It is Christmas

Soon I will go to bed. First I will fill all the stockings with care, and finish a letter to my Darrin--his only gift from me this year. Somehow, knowing my husband, it will be as precious to him as any gift I have purchased with money in all the years we have been married.

Regardless of one's belief about the birth of a Savior, there is something healing and hopeful in a day dedicated to "good will to [mankind]". In this long, dreadful year, I have spent countless hours trying to be sure those closest to me know how very much I love them--how my life is better because they are present--how important and meaningful each moment with them is to me. I have not done this because I need sympathy or support, but because in the act of sharing love I find renewal and relief.

For any who may read my message, I wish you peace and joy. I have found both in spite of the turmoil of this year. Often those have come from my communion with deity, and my belief in my Savior, but equally as often, I have found those things during a conversation with or a hug from a loved one. Occasionally, I have had the luxury of being able to relax fleetingly as a friends shared my burden in different ways.

Tonight I celebrate the birth of my Lord and Savior. To my loved ones who join me in this, I wish you a Merry Christmas filled with meaning and joy. To my loved ones who embrace beliefs different from my own, I extend my love and gratitude for your friendship. To both groups--thank you for being in my life.

Good night.

A whole lot of nothing

1. The Poll

Clearly I'm observant when it comes to noticing those who like the smell of bleach--a trait which will no doubt come in handy, well, never.

The results:

Lovers -- Men = 54% Women = 15%

Fence Sitters -- Men = 26% Women = 50%

Dislikers -- Men = 20% Women = 33%

Haters -- Men = 0% Women = 2%

So now you know. Thanks to those of you who voted, thus making it possible for me to share but one of the many pointless hypotheses, speculations, and ideas rolling about in my head.

2. Google ads which show up in my email

I think it's funny that the featured ad when I look at my spam mail is this: Spam HashbrownBake--serves 8. And if you decide to click on that link and try the recipe, I expect you to let me know how it tastes.

3. My daughter

She came downstairs last night with a bowl of Thai Coconut Curry soup--which is her favorite. I debated for thirty seconds whether or not I would let her know the dishes in the dishwasher (where she retrieved her soup bowl) were dirty. I settled on not telling her, thus allowing soup enjoyment without engaging the gag reflex. Does this make me an unfit mother?

4. New Weird Feelings

I've missed people before. Definition of missing people according to Samantha: A longing or wish to make contact with someone, usually having the duration of 10 seconds - 10 minutes. Then it goes away. The feelings are occasionally intense (the 10 second ones), but when they leave I'm left wondering what triggered the silliness in the first place.

New Weird Feelings are much different--and I don't like them at all. Problems with New Weird Feelings:

A. They aren't going away. They stay and stay and stay and stay....

B. They're distracting. I find myself thinking of the person or persons inspiring the feelings and before I know it, I've lost track of what I was doing. This is not a good thing, especially when I'm trying to work or carry on a conversation.

C. They're confusing. I've felt this way when I was very young and a pretty, ummm, person caught my eye and/or heartstrings--but that happens all the time with twitterpated young people who daydream about romantic crap. And this is not romantic at all. It's a longing to be with people I love, yes. But these are people for whom I have no capacity to feel romantic/twitterpated/whatever. Result: confusing.

New Weird Feelings go beyond the simple "I miss you" stuff I've felt in the past for people in my life. There is a need to be in the presence, to feel arms around me, to hear voices, see faces,know those I'm longing for are real. And I absolutely do not understand this. I don't know what is triggering the feelings, nor how to make them dissipate. And they are passing the "bothersome" point.

I tried to discuss New Weird Feelings with a few people over the past couple of days. First person I discussed it with had no idea what I was talking about (and was obviously uncomfortable with the topic). Second person seemed to understand but had no idea why I was having stress about New Weird Feelings. She felt them all the time and believes they're perfectly normal. And while I agree they might be normal for some people--for me they are brand new and not normal in the least. Third person laughed at me and welcomed me into the "real" world. Fourth person spent an abundance of time allowing me to talk about New Weird Feelings, lent me some of his perspective, and agreed that he had also experienced similar feelings. But all of this has left me feeling more frustrated because I'm no closer to understanding the feelings, nor to making them leave.

The bottom line about New Weird Feelings: I don't like aching to be with anyone, regardless of the nature of our relationship. It feels vulnerable and beyond my control. But it seems pointless to feel that way about people I see fairly frequently (Samantha translation of "fairly frequently": more often than every ten years). Sigh... stupid feelings...

5. Darrin did not get the job

There's really nothing more to say about that.

6. New found joy discovered the first week of December

Has taken a vacation. Probably stress chased it away. I'm feeling a lot of that right now. And after a lovely hiatus of no flashbacks, I experienced more than one while in Utah, all of which occurred during enormously inopportune times, the last two happening when I had no way to release the post-flashback stress (I was in a meeting) which resulted in extreme fatigue. This was not good, as I had to drive for six hours immediately following the meeting (again, no way to allow the stress build-up to express itself). I found myself dozing off several times during the first 90 minutes of the drive, and was almost killed when a semi cut me off and I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop before plowing into the back of the rude driver's trailer.

I pulled off in a restaurant parking lot as soon as I hit civilization and slept for about an hour (yay--nightmares--more stress), then I ate some protein (translation: Samantha ate meat--shudder) because that seems to help my body stop shaking after a more-than-one-flashback episode. I don't know why. I'm not sure I care. Then I drank enough diet Coke to last the rest of my life and drove the final hours of my trip without incident.

Anyway, the lovely "life is good and I'm living it" feelings have taken a vacation. I'm hoping they'll be back soon. In the meantime, there are other stupid complications to tend to.

7. Other stupid complications

Eating disorder, which has been manageable to the point of not even being worrisome, is beginning to rage. I once followed a blog where a young man gave the eating disorder a name (Rex) and drew pictures of the monster. I understand this because EDs seem to have a life of their own. But I am no longer a teenager who needs to fill an aching need. I am not a child who lives with abuse. I am not an adolescent afraid to sleep in her own bed. I am no longer silent. Nonetheless, there is something causing the disorder to awaken and woo me. And I am tired.

Add to that the fact that my pain tolerance has increased to the point that I rarely notice any pain--at all. Darrin pointed out this week that my hands are covered in small nicks and cuts and I have a few burns on them, as well. He's concerned because I've been running about twice as long as I usually do, and this, combined with increased pain threshold, puts me at risk for a running injury which I won't notice until it has possibly become serious.

Sigh...one step forward...two steps back...

8. Christmas carol givaway

I'm home again and will be continuing this project until Christmas Day. Let me know if you'd like me to add you. I'm thinking of Irish music tonight, and will possibly add some extras to make up for missing the days when I was traveling. I love Christmas.

"We are never so...forlornly unhappy as when we have lost our love object or its love." ~Sigmund Freud

I am...very upset with Tolkien Boy, which is pointless, for he no longer exists. Months ago he threatened to do away with himself, leaving me feeling helpless and sad, and now he has followed through with his threat and is no longer. The Broken Arms has disappeared, along with it's blog-author.

It's a blog. Tolkien Boy never did exist outside of the realms of the Internet. Nevertheless...I'm upset.

I met Tolkien Boy on the Broken Arms. He had, at one time, a chat box on his sidebar where we shared our first almost-real-time conversation. He wrote a few posts in my honor and gave me a shout-out occasionally. He wrote a story just for me...well, it was mine for awhile. It's author reclaimed it for publishing, so I suppose only the memory of the tribute belongs to me, but even that's something. Not many people can say Tolkien Boy wrote them a story and then took it back. For about a year Tolkien Boy came to play in my Beautiful World, and I took up fleeting residence in the comments section of The Broken Arms. Now it is all gone.

It is inordinately heartless for Tolkien Boy to not only leave, but to take with him all traces of his four-year existence. What he does not seem to realize is that I fell head-over-heels in love with the words he wrote in his blog, and I must admit, with him as well, and he has broken my heart. Ah well, better my heart than my arms, I suppose, given my vocation. Even if my heart never heals, I can still play the piano.

I know Tolkien Boy's creator in real life. I love talking with him, spending time with him, arguing and playing with him. He often listens to me as I rant or spew craziness, and assures me that I'm not insane (even though we both know I'm on the edge). Sometimes he lectures me, or hands me a large amount of good advice. And he can hug me with real arms.

Still...

I knew and loved Tolkien Boy first. And now he's gone and he took a huge piece of my heart with him--which means that's all gone, as well.

If you need to find me in the next year, I'll be hiding at the foot of my bed...weeping softly...and should you come across that piece of my fractured heart, don't return it to me. It belongs to Tolkien Boy.

Ugh!! Work time is eating up my blog time. :-(

Those of you who have asked to be added to the Christmas Carol delivery list will receive your first song tonight. If you're interested in previous offerings let me know. I now have no idea how many days I've been doing this, but I think I started about a week ago.

When I was young, we lived in a place that got reception for two television channels...sometimes. Cable was available, but my parents didn't want to pay for it. And honestly, I've never been too interested in watching television. It requires one to sit still for an extended period of time--not a skill I've ever mastered.

As we had no television to speak of, when Christmas vacation began we spent the mornings sledding and the days playing games, doing chores, reading, and always listening to Christmas music. My parents were great fans of Christmas collections distributed by True Value. We listened to the carols repeatedly, choosing the ones we liked, mocking the ones we thought were stupid. Poor Wayne Newton was ridiculed and mimicked as he lisped through "Blue Christmas", we grunted along with "White Christmas" in our best Louis Armstrong imitations, "Noel" became the alphabet song (No L, no M, no N, no O----, no P, no Q, no R, no S, no T...and so forth until the song finally ended), but the song receiving the most attention from us was "Feliz Navidad."

