I hope someday you have a child just like you!

I remember my mother saying this to me. I remember thinking, "I hope so, too." I wasn't being nasty. I just felt there was so much that was good about me--things that needed to be nourished and acknowledged. I knew I wasn't perfect. I was very aware of the things that made me a very bad person. I just thought, if I had a chance--if someone would just believe in me--maybe I'd just be a sort of bad person.

But I didn't get a child like me. I got three beautiful, unique individuals who brought unforeseen joy and challenges. There are times I believe I will go bald with the stress of being a mom; there are also other moments so incredibly beautiful I want to freeze time so I can live there a tiny bit longer.

DJ's two best friends are engaged. Suddenly he has found himself alone. Making new friends is never easy. I'm watching his loneliness and frustration grow, understanding that he's an adult, wishing I could help, knowing I cannot. He wants to go back to school--but he's not excited about any type of major. He's decided a business degree will be best, but wants a higher paying job to help with school expenses. He tries to save money--then he finds something he cannot live without. He lives with abnormally high blood pressure and cholesterol, as well as thyroid problems. He's not thrilled that he has to take "old man" medication. All he really wants to do is open his very own flower shop.

Adam can't decide if it's nice or horrible to be graduated. He's lost his routine. Routine is paramount to him. He feels insecure and grouchy when he doesn't know what will happen next. He wanted to apply as a med tech at the hospital, then found out that one of his certifications was not correct; he needs further first aid training. The mistake was the fault of his EMT instructor's and she'll be rectifying it at no cost to him. But he must wait two more weeks. The waiting is not making him happy, nor is my suggestion that there might not be a job available at the hospital and it would be prudent to find any job while he awaits final certification and application at the hospital.

Tabitha continues to battle chronic depression and anxiety. If she attends school for a full week, that constitutes a miracle. We've pulled her from all her advanced courses and her dream of graduating a year early (for which she was on track 18 months ago) will not happen. She'll be lucky to graduate with her class unless we're able to get her stabilized. She's trying desperately to do the things that will help her, but each morning constitutes a battle with real life and she feels she's losing.

In the midst of all this, DJ continues to spread sunshine wherever he goes. People light up when he walks in the room. His smile and sense of humor are contagious and delightful. I have no doubt that whatever he chooses to do, flower shop or something different, he will succeed.

Adam is trying to learn to cook and clean and take care of himself in preparation for moving out when he goes to college in the fall. He constantly distracts me with his need to have deep conversations and ask questions I cannot answer. He told me last week I was one of his very best friends--then said, "Is that okay? I know you're my mom, too." I just laughed. He'll have to figure that one out for himself.

Tabitha grows more beautiful each day. Orthodontics are  her next birthday present--she's stressed and excited about the prospect. She's been "dating" a sweet young man who treats her with respect, warmth, and friendship. They're friends, she insists. I'm fine with that. The relationship at this point is innocent, comfortable, and healthy. I love spending time with my daughter. She's creative and funny and I adore her.

Do I hope my children have sons and daughters that mirror their personalities? No.

I hope my children have the strength to grow through the difficulties and mistakes and sadness they encounter. I hope they recognize how amazing and beautiful they are. I hope they understand that they are loved every moment that they breathe. And if they have children, I hope they enjoy and agonize over and pray for them, in the same way that I have done from the moment my children were born.

An maybe someday one of my children will have a child just like me. :)

"What would you do if you weren't afraid?" ~Spencer Johnson

There have been a few times in my life when I have found myself in a place, emotionally, similar to that in which I now find myself. In the past I have chosen different ways to cope with the difficulties--some have been healthier than others. Regardless, at some point in each of those situations, I have made the decision to dig myself out of my current mucky hole, change my attitude and perspective, and cling to the things which bring me happiness.

It isn't easy; and I don't believe everyone in the world can do this. I'm able to because:
1. I'm not clinically nor chemically depressed.
2. I don't suffer from serious emotional/mental disorders such as schizophrenia or bi-polar disorder.
3. I understand my limitations (which doesn't mean I don't try to reach beyond them, just that I'm not devastated when I fail completely at being a superhero).

