerned.

I rarely listen to anyone.

He kept telling me that all I am currently experiencing is evidence that the integration was successful. It's not helpful to hear that.

However, I'll write more later. I'm going to bed.

Nope, still in a funk--so skip this post

I see Therapist tomorrow.

I keep wondering what that means. For a long time I could talk. I could say some of the things that were hurting me. I can't anymore. I don't know why. There's so much more now than there was before--or maybe I can just see more of it now. It gets into my throat and strangles me.

I did try to talk with a friend recently. She said she doesn't understand what the big deal is. That's fair. I don't either. If I did, I'd have something to look at, or at least to research. I left that conversation wondering, for the millionth time, what's wrong with me.

I tried to talk to another friend. He suggested I never made any progress to begin with--that I'm back where I was before I began therapy because things have never changed. But I think he's wrong. I remember being able to talk. I remember not feeling empty and numb. I remember this. I'm sure it was real.

I tried to talk with my sister. Nothing came out. Somewhere in the pit of my stomach lies the certainty that I must not say anything real.

I am doing what Therapist said. I'm going outside, loving the things that are beautiful. Today two butterflies kept me company as I ran. The sky was cloudless and incredibly blue. My favorite wildflowers are everywhere right now. Therapist told me to look for these things--to notice them. I always do.

It's not helping.

There is a voice in my head telling me that it's my own fault I feel this way. It says there's nothing really wrong; I'm fabricating all of this "stuff". I wish it was telling