Storm

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

"It will take time and patience."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What have I gained in the process?

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

Would I do the last four years again?

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

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

It is raining.