I do experience depression sometimes. I believe that's a normal state of being for most people when they encounter difficulties which feel overwhelming. I have PTSD and an anxiety disorder (did you notice? Three words in a row beginning with "an"). I do not take medication for these, mostly because I react badly to medication. Even Ibuprofin, as I found out after my recent surgery, causes my body extreme distress. Sometimes it's best not to play the crap shoot of taking psychotropic drugs when the odds are stacked against  one.

I've been experiencing a downward emotional spiral in my life for nearly three years now. There are valid reasons for this. I've had a lot to deal with, probably more than the average person, but most certainly there are others whose lives have more stress and sadness than mine.

It's time to stop.

I've been lying low for about a week now. This is crucial for me right now. I've limited my exposure to most of the people in my life for a few reasons:
1. I needed a moment to step back and regroup.

2. People, for me, are unpredictable and I often misinterpret their words and intent. I needed a break from that.

3. I had begun to feel that if I needed someone I had to track them down, beg for a moment of time, and convince myself it was okay to take that time if it was offered. I hate feeling that way. When this situation arises in my life it usually means I'm not coping well with the social intricacies of maintaining relationships. It has nothing to do with the people, themselves, and everything to do with how I interpret their words and actions--and my interpretation is almost always incorrect.

4. I'm tired. There are people in my life who feel like a haven most of the time. When I stop feeling relief when I'm with them; when chatting and phone calls become work; when I feel that everything I say is wrong--that's when I know I'm overwhelmed and I need to take care of some inner emotional messes before I can continue interaction with people. Occasionally a friend has talked me through this, or just stayed with me while I've sorted myself out. I'm not sure how that happened, as I usually don't allow anyone near me in those times. Interestingly, this time I've longed for that type of company as I go through this nasty but necessary transition, and I've felt sadness when I could not bring myself to ask a loved one to lend me a hand. I don't understand this new development and I'm not at all comfortable with it.

5. I've been having disturbing dreams involving people who are close to me. It's difficult enough to try to sort through reality without mixing in the emotions stirred up by illogical and upsetting dreams.

6. I don't really know what how I wish to proceed in my relationships with people.

I suppose that last part is really the bottom line. I'm confused. I feel inadequate. I'm too tired to figure out what to do next.

In spite of all this, I made a decision last night: It's time for me to move forward again.

I watch the sun rise nearly every morning. I can't help it. I wake up and wait until it begins, then I move to the window and watch. Every morning I'm fascinated by the changes in the lightening sky. Sometimes the colors are breathtaking. Other mornings the sky simply lightens until the sun bursts above the golden horizon. I have no preference--I just want to see it happen.

Today I found moments to laugh--I consciously sought them out. I went to church and thanked The Big Guy for the opportunity to take that moment for meditation, singing, hearing words other people speak, and listening to the voice of my own soul.  I played with my kids and Darrin. We made new, unusual food for dinner. I read a book I'd been wanting to read, and wrote a rather terrifyingly awful poem. I played Facebook games.

I know there are some people in my life who have been worried about me. There is a part of me which feels a bit rebellious about that. No one is allowed to worry about me because I'm always okay. I land on my feet and carry on no matter what happens. If someone worries about me, that means I might be vulnerable, I have the possibility of failure, and then I have to acknowledge that people, occasionally, actually think about me. Those things negate my illusion that I'm invincible.

There is another part of me--a relatively new part--which feels grateful that someone might be mindful of me. That's the part that wishes to be cherished and important and involved in the lives of other people. I hate that new part. It's uncomfortable and confusing and ultimately joyful. I would very much like it to go away. I also want it to stay forever.

So--if you are one who has thought of me in the past few months, worrying a tiny bit as you've watched me deteriorate--thank you for thinking about me and lending support in whatever way you have chosen. I'm certain I didn't want it. I'm more certain that I desperately needed it.

Nearly every evening I watch the sun set. I can't help it. I notice the waning light, go to my window and watch. Every evening I'm fascinated by the changes in the darkening sky. Sometimes the colors are breathtaking. Other times the sky gradually dims until the sun disappears beneath the horizon and the sky becomes my favorite shade of blue--so deep it is nearly black. I have no preference--I just want to see it happen.

