Things I noticed today...and other days...

1. I don't like sourdough bread. No matter how much Darrin tries to make me like it--I don't. I'll eat it occasionally, because that seems to make him happy, but it's unpleasant even when covered in Nutella.

2. I love salads. Today I made one with spinach, peaches, plums, mangoes, and blueberries and topped it with seasoned tilapia and lemon/chive/poppyseed dressing. I thought it was plenty for dinner, but Darrin said he was still hungry after eating three platefuls--hence, the purchase of the sourdough bread. He ate nearly the whole loaf. That is a lot of bread.

3. I think bumblebees are beautiful. I watched one buzzing about the morning glory which threatens each year to choke out our gooseberry bushes. The white trumpet blooms bobbed downward as the large bee (nearly three inches long and at least an inch wide) landed inside each one. Its bass buzzing was loud enough to be heard in my house. I quietly watched that golden, fuzzy bee for a very long time.

4. Sometimes ice cream is okay if it's a chocolate ice cream bar covered in chocolate and made by Haagen-Dazs.

5. I hate it when school starts. I'm missing my kids all ready. We did not have enough time to play this year. We're planning a family getaway on Labor Day weekend. It will be the first time in my memory that I've allowed any kind of celebration-type thingy to happen on my birthday. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

6. My crab apples are starting to turn. I think the tree looks almost as lovely with bright red apples all over it as it does when it's in bloom.

7. Tonight I had to run to the store for dishwasher detergent just as the sky turned to that glorious, velvety, glowing, deep blue which is my favorite color. I was standing in the parking lot waiting for the glow to fade and the sky to turn black, when I noticed a young man, late-twenties-ish, sort-of-tipsy-ish, at my elbow. He was holding a pizza box from Little Caesar's and offered me a slice, then asked if he could watch the sky with me, or maybe, just watch me watch the sky. I laughed. He said he liked my laugh. I said no, thank you, to the pizza, and told him I look much different--much older--in the light. He said that was okay, he did, too. I thanked him for the lovely compliment and pizza offer, told him not to drive home, then went into the store and bought detergent.

8. Tabitha and I spent too long at the grocery store today looking at dozens of roses...and smelling them. Today I like the orange ones tipped with red, and she likes the cream ones tipped with pink. We both decided we prefer no yellow or pink ones, but red is always lovely. Darrin says next time we should fix dinner before we go to the store. Then he and the boys can eat while Tabitha and I enjoy the flowers. I suggested he could buy some, then we could all eat and look at roses at the same time. He said he liked my idea better, which is just one reason I love my husband.

9. I love running. I know I've said it a million times. I can't help it. It makes me feel joyful. And if you ever see me running down a hill (without falling, of course), you'll see me grinning and if you're close enough, you'll hear me laugh.

10. When in Seattle, I saw the Happy Tolkien Boy Dance not just once, but three times! Sometimes, when I'm doing the Happy Samantha Dance, I'm really glad no one's around to see, but it still makes me smile.

Final note: I see Dead Bloggers. Not that the people are dead, just the blogs. And I don't really know how to handle this because birthday tributes seem inappropriate, somehow. So I missed blogging about AtP on his birthday, because he's not AtP anymore, and Mr. Fob's blog is dead, so I won't be able to blog about him on his birthday, and today is Tolkien Boy's birthday, but I can't say anything about that because his blog is dead, too...Seriously, this is a problem. Where can a person find a blog-dead therapist when needed?

What an odd day.

Today was difficult--which offered me lots to think about.

For the first time since my return from Seattle I experienced a day filled PTSD symptoms in nearly all their varieties. Just as I'd have one managed, another would be triggered. Darrin had a doctor appointment early this morning and called to let me know the financial expense, which turned out to be much less than I had expected. Normally this would be cause for at least a tiny happy dance. Instead, I found myself upset that the doctor was a dermatologist!

Darrin's most recent blood tests revealed a higher total cholesterol count than he has ever had, and his thyroid and liver problems are becoming more serious. And this time his blood sugar and blood pressure numbers were much too high...so he'll see a dermatologist for his acne, but flatly refuses to take prescribed medications for his vital organs. I keep saying it--and I know I shouldn't--at least his skin will be clear when he lies in his coffin...sigh...

Needless to say this put me in a very bad humor which stayed with me most of the day. When Tolkien Boy said hello I tried to make small talk because it's been awhile since we've visited. Finally I gave up and told him I'm sort of a waste of time today. We chatted a bit more, then had some silence, and then he had to go. It's probably best that we didn't talk long, but he said something that triggered a whole series of symptoms unexpectedly. He said, "...we haven't really been able to talk like we usually do for the past couple of days...that can be nerve-wracking..."

I'm uncertain if the last part of that sentence is meant to be linked to the first, or if it has reference to one of the other tangents we were simultaneously discussing. Such confusion often happens to me in any conversation with TB. We have difficulty talking of only one thing at a time. And I didn't have opportunity to clarify his meaning before he had to go, but instead, drowned in the subsequent thought stream which went something like this:
1. It should not be nerve-wracking for me to go without conversing with a friend for a couple of days.
2. If it is stressful for me when that happens, something is wrong with my attachment to that person.
3. I really do feel better when I have opportunity to chat with people I love when I'm feeling stressed or overwhelmed.
4. Probably that's inappropriate and I should figure out how to cope with my symptoms without relying on other people.
5. Am I becoming too dependent in my relationships?
6. Ack! What is wrong with me? Why can't I just deal with this?
7. If I don't learn how to deal with this, I will be perceived as needy and soul-sucking.
8. I can't think about this right now.
9. I have to think about this and solve the problem right now!
10. I have no idea what the problem is--therefore, cannot solve it--therefore, I have no idea how to proceed--therefore, I am stumped.

Still, it was nice to be able to say hello to TB, and later I got to say a brief hello to AtP, as well, which made me happy.

Tabitha reminded me when she left for work that I had made a date with my sister-in-law to go to the farmer's market--which I desperately wished to cancel. But both Adam and Tabitha wanted to go, so I called my SIL and left a message to see if she wanted to go with us. She did.

It became the turning point of my day (too bad it had to happen at 6:00 p.m.). We wandered our poor excuse for a farmer's market, bought fresh beets, peaches, and roasted serrano peppers. Then we went home and made stuffed peppers with my signature mole sauce (AtP, where were you? We needed your expert pepper filling skills), ripe canteloupe, and I made freshly squeezed lemonade with lemon balm and mint. It was wonderful.

DJ and Adam left for a guys night out. Tabitha reunited with my SIL for some girl time and shopping, and Darrin took me on a date.

We saw Eat, Pray, Love. It hasn't gotten rave reviews, and I understand why, but it was exactly what I needed to see tonight. There were topics discussed which have reference to my interpersonal relationships fears, and tiny details which spoke to me. I was intensely touched by scenes in which good friends held hands, or embraced without restraint or self-consciousness. The scenery was breathtaking. I adored the footage of Italy's landmark ruins. But more than that, just hearing some of the words, taking them out of context, understanding them as only one with my experiences can--this was important and the timing was exactly right.

I won't recommend the movie--I love what I took away from it too much to worry about whether or not another person cares in the same way I do. I won't say it's one of the best movies ever made--that has nothing to do with what I saw in it. I won't say the performances were noteworthy or award-winning--mostly because I just don't care about that. I found some things I needed tonight. I heard words which have been said to me before by people I love, repeated out of context by complete strangers in a fictitious setting--and they made sense. I walked out of the theater believing...I'm not sure what I was believing, but sometimes belief, in and of itself, is a healing state of mind.

"You should stand up for your right to feel your pain." ~Jim Morrison

Today I feel displaced, somehow, as though I belong somewhere else. I've lived here more than half my life and for all but one year of my marriage. I know the best places to run, to eat out, to find solitude, to meet friends. I feel safe here, but I have never felt that I was home.

Therapist believes I might always feel this way. He says it's typical of those who live with hyper-awareness--they are always ready to move, run, hide, if necessary. They never quite relax. I think I'm understanding what he means. There are moments, usually when I'm with someone I trust, when for just a moment I feel I can stop anticipating what might go wrong, what might hurt, or what might cause me stress. Occasionally, in those moments, I even sleep, which isn't the nicest thing to do socially, but there are times when I'm too tired to care. Even in my home--in the place I've lived for years--I still lock myself in, and I never answer the door if it's not someone I know. I suppose these would be considered common sense and appropriate safety precautions if I lived in a place with a high crime rate. I don't.

Therapist says there are some things about me that will change, partly because I work for and desire that, and partly because change comes about naturally, but there might be some parts of my life which will be forever affected by the things I experienced in my childhood and teenage years. He says as long as I'm not bothered by those things, probably it's okay if I have unusual quirks or habits designed to keep me safe even where there is no threat of danger.