None of us understood the words. We knew it was repetitive, but it made no sense. So we made up our own words and sang it all day long. It went something like this:

Feliz navidad.

Feliz navidad.

Feliz navidad, perspire when you vacuum the rug.

Feliz navidad.

Feliz navidad.

Feliz navidad, perspire when you dust the bookshelf.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas from the bottom of my spleen.

Feliz navidad.

Fleas on your dad.

Fleas on your dad, perspire when you set the table.

It was a perpetual tune sung as loudly as possible, and every sister (there were six of us) belted the "I wanna wish you" part because she wanted her chosen internal organ to be heard above everyone else. And if, by some coincidence, more than one of us chose the same body part, it was given an eternal resting place in the song for the remainder of the Christmas season--it had to be said every time the song was sung (which was all the time).

The second year Darrin and I were married we had our own apartment and a tiny Christmas tree. Finals were over, and I was making some sort of Christmas treat. Darrin was home from work and watching television. I was absorbed in my task, when Darrin interrupted me:

Darrin: What are you singing?

Samantha: Huh?

Darrin: You're singing something.

Samantha: I am?

Darrin: Yeah. It's familiar, but I can't figure out what words you're saying.

I paused, thought for a moment, then realized I'd been singing "Fleas on your dad, perspire when you make the cookies..."

Samantha: It's nothing. Just a baking song.

Darrin: No. I'm sure it's a Christmas carol.

Samantha: I don't think so. It's just a good song to sing when you're making cookies.

Darrin: It IS a Christmas carol. I think you have the words wrong.

At this point I was giggling. I said he was mistaken, he went back to his television, and I sang a little more softly. Later that night, two of my younger sisters came to visit. They brought goodies to be combined with my cookies on plates to deliver to friends and neighbors. As we assembled the plates, the song began like a reflex. We couldn't help ourselves. Nor could we stop giggling at how stupidly clever we were as we made up words. Darrin poked his head into the kitchen.

Darrin: You're singing it again.

Samantha: Singing what?

Darrin: That Christmas carol. But you aren't singing the right words.

My sisters began to laugh helplessly. Darrin looked confused. I told him I'd explain later, and the three silly sisters left to deliver yummy stuff. When we were finished, I dropped them off at home and drove to my apartment. Darrin met me at the door:

Darrin: HA!!!

Samantha: Ha, what?

Darrin: It IS a Christmas carol. Jose Feliciano sings it. In Spanish.

Samantha: Not all of it.

Darrin: And you're making up words to it.

Samantha: Maybe.

Darrin: What are you saying.

Samantha: We're just translating the words into English.

Darrin: Sam. My family is from Spain. We speak Spanish. You are not translating.

Samantha: I'm translating it into what I want it to say.

Darrin: How come your sisters know what you're going to say before you say it? Did you make it up together.

Samantha: Sort of.

So I told Darrin the story of "Feliz Navidad". He rolled his eyes at me and told me I was very weird, which was why I didn't want to tell him about it in the first place. Two days later we were with my family for Christmas dinner. Darrin was mashing the potatoes (which became his job that year and every year after that), and I was making a salad. Suddenly I became aware of Darrin humming...then quietly singing...I strained my ears to catch the words...

Feliz navidad.

Feliz on your dad.

Fleas on your dad, perspire when you mash potatoes.

In that moment, I knew I there was no doubt. I would love him forever.

P.S. Still not too late. Let me know if you want to be added to the possibly-illegal-but-I-don't-think-it-is Christmas carol giveaway.

Bleach

I do not like the way it smells. At all.

I've met a number of women who feel similarly, but no men. AtP, in fact, rhapsodizes about the scent, citing it as one of his favorites. I have yet to meet a man who dislikes the smell of bleach. They love it in varying degrees, but none have told me it smells awful. My current hypothesis is that something in the male olfactory system causes bleach to smell nice to men, whereas a similar but opposite something in the female olfactory system causes bleach to smell nasty to some, but not all, women.

So--because I was discussing this with Tolkien Boy, and he's not sure I'm right, I'm posting a poll in my sidebar. Please vote. Please tell your friends to vote. Don't try to skew the results just because you want me to be right or wrong. I want to get an accurate sampling.

Admit it--you think it's interesting, too.

P.S. It's still not too late to add your name to my email list on the possible-illegal-but-probably-not Christmas Carol giveaway. Tonight I'm thinking about sending Gaelic carols.

Sometimes Darrin and I do not agree

This morning blessed me with a beautiful sunrise. I don't have a picture.

Last year Darrin asked me what I'd like for Christmas. I told him I'd like a small digital camera. Immediately he began shopping. I'd chosen a few moderately priced models small enough to carry with me without being an inconvenience. I don't like carrying things I don't need, nor do I take things with me just-in-case (those of you who know me also know I do not carry a purse--too much trouble and I don't know how to wear one anyway, in spite of the fact that Ambrosia tried to teach me).

I went with Darrin to a camera store and showed him my choices. He wasn't impressed. I was regaled with the many options of THIS camera, or the assets of THE OTHER camera. He held up many, but all were large and bulky with too many gizmos and gadgets for me to be happy. And he wanted to spend more money than I could justify. We left the store empty handed.

Darrin began shopping online, determined to buy me a camera. Christmas came and went, but he continued his quest. Finally, in August, a digital camera was delivered to our door. I asked Darrin about it. He sheepishly admitted he had purchased it for himself. In his excitement to buy me a camera, he decided I could never be satisfied with a really good one, so he decided to get one for "us" to share. Translation: I didn't choose what he wanted me to choose so he bought what he thought I should like and claimed it for himself.

I'll never forget the first time I asked to use "our" camera. For about three days he decided he just couldn't remember where he kept it. I knew where it was, and so did he, but I went along with the game. Each day I reminded him I needed "our" camera located and he went into a flurry of looking. Finally, on the third day, I asked why he was reluctant to let me use it. He protested for thirty seconds, then finally admitted to a bit of possessiveness and concern that I might break his new toy. Never mind the fact that I have never broken even one gadget in our home (this is mostly due to the fact that I only use a few favorite ones and I actually take care of them). I stared at him for a long time. The purpose of this, of course, was to help his guilt reflex snap into place. And it worked.

Darrin found the camera. He lectured me on its use until he realized I was not listening, then grudgingly handed me his new baby. I snapped the photos I needed and gave it back to him. And then we had an almost-fight.

Darrin: You don't need it longer?

me: Nope.

Darrin: Umm...you can keep it a little longer if you want to. You might want to use it later.

me: That's okay. I don't want to.

Darrin: You don't? Why?

me: I'm finished. I took the pictures I needed. And besides, I don't like your camera.

Darrin: OUR camera.

me: YOUR camera. You chose it, you bought it, it's yours.

Darrin: But I bought it for us.

me: No. You didn't. If it had been for US you would have taken into account my desires and opinions when I told you what I wanted, instead of trying to make me want the one you liked best. I don't want a big fancy camera like that, and I will use it only when I have to. When I can afford it, I'll buy a smaller one, as I wished to in the first place.

Darrin: Are you upset?

me: Nope.

Darrin: I think you are.

me: I'm not. This happens every time I want to buy something other than toiletries and groceries. You're very concerned I won't like what I choose, so you have to choose for me. I've tried to explain that I'm usually very certain of what I want before I ever go shopping, but you don't seem to believe me. There have been a few times when I've told you I WILL buy what I choose (example: our Honda, which I adore), but most of the time it's just not worth it. Things aren't that important to me. They are to you. So--you choose them and they're yours.

Darrin: Give me one example of when I've done that.

me: Two years ago I was supposed to get a new cell phone. I chose the one I wanted and ordered it. You waited until I went to work, then you changed the order to the one you thought I would really like. I had told you I didn't want it. You were certain I did. I was not happy when the phone arrived, but I've used it because returning it would be a pain, and if something went wrong with the one I chose, you would have taken too much of my valuable time telling me how, if I had just taken the one you got for me, there would have been no problems.

Darrin: I don't do that.

me: Not often, no. But often enough that I've learned my lesson. If I can live with your choices, I do. But just so you know, I always wish I could decide for myself.

Darrin: You don't like your phone?

me: Nope.

Darrin: And you don't like the camera.

me: Nope.

Darrin: But when I tried to help you buy a laptop, you just ignored me. You didn't buy anything I told you to.

me: As I said, occasionally I buy what I wish in spite of your advice. The laptop is my work computer. It is exclusively mine. Therefore, I believe I have final say in the chosen purchase.

Darrin: I don't think I do that.

me: I know you don't.

Darrin: If I do that, it's not because I'm trying to always get my way.

me I know. It's because you believe you know best. But you don't. Sometimes I know what I like better than you do.

Darrin: Are we fighting?

me: I don't fight over "things". So, no.

Darrin: And you're not mad?

me: No. But when I budget the money, I am going to buy a camera I want to use. And I'm not going to ask you about it first.

Darrin: How will you choose it.

me: I believe I will select the color I like best.

Darrin: That's a really bad way to pick a camera! You have to...oh...that's what you're talking about.

me: Yup.

Darrin: Okay. You made your point.

me: Thank you.

Darrin: Sam, you won't really choose a camera just because you like it's color, right?

me: I haven't decided yet.

The camera will probably never happen. That's okay. I'm not someone who takes pictures frequently. But there was another motive for confronting him. In February we are getting a new phone. Darrin has already tried to commandeer my phone since his disappeared with his job and he just likes carrying one. I'm fine with sharing, as I don't use the phone all the time, but phone sharing seems to be unpleasant for Darrin. He has unhappily agreed that because I travel far more often than he, I ought to have the phone at least 15% of the time (which means he knows I need it about 80% of the time), and I know I'm going to be the one using it the most, therefore I AM going to choose it. I've spent two years with Darrin's choice. The groundwork has been laid. The next choice will be my own.