I'm okay with that, I guess. I can live with a certain amount of hyper-vigilance. Therapist has agreed to work with me on small things I'd like to change as long as I continue to get adequate rest and take breaks from work, and as long as I have valid reasons for working on those things. So--this week we began.

I chose to work on learning to acknowledge pain. I know I feel it--it just doesn't register as pain. I've been known, more than once, to reach into the oven without potholders to remove a tray of cookies or some other baked good. My response is to place the pan on top of the stove, then remark, "Well, that wasn't smart," and continue with whatever I'm doing. I still receive the burns and blisters--they just don't hurt. Darrin has seen me cut myself countless times while preparing dinner. He doesn't understand why I don't flinch, I just quickly wash and bandage the cut so I'm not bleeding on our food, and carry on. Nor does he understand that the cut doesn't feel painful.

I showed Therapist some road rash on my arm from my most recent encounter with the pavement while running last Saturday. The scrape is about three inches wide and six inches long, it bleeds and seeps frequently, and right now it's developed a thick scab which wants to peel off each time I shower. Underneath the scab is angry red skin. It should hurt--a lot. It doesn't.

I told Therapist I think it's dangerous for me to not recognize pain. I could harm myself and not get necessary help. He agreed. So we talked of ways I can try to remain in the moment when I hurt myself. Not that I'm planning to get hurt just to try it out, but I'm fairly certain it won't be long before I have the opportunity. Most of the people I know say, "Ouch!" at least once a day. I'm guessing, if I pay attention, I'll find a few times throughout the day when and "ouch" is appropriate.

I know. This seems sort of silly. Most people would love to not have to experience pain. But pain serves a purpose. It lets us know when our physical bodies are in some sort of danger and allows us to learn to avoid circumstances which hurt us. I need to know how to do that before the pain becomes so extreme I can no longer suppress or ignore it. Dealing with small pain might help me avoid a root canal, for example, or stop cutting my finger before it needs stitches (yes, I've had problems with both these things--I know--sort of disgusting). Let's face it, as uncomfortable as pain is, it's normal and necessary and I need to feel and acknowledge it when it begins.

The last thing Therapist told me about this was that it will take time--perhaps a year or two. And I might find success for awhile, only to relapse when stress increases. There is something inside of me that tells me pain is unnecessary and time consuming and I don't have any extra time for it, hence, the edict that in order for us to work on this, I need adequate rest and sleep. I'm not good at waiting, nor at relapsing, nor at tiny increments of progress. But I've been thinking about this for a long time, and I think I can do it.

There is a connection between this physical work and an emotional payoff. I believe when I can feel physical pain in the moment, when I don't separate myself or suppress it, I'll be modeling a process I can use when I find myself running, emotionally, from people I care about. This need to place space between another person and myself happens when I feel I love more than I should, or begin to feel trust, or when I'm certain the deep bonds I'm forming are one-sided and unwanted by the other party. Rather than discussing my fears, I retreat behind humor or silence. At least, that's my perception.

Therapist disagrees with me. He believes I'm very good at talking about the emotional parts of my relationships which make me feel stressed or uncomfortable. And I do talk about them, but only because if I don't, my anxiety increases to the point that I can't interact within that relationship anymore. Therapist has been monitoring a couple of my friendships. He believes the level of emotional honesty within those relationships (on my part), while not perfect, still surpasses that experienced in most friendships.

I don't know if I agree with Therapist. His perception is definitely not mine. But I do believe if I can find parallels between management of my physical and emotional self, this whole process will be much easier. I'd like to do something a little easier for awhile.

"To live is to be slowly born." ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I have spent the past four years doing things I'm glad I did--but which I never wish to do again.

Speaking about my past was the first step, and it took nearly nine months before I was able to state my experiences clearly and with proper terminology. It was horribly painful. I don't want to go through that process again.

Stepping outside of the cocoon of safety I had spun for myself took great effort. I had to detach myself from Darrin, and allow emotional vulnerability with people whom I had not known long. I had to trust that they would not hurt me in any way (which is always stupid, but still important). I had to believe that those whom I trusted loved me and had my best interests at heart. I can't describe the stress this created, and I spent nearly three years forcing myself to stay in friendships when I wished to run. The wishing to run part did not come because the friendships were unhealthy or not delightful. It happened because I was afraid. I stayed anyway, and it was agonizing and difficult (not just for me--for all involved--and I'm sorry). I don't want to experience that growth and understanding thing again.

Meeting with the man who raped me as an adolescent was an important step. I thought about it for a long time before I actually planned and carried out my desire to see him again and kill the imaginary monster my brain had created in his image. It was a delightful surprise when more than one person offered to accompany me on my quest, although I didn't really want anyone to see him. In the end, I was grateful I hadn't gone alone. As I have very little memory of what happened in the hours following that meeting, it's good that there was someone to be with me and make sure I didn't do anything embarrassing or against the law. And meeting with that man made me feel in control of my life again. It also helped me understand he's just an old man who's had a difficult, rather unhappy life. I don't feel sorry for him. I'm no longer afraid, either. But the meeting itself made me sick to my stomach in a way I've not experienced since--and I don't ever want to experience it again.

Accepting the truths I have hidden from myself was next to impossible. With all my heart I wanted to be someone who had never been harmed in the ways I had been. And I did my best to become that other person--several times. Integrating those parts with the child/adolescent/young lady who has been hurting for many, many years was painful in ways I cannot describe. I experienced depression, uncontrollable anger, physical pain, eating disorder recurrence, suicidal thoughts and desires, and erratic behavior. I lost my identity and at one point was certain I had lost my soul. People who care about me continued to remind me that I am Sam...Sam, I am...and to help me find my footing once again. I still wish I was not hurt in the ways I experienced. I would love to imagine my mother cherished me and nurtured me in place of the actual abuse and neglect. I do not ever want to be a rape survivor--but I am. There are too many parts of my life I don't like to remember--but they happened to me. They do not define or describe me. Integration was unpleasant. It still makes me nauseated to think of the requirements necessary to become whole, but it is finished. And while I'm grateful for the end result, I never, ever want to do it again.

And so I look at that end result:
1. I have PTSD. This means sometimes I might not be at my best when I'm with friends and family. People might not always understand my demeanor or reactions. Sometimes I'll wish to stay home where it's quiet rather than be out among throngs of people. If I trust you, I might ask you to remain with me while I work through the aftermath of a flashback or nightmare. Sometimes, if we're chatting online, I might have to leave before the conversation is over because I'm not always able to read between the lines, or I might feel suddenly afraid of you, or I might feel spontaneously sad or overwhelmed. But I don't believe I will always be this way. Some days will be better than others--and one day I might not have to tell anyone I have PTSD, because the symptoms will be manageable and slight or not even there at all.

2. I have an anxiety disorder. Therapist believes I've had it all my life. Occasionally it becomes unmanageable, usually when I'm overworked, overtired, or life is overwhelming. It rarely affects anyone but me. It's uncomfortable and sometimes scary. Once in awhile it manifests itself in the form of sleepwalking or night terrors. During the day, one might see my hands shaking, or I have difficulty sitting still. But mostly, I think no one notices it at all. This is not something I would choose to have, but it's manageable for the most part, and has very little impact on me or those I love.

3. I have learned that sometimes people don't leave. They don't let you down, betray you, or harm you in unspeakable ways. This has taken me four years to accept, and some days I still have to remind myself of it. Interestingly, on those days someone inevitably calls me or finds me online for a chat or sends me an email. And in coming to this knowledge, learning to trust, and accepting that I often give--just as I receive, I have recognized that I no longer agonize about being harmed by people who are closest to me. And if, for whatever reason, life got busy and took them away, it would hurt for awhile and I would miss them, and then I would wait until such time as we could reunite. I don't want this to happen. I know that it does. I know if it does, it will be okay. I will be okay.

4. I have experienced things no one should have to. This doesn't make me brave or strong or different, really, from anyone else--just more unfortunate than those who haven't experienced similar things. I choose not to see the experiences as "lessons" or "ways to help others" or "trials needed for growth" or any other inane platitude put forth by those who need to find a silver lining in any nasty situation. Instead, I choose to see them as they are--absolutely unacceptable forms of human interaction. I don't believe I'm a better person because of them. I believe I would still be who I am if I had been nurtured and loved and never raped or abused--I just wouldn't have as many disorders and phobias, especially to touch. I have chosen to rise above the actions which harmed me and I have worked myself to exhaustion to achieve relief from the affects of those actions. I have chosen to find joy in each day. I have chosen to live without fear. I have chosen to love with abandon. This did not come about because I was harmed, it happened because I wished for it, worked for it, and would settle for nothing less, and I will continue to choose this. It is my doing, my work, my payoff--and I refuse to give credence to acts that should never have happened by connecting them to the person I have become. In essence, the work I have done has uncovered the person who was shrouded in the blackness of fear resulting from those acts. I have emerged from the shroud. It has no claim to the person I am.

I am no longer exhausted by life. I am no longer consumed by fear. It's time to take all that I am--difficulties and strengths equally--time be born...to live...

Sometimes it's okay to be happy.

Tabitha frequently wants to watch feel-good, everything ends happily, family-friendly, trite, poorly written, stupid movies. And I let her. Not only that, I watch them with her. And they're horrible.

But here's the thing--movies filled with violence, sexual content, foul language, and poor role models are the norm, and they rival what Tabitha sees and hears daily at school. And I'm okay if she wants to retreat sometimes and feel safe in fantasy for a couple of hours.

Adam whines that the movies are dumb; Darrin groans that he hates a particular actor or actress; DJ snorts at Tabitha's taste in movies...and then they all join her in the family room to watch the movie. Interestingly, when it's over, no one raves about how good the movie was, nor do they want to watch it twice. But they also don't make fun or become upset because the movie wasn't funny, or exciting, or titillating, or erotic enough. They just say something about it being an okay movie. I think they get tired of all the violence, sex, and language, too, sometimes.

Recently, I had the opportunity to choose a movie to watch with a friend. He had a few collections of comedy series--which I like and think are funny. He had a few movies which I had seen, and some I had not. But I chose to watch Nanny McPhee. He didn't sneer at my choice or laugh at me, but sat beside me and told me why he loves the movie, too. And I enjoyed watching the movie again with someone I love, without worrying that I might encounter scenes which could be uncomfortable or distasteful (although, in that particular company, those things wouldn't really have bothered me). This was important because at the time I was struggling to control PTSD and all it's lovely accompaniments, and I am often triggered by things I see or hear.

I suppose many people, myself included, have a tiny bit of Tabitha in them--a need to be safe even when doing something as simple as watching a movie, or perhaps a need to believe, just for a couple of hours, that life has happily-ever-after endings occasionally, and it's okay to enjoy and feel good about that.

Dear Brozy,

I just want you to know that when you left me in alone in your house today, I planned to get lots and lots of work done. But then your Cleaning Fairy came. I don't like her at all.

I told her several times that you don't like it when people do your dishes for you, but she is rude and does not listen. I'm certain she put the clean dishes in the wrong spots and loaded the dishwasher all wrong. I mentioned that you would rather do this yourself and she put her tongue out at me and continued to disregard all I said, even when I suggested that I would be much more appreciative of her efforts and she could come clean at my house. And she said she doesn't want to come to my house anyway!

She didn't even clean right. She left a pile of used cleaning cloths by your trash cans and she didn't put all the clean dishes away, but left them in random stacks around your kitchen. And I'm hoping you won't blame me for this because, after all, my magic is no match for hers, and fairies rarely listen to me--ever.

Also, please don't be mad about this because I want to come back and visit you again. It's lovely to have a nice bed and someone who doesn't mind if I make myself at home and cook dinner without ever inquiring as to what you might like to eat, but just assume you'll like whatever I decide sounds good.

And I cleaned my hair out of the tub and off the sink in the bathroom, just in case that will earn me brownie points.

Love,
Samantha

P.S. The dogs were stupid and didn't even bark at the Cleaning Fairy once. Pfft...some watchdogs...

The sky is blue and the sun is shining.

I am sitting at work, looking out the window and thinking, This is not what I'm supposed to be doing.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a career-minded person. Simply because I'm a workaholic does not mean I excel at anything work-related. I don't care if I become the best musician in the world. I'm not ambitious when it comes to being a financial advisor. If I've prepared your taxes and you decide you need to go to someone new, my response will be to make certain you have all the information from past years so the transition will be seamless and stressless. I don't want an amazing office or salary or minions.

I want to go outside and play. Admit it--you want to be out there playing with me, too.

Better--but not ALL better

I've been feeling on top of life for the first time in a couple of years. It's been wonderful.

But yesterday something happened which reminded me how fragile my illusion of strength is. In moments I had tumbled back into helplessness and feelings which are unlike me. I need to remember that seven days cannot correct the hazards of eighteen months, nor will those days supply me with the emotional and physical rest I need every day. Fortunately, I'm blessed with a number of loved ones who can admit mistakes, who will allow me to do the same, and who will meet me halfway when we have unfortunate interactions.

Still, I need to remember I'm in the process of recuperating. It will take time for me to build up strength again, for I've been very tired, and I don't have weeks of uninterrupted rest to rebuild. I have to keep working and living--no time to check out of life.

That would be nice, wouldn't it? To have a place where one could just rest and regroup until such time as life seemed manageable again? I vote for that.

"I am you; you are ME. You are the waves; I am the ocean. Know this and be free, be divine." ~Sri Sathya Sai Baba

I have no idea what that quote means, nor why I'm thinking of it tonight. I remember reading it the first time and thinking, "That is completely messed up."

But sometimes, just for a moment, when I'm with someone I care for deeply, I get lost in who they are. I can't explain, because I'm not really sure what happens, but in that moment I know the person beyond what they look like, the sound of their voice is lost as it vibrates in my head, and as I inhale there is a scent beyond smell which tells me more about my loved one than words can express. And suddenly, I understand trust, and safety, and devotion in a way unlike any other.

It fleetingly breaks my heart as I recognize just for a moment how very much I love that person, and then the moment bleeds into another, splaying into ungainly reality, and is lost.

Before I go to bed...

I am waking up.

At least, that's what it feels like. For more than a year I have been burdened beyond my ability to cope. Today, the burden feels weirdly light.

I no longer feel that if one more stressful thing happens I will lose my mind. The methods I have been trying (without success) to use to manage PTSD symptoms clicked into place today for the first time in 18 months. They worked.

My life is no less complicated. I'm still working too many hours, but...

Let's face it, rest is important. I'm not very good at it, but even a little bit is helpful. And many of the things I did while in Seattle--while still very stressful--were laying groundwork to help me with my PTSD management when I got home.

When I arrived in Seattle, I said to Tolkien Boy, "I don't know how to breathe this air." It had too much moisture and more oxygen than my lungs were used to. Both are very good things--but I am used to breathing the thin, dry air of my 8000-feet-above-sea-level home.

That's sort of how I feel about not being stressed--I'm not sure how to react to it. However, after a day or two of oxygen saturated air, my lungs adapted and soon it felt natural to breathe it. I think, maybe, in a few days I'll figure out how to enjoy having less stress and panic.

There are certain times in one's life when one experiences remarkable change. It's a bit indescribable and probably cannot be understood by those not sharing the experience. This is what happened to me last week. I can try to explain, but even those who were present will probably not understand. I just know that today my guts don't feel clenched, I'm not frustrated with pent-up energy, and my thoughts are clear and logical. It's been a very long time since I've felt this. I'd like it to last a little while.

Things that happened in Seattle which make me smile

1. There is a twenty minute walk (at least) from the airport terminal to the light rail. And the train doesn't always leave on time which can make it difficult to stick to one's itinerary and to make adjustments when you don't know which bus you're trying to meet at the end of the line. However, if helpful people send you to the wrong bus stop, other helpful people will send you back to the right one.

2. A homeless man sitting nearby asked me if I knew when the train would get to Seattle. Since we were all ready in Seattle, and the train hadn't yet begun to move, I just said I wasn't from around these parts and I had no idea. A few minutes later, he took out a blue, disposable razor and began to shave his neck. When the ticket guys came to check our fares, the homeless man was ejected from the train, but I noticed that one of the ticket guys gave him ten dollars and told him to go get something to eat. Homeless Man pocketed the money, then took out his razor to shave his neck one more time as he watched the train leave.

3. While riding on a bus, Tolkien Boy and I were conversing about strangers being in his apartment, as his landlord was showing it while we were gone (TB is looking for a new place to live).

TB: I don't think I like people I don't know being in my apartment.
me: Why? What can they do? Your landlord is with them, they're just looking at the rooms.
TB: They might look in my closets.
me: Of course they'll look in the closets. What's wrong with that?
TB: They'll see my stuff.
me: What stuff? What don't you want them to see?
TB: I don't know. They'll see my comic books.
me: So? They don't know you. What's wrong with them seeing your comic books?
TB: I don't want strangers looking at my comic books.

About this time I noticed a man who was obviously eavesdropping on our conversation. He was laughing visibly each time TB or I spoke, and finally burst out, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But it's like being trapped in a Seinfeld episode!"

Neither Tolkien Boy nor I are great Seinfeld fans. This was not good news. We looked at each other wordlessly, which only caused Bus Man to laugh more. Darrin tells me our reaction was Seinfeldian in the extreme, which was not our intention. Bus Man continued to laugh at us for another few blocks while we discussed the merits of going to the zoo, at which point he informed us that the zoo sucks. Ginsberg, who was with us, Tolkien Boy, and I decided to go to the sucky zoo anyway, which did not suck at all, but was rather lovely, contrary to Bus Man's opinion.