Happy Birthday, Jesus.

Tonight I'm sharing a Christmas Carol with everyone--not just the people who have opted in to the email offerings.

I love this season.

Taking a brief hiatus from my Christmas Carol walk down memory lane.

Mostly because in the past couple of days PTSD is becoming a bit intense. Sleep is fitful and filled with unhappiness. Not good for me, as I just began another job and a couple of my current ones just became unexpectedly busy this week. Anyway, yesterday I tried several of the strategies on my list to help alleviate the stress. Unfortunately, I'm not good enough at self-management yet. I still need grounding help from another person, which upsets me. I want to be able to do this by myself (picture me stamping my foot and pouting)!!

Also unfortunate was the fact that everyone else seems to be as busy (or busier) than I am. Darrin was unavailable. I reached out to a few others--all busy. The panic attack could not be kept at bay. It was not pretty. Enough said.

Today I'm feeling the after effects of that lovely experience. Still shaky and on edge; still feeling the panic drifting through me at random moments; still prone to unpredictable bouts of tears linked to nothing in particular; still cranky and feeling insecure beyond reason; still fighting stupid thoughts. Fortunately I'll be working at home today and have nothing pressing. This will all pass soon enough.

In spite of the current state of affairs, I keep feeling as though this is simply "leftover". I feel as though I've been through one of the most lengthy, painful experiences of my life, but it's winding down, almost finished. I'm still rallying, searching, finding out how much is left of me, but I also feel completely certain that the parts that hurt the most have passed.

When I was living in denial, hearing of people who have experiences similar to mine made me angry--not in the way I should have been, but conversely angry at the victim. I had all sorts of reasons that person did not self-protect enough, did not prepare well enough for such an event, should have made better choices, should have told someone, should have screamed or fought or...anything.

Now I understand those judgments had nothing to do with the people whose stories I was hearing. They were self-directed. Through self-accusation and judgment I somehow hoped to make all that I had "forgotten" completely disappear. I'm not sure how I expected that to happen--I just did.

Sometimes I hear others speak the words I used to think, in reference to someone who has endured some sort of domestic violence, or rape, or abuse. My head thinks, You just don't understand... But then I wonder if they do and as I used to be, are trapped between the truth of their realities and the tiny fantasy of superiority which keeps the blackness at bay and grants one more day of sweet denial, and my heart hurts a little bit.

Living with the truth is better, and far more painful. It opens up ugly possibilities most people would like to, and should be able to ignore. The truth brings up questions of self-worth, and human cruelty, and how one can ever develop healthy love and trust for others. Living without the truth, however peaceful and pretty, places walls which prevent those traits from developing anyway, so it's not like one can side-step the inevitable day when one finally confronts the demons and hopes to survive the ravenous depth of despair such confrontation brings.

And when everything has been disassembled, labeled, analyzed, recategorized, and accepted, somehow it has to find a place again. Because the mess belongs to me, I am the one who will assign it a place of belonging. This is the difficult part. So much of my past I wish to discard...and it is not possible. I can't take experiences and randomly make them disappear. They are mine. I must keep them.

For a long time I kept them on a display table. If I had to look at them, I didn't want to do it alone. If I had to believe they were real, I needed others to also acknowledge it. If I had to own those experiences, I wanted anyone who was a part of my life to understand where I had come from, and why occasionally, I might act in ways that seemed a bit out of character--not often, of course, because dealing with a frequently irrational person is too much to ask of anyone.

And now? I'm tired of looking. I know it's there. I know it's mine. I know it's me. I don't want to see it anymore. Perhaps this is what happens when one grows physically old. The body no longer looks the way you remembered. It's grey and stooped and wrinkled. It's yours--it's you--but it feels unlike the person you always were. And maybe there comes a time when you no longer need to look in the mirror anymore. You're just old. No one really looks at old people...not even you...

As I think of this a voice inside me which cannot be stilled cries out. I must not ever stop looking. Young girls and boys endure daily the things I remember but no longer encounter. If I put it behind me, I'll become complacent. I won't do what I can to stop the abuse cycle, or help survivors of rape, or keep trying to manage stupid PTSD, or reach out to those who need to give and receive love--and I need them more than they need me.

At this point I'm not sure what to do next. I think, though, I probably need to wait until I've rested from the current PTSD battle. Everything is all jumbled up right now, and nothing makes sense.

And...my stop talking mechanism just snapped into place, so I guess I'm done.

Just so you know

If you commented on my recent posts, and I have access to your email address, I'm adding you to my list. At this point, you have to opt out.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

Merry Christmas. :-)

A Christmas Carol; the saga continues

Darrin and I spent two Christmases with his family the year before and the year after we were married. Then we moved from the Bay Area to our current lovely home, miles away and thousands of feet higher. The year we moved here, it snowed on the Fourth of July. I cracked out the Christmas music.

Darrin: Why did you put in that music?

Sam: It snowed. It is necessary to play this kind of music when it snows.

Darrin: It's Christmas music.

Sam: Yup.

Darrin: Sam, it's July--summer.

Sam: Not from where I'm standing. Have you looked out the window today?

Darrin: The snow will be gone tomorrow.

Sam: Probably. So I have to play as much music as I can right now.

Darrin: Sam--I don't even really like Christmas music. It's fine in December, but not now.

Sam: Did you know that in the National Forests they celebrate Christmas on July 25th. They decorate with lights and play Christmas carols and everyone exchanges gifts.

Darrin: You're making that up.

Sam: I'm not. And I was there. And I participated. And we even made marshmallow balls and had a marshmallow ball fight.

Darrin: I don't believe you.

Sam: Okay, we didn't make marshmallow balls, we just threw marshmallows at each other. But Christmas in July is a real National Forest holiday.

Darrin: Even if that's true, today is not July 25th.

Sam: It's close. And I don't believe it's too soon to start playing Christmas music 20 days before the actual holiday.

Darrin: It's not 20 days. It's 174 days before the actual holiday.

Sam: Not in the National Forests.

Darrin: We're not in the National Forests.

Sam: We're fifteen miles away. That counts.

Darrin: If the snow melts today will you stop playing Christmas music?

Sam: Yes. Until it snows again.

Darrin: Really? You plan to play it every time it snows?

Sam: Yes. And make hot chocolate. And marshmallow balls.

Darrin: I think I need to go to the store or something.

Sam: Christmas shopping? Shall I make a list? And check it twice.

Darrin: No. I'll be back when the snow is gone.

Sam: I'll miss you.

Day four of the possibly-illegal-but-I-don't-think-it-is Christmas music giveaway promises to be interesting, if not amazing. Don't forget to let me know if you want to be added to the list. It's not too late...

Don't Miss Day Three

Still reminiscing about my relationship with Christmas music and Darrin. He just doesn't understand how I can be so horribly well-educated (i.e. Three Degrees of Music), and listen to the mishmash hodgepodge of Christmas music that fills our home during the month of December (and whenever else I want to listen to it because I believe one should listen to Christmas music every time it snows--which can happen any day of the year where we live). Our latest dialogue:

Darrin: WHAT are you listening to???

Sam: Christmas carols.

Darrin: No. Those are not Christmas carols.

Sam: They are.

Darrin: That is MUZAK.

Sam: Yes.

Darrin: Like they play in elevators and stores, only more MUZAKY.

Sam: Yes.

Darrin: Why are you listening to MUZAK???

Sam: Because the CD was on the top.

Darrin: Why do we even have it?

Sam: I bought it a couple of years ago. It was a dollar.

Darrin: That should have been your first clue. One dollar CDs?

Sam: It has a lovely painting on the front.

Darrin: Maybe we could frame it and throw away the CD.

Sam: No.

Darrin: You know--it was just a dollar. We don't have to keep it. We've had it two years--at 50 cents per year (53 cents if you add in sales tax), we've definitely gotten our money's worth.

Sam: I like it.

Darrin: You don't either.

Sam: Yes, I do. It's over one hour of festive Christmas medleys.

Darrin: You timed it?

Sam: No. It says that on the front of the CD.

Darrin: Wait--more than an hour? How long have you been listening to it?

Sam: I don't know.

Darrin: Could we please change it?

Sam: It's my baking music.

Darrin: You bake to muzak?

Sam: I do today.

Darrin: Seriously, Sam--why?

Sam: I don't know. I just like it today. It makes me feel like baking.

Darrin: Don't we have other baking music?

Sam: I have a feeling this is very quickly becoming the only music I'll be able to bake to--possibly all year long, for the rest of our lives.

Darrin: You're telling me to stop bugging you about it?

Sam: Pretty much.

Darrin: Sigh...

It's not too late--just let me know if you'd like me to add you to my email list. Yesterday's offering was non-traditional and Baroque, but even Darrin liked it. Today, however, I'm feeling a great need to share a little muzak...

The possibly-illegal-but-I-don't-think-it-is Christmas music giveaway

Today is Day Two.

If you're on my chat or email list, and you wish to be included, please let me know. I try to send only the most eclectic, beautiful, or fun music. Yesterday I sent Tolkien Boy an accordion rendition of "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" so he could polka while at work.

Darrin and I have distinctly different tastes in Christmas music. His are strictly traditional. Mine have no boundaries. I'll listen to pretty much anything, and there's no telling what I'll fall in love with (sort of how I am with people, as well), which is not to say I do not have taste...just that I don't always employ it.

An example of a conversation between Sam and Darrin:

Darrin: Bagpipes are not good instruments for Christmas carols.