4. Jason and Leslie's two-year-old loves berries. A lot. I've never seen a child eat them like she does. Berries were something my kids had to be introduced to more than once because the texture, seeds, and tartness seemed to be a little daunting to them--and my children were adventurous eaters. However, the toddler I was with in Seattle ate more berries than I could and when I made a cream dessert to go with them, she ended up with that smeared all over her face...and all over her hands...and the table...She was beautiful.

5. I got to ride in a van beside Jason and Leslie's four-year-old who listens carefully to the lyrics of songs broadcast on the radio, and interprets them literally, and asks questions about them until the answer she receives makes sense to her. I tried to field her first questions about a song we were listening to: "Why does she want to climb inside the window?" and "Why won't she go in the door?" and "What's hold the hand of Death?", but then I decided her parents were much better equipped to answer those questions and it was better for me to just be tickled that they were introducing her to Melissa Etheridge at such an early age.

6. I read a bedtime story to Jason and Leslie's four-year-old...and I also read one to Tolkien Boy. There is nothing more to say about this.

Thoughts about PTSD

Since returning home I've noticed very little disruption in my life from PTSD symptoms. They're there--I'm very aware of them--but they seem to lurk near the edges of my mind rather than surging forward to engulf me. Were I to speak with them, I believe I would say something like this:

I see you. I know you're there. But the truth is, I'm busy right now and I don't have time to allow you to distract me. And honestly, you're not doing anything new or remarkable. We both understand how easy it is for me to become overwhelmed, but I'm feeling stronger today than I've felt for over a year now. Also, no matter what you tell me about myself, there is evidence which negates those messages which I've stored in my memory and I intend to shield myself from you with those moments. I expect these memories will deflect any power you have over me for at least a couple of months, at which point I may need to refurbish my arsenal--but until that time, please make yourself comfortable in the background. I plan to keep you there indefinitely.


During my stay in the psyche ward a few years ago, I was diagnosed with PTSD and told I would probably never be free of it, and that I could expect to remain in therapy the rest of my life. The therapy visits, eventually, would become nothing more than annual mental health checks, but it would be a good idea to never go a year without seeing my counselor. I had a conversation with Therapist about this last month:

me: I have one more question before I leave. I was told, when I was in the hospital, that I will never be free of PTSD and I'll need to continue therapy visits for the rest of my life. Do you believe that?
Therapist: No.
me: Why?
Therapist: A number of reasons, actually. I'm assuming the doctors and psychologists who gave you that prognosis were not members of the church, right?
me: One was. The rest were not. It was actually the church member who told me that.
Therapist: Well, I'm not trying to undermine his findings, but I've known you longer--he only saw you for three days--and I've watched how you work. You don't give up and you continue to look for solutions even when there seem to be none. And I've seen your connection with the Lord. I believe, when you've done all the personal work you feel you need to do, when you've learned everything you can, when you're ready to be helped, you'll figure out how to allow the Atonement to finish what you've started. I honestly believe the words you said to me three years ago.
me: I don't remember what I said.
Therapist: You told me you refused to live with PTSD all your life. 
me: Well, that was just a temper tantrum mixed with a whole lot of denial.
Therapist: Possibly. But more importantly, I think you believe it, as well. I don't think you had any idea how painful full-blown PTSD could become, I don't think you understood how exhausted you'd be, and I don't think you knew you'd lose hope occasionally and feel helpless. But I've watched you regroup each time and try new approaches and someday--very soon, I believe--you're going to find what you need to be rid of this. I don't know exactly how that translates. It could mean you just learn to live with it but don't really notice it, or it might mean it goes away completely. But I don't believe you'll need to be in therapy the rest of your life. You understand when you need it, and you know where to find me, so if the time comes that you need support, you'll be able to have it, but it won't be mandatory. You will choose it.
me: Does that mean I don't need to come see you for awhile after I go to Seattle?
Therapist: No. 
me: Why not?
Therapist: I want to see you as soon as you feel able to talk to me when you come back, but no later that two weeks after you get home.
me: Again, why?
Therapist: I have a feeling this week-long "vacation" will not be as restful as I'd like it to be, but I also think you're going to spend your break from work processing a whole bunch of emotional and psychological "stuff". I just think it will be a good idea for us to touch bases when you come home, if for no other reason than to update me as to how you're feeling.
me: Okay.
Therapist: What? No arguments?
me: I'm too tired to argue. Besides, you're probably right.
Therapist: Wow. You are tired. I think this vacation will be a very good thing for you.
me: I hope you're right. Right now it's still giving me panic attacks.
Therapist: Sam, I don't think they'll last. Just trust me--you need this time off. 


And because Therapist knows everything, he was right, of course, about needing the time off, and using the time to process emotional things. I'm hoping he's right in his predictions about PTSD in my future. I think he might be. For the first time in about a year I don't dread the symptoms, I feel able to cope with them, and even manage them. I'm gearing up for the moments when self-worth is questioned and I begin to feel I am too filthy to be touched or cuddled. And I wasn't kidding when I said I have saved up incredible moments to be used as ammunition against the symptoms which undermine my sense of who I am.

I will remember that Jason and Leslie allowed me to spend time with their kids, and stayed up late talking with me, and let me cook dinner for them. And Jason and I went running and I found a four-leaf clover which had incredible powers which I will not go into--but it was fortunate that we had it with us during our run. They made time for me and I believe they did that because they care about me and, as I wanted to spend time with them, they also wanted to spend as much in-person time with me as they could before I left.

I will remember that I had a "date" with a straight guy--a sweet friend who didn't act offended that I fell asleep during a movie and who didn't seem put out that our day together was marred by my inability to control flashbacks, which absolutely must have put a damper on what should have been a lovely time. It's possible he was just being polite, but I prefer to believe he cares about me, so it's all right if I'm under the weather occasionally.

I will remember that TB never seems concerned if I touch him and often holds me close. He's not worried that the proximity to me will contaminate him, and sometimes seems to go out of his way to make certain I receive healthy touch, especially when I'm overwhelmed by PTSD symptoms or flashbacks. It's possible that he hates touching me, but that makes no sense at all. I prefer to believe that we've been friends long enough that we like sitting together and giving hugs and sometimes, even if he doesn't like the fact that I'm feeling pain after a flashback, I believe he's glad he can be present to help me through it because that's what you do when you care about someone.

I will remember that Tabitha couldn't stop hugging me when I got home because she missed me so much, that Adam has cornered me for too many hours just to talk, because he loves to talk with me, and that Darrin missed me--everything about me--he missed hugging me, kissing me, laughing with me and talking with me, even arguing with me--and he missed making love with me and was very glad I missed all those things, too.

I will remember that AtP texted me and sent me chats to let me know he missed our daily contact with each other, and that a number of other friends sent me well-wishes before I left because they knew I was nervous about leaving work and my family.

And so, PTSD, the bottom line is that there are many people who care about me, who will help me through whatever you can dish out, and I am not alone. And not only do they tell me how they feel--they show me. You, I can doubt. You send me nothing but nastiness and pain. But I refuse to doubt my loved ones. There may be times when they aren't available--because they have lives, too. But whenever possible, they've gone out of their way to let me know I'm important to them, to lend support, and to show love. You're not real. They are.

Dear People who are visiting from the Scooby-Doo Link,

This is not a site about the cartoon. It is a site where I spill my guts about my life and probably is very scary. Somehow my site became linked on the Scooby-Doo page at Video Surf. My apologies to those who have followed the link back here.

Sincerely,
Sam

Seattle

I'm finding myself dwelling on the past week--processing, perhaps--and I need to note a few things here, just for clarity:

Sleep. 

I did not sleep well. I had hoped I might be able to relax enough to sleep long into the morning, especially since most nights I was up very late. However, as is my norm, I continued to wake at daybreak. I did find, though, that I could sleep on the bus, during movies, through the majority of my church meetings, on plane rides, and sometimes I would catnap after I awoke in the mornings. Fatigue seems to do that to me. My kids have a belief that I can sleep anywhere, under any circumstances. They could be right. I don't believe I'll ever stop being ridiculed by them because I slept through the tornado which swept through our town a couple of years ago.

Relief from nightmares and flashbacks.

This did not happen. In fact, it was as bad as ever. I know the reason for this and it was based on a set of unfortunate circumstances, but I still hoped I had done enough groundwork to at least keep the flashbacks at bay during the day. It was not so. There was one rather crippling day of cascading flashbacks. By the time afternoon set in, my body was pain-wracked and felt as though it belonged to someone else. I was angry, but too tired to express it. I wanted to be present, to visit with friends, to enjoy my time with them. Instead I was being distracted nearly every 30-45 minutes with painful, stupid flashbacks which left me feeling exhausted and disoriented. I'm always certain when this takes place, that I look like a freak and act like I'm crazy. Not that there's anything I can do about it, but it's disconcerting to be trapped in memories from a long time ago and have an audience present.

Still, there seemed to be an impetus behind the rapidity and quantity of flashbacks. I can only compare it to the stomach flu--when you can't seem to stop vomiting, but you know eventually it will all be over and you'll get better. I've never felt that before in conjunction with flashbacks. They've just seemed like nasty, random occurrences, unpredictable and purposeless. The next day, when I finally had my sanity back, I understood what I needed to do to help alleviate the onslaught of flashbacks, and I did it. Part of it was personal work, part involved another person. I've not experienced a flashback since Wednesday.

Work abstinence.

This was not easy. In fact, when I was in distress on that awful flashback day, it was all I could think about--I NEEDED to work. However, that was not a possibility. We were on the bus, or at the zoo, or walking up and down hills... By the time we were near a place where I could set up my computer and work, I was no longer capable of it, mentally or emotionally, perhaps even physically. I'm uncertain whether my escape to work when I'm having difficulty managing PTSD symptoms of any kind, is a blessing or a curse. I certainly don't want to endure another day like the one mentioned above, nor do I wish to use work to avoid processing necessary emotional crap. 

Still, I was amazed to find myself relieved that I only had two workdays left in the week when I returned home. I was ready to work--and ready to rest after finishing my hours last night. That's new. So maybe my week of not working was helpful? I just don't know.

Visiting.

I've never spent this much consecutive alone-time with friends. Ever. In 2006, I took the first solo journey of my life. I drove to my grandmother's house and spent a couple of nights with her, then to visit my sister-in-law briefly (not overnight). I spent an evening with TB's family, then slept in a hotel room alone for the first time in my life, then TB and I had lunch with my rapist cousin the next day. The remainder of that day is a blur; I remember very little of it. Tolkien Boy must have driven me back to my hotel, eventually, because I know I spent one more night there before driving to see ATP for a couple of days, at which point I went home. An interesting trip, to say the least.

Four years later, I was flying to Seattle for a week with friends--something I have never done before. There was no family obligation, no creepy rapist lunch, no need to block memories...just time with friends. Also, I have never spent more than two nights with friends before. My head says to stay longer than that is not a visit, but an imposition and I must never impose. Therapist told me this belief stems from my certainty that I am a disposable distraction--people like me around for a little while, but are quite happy to see me leave. He said, probably there are people who love me who would be glad to have me stay longer than one or two days and I should think about testing that theory out while I was in Seattle. So I did. Sort of.

I stayed with TB three nights. Then I stayed with Jason and family two nights. Then I stayed one more night with Tolkien Boy. That's four nights with one friend. Granted, they weren't consecutive, and there was another friend with us for much of the time--although I'm not sure that's notable, but it sort of feels important. Perhaps because I wasn't the sole recipient of TB's hospitality? I'm not sure.

I tried to talk about this weird phenomenon with TB when I returned that last night, but I was really tired and I have a feeling it didn't come out the way I had planned. I believe I said something like, "I want to stay--but I don't want to." My memory says he responded with something about my needing to go home to my husband and kids, which was not what I was talking about at all, and I tried to further explain, but I think I said, instead, "Well, I wouldn't stay anyway, even if I could." Again, not what I was trying to express. Complete conversation fail on my part.

The next morning I couldn't decide if the conversation actually took place or I dreamed the whole thing (yes, this is common when I'm sleep deprived). I tried to ask TB about it, but again, couldn't seem to dredge up the right questions. He seemed bored with the whole thing, and not forthcoming with any details of that which was discussed the night before, and I was still tired--perhaps he was, as well--so I dropped it. It's not unusual for me to begin a conversation with Tolkien Boy and have it end up far from where I intended it to go, but I don't believe I've ever had one with him where my meaning was expressed so badly or misconstrued by him--but I don't know that for sure because I really can't remember exactly what was said, and TB didn't tell me anything more about it the next day, although I do remember him saying we had a very nice conversation (and I don't believe we did).

Anyway, the fact of the matter is, I did stay with a friend longer than two days. And the result of this is that I'm feeling all sorts of insecurity over my regrettable imposition. I do not know how to feel otherwise and Therapist is unhelpful. I did, however, recount my beliefs about being a disposable distraction to TB on the last day I was with him, and I remember him saying I am not disposable. This was after four days of robbing him of his bed, so maybe it's okay...sometimes...occasionally...once-in-a-lifetime...to stay four nights with a friend. Maybe.

That's enough. I don't want to think about this anymore.

Pinafore does not rhyme with metaphor, it just shares the same phonetic word ending.

Jason once told me I am one of the most self-aware people he knows.

Self-awareness indicates an awareness of oneself as an individual or of one's own being and actions and thoughts, and at the time I thought it funny he should remark upon that because I certainly did not feel self-aware in the least. I was trying to figure out just how I had been affected by dissociation and what the results would be of integration. My memories were cognitive rather than emotional, and at times seemed like stories of another person which touched me not at all. I was experiencing feelings I had not acknowledged before, learning how to cry, and wondering how people fit into my life. I had no idea who I really was.

Today I am whole, I suppose. It has been more than two years since I began the integration process, more than one year since it was finished. There are still moments when I ache for the simplicity of being able to release myself from the person who has endured my past, to become someone new, to define myself in terms of my present only. Last week I told Tolkien Boy I still don't want to be the little girl who was raped; the one who grew up being told by her mother she was worthless, offensive, unwanted; the one who learned to disregard physical pain because she had become accustomed to daily beatings and sometimes nightly ones, as well; the young woman who battled anorexia; the grown woman who has learned to love that same mother, to forgive past offenses, but must still acknowledge the long-term damage she lives with daily. There are still many days when being Samantha overwhelms me.

During my stay with Tolkien Boy last week, he commented that people are always telling me I'm beautiful, but in his opinion, I have weird feet--they are not beautiful. My toes, apparently, are too short for beauty. It made me giggle for a number of reasons:

1. People are not always telling me I'm beautiful. This is completely a figment of Tolkien Boy's imagination. The closest thing we have encountered to TB's delusion happened a few days ago at a Seattle bus stop, when a drunk, homeless man asked TB how I became so pretty. It's a bit difficult to use this incident as credible evidence supporting TB's claim.
2. My feet are ridiculously small, even for someone of my short stature. I've known this all my life.
3. I had a feeling this conversation was coming, as TB had commented a few day previously that the nails on my small toes were very tiny. I pointed out that they covered the available surface area admirably. It's difficult to be a large toenail if the toe part is not very big.
4. I think feet, in and of themselves, are unattractive and have never been inordinately fond of how they look.
5. Beneath TB's words there seemed to lie a concern that I might, somehow, become caught up in all those comments people send my way which tell me I'm beautiful. Fortunately, my feet (not beautiful) would somehow temper my tendency to become conceited.

Given the fact that the first part of point five DOES NOT HAPPEN, I'm unlikely to become conceited in the first place, which just makes remarking on my not beautiful feet seem a bit unnecessary. Coming from anyone but Tolkien Boy, I might take exception to it, but because we pretty much say whatever is on our minds in a given moment, I suppose I have to allow the comment without feeling rancor.

However, as we talked and laughed about my feet, I realized that TB's mistaken impression of my physical persona is very much an accurate metaphor for my real self. As much as I try to bring beauty into my life, as I recognize it, crave it, talk of it, at the bottom of what makes ME are the misshapen stubs upon which I stand--the parts of me I cannot change or grow or make beautiful in any way. They are fixed in their size and forever unattractive. No matter how pink or sparkly I paint the nails, I am simply decorating the dross.

That being said, those small feet of mine have run countless miles, allowing me to expel pent up emotion and anxiety. They rarely ache or cause me pain, and they wear cute shoes exceedingly well. They're well-muscled and support my body as I walk and run. They've never been injured or broken. And one time, one rare but treasured time, someone very special to me who has long slipped into my past, touched those feet of mine, stroked and caressed them, declared them lovely--and I allowed it. In spite of touch phobias, and fear of people and commitment, and all the other nasty remnants carried by those who experience rape and abuse...I let someone I loved touch the skin of my feet, and it was okay.

It gives me a small sense of hope that one day someone will see that ugly, misshapen part of me--the things that have happened which I cannot change--and that person will still wish to touch that part of me and perhaps find among the nastiness and horror, one tiny part which can be declared lovely.

I have reached the ripe old age, emotionally, of ten.