Sam: They are!! I love them!

Darrin: You're only saying that because I hate them.

Sam: No. That's just a tiny motivator. Besides, don't you think they play carols in Scotland? They do, you know. They've been playing carols in Scotland for hundreds of years before we played them here. On their bagpipes.

Darrin: Only outside. You can only play bagpipe music outside.

Sam: That's not true.

Darrin: How do you know?

Sam: I'm a musician!

Darrin: You don't play the bagpipes.

Sam: No. But bagpipes are historic. They have their roots in Ancient Rome.

Darrin: I doubt it, but even if that's true, what does it have to do with Christmas carols?

Sam: It is true. But the Celts made more use of the instruments.

Darrin: You're making this up.

Sam: I never make anything up if it has to do with music, and I always tell you if I'm prevaricating. Besides, I have a great-grandmother from Scotland.

Darrin: So?

Sam: So I have to play bagpipe carols in her honor. And if you'd like to play carols on some obscure instrument from Spain, in honor of your ancestors, I'm in favor of that.

Darrin: One great-grandmother does not make you Scottish.

Sam: No. But it does make me want to play bagpipe carols.

Darrin: Okay, how about you only play them when I'm not at home.

Sam: You're unemployed right now. You're always at home. What if I just play them quietly?

Darrin: You said it was inappropriate to play bagpipe carols quietly. It was an insult to the instrument.

Sam: That's very true. I'm wise.

Darrin: Right.

Sam: Stop snorting. Okay, how about I only play my bagpipe carols CD once a day, preferably when you're gone or sleeping, not at full volume, and you get to choose the next CD.

Darrin: Deal.

Sam: But when we meet my grandmother, you're the one who has to apologize, because I tried to honor her more often than you would allow.

Darrin: I will. And I'll apologize to the Romans, too.

Anyway, I have yet to choose today's offering, so if you hurry, you can still opt in. I'll be sending until about midnight (MST) tonight.

Please do not look for a logical progression of thought in this post.

Typically, November and December are temperate months here. There have been Christmases which have been brown. I've harvested broccoli and Brussels sprouts in mid-November. The snow that falls is wet and short-lived. Last week it was cold--high temperatures in the teens. Today our expected high is zero. Someone needs to tell the weatherman that unless the temperature registers above zero, it cannot be considered a "high". He can work a bit harder and send us one measly degree. Fortunately, the ten-day forecast promises ten whole degrees for tomorrow's high, and then we'll swing back into our days of 30s and 40s which feel much warmer because of our abundant sunshine. I might even run outside again before January arrives.

Tabitha helped me make Danish pastries last night. It was supposed to be a family activity, but DJ came home from work and fell asleep. He's having trouble balancing finals and work. I keep suggesting that a bedtime before midnight might be helpful. He just looks at me with glazed eyes and keeps studying. Adam was gone (in a holiday performance), and Darrin had spent the day doing various renovations to our home which all have started well, but will no doubt, remain unfinished once he gets a job, and will drive me crazy until I disassemble all the work Darrin has done. So he was tired, too, and also fell asleep.

So Tabitha and I made Danish pastries--which means I listened to her talk about junior high stuff (including all the "boy" stuff), and agreed with her that life is truly traumatic and fraught with drama, and assured her that she is beautiful and amazing in spite of what that mean girl said about her. By the time we were finished, I was envious of the men snoring in my house, but my daughter thinks I'm wonderful and that will last for at least another twelve hours.

I have a very high pain tolerance. This means I don't notice when I'm hurting, much of the time. If you've cooked with me and I've cut or burned myself, usually I don't react. Sometimes I wrinkle my nose, I'm told, because I'm annoyed that I've been interrupted. I rarely notice a headache until it becomes intolerable. This once landed me in the emergency room because the pain was causing me to vomit and I couldn't stop. Darrin has learned to watch for other telltale signs in me which signal pain, because he does not ever want to do the ER visit again. If we can catch the pain as it begins and medicate it, usually I'm fine.

Such signs include the following:

1. Increased withdrawal, regardless of surroundings or circumstances.

2. Distraction and inability to concentrate.

3. Irritability and irrational responses to small annoyances.

4. Pacing.

When Darrin notices any of these happening, he questions me--asks me if I'm hurting anywhere. It used to frustrate me, because I didn't believe I was. Now I've learned to stop and tune into my body. Usually he's correct. I'm hurting and just not recognizing it. I take pain killer and within an hour I feel much better.

Unfortunately, this same inability to recognize pain seems to be paralleled in my power to perceive stress. I don't notice it until it becomes overwhelming. It's impossible to ignore a panic attack. If I admit I'm under stress, an attack is usually pending. However, I have discovered, to my dismay, that there are other consequences.

In February of this year, one of my best friends lost her six-year-old son in a tragic accident. I loved that little boy. I still miss him. His death occurred when I was going through a number of other emotional complications and working on some therapy projects which left me more vulnerable than I knew. Shortly after this, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and began two consecutive series of chemotherapy which finally ended the week of Thanksgiving. It often fell to me to be a caregiver in this situation. In mid-May I became pregnant, which sapped me of all physical strength and left me in a bit of a panic. I went through a period of suicidal depression in late June and early July. The pregnancy terminated in July, allowing me to experience miscarriage, which was nothing close to what I had expected. I spent August through the end of September trying to rally myself emotionally and physically, and learn to live again, only to be hit by the H1N1 virus which was followed by another virus which also attacks the lungs. And then Darrin lost his job.

By early November, I was finally feeling alive again. One month later I feel completely recovered, which has allowed me to take a look at the aftermath of my year. What I have found is that there are a number of things which became neglected when I was having my year from hell. Things I was certain I had done--things I REMEMBER doing--but I didn't. I remember doing them. I know I did them. But I did not.

This month will be spent discovering the reality of my faulty memories and accepting the consequences. Darrin has decided I need to let him know when I first begin feeling stress--not when it becomes unmanageable. He's been taking over many of the household duties to allow me to sift through the mess I've created.

I'm at a loss. I can't believe I didn't do the things I remember doing. Darrin says, given the things I've dealt with in a rather short span of time, it's understandable that I might forget some things. But I think I've gone insane. I hope this isn't irreversible.

"...there is a lot of funny stuff that happens in life..." ~Jeannette Harrison

PTSD...back with a vengeance. But it's different this time. Much different.

I've been asked on several occasions to describe what happens when I feel those symptoms. I've tried. I'm lamentably awful at describing the things that hurt the worst. I'm far more likely to make the attempt and end with a feeble, "Well, it's really not that bad and it's temporary. I'm just making a big deal out of nothing."

I'm not, though. It is a big deal. It's monstrous. And the thought of sharing it with anyone else sends me guilt and even more agony. I can't share this. I don't want anyone to know or understand because that means, if they love me, they'll feel it a tiny bit, as well. No one should feel this.

The above paragraph is how I feel when I'm dying to talk about what's happening, but PTSD puts a muzzle on me. If I push the barrier and try to talk, the symptoms increase to the point that they immobilize me, invariably ending in an unmanageable panic attack. Sometimes people will ask me how I'm feeling. Occasionally I begin to tell them. ALWAYS I'm finished before I began. I can't do it.

Today the PTSD cycle is in its second day. Yesterday had rough spots.

The difference, however, is that I feel lucid. I am divided. An immense chasm looms between Samantha-sane and Samantha-bonkers. But I believe for the first time, I can describe the feelings without intensifying them.

1. Sadness. In the past the feelings cropped up randomly. I find myself overwhelmed by the fact that not only do I live with the things that have happened to me, but millions of children are abused daily and there is nothing I can to do stop it. The weeping begins and I cannot stop. It can happen at any time--I might be driving, or practicing, or teaching a class.

Today, however, the sane part of me sends the reminder that I have done something to stop it. I'm doing something every day. I did not repeat the abuse cycle with my own children. I have siblings who have repeated it. My choice was to stop the cycle and try to become the best parent I could. I have tried to help others heal from abuse and other hurts simply by loving them whenever I had the opportunity. That's not really stopping the cycle, but neither is it perpetuating it. And even though I'm feeling the sadness today, it doesn't defeat me. I don't feel weak and overcome. This is new.

2. Loneliness. When PTSD looms I could be surrounded by people who love me and I would still ache with loneliness. There have been moments when someone has been able to interrupt this symptom layer, but as soon as they leave the reprieve is over. Part of what makes this so vexing is an underlying core belief that it is right and proper for Samantha to be alone.

Today I am hearing Samantha-sane telling Samantha-bonkers to remember I need people. The loneliness stems from the need to talk, coupled with a certainty that talking is not only wrong, but there is no one who truly wishes to listen--both of which are faulty conclusions which I have disproved repeatedly over the past four years. I'm a bit surprised that Samantha-bonkers seems to be listening for the first time.

3. A firm belief that I am worthless, which leads to a belief that I am detrimental and filthy. This is one that makes me feel incredible pain. Lucidly, I believe the sum total of Samantha is not comprised of what has been done to her. Irrationally, I cannot escape the belief that I am forever ugly and used up.

Today this feeling is mild. Samantha-sane is reminding me of my own feelings toward abuse and rape survivors. The things that have happened are events which harm their victims, but do not change the integral worth of those who survive. For the first time, I find the irrational part of me wishing to believe this.

4. A need to isolate. This is certainly related to the last part...well, all the other symptoms, probably. It becomes all I'm able to think about, eventually; the panacea for PTSD. I lose the desire to chat with friends and stop answering my phone. I don't go out except for work. I stop caring about life.