I decided this today while discussing with a long-suffering friend, for the millionth time, my inability to comprehend and become comfortable with the acceptable and inevitable progression of friendship. I refer, of course, to the cycle in which two people meet, recognize that they're compatible, become excited about shared time and conversations, and then allow that excitement to wane as they meet new people and encounter more important things in life which lead them to REAL items of importance (romantic relationships, careers, children, etc.), which eventually means that the aforementioned friendship becomes an afterthought, a memory lovingly dusted off every decade as the two meet, reminisce, catch up, and leave one another so that they can attend to real life. My problem in accepting this cycle, I believe, is that I completely buy into the rituals, concepts, and certainties of ten-year-olds, including the following:

1. Spitting into one's palm and pressing it into the equally spitty palm of one's friend creates a magical bond which allows telepathic communication.
2. Blood brother/sisterhood is real and the ritual negates any life-threatening, blood-borne diseases feared by informed adults.
3. People actually grow up and build houses beside each other simply because they're best friends. Their significant others also join in the best-friendship, as do any children born into either union, and the best friends grow old together and tour Europe in their old age after they get tired of going on joint vacations to Hawaii.
4. Dinners should be shared with friends. Always.
5. Slumber parties are not just for children. Adult slumber parties usually involve separate rooms just to avoid awkwardness, but sometimes the participants stay up late and talk about sex before they go to bed, because that's what grown-ups do. They're sort of obsessed with sex.
6. When best friends get sick, they take care of each other.
7. When best friends are sad, they bring each other cookies and tell funny jokes. Sometimes this doesn't help them stop being sad, but it's always better to have someone nearby, whom you can hug, when you're sad.
8. When friends get mad at each other they talk about it. They say, "I'm mad at you." This allows the other person an opportunity to apologize and make amends, if possible. They don't try to make other people mad at their friend, nor do they stop talking to the person they're mad at. The only time this is not true is when the friend steals another friend's chocolate and eats it without asking, which would never happen because friends don't do that.
9. People who are friends never get tired of each other. Ever.
10. Long-term friendships are built on camaraderie, similar sense of humor, inside jokes, shared sorrows, genuine interest, honesty, and willingness to work on building relationships. And they don't take time-outs for 5 years, then regroup and try to pick up where they left off. They accommodate social and personal changes and they work to strengthen those involved whenever possible.

This would all be fine and dandy except for one inescapable fact: People don't stay 10 years old forever. Therefore, I am left with my childish certainties about friendship, while all the adults around me wonder why I keep spitting into my palm before I shake hands. I try to explain the benefits of my emotionally immature beliefs and they shake their heads, understanding, as I do not, the folly of such convictions in our ever-changing world.

I know they're right. I understand that I cannot expect my friendship to ever be as important as real, grown-up relationships which might lead to such things as romantic partnerships and marriage because, let's face it, true friendship can't hold a candle to regular sex. Really. I get this.

But even as I understand reality, I'm stuck in my ten-year-old certainty that nothing is as fascinating as watching butterflies or blooming wildflowers together, and there is incomparable joy in running in the rain, or turning cartwheels, or skipping rocks, or hunting nonexistent treasure, or believing in magic...and in the end, some part of all those grown-up, mature, distant friends will miss me just a little, even if they don't really know me anymore.

Time to start writing again.

Tolkien Boy's bedroom is cleaner than mine. I know this because I slept in his bed for a few nights while he inhabited his living room couch, insisting it was comfortable because of the lovely nook into which his behind nestled while he slept. Personally, I don't believe his comfort assertion because when I sat on that same couch, I fell into that space reserved for TB's resting rear and was swallowed up in mounds of olive green cushion and had I not been blessed with a rather piercing scream, I'm certain I would still be residing in the bowels of TB's couch, and while it's unlike me to spend much time observing TB's nether regions, I have seen them clothed in denim, and I'm certain they're not half large enough to rest comfortably in that vast couch chasm into which I descended. However, disregarding the relationship between couch labyrinths and TB's darling buttocks, the fact remains that his bedroom is clean and mine is not.

This is not easy for me to admit. Nearly four years ago TB and I spent about an hour online discussing possibilities for his survival because he had inadvertently barricaded himself in his room while trying to pack up his belongings and simultaneously clean the space. He gave me reason to believe he was a professional slob and this is completely untrue. I'm having difficulty transitioning him from my preconceived notion to the reality in spite of the fact that I have seen, and even lived in (for a few days), his apartment.

Sigh...now I shall have to clean my bedroom.

There is a point to my preamble--or rather, several points:
1. Finally convinced by Therapist and Darrin, I have admitted to being a relentless workaholic. Their assertions of this were met by me with obstinate disbelief until they asked when I last vacationed without working. I cannot remember. Even when I went to Hawaii for a week, I worked. Apparently, it's beneficial for people to take breaks from work.

2. Therefore, I consented to take a non-working vacation for a whole week. This vacation was also supposed to be free of children and spouse, as I have fallen into "caretaker" mode and find it difficult to attend to my own needs when I'm with people I perceive as needing my help. Instead, I focus entirely on what I can do to make those I'm with more comfortable and end up exhausted and very happy to leave them.

3. After a bit of research and experimentation involving short visits to various friends, Darrin suggested that I accept Tolkien Boy's invitation to go visit him. My personal belief is that TB extended the invitation knowing I was unlikely to accept, and if I did (which I probably wouldn't) I would only stay a day or two. I was a bit embarrassed to call him and say, "How about if I come stay for a WHOLE WEEK?" But TB took it in stride and said he'd discuss it with his roommate. In the meantime, I arranged to stay a couple of days in the middle of the week with Jason and his family, which would allow TB time to catch his breath, spend time with his compatriots, or just languish with his couch before I wrapped up the final day of my vacation with him.

When all the arrangements had been made, fares purchased, and time-off from work granted, I proceeded to have stupid panic attacks because the thought of a week without work was driving me crazy--but--I did it.

The visit allowed me an opportunity to accomplish a few things, emotionally, I could not do on my own, which had nothing to do with workaholism (if it's not a word, it should be), and also gave me time to enjoy some lovely friends. It was not, as was hoped, a relaxing vacation, but I think it accomplished what Therapist had hoped. In retrospect, I'm certain it was exactly what I needed.

I'm not going to regale anyone who happens onto this post with highlights of my mandatory vacation. Perhaps at a later date I will say more. I'm just going to say I'm grateful for friends who offer me hospitality and generosity while I sort out my life, but as a side note, Tolkien Boy is selling his couch as he prepares to move to a different apartment. I'm not sure whether my sympathy lies with the purchaser or TB's behind. Either way, I'm glad he's keeping his bed. I prefer to think of him resting comfortably there. It's so much safer.

Thanks to those of you who stopped by and left comments wishing me well. It's time to close comments on this blog until such time as I'm up to writing once again. I don't know if/when that will happen. Before I do so, however, I have to mention my wonderful friend, Jason Lockhart. About six months ago, when I began to lose emotional stamina, he agreed to take charge of my blog as far as comments and publications are concerned. He has faithfully read and posted for me since that time. As I've seen nothing but wonderful, supportive words from those who have visited during that time, I'm assuming there were no visits or comments from those cyber-bullies who have left their pointless words here in the past (although, Jason has let me know about a number of spam comments linking to porn sites--dutifully deleted), but I appreciate Jason's willingness to screen everything for me. Should I begin blogging again at some point, I may ask him to continue in that role if he has the time. It's wonderful to have good friends one can trust and lean on occasionally. You're awesome, Jason, and I thank you.

My plan was to close comments after one month of announcing my intent to cease blogging for awhile. That day will come in about a week. Should anyone still be reading and have anything more to say--speak now or...well...you know the rest.

Afterthoughts--May 30, 2010

I was very unhappy when Ward Cleaver announced that he would be leaving blogland. I've never met the man. I only know him from the things he's posted about himself. I know what he looks like because about two months before he left, he began posting pictures of himself. But we were friends. It's possible that he was my closest friend at the time, other than Darrin. I had never had anyone--ever--who visited me every day, expressed interest in my family, career, and personal life, and who shared his life with me equally. Granted, this all took place using pseudonyms in cyberspace, but it became a stable, predictable haven for me as I began a terribly difficult journey.

Ward left because his life was becoming too complicated. He was dealing with personal and health issues which would daunt the strongest person. His psychiatrist suggested Ward had become too involved in the imaginary workings in blogland and needed to invest himself more fully in his real life. Ward agreed, and his blog disappeared. We still keep in touch. Ward emails me occasionally, and I've found him online for a chat once or twice in the last few years. But it's not the same, naturally. We're not friends as we were...but perhaps it was all make-believe anyway. My heart doesn't believe that, but it's easily deceived.

It was completely different when The Late Tolkien Boy told me, last September, he was disappearing himself. My guts twisted and I was angry. I wanted to scream, throw a tantrum, hit something, which was very silly of me. Tolkien Boy didn't even write in his blog anymore. There had been a time when the blog was active and was followed by millions of fans--yes, I was one of those--but for nearly a year it had been mostly dormant. But the blog represented an important chapter of my life and was a symbol of something I cherished. There were a couple of posts in the blog dedicated to me, and a story Tolkien Boy had written for me. Somehow, a part of my soul was invested in that tiny piece of cyberspace. Add to that the fact that Tolkien Boy figured prominently in my own blog and if he disappeared, how would I refer to his real, corporeal person when I wrote about him? It was becoming very complicated.

Fortunately, my friend didn't actually complete his blog demise for a couple of months after warning me it would happen, which allowed me to get used to the idea and stop being angry at him. Please remember, I think logically, but that has nothing to do with my feelings which are completely unreasonable, at best.

I mention these two examples because I believe it's time, at least for now, for me to retire. When I discussed my feelings about TB's disappearance with Jason, he mentioned he might feel similarly if I were to discontinue blogging, and perhaps there are others like him who have become accustomed to my copious ramblings and might be a little bit unhappy if I suddenly create a hole in their blogland routine. And so, I will explain my need to go away.

I realized last week that the place which used to be a playground for my words has become my emotional prison. This has happened gradually and because of, I believe, the intense difficulty of the past 18 months. Recent developments in my life, influenced by some things that are happening in the lives of family members and close friends, have led me to a place where I feel unable to escape. Thursday of last week I hit an all-time low. For those who have been following my blog, you have seen me go through extremely difficult times. Always I have regrouped, bounced back, gathered strength and moved forward. Sometimes that process has taken a long time, but in the back of my mind I've known it would happen when the pain subsided and I also knew I was loved and supported which motivated me to keep trying. On Thursday I no longer cared if anyone loved or supported me, and I no longer have the emotional strength to keep dragging myself up when I'm knocked down. Yes, there was a catalyst to this. No, I won't be talking about it.

As my life became unmanageable this time, I thought about blogging, wishing to draw hope from the encouragement which inevitably comes from stalwart friends who check up on me (by the way, I love you! Thank you so much for helping me repeatedly in the past few years). I thought about, and even attempted to talk with friends. I couldn't do it. Finally, I just sat by Darrin and cried. Nervous breakdown? Maybe. I don't know.

I realized that I, as was the case with my sweet friend, Ward, needed to remove myself from this part of my life for a time. I need to immerse myself in reality--whatever that may mean, however painful it is. I need to laugh and grieve and cry and work, and someday I must sleep again. This is a good decision for me.

Today as I ran, a butterfly joined me--the first one this spring. It didn't fly lightly beside me, occasionally crossing in front of me to flutter along on the other side, but instead it circled me as I ran, nearly touching me with its fragile wings. For nearly a quarter of a mile it did this, occasionally moving to fly beside me, then circling close to me again. I found myself gasping with sobs as memories of the things which bring me joy flooded my mind. I'm still alive--I'm going to make it through this. When the butterfly left and the weeping subsided, I waited for my gasping to regulate itself into my regular running rhythm--it didn't. Finally I realized I was sprinting. I don't know how long I'd been running at top speed, but my first couple of miles happened very quickly. I slowed my pace, allowed myself to find my rhythm and dedicated myself to seeing the beauty of immense stretches of blue sky, vivid wildflowers, new prairie grass, and scuttling insects avoiding my pounding feet.

I've been sprinting for more than four years, aided by the gentle, beautiful butterfly wings of online concern and friendships. It's time for me to slow down, look around me, find my rhythm, and move forward. I may come back here some day. I don't know yet and today is not the day for me to make such a decision.

I don't know if I believe this

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Why Cry? Evolutionary Biologists Show Crying Can Strengthen Relationships

ScienceDaily (Sep. 7, 2009) — Medically, crying is known to be a symptom of physical pain or stress. But now a Tel Aviv University evolutionary biologist looks to empirical evidence showing that tears have emotional benefits and can make interpersonal relationships stronger.

New analysis by Dr. Oren Hasson of TAU's Department of Zoology shows that tears still signal physiological distress, but they also function as an evolution-based mechanism to bring people closer together.
"Crying is a highly evolved behavior," explains Dr. Hasson. "Tears give clues and reliable information about submission, needs and social attachments between one another. My research is trying to answer what the evolutionary reasons are for having emotional tears.
"My analysis suggests that by blurring vision, tears lower defences and reliably function as signals of submission, a cry for help, and even in a mutual display of attachment and as a group display of cohesion," he reports.
His research, published recently in Evolutionary Psychology, investigates the different kinds of tears we shed — tears of joy, sadness and grief — as well as the authenticity or sincerity of the tears. Crying, Dr. Hasson says, has unique benefits among friends and others in our various communities.
For crying out loud (and behind closed doors)
Approaching the topic with the deductive tools of an evolutionary biologist, Dr. Hasson investigated the use of tears in various emotional and social circumstances. Tears are used to elicit mercy from an antagonistic enemy, he claims. They are also useful in eliciting the sympathy — and perhaps more importantly the strategic assistance — of people who were not part of the enemy group.
"This is strictly human," reasons Dr. Hasson. "Emotional tears also signal appeasement, a need for attachment in times of grief, and a validation of emotions among family, friends and members of a group."
Crying enhances attachments and friendships, says Dr. Hasson, but taboos are still there in certain cases. In some cultures, societies or circumstances, the expression of emotions is received as a weakness and the production of tears is suppressed. For example, it is rarely acceptable to cry in front of your boss at work — especially if you are a man, he says.
Streets awash with tears?
Multiple studies across cultures show that crying helps us bond with our families, loved ones and allies, Dr. Hasson says. By blurring vision, tears reliably signal your vulnerability and that you love someone, a good evolutionary strategy to emotionally bind people closer to you.
"Of course," Dr. Hasson adds, "the efficacy of this evolutionary behavior always depends on who you're with when you cry those buckets of tears, and it probably won't be effective in places, like at work, when emotions should be hidden."
Dr. Hasson, a marriage therapist, uses his conclusions in his clinic. "It is important to legitimize emotional tears in relationships," he says. "Too often, women who cry feel ashamed, silly or weak, when in reality they are simply connected with their feelings, and want sympathy and hugs from their partners."

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"A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls, and small, silly presents every so often - just to save it from drying out completely. ~Pam Brown

Every once in awhile people bond in virtual space. I've experienced the phenomenon more times than I care to admit. While it's happening I remind myself that I've never met the person, and when I do I might dislike them intensely. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the euphoria of knowing this is my new best friend forever. It's ridiculous.

While speaking with my newest virtual comrade, our conversation strayed, naturally, to personal questions, because that's what new friends talk about. This is normal. Most people like it.

Four years ago, I did not enjoy questions. I was busy dodging, hiding, phrasing my answers in ways that would reveal nothing, if possible. This changed after a couple of years. Suddenly I craved questions; I wanted to know people were involved in my life. I wanted someone to care about me and the things I'd experienced. I wanted the give and take of a balanced relationship. For awhile I fought for this, attempted to foster an environment where I could ask questions and allow myself to answer them honestly, and believed desperately in friendships which always felt alive. 

And then I got old and tired.

I found myself returning to my old habits with New Virtual Friend. I had an opportunity to foster closeness and enjoy that "balanced relationship" I had once sought as I heard stories of his life, aspirations, favorite movies and books and colors and hobbies and... Instead, as he asked me innocent getting-to-know-you questions, I found myself thinking, "Please, let's not muddy the waters with who I am. Let's just talk about playing Scrabble, or reading poetry, or the weather. Let's enjoy who we are today and not worry about who I was a million years ago. Let's pretend I don't have PTSD, that I grew up in a family who nurtured and adored me, and I can't imagine rape or betrayal because I've never experienced it. Let's imagine I'm going to be trusting and emotionally healthy, and I'll never be afraid of you. Don't delve. Believe your first impression is absolutely correct. I'm certain that in the end--because there will be one--we'll both be much happier."

To my relief, New Virtual Friend seemed to read my thoughts. He allowed my light, fun answers and believed them with all his heart. To my surprise, I found myself believing them, as well. For about an hour I was funny, and carefree, and amazing. 

And I don't care if it was honest or misleading. I don't care if two months down the road he wonders why I dodged, and perhaps continue to dodge, all his questions. I don't care if he never knows the real Samantha. I don't care!

Yes. I just stomped my foot.

Because sometimes I really am funny and carefree and amazing, and I like being that person. I think there are plenty of people who know the REAL me--the one who can't make it through one day without wondering which person close to her will betray her--the one who sometimes has flashbacks and nightmares--the one who might never experience a relaxed, beautiful friendship because she seems to lack the ability to do so--the one who goes through each day swallowing the knot in her throat and performing the simple social tasks others do effortlessly--the workaholic--stubborn, argumentative, delusional, exhausted, used up, old...

Dear New Virtual Friend,

This is what I would like you to know about me--believe about me--forever:

1. I have an amazing sense of humor.

2. I notice the beautiful things.

3. I believe the best about people and encourage them to succeed.

4. I love to read, research, learn.

5. I am madly in love with words, flowers, bugs, snakes, frogs, chocolate, and God.

6. Sometimes I walk barefoot in the grass.

7. When I run, there are times when I'm certain I can fly.

8. I adore wearing high heels.

9. I like to dance.

10. Someday, if we're alone and I'm feeling a great deal of love for you, I'll sing you my favorite song. 

And you can believe those things because they're all true, and actually, they're the only things that are important. Everything else is just clutter.

Love,

Sam

Half

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I started this post

And if you make it to the end of this post...

So many things to think about.