This symptom surprised me by popping up at the onset of the symptoms during this cycle. It usually comes later. The timing of it seems to be advantageous since everyone I might talk with seems crazy-busy, and I am, as well. The strength of the feeling is more intense than usual, but less constant, but the lingering effects seem longer lasting.

The stress and panic which stem from the above symptoms seem less intense this time. It's still early, and past experience tells me those could increase. But I don't feel helpless, overwhelmed, or fatalistic this time. Peace intertwines with turmoil and beneath it all is a lightness born of knowing my life is good. I feel inherently weak, but also know I have strength building in my reserves which will come to my rescue.

Things that are missing this time:

1. A need to ask everyone who loves me to tell me so.

2. A desire to be rescued.

3. A constant need to be held and comforted.

4. A belief that my life has no purpose, meaning, or even right to exist.

5. A fear that I will not make it through this cycle.

I'm finished charting my progress. It is what it is. Hopefully, this time I'll emerge less exhausted and weepy. If not, no doubt I'll receive another chance to try again. PTSD seems to have no intention of leaving me alone. It is, if nothing else, completely reliable.

And everything in-between

I've been blogging less often for a few reasons:

1. I'm working too many hours and it's difficult to rally my thoughts some days. We're still waiting to hear about the job Darrin was offered. He met with the hiring committee on Monday and they requested his transcripts dating back to high school. The high school transcripts had to be requested by mail and will, in turn, be delivered by mail. It could take more time than I wish to think about to put all the paperwork in place--and then the job might not even happen. Sigh...I need this to be easier. In the meantime, I'll continue to add as many contracts as I can. Tomorrow I'll spend the better part of my morning arbitrating for a client with the IRS, then enjoy a training meeting, then watch video clips while I index them, then play my violin in our Messiah performance. At least I have a large variety in all that I'm doing.

2. Obviously, it's performance season. Any spare moments seem to be filled with personal practice hours, rehearsal time, and performances. I accompanied a couple of choirs during a gala concert Tuesday night. The choirs performed about one hour into the program. I sat in the audience to listen to the other groups perform...and woke up about forty-five minutes later. I had no idea I'd been sleeping. I'm just glad I woke up before I was supposed to accompany. Hopefully, that won't happen again.

3. I'm thinking. A lot. Things are happening quickly inside me. I'm not sure how much is permanent change, so I'm just watching for now, and hoping for the best. I believe I have finally moved through all the grieving I'd put off for many years. I've looked at my situation from nearly every angle, carefully scrutinized the agonizing parts, allowed myself to feel the emotions which have frightened me, and felt entirely too much pain. For nearly eighteen months I thought I had descended into a place from which I could not return. I felt my personality changing, my outlook on life darkening, my hope disappearing. It was miserable.

Finally, about mid-November, I noticed a change. It was subtle but profound. My reactions to PTSD symptoms had become different. The symptoms, as always, were frustrating and aggravating, but there was a resiliency in my reaction to them. I hated the feelings which had no basis in reality, but I understood they would soon pass. And reaching out to others for help and reassurance seemed a logical step, rather than a shameful act of weakness. Interestingly, in spite of that recognition, I didn't find myself asking for that help often, and when I did it was brief. I'm not sure why.

The snowball effect of this culminated in a beautiful Sunday this week. For the first time in a couple of years I felt completely whole and happy. This state of being has been present in my life in nearly any circumstance. Even when I've felt sadness or been abused, within a short period of time the underlying assurance that life is beautiful has asserted itself and I've drawn strength from it. Not having access to it in the recent years has led to hopelessness and aggravated suicidal feelings. Those seem alien to me now. I am having difficulty comprehending such depth of pain in spite of the fact that it was my own.

In the moments between PTSD influences, I've spent my time rallying, preparing for the next period when the symptoms are overwhelming. The knowledge that the reprieve is temporary has been depressing. Today, even knowing the symptoms will return at some point, I feel hopeful. Each day presents a beauty I've been missing. Everything seems worth noting and joyful. Today our high temperature was four degrees. But the sun was shining, and the snow sparkled. Breathing created thick, white clouds, and when the the breath caught and froze in my throat before I could pull it inside, I wanted to laugh just because it happened and I'm alive.

4. At some point this blog will no longer be necessary. My purpose in writing is becoming less clear, and I'm not sure I have anything left to say. There have been times when I wrote because reader comments were often uncensored and unsympathetic. Those who read my words responded with a variety of personal thoughts and ideas which in turn, spurred me on to new discoveries. I didn't care if their words seemed uncaring or even scathing. I was only interested in finding a variety of ways to view my situation.

There have also been times when my pain has been intense and real. Occasional commentors have been willing to offer support and empathy even when they didn't know me. I needed that. Knowing other people were aware I was hurting seemed important, somehow.

But now I don't know anymore. After all that has happened in the past four years, I'm still battling reluctance to allow closeness in relationships. I'm still finding myself hoarding moments when I can be alone and quiet. Interestingly, in the past those moments were completely solitary. Now I find myself recognizing that there are some people with whom I would share those moments. I understand they have no interest in that--but the recognition that I do not have to always be alone is unexpected, and it is concrete enough that I can even imagine being with someone else in those moments. For the first time in my memory, the thought of their presence does not feel intrusive or unwelcome.

I feel a need to redefine my life expectation--and I don't even know what that means. I'm confused when I realize my needs are real, and sometimes those needs can be met. After four years of scrutinizing every part of my past and present self, I have no idea who I am.

So I'll blog when I have time, when I feel the desire. But the time when I needed to blog seems to have passed. I have advertised all the parts of me that I felt were shameful and loathsome and found in the process, exoneration and acceptance. I have passed beyond the veil of anonymity with many whom I've met through this blog--and some of them still like me. This place has offered me freedom to express what I have suppressed, and allowed me to find a voice; to honestly state my history and feelings.

I am nowhere near the endpoint I predicted years ago. Tolkien Boy would tell me the reality is much better than the future I projected. I don't know if I agree with his imagined comment, but as there seems to be nothing I can do about it, I'll hope he's correct. I am here. And maybe someday I'll figure out who I am. For now, though, I think I'll bake more cookies.

"My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I'm Happy. I can't figure it out. What am I doing right?" ~Charles Schultz

Yesterday was happy. Really happy. Buoyant, delightful, joyful...the way I used to be, always.

A million years ago I joined with about five other people to help start a charter school in our district. I had good reason for doing so, beginning with the fifth grade teacher who handed my DJ an advanced math book and told him to go ahead and work out of that while the rest of the class did "normal" math. No instruction. No guidance. Just, "Here you go!!" Of course, DJ didn't do the math. He was ten, after all, and not very good at self-study. Instead, he read--all day long. And his teacher let him. So, I found other disgruntled moms, thought about home school, and eventually threw my momentum in with the tiny group of people who would bring about the first charter school in Wyoming.

I was remembering this because our task was not easy. We were met with opposition from many sources, not the least of which was our own school district. We were ridiculed, assured we would never succeed, and beaten down whenever the opportunity arose. I thrive in such an environment...something must be wrong with me...

Following one of our meetings, I was chatting with our fearless leader and she said to me, "You are a naturally happy person. I've never met anyone quite like you."

I've never forgotten her words because they're true. Happiness is as natural to me as breathing. Even when things in my life were miserable and terrifying, in the daylight I found solace and joy in the beautiful surroundings in which I lived. Simply watching things grow gave me pleasure. I was hurting and sad and often in despair--and yet life still seemed beautiful . With the exception of a nine month period following my cousin's departure, I have never known prolonged depression and I emerged from my harrowing experience damaged but intact, and I learned to smile and laugh again.

It has been a difficult year. For a short time I lost that natural happiness on which I've relied for most of my life. Yesterday it emerged once more. Today it stays with me still. I am happy. And there is no one quite like me.

Waiting

Darrin received a provisional job offer last week. The college is waiting on his transcripts to be certain he's completed required classwork necessary for him to teach. We have no idea what specific classes they'll be looking for so we don't know if he'll qualify. Still, he was told he was the top candidate and offered a very nice salary/benefits package contingent on qualification, so just knowing he's capable and wanted was very good for his ego and emotional health.

And now every sentence passing his lips is prefaced by, "If I get that job..."

Yikes! I'm getting stressed. I'll be glad when next week comes and we know the end result.

Sometimes kicking and screaming just don't help.

It's Thanksgiving. I hate Thanksgiving.

Not the gratitude part, just the holiday.

I am trying to remember this is just part of the past.

Thanksgiving meant spending time with my mother's family. It meant making mounds of food I never really liked. It meant lots of people and loud noises and someone--never the same person--always in trouble.

One year my cousin Jeff and I hid in a cupboard and played Speed. It was the best Thanksgiving ever. Our families forgot to call us for dinner, and with all the people milling about we weren't missed. We had a flashlight and Jeff had managed to sneak pieces of turkey, rolls, fruit and salad (those were for me) into our tiny hiding place. We listened to the growl of the large crowd seated at a table in the other room, ate our feast and played cards. No one noticed we were missing until Jeff's mother brought out a coconut cream pie. Jeff, who later became a chef, had made it. My aunt wanted him to cut it. He was with me--invisible.

Jeff and I received dish duty as a punishment for not being present at dinner, and for taking food into our hiding place. We didn't finish our chore. My dad came to help us, saw the glazed look on our faces as we stared at the pile of cutlery and plates, and suggested a walk might do us good. We were gone before he finished the sentence. I don't know what excuse was made to my mother, who extended the original punishment. Today it hardly matters.

I never see Jeff anymore. He became an alcoholic and lived in an abusive marriage for many years. Last spring he finally entered rehab. I wonder if he remembers a time when I considered him the only person I trusted.