Yesterday was difficult and I was vulnerable and something happened that should not have happened involving this blog.

This is a global comment to those in the therapy field who read my blog (I'm aware of four now. Each one that I'm aware of has contacted me either in the comments field, through email, or in person by telephone, chatting, or face-to-face): I am incredibly honest about what I feel. This means the picture presented is one-sided and not representative at all of the reality about my interaction with Therapist. He is often my scapegoat and the recipient of all bad feelings--on my blog.

In person, we have a good relationship, although yesterday I was mad at him. I don't tell everything that happens in therapy sessions--I only talk about the things I'm thinking about when I post. I don't discuss the frequency or length of my sessions. I will say, however, that Therapist lives a long way from me and has been available to me through telephone and chatting whenever I have needed him. I often email with questions, which he answers within a couple of hours, or lets me know if there will be a delay. Yesterday he set up an appointment to talk by phone about some of the things that were upsetting me.

I appreciate the things said in the comment by JennVan. I also received an email from another therapist reader. But I realized when I read their words how very little I actually say beyond discussing my feelings of the moment and whining. I also realized that I purposely say very little about what is actually happening in my therapy sessions because I don't always know what I think of them, and I'm not prepared to hear the thoughts of others until I've figured that out. Often, when I do, I have no more desire to talk about it.

I hope those who read who are finding value as I sort through my life here will continue to read and to comment--but please recognize that this is a tiny part of the whole picture, and from my perspective, only. I'm certain if Therapist could put in his two-cents here, there would be a different picture altogether.

Having provided that lengthy explanation, here is what happened:

I'm tired. I'm tired of stress and working and bad things that seem to keep happening. In the midst of that, I'm tired of PTSD and panic attacks and feeling helpless and immobile. Yesterday those things felt overwhelming and aggravating. When I read the comment and email I've mentioned above, I immediately grasped the ideas expressed in them as my next "task". I decided I needed to do those things with or without Therapist.

Then he decided to check in with me.

Am I okay? he wonders. No. I'm not. Do I want to talk about it? he asks. Maybe. We make an appointment to talk in a couple of hours. He finishes early and we end up talking much sooner.

And I become very upset with him. No. We can't work on any of the things I suggest. Therapist has never said no to me before. He has never told me I can't.

me: Why?

Therapist: Sam, we've talked about this. Before we can do any work of the type you suggest, you have to learn to manage the stress in your life. Right now you're in such a state that anything we do will have to be repeated later, and it could actually be harmful to you.

me: I don't understand.

Therapist: I think you do.

me: Help me understand again.

Therapist: Okay. You have Panic Disorder coupled with PTSD. You're not sleeping. You're not eating. You're overexercising. You're under more stress than most people can handle who don't have the other things I just mentioned. Until some of that calms down, we can't do any concrete work.

me: Because?

Therapist: Because things have a way of getting twisted and becoming something they're not when you feel what you're feeling now. On top of that, we could actually undo some of the work you've completed, should your emotional stress level escalate more.

me: So--what do I do?

Therapist: The things we've discussed. Meditation. Deliberately slowing down. Taking time to be in the moment. Yoga. Creative writing. Mindfulness. Using all your senses to help you relax.

me: I'm good at Yoga.

Therapist: The physical part, I'm sure you excel at. How are you at the breathing? The meditation?

me: I suck.

Therapist: That's where the focus should be.

me: Other options?

Therapist: If the time comes that you wish to try medication, I'll refer you to a medical doctor. But you've said you don't want that, and I'll respect your wishes. But unless you're able to get this under control, we really can't do anymore at this point.

me: I think taking a pill would be even more stressful for me.

Therapist: Yes, you've said that before. Again, I'm letting you decide. But Sam, you have to start sleeping--eating--taking breaks from the stuff that's driving you.

me: Okay. But just so you know--all this stuff you're saying is making me more stressed. I think I'm going to throw up.

Therapist: What do you want to hear?

me: The truth--always. So thank you. But could you please tell me, just for now, that we'll work on the other stuff someday? Even if that's not true, I want to hear it.

Therapist: Well, of course, it IS true. We will definitely continue what we've started when you're able to complete the work successfully. Yes, Sam, we'll be working on it very soon, I think.

Naturally, at that point I was gone. I heard him tell me he would refer me to another professional--took it out of context and decided he didn't want to work with me anymore--and he disliked me--and he was tired of me--and I was just fine with that.

I was mad at him the rest of the day and most of the night. I pouted dreadfully.

Thankfully, I have Darrin--who let me spout off and listened with wide-eyes, but never once argued or contradicted me.

Thankfully, I have a friend or two who will chat with me, or talk on the phone, who are able to point out my idiocy and still let me know they love me.

Thankfully, I was at the end of a PTSD day.

This morning I woke up sane. And enormously embarrassed. And I spent 90 minutes thinking. Today has been low-key and peaceful, and I'm still mortified. At some point I'm going to have to contact Therapist and ask him what was really said in our phone call, because right now I only remember that he was mean and nasty (and I know he wasn't) and he hurt my feelings (which is absolutely stupid) and he doesn't want to work with me anymore (which was never said--but I still heard it).

And I have no idea how I let all this happen, but it did.

So for those of you who actually made it to the end of this post, I have a surprise.

Follow these directions exactly:

Combine three cups of chocolate chips in a microwave-safe bowl (You can use any combination of semisweet, bittersweet, or milk chocolate, but be sure it's high quality. I like Guittard semi-sweet the best. My mom prefers to use one cup of milk chocolate to two cups of semi-sweet). Pour in one can sweetened condensed milk (I use the fat-free, which is kind of silly, but I do it anyway) and microwave for one minute on high. Stir and return for 30 - 40 more seconds, until chocolate is completely melted. Stir in a lot of vanilla and a whole bunch of walnut halves. Stir until chocolate is glossy and smooth. Spread on waxed paper and allow to harden and cool. Eat with abandon, preferably after real food is in your stomach. Have a glass of water standing by. Share any leftover pieces with people you love. Or just eat them all.

A word to the wise:

Eating two large pieces of fudge (especially mine which has no marshmallow matter in it, but is serious dark chocolate and lots of walnuts) and nothing else after a six mile run, is a bad idea. Especially for someone who has blood sugar issues and what Therapist insists is Panic Disorder (but I'm not having that--I already have PTSD and that's enough).

Following a morning of incessant shaking and inability to type, I am now eating shredded wheat and peanut butter. I'm not sure why I chose those things, nor do they taste very good, but they are making me feel less light-headed.

That is a very good thing.

Tomorrow I think I won't have fudge after I run. I'll wait until bedtime.

Maybe.

Sigh...

Four years ago my thoughts were clear and logical. I was rarely at a loss for words. The thought of being confused by life was incomprehensible.

Four years ago I was slightly egotistical, confident, and brash.

Four years ago I never cried, emotions were an irritation, and laughing was my response to nearly every situation.

Four years ago I lived in denial, I was emotionally dependent on my husband, and I had no one outside of him who truly knew who I was.

I have spoken with four therapists in four years. Each of them has told me I needed to learn to feel my emotions, to give them space, to honor them.

I didn't understand why. I didn't want to. I didn't feel happy about trying--but I did try, because I trusted them. Well...I trusted Therapist. He said the other three were correct and this was something I needed to do.

And now...

Logical thought often escapes me. It sometimes takes me weeks to figure out the words to ask a question. I rarely understand what is happening in my life.

I probably still act confident, but I'm not. I worry that I'll make mistakes when I'm working on things at which I'm skilled, even expert. I second guess myself all the time--especially in relationships/friendships. There was a time when I would talk to anyone, and if that didn't meet with their approval I talked more, certain that in time they would fall in love with me. Now, even with those who assure me they already love me, I worry I'm intruding, interrupting, unwanted.

I cry often. Sometimes I don't even know why. I find it frustrating and aggravating. My impulse is to head for the nearest cave when it happens, but what I really want is to be held, which aggravates me further because I detest weakness in myself. I still laugh more often than I cry, but I would really like the tears to take a vacation. I let myself feel the emotions, because Therapist said I must, and then I wonder what that was supposed to accomplish. I feel so much worse, sometimes for days.

I'm no longer in denial--but acceptance and acknowledgement has not made me happy. I'm not emotionally dependent on anyone--but I don't really know who I am on my own. There are many who have seen me as I truly am--which has made me feel defensive and inadequate. I have not found peace in authenticity. Instead, I have found vulnerability, and I have no idea what to do next.

Therapist said allowing all this emotional crap would help me. I trusted him. I did everything he told me to do, and I did it thoroughly.

Is this it? Is this the end result? I sort of feel that I invested all I had, and ended up with a mess I can't clean up.

And at the heart of it all, I wonder if Therapist had no idea what he was talking about. I wonder if he just spouted rhetoric at me, and I bought into it. I wonder why I trusted him; why I believed him.

I don't know if I believe him anymore, and I'm pretty sure I don't trust him, either.