My cousin, David, was always present at Thanksgiving. This lent a surreal air to the celebration: Yay! We're eating too much food and giving thanks for our wonderful lives while I sit next to the person who raped me last year, or the year before, or the year before...

Probably one of the reasons I hate the meal so much is because I associate it with the feeling of being trapped at a family gathering where I was afraid to speak. Always, the week of Thanksgiving, my nightmares become unmanageable. Maybe I wanted to tell everyone, to stop pretending everyone loves everyone... Yeah, that would have been inappropriate, I guess.

I read all the beautiful notes of gratitude on my Facebook homepage. It makes me feel horribly inadequate. Everyone is THANKFUL. I am Scrooge.

I'm thankful that the cousin who visited me with his family every year at Thanksgiving, didn't try to rape me after I turned twelve. I'm thankful that my mom didn't scream at me while company was present. I'm thankful there was a cupboard to hide in with someone who felt safe...

Darrin made the turkey this year--and mashed potatoes and stuffing and gravy and salad and pecan pie. My sister made enough yams to feed the entire world. My mom made rolls. My brother made cherry and pumpkin pies.

I want to feel happy on this day. I want to stop remembering. I want to post my list on Facebook--if I'm ever able to make a list.

I'm not ungrateful, really. I'm just not finished figuring things out yet, I guess. I'm not finished remembering and being churlish about not having a golden childhood. I'm not finished pouting...

I hate Thanksgiving.

"Joy is what happens to us when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are." ~Marianne Williamson

I'll be honest--I'm ready for this year to end.

I've posted so many times about the things that have been difficult for me in the past twelve months, I think it's about time I talk about the things that are wonderful:

1. I'm not pregnant anymore. Yay!!

2. I have all my physical strength back after miscarrying and surviving H1N1. I feel healthy and strong.

3. My pansies insist on blooming in spite of blizzards, daily temperatures that peak at 30 degrees, and freezing winds. And they're colorful spots in the white snow beneath my front window.

4. I'm playing my annual violin gig in Messiah. We perform a week from Friday. I love this experience and the people who come to play and sing. This year our choir has over 100 members and our orchestra is, of course, amazing (mostly due to the second chair violinist and cellist--we never miss a note--ever).

5. I've been able to spend lots of time with Darrin, which hasn't happened for awhile. He makes me smile.

6. In spite of major setbacks in the friendship department, I find myself surprised by the knowledge that I have a long list of people I'm missing who will spend time with me online or in person. And among those are friends who have been close to me for more than three years, which is forever in Samantha time.

7. I got to teach my favorite class at the university this semester, and I ROCKED!! Well...I sucked at grading assignments and getting them back to my students in a timely manner, but I gave them Tootsie pops, and they smile at me, and one of them followed me down three Walmart aisles until I noticed her and said hello, so I think she likes me.

8. Someone told me last week that every time he sees me, I'm smiling like I have a wonderful secret. I wonder if he's right.

9. I've had numerous experiences in the past three months which have helped me learn and grow. Not the kind of learning and growing that you do when things are horrible and there's no other choice and you want to punch the next person who tells you you'll look back on this time and be grateful for the things you learned, but beautiful, peaceful experiences which have reminded me why I'm the person I am.

10. I made almond risotto with raspberry sauce AND chocolate mousse last night with the help of three beautiful young ladies who giggled and talked far too loudly and made me glad to be alive.

11. I had lunch with Sister Pottymouth, and visited with Mr. Fob and FoxyJ, and Jason and Leslie, and Edgy and Dec, and Ambrosia and Bawb (and got to enjoy spending time with the adorable children of the aforementioned couples).

12. People I've never met continue to visit my blog, email me, and check up on me. I'm pretty sure I forget to say thank you, and sometimes I don't even respond, but just so you know--there have been days when a comment from one of you has reminded me that life is beautiful and you can love someone you've never met.

13. AtP manages to say hello to me nearly every day. We never get to talk as long as I'd like, or spend enough time laughing together, but maybe someday that will happen. Four months from now, we will have been friends for four years.

14. Tolkien Boy listens to me whine several days a week and never tells me to stop. And usually he says something that makes me think. Probably I'm not thinking about what he intended, but that's just because I'm being difficult. In spite of that, he doesn't hide from me very often, which I deeply appreciate.

15. Dj and Adam continue to make me giggle with offhand comments such as:

"I really like folding underwear." (Adam)

"Dude, you really gotta stop wearing so much cologne. Seriously, you're gonna kill someone." (DJ)

"That cloud looks like the Pink Panther on steroids riding a unicycle and eating cotton candy." (Adam)

"I make lots of money. I wish I knew what I did with it." (DJ)

"I'm going to The Fray concert. I hope it's better than their music." (DJ)

"I look amazing in dress clothes." (Adam)

"Don't tell Tabitha!!!" (Adam and DJ)

It is more blessed to give than to receive...

I spent time with Sheila last Friday. One of the reasons I love Sheila is because she says whatever is on her mind. Friday, I was the topic of thought. She decided to recount to me how she felt when we first met. Apparently she felt drawn to me--I was warm, friendly and funny. Sheila decided we should be best friends. Usually when she makes this decision, the best friend bonding happens and everything falls into place delightfully. This was not the case with Samantha.

I met Sheila when she had been married about two years. Tabitha and Adam were three and four, respectively. Sheila and her husband were Adam's Primary teachers and I was the song leader. We had other interactions because Sheila and I both have music degrees. I often accompanied her when she sang. She and I attended the same social events.

Sheila told me that she thought things were going along swimmingly in the Sheila/Samantha best-friendship, until she hugged me one day. I recoiled. On another occasion she sat next to me in a concert, put her arm around me and stroked my arm. I stiffened and slowly moved away. About two weeks later she was excited about a piece we had performed together that went very well, so she hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. I smiled and disappeared about five seconds later. Sheila didn't understand why I rebuffed her efforts to get close to me in any way, but was more confused that I seemed to hate to be touched.

"You're not that way, though. You love to be touched." This was Sheila's comment on Friday. She's partly correct.

I don't hate to be touched. I enjoy, even crave certain types of touch--mostly non-sexual. But because of the ways I have been abused, I need to be approached carefully. Darrin calls it non-sexual, emotional foreplay, which makes me cringe but is sort of accurate. I do not welcome intimacy of any kind from strangers, nor even from people I know well but with whom I have not developed some semblance of trust. I also do not wish to have any kind of meaningful interaction with someone who will disappear from my life.

Today Sheila cuddles with me, hugs me, holds my hand, walks with me arm-in-arm, kisses my cheek... I have known her more than ten years.

"But you still try to push people away. You don't even know you're doing it. I think it's a reflex. You still do it to me." Sheila was describing the careful way I greet her. I do not initiate physical contact. I don't kiss her back. I will accept what she gives, but I do not offer the same.

Sheila is the youngest of a dozen children. She was petted and spoiled by both parents and all her siblings. She's never known a time in her life when someone wasn't cuddling her, holding her, kissing her. She does not understand me. At all.

I tried once to explain to her what my childhood and teenage years were like. I glossed over the physical beatings I received. I briefly explained the loneliness I felt as I watched my mother hold one of my siblings, or cuddle them next to her as they read or sat in church. I touched lightly on the isolation and pain I endured after being raped by my cousin. I couldn't tell her everything--not even a tiny part of everything. She cried for me when I could not, and the thought of my life causing her pain seemed ugly and unacceptable. I wasn't ready to understand that empathy is not necessarily agony.

There have been two people besides my children who have received prolonged touch initiated by me. One is Darrin.

I'm happy to receive that which Sheila offers. Her willingness to offer physical, non-sexual touch in a public arena fills a void I've had for a very long time. It has taken me a decade to allow it, though. She is, after all, a woman. The woman who should have filled those needs, instead spent my formative years teaching me that I was not worthy of loving touch, and that touch offered by me was repulsive and unwanted. I'm very careful about offering touch now.

Someday Sheila will tell me this, "Sam, I think you need to kiss me back." And she'll offer me her cheek as she laughs at me for hesitating. She doesn't understand that such a gesture is not easy for me, that the cost of such affection is very high. It hurts to take a risk that might be rebuffed or misconstrued. The few people who receive that salute from my lips are warned in advance and allowed the opportunity to decline.

Once, a long time ago, a friend went with me to see the man who raped me. The three of us had lunch together, chatted like old friends, and then the rapist left. My friend stayed with me as I made an idiot of myself, sliding down the wall of the lobby because my legs suddenly lost strength and the urge to throw up became overwhelming. He walked with me in a park I would not remember a year later, and that afternoon in my motel room, he held me while I slept because I'd had no sleep for nearly three days previously (it is very stressful preparing to meet one's own personal rapist).

I didn't expect him to stay. I don't think I even knew that I wanted him to. My impulse was to be alone so that I could be sick and maybe try to cry a little bit. He didn't ask what I wanted--he didn't ask me to take him home, and since I probably wasn't capable of driving at that time, it's good that he stayed.

When I finally took him back to his family home that night, there was no way to thank him for what he had done for me. While I recognize now that this statement is true partly because I would never allow anyone to do so, no one other than Darren had ever given me the kind of time and tenderness I had received from my friend. If he had asked permission to give me what I needed, I would have said no. He didn't ask.

I told him thank you--how horribly inadequate. I gave him a hug--still, not enough. So, knowing that I would probably contaminate him for life, but having nothing left to express how very much I loved him and was grateful to have him there that day, I said, "I'm going to give you a kiss on the cheek." Then I waited for him to laugh at me, or push me away, or say, "Thanks, but I'd rather chew on gravel, if it's all the same to you."

He stood still and waited, and after I gave my tiny salute, he held me close and said thank you. And there's a good chance that he escaped lifelong contamination, in spite of me.

My children have grown up enjoying spontaneous kisses and continuous hugs. On one of our frequent shopping trips, Tabitha gave me a random kiss on the cheek before dashing off to look at t-shirts. An acquaintance of ours witnessed the event, walked over to me and said, "Your daughter is very sweet--and the two of you have a lovely relationship." This is true much of the time, and I'm grateful my daughter does not feel the same constraint I do when it comes to sharing a physical expression of love. I wish I knew how she does it--how Sheila does it--how anyone does it naturally without even thinking about it, simply because it feels normal and right.

Because it's late and I just want to.

Top 10 Chewbacca quotes:

10. Gggggaaaaaaarrrrr. Arrrrhhhn. (Star Wars)

9. Arrrggghhnnn. Grrrhn. Gahr. (Empire Strikes Back)

8. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhrnnn. (Star Wars)

7. Rhhhnngggnn. Garrrrr! (Return of the Jedi)

6. Ggggr gaarrr grrn rrhnn. (Star Wars)

5. Rrrrrrr rrrraaaahhh rrrrrrggghhhhnn. (Return of the Jedi)

4. Gggggggrrrrrn. (Star Wars)

3. Aaaaaarr Ggggaaaaaarrr. (Star Wars)

2. Gggggrrrrrr rrrraaaahhh rrrrrrggghhhhnn. (Empire Strikes Back)

1. Aaaaaarrrrr rhhhnnn gggggrrrrr. (Star Wars)

Sigh...

There are some people who just don't get it.

Well, they just don't get me.

Honestly, this used to seem funny. I would answer emails, tongue-in-cheek, hoping to discourage more judgmental correspondence. It didn't matter. These were strangers. Why should I care what they think of me...I've never really cared what anyone thought of me...

Then Sully happened. Someone I loved with my whole soul. I didn't want to love him at all. But I saw him hurting, I knew he felt incredibly alone, and I knew I could ease some of that pain. So I did. I loved him. I welcomed into my home and my life. We talked, and laughed, and took long walks. And for awhile he loved me back, but in the end, he judged me a hypocrite because I would not explain--not even to him--why I live and believe as I do. Because I would not join him on his path. Because in his mind, no honest person can be as I am.

I won't change. I don't explain myself to anyone. If Sully, after four years of watching me and knowing me, can judge me in the way that he has, and leave me in silence for what is quickly approaching one year, simply because he wishes me to be what I am not, then in my mind he never knew me in the first place.

Darrin says that's unfair. I don't allow people to know me. There is always another piece to discover--something I have hidden carefully away for no real reason--simply because it's a habit to conceal what is really me. He says after living with me for nearly half his life, he still continues to discover new things and he expects he will die without knowing who I really am. This doesn't bother him, necessarily, he tells me, after all, boredom is unlikely to set in and most of what he discovers is delightful and beautiful. And that is why I love Darrin forever. He is determined to see me at my very best, in any and every situation.

I am digressing.

Once again someone has visited me, scanned my archives, read my FAQs, and done some rather complicated computations in which 2x +5y + scrambled eggs and mango chutney = rose petals and asphalt carpet fibers. In other words, they believe as others have before them, that I cannot exist. If I am married happily, I am not gay/SSA/homosexual/whatever. And if I am gay/SSA/homosexual/whatever, I'm living a lie, forcing my husband to live in a sham marriage, and raising children destined to live with broken hearts, disillusionment, and a skewed view of marriage and intimacy.

Judgment.

I used to believe, before Sully, that those who made such judgments were simply ignorant, and that if they met me, they would understand that I am all I profess and I have no reason to lie. Now I recognize that people believe what they believe, and if I don't fit into that paradigm, it is I, and not the paradigm that is flawed. I have no desire to debate with them. I am content to let them believe what they will.

Tonight, though, I will share something. It will not explain the contradictions of my life. It's simply on my mind because of the recent judge/jury email. It's not an answer to the sender, for I feel no compulsion to provide an answer to him. I am who I am. It doesn't matter whether my existence challenges his whitewashed world of prejudice.

Throughout my life I have been overwhelmed with questions. I have studied religions with fervor. I spent a number of years reading the words of atheists and I have the greatest respect for their writings and their thoughtful views. In the end, I decided what I believed--which only increased the volume of questions filling my head.

I'm quite certain the Lord plays Solitaire while we talk. No doubt he needs something to do while I ask my incessant questions. For years I have asked--sometimes the same things repeatedly, but occasionally a new query creeps into the lot. No doubt, God sighs with relief when he hears something new. Which isn't to say he answers my questions. Sometimes he does, but often I'm allowed to ask indefinitely with no response forthcoming.

I remember recently, feeling frustrated. I didn't think The Big Guy was listening, and if he was, he was ignoring me. I felt defeated about a number of questions I thought were extremely important, which remained unanswered--and I had done the "study it out" thing, and the research, and the fasting, and all that I could, in the hopes that I might receive direction...

As I sat fuming, feeling shunned by that One who promised he loved me, I realized something. It didn't answer the questions, or solve the problems, but it was something I had not thought of before. The answers, to me, make no difference. While I want to know, and I believe one day I will know, receiving those answers will not change the course of my life. I decided long ago what I believed, how I wished to live my life, and what kind of person I wanted to be, and I have pursued the course of action I believe will bring about the results I am seeking. If the Lord withholds the answers to my questions for any reason, it does not shake my faith. I know who I am and where I am going. And sometimes the quest to find the answers is more important than the answers, themselves.

What does this have to do with my most recent email naysayer?

I'm beginning to understand why some of my questions have been left unanswered. They were born in pettiness or small-minded judgments. And I think the Lord knew that even if I had been given the answers, I might not have accepted them--just as I know, if I answer my emailer it will make no difference in his judgment of me. He has already decided how things ought to be. Nothing I say will change his mind. I've experienced, on occasion, that same state of mind as I inquired, oppugned, and interrogated the Lord. I wanted the answers to fit into my tiny perspective--I did not want to hear what the truth might actually be.

I don't expect I'll ever stop worrying The Big Guy with all my questions. I claim that right as his child. But I believe, as he continues to play his rounds of Solitaire, while my voice drones in the background, that he listens with half an ear and one day when I'm ready to listen, he'll talk with me. Perhaps one day my emailer will be ready to hear what I have to say, as well. Until then, I believe I will allow his questions and accusations to remain unanswered. Silence is golden.

Dinner Conversation

Adam (to Tabitha): When you go to English tomorrow, you should take Mrs-English-Teacher-That-I-Had-Last-Year's big pencil and just put it on your desk.

Tabitha: Okay, I will.

(Long pause)

Darrin: What's this "big pencil" thing about?

Adam: It's about...

(he pauses, picks up the bread knife and holds it horizontally, extending his free hand four inches beyond the tip)

Adam: ....this long.

(short pause, then we all erupt into laughter and Adam looks completely confused)

Adam: What? WHAT!?!?

Me: Don't worry about it. I think you just had to be there.

Just one more reason I love my dad:

I don't know which presidential candidate received his vote. I never ask--it's a private ballot--it's none of my business (and if you ask who I voted for, I'll let you know it's none of your business, either). But I love how he tries to support the candidate who wins.

So many times people in our country try to sabotage our leaders through pettiness and idiocy. It's one thing to recognize when a president makes bad decisions--but even when we had an abundance of those over the past eight years, it's still not helpful to try to undermine the leader, especially when he's so good at digging his own grave.

Since Obama's inauguration, my dad has been the recipient of emails and letters listing hundreds of inane reasons our current president is unfit for the office. Dad finally reached the end today. After receiving an email about how Obama's welfare policies (and seriously, since when can one man take credit for the legislative process of our country? I thought we had things like Senators and Congressmen/women who help make those policies and laws...if they don't, we sure pay them a lot of money for nothing) were allowing welfare recipients to use government funds to buy cell phones, and how we all ought to be outraged and DO SOMETHING!!!!, my father responded to the sender and the numerous other recipients in this way:

Please take my name off from the "bash Obama" list. I am growing weary of the senseless, unsubstantiated rhetoric.

I am praying for our national leaders, including President Obama, as our prophets from Joseph Smith to Thomas Monson have counseled us to do. I invite all who believe in our prophet's words to consider doing the same.

I wonder what our country would be like if more people were like my dad.

If you have a moment...

I've had a visitor to my blog in the past couple of years who has blessed my life. Her name is Debbie Haughland Chan. She is the author of the book, Searching for Love. So many times the things she has said here or in her own blog posts have touched my heart or helped me feel added love and support.

I do not know her, personally. I have never met her. But she is my friend.

On Monday, Debbie's 24-year-old son took his life. If you have a moment today, remember her, please. Think of her, pray for her, lend support to one who is grieving. And if you feel you can, stop by her blog to let her know she's not alone.

From what I've learned about Debbie--I know she would do the same for you.

"Your life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change." ~Jim Rohn

I've had lots of visitors since my last post--but no helpful ideas, thoughtful criticisms, or even blatant ridicule.

Sigh...

I know. I shouldn't have asked. This is my project. But now I'm at the really difficult part and my idea well is running dry, so perhaps I can be forgiven for asking for help. Maybe.

I realized yesterday that I had been at my computer most of the day on Friday, Saturday, and Monday, but had accomplished very little and had no desire or motivation to do so. This is an inopportune time to be nonproductive. Darrin is jobless. I need to be making money. But...I just couldn't seem to make myself do the work.

After a brief self-examination, I realized I was depressed. It felt different because I was experiencing it sans PTSD symptoms. The feelings were there, but so much less intense that they are when tainted by PTSD that I was having difficulty identifying them. This brings a whole host of new problems because my impulses and behavior seem out of character, and I don't really know how to combat the feelings of depression.

I cleaned--which always makes me feel better. I think I mentioned it to a couple of friends, but I don't remember. And if I did, it was at a time when they couldn't be of support to me anyway, so probably I should have said nothing. Too late now. :-)

This morning I took a walk with Darrin and we talked about the problem. It's not easy to admit to him that I'm feeling this way. He's also feeling stress. Looking for a job in this economy is difficult. Having a depressed wife is not helpful. We talked about reasons I'm feeling sad. Some seemed incredibly silly--but still real.

I'm supposed to see Therapist next month. Darrin wanted me to try to get in sooner. I said no because:

1. I'm trying to learn to manage my life without relying on Therapist, and if I need him, I can always chat with him or call him. I don't think I need him to get through this.

2. I have no idea when I would go. I have five performances in the next three weeks (all of which will have dress rehearsals), I'm teaching classes at the University which I cannot cancel, I'm working non-stop to keep the Stevens family in the money--well, at least out of the poor house.

We talked about my schedule and realized I'm booked solid until the third week of December. I have a niece getting married on Dec. 29th, and I was going to try to plan all my Utah appointments around that. Darrin pointed out that if I do this the therapy visit will be ineffective. I'll be distracted by thoughts of spending time with my family--always stressful, trying to juggle appointments and visits with clients and friends, and I won't really be able to concentrate on the things which will help me get through the next three or four months successfully. He suggested that for my sake, and the sake of our family, I needed to make my visit with Therapist a priority, do it earlier than the 29th, and let my family know I'd be at the wedding if our finances would allow. After pondering this today, I believe he's correct.

I told Darrin I'm feeling a lack of interest and support from family members and friends (this was one of the "silly" things). He wondered if the feeling was stemming from my physical separation from them. I've spent no in-person time when I was allowed to discuss the things that are causing me stress with anyone for nearly six weeks now. And while I've talked about some of what's bothering me with those closest to me, I've been very careful not to talk about the things that make my guts twist into knots. I have to be able to function, and sometimes talking about what makes me anxious is actually worse than ignoring it.

Darrin could be right. I can't decide. The reality of this is that I'm not always going to have people who want to hear what's on my mind. Or perhaps a more fair statement would be--they don't always have the time to listen. Given the workload I'm dealing with now, I completely understand that. I want to lend a listening ear, but often the timing is wrong. Others probably feel similarly--and it's also possible that my quota of vent-time with others is all used up. It happens.

Weird. That last sentence makes me feel a bit sad. That's never happened before.

I am nearing the end of the quest I began almost four years ago. I'm emerging weaker, more emotional, more vulnerable. I have a name for the "thing" that used to immobilize me, sending me into isolation, forcing walls between me and all other human beings, inducing occasional irrational behavior followed by incredible guilt and regret. Am I better?

I don't know. I'm different. Life seems less funny and a little bit more cruel. Sadness is a real possibility I can't run from or avoid anymore. Honesty about my past, present, and future has become more important than posturing and proving to anyone watching that I'm in control and completely fine--always.

In the process of this, I have allowed people besides Darrin to have access to me. I've spent time with them, built friendships, confided in and listened to them. It doesn't make me feel safer or more confident--the opposite, I think. But it does create an added dimension of joy in my life. I'm not as afraid of people as I used to be. And I'm slowly learning that I deserve to enjoy the depth of experience made possible through the richness of human interaction, I'm not going to poison anyone's life simply by being in it, and I don't have to protect anyone from me.

Perhaps "better" was never the goal.

Thinking Again

It's been almost a week since I've posted. I got tired.

I've been working about fifteen hours daily since Darrin lost his job last month, and normally this wouldn't be horribly taxing--I like to work--but I've been sick with a couple of viruses, too. This week I needed to regroup a bit.

Even though I haven't been posting about it, I'm still working on therapy crap. I can't stop until I've resolved, or at least addressed, everything in my head. Thank goodness Therapist lets me email and chat with him.

Because I'm feeling more fatigue than I like, rather than try to explain the next thing I'm working on, I'm simply posting my email to Therapist, and his reply. Comments on the topic are welcome. I have no idea yet, how to go about accomplishing my newest task, and thinking about it without input from others is wearing me out. So if you have any bright ideas, please feel free to share. I may not respond right away, which means I'm thinking about whatever has been said, not that it's been ignored or disregarded by any means.

Hi Therapist,

I've been thinking a lot about something you said during our last session. Naturally, I believe it was a cop out and that you should be using all your past education and vast intelligence to help me figure out every question in my head, so, "I think you're going to have to find the answer to this on your own," does not sit well with me. I also understand that if you give me the answers, chances are I'll ignore them anyway until I've done enough research and questioning that forces me to draw the same conclusion, so it's probably good to just cut out the first part and let me get on with my information gathering--which I have been doing, of course.

This time, however, I'm not researching on the internet, or asking ceaseless questions of anyone to talks to me. I'm researching me, myself. I've finished countless graphs and flowcharts, and made lists, and written blog posts (some of which are published and some which are not), and in the process have drawn these conclusions:

1. I've learned to talk about things I wish were not true.
2. I've met with the people who have harmed me, one on one, and seen them as they are.
3. I've established a daily regime which, if followed religiously, will allow me to cope with PTSD symptoms, or at least allow them to happen without my feeling a need to throw myself off the top of a very tall building.
4. I've maintained the closeness of my relationship to Darrin while allowing it to become less emotionally dependent. We have easy, open communication and a wonderful marriage.
5. I've given up the impossible task of being able to change my past and am learning to live with what is real.

This list could go on forever because, after all, I've been working incessantly for three years, but the point of this is that I've accomplished a lot and I recognize that. And I think I'm ready to do one more thing, but it will take a lot of prep time and effort and I'm not going to waste my time if it's not going to help that much--but I think it will help, and in ways that I have yet to discover.

I think I need to learn how to feel safe. I am safe--I know this. I have been for a number of years. But I've never felt safe, which is another thing altogether. I would like to be able to acknowledge that the world I live in is potentially dangerous and constantly changing, that people are largely unreliable and often cruel, and that there is always a physical, emotional, or spiritual possibility that I will be hurt every day--and still be able to feel safe. Because the truth is that I know how to protect myself from the dangers of the world, some people are unreliable and cruel but not all people (and some people are actually kind and loving and want to help me feel safe), and hurt can be healed and is not necessarily a statement about life, or people, or even about me. My head gets this. My heart does not.

I think many of the PTSD symptoms I've been experiencing are based on this inner belief that I can never be safe--not in my home, my marriage, my friendships, in the church, my community, etc. I have a sincere belief that I am always in danger. I think this causes intense stress which I've felt, obviously, but been unable to alleviate.

So--I am currently working on how to teach myself that I am safe--how to accept that I am not in danger. I'm not sure yet, how I will do this, which is why I'm sending this email. I have two questions for you:
1. Do you agree that I'm on the right track? Or am I simply making up another project to fill my loads of spare time because boredom is a swear word?
2. Do you have any suggestions that might help me achieve my goal? (Naturally this question is moot if the answer to the first is that I'm wasting my time.)

That's all, I guess. When you have a spare moment, please let me know what you think?

Thanks,
Sam

P.S. Please don't tell me that the Atonement will take care of this problem for me if I'll just hand it to Christ, because in my world that is a process, not an event, and I'm making steady progress, but Christ has me penciled into his appointment book for a later date. It's not going to happen right away--of this I am certain.


Hi Sam,

Your emails just make me smile! Of course, it's always easiest for me to respond to the last part of your message, rather than the first part.....'cause I'm a simple person, and it's the most recent thought in my mind. I digress.....

You are absolutely on the right track, I believe. There are times when you leave my office that I can see you actually, physically (and emotionally) GEAR UP to go back outside. I've recognized it and not been able, really, to put my finger on it. I think you described it perfectly. It's that battle that wages within you - between your heart and brain - "I know I should be safe, but I don't feel safe."

At any rate, that would be an exhausting battle. I think it's great that you want to tackle it. I think it's valuable, and I think it will help you. I DO believe your relationship with Christ has something to do with this, but no more of a 'thing' than where you've been, previously, with the things you've been working through. I agree with you completely - that 'handing it over to God' is NOT an event, but it is a process. Ultimately, I believe God wants all of his children to feel safe and secure - it's not in His plan for his children to not feel safety, but He has been fully aware that it would occur. Hence, Christ has been through humiliation at a deep enough level that He understands it. I think He's there whenever you are ready. :-) And yes, again, you're right - that's a process - not an event.

The PTSD symptom that you've described is "hyper vigilance." Study in this 'safety' area could center on what that term is all about. I worked with a missionary who was shot while on his mission. One of the most hyper vigilant people I've ever met....and that's NOT AT ALL his personality. It was important for him to find a new reality - to find how this new issue in his life could be folded into his current personality and for him to make this a strength. He found a way - it was truly remarkable. It had to do with him finding out how to use the positive parts of always being 'on guard', etc... It was a very personal journey for him - just as yours will be specific for you.

Of course, all of this starts with identification of the thoughts and feelings which are behind the hyper vigilance. It starts with admitting the issue, embracing the good portions of it, and training yourself out of the unhealthy parts of it. Training, in my mind, would involve you taking on a situation which your brain deems to be safe and your heart says otherwise. A situation which you KNOW is healthy. You did that very thing when you chose to meet the perp....face to face.

I hope it gives you some ideas. Most of it, you probably have already done. Mostly, I just wanted you to know that this IS a worthy goal - something very healthy to work on.

Let me know if you have questions.

--Therapist

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.