Tomorrow I will watch the sun rise again. I'll find more things that make me laugh. I'll be grateful for the many wonderful things and experiences and people in my life. I'll go to work with a smile and hope for the best when I attend my physical therapy appointment. I'll spend time with people I love and make time for meditation and reflection and gratitude. When the time comes, I'll watch the sun set once again.

I will become strong again. I will smile every time the opportunity presents itself. And even though I know it won't be easy, little by little I will make the changes necessary for me to feel less lonely, less frustration and anger, and less sadness.

And just as an aside: probably this is going to be miserable and really, really hard. If someone happens to feel a desire to extend a helping hand to me--I'll probably take it.

There. First change goal accomplished. I just asked for help.

I'm amazing. :-)

I'm going to bed soon. I did a lot today and it's time. I was supposed to go on a date with my favorite person--but I thought staying in tonight was a better idea. The weather helped me decide. I'm usually cold when I'm in my house--going outside when it's colder than freezing is intolerable right now. We'll do something tomorrow.

I am okay.

I know--that's a silly thing to write, but it's true. There are many things causing me pain right now, but pain is part of life. I am often angry or sad or confused right now, but so are a lot of other people. I don't know how to feel much of the time. There are times when love or humor seems to be an appropriate emotion but I hit a brick wall and feel nothing. I tell myself it's a process and one day I'll move beyond it. I don't necessarily believe this in the moment, but it's something to cling to when I feel discouraged.

I suppose what I'm saying is that I'm no different from anyone else. My experiences are different and my perceptions are often inaccurate, but everyone experiences times of difficulty. It's silly for me to spend time wishing I could make the things that ache go away. I can't.

I realized today that a large part of why I spend time with people, part of why I bond so deeply with them is because they distract me from what hurts. They offer me relief for a moment. But I always have to go back to real life because at some point I have to face the things that cause me pain, and for whatever reason, I feel compelled to face it alone.

I think I hoped when I met with Jeff that we could join forces somehow; together we could work through the things that were done to us. That can't happen. His experience belongs to him just as mine belongs to me. The difference is that he's comfortable walking alone. I continue to look for a hand to hold or even just someone to walk beside me. Jeff has courage and grit. I don't.

Today I had a long talk with myself. I decided if I have to journey alone, I need to enjoy my own company. Sometimes I do. I think about interesting things and I have a large library of stored music in my head. I can always think of poetry, of books I've read, and sometimes I even venture into my imagination--something I rarely, if ever, share with anyone else.

I am okay.

I sort of hate "okay," but it's better than "not okay."

Someday I'll make it through all the stuff I've been working on. At that point I'll have rehashed everything so many times that no one will need to have live conversations with me--they'll know exactly what I have to say, how I feel, and what I'll do at any given time because I'm predictable. But when I'm finished, I believe I'll have new thoughts and feelings. I'll be too old to share them with anyone at that point, but it will be good to move on.

Today I waded through panic attacks, and sadness, and stress tremors. I spent some time weeping over nothing. I wished for things to change so I could have peace.

Then I told myself some jokes (they weren't funny--I'd heard them before), and read a lovely poem, and sang Italian art songs far too loudly (followed up by terrible renditions of pop songs). I practiced Bach, Debussy, Chopin, and Prokofiev. I drove my car through a heavy snowfall to the place I used to run and I thought about the time when I will run once again. I watched the snowflakes diminish, the clouds part, and noticed the sky in a million shades of blue.

I am okay.

I'm still lonely and I can't stop being sad...yet. But I'm also me. No matter what happens, I like the person I am and I'm okay spending the rest of my life with her.

Good night.

Pick yourself up; dust yourself off...

It's Friday. I need it to be Friday. This has been a rough week. Without going into details, let me just say I'm very glad it's over.

When I have difficult weeks there are times when I feel overwhelmed to the point of being nonfunctional. Those are the moments when loneliness sets in and I wonder if anyone knows I'm alive, and I'm fairly certain that even if they do, it doesn't really matter. Then, of course, I launch into my normal logical thought progression:
1. People know Samantha is alive and they care about her.
2. People have lives of their own and those must always take precedence over what is happening in Sam's life.
3. It doesn't really matter how Samantha would deal with or lend support to people she loves, because she's weird and it's important to acknowledge the sane approach which is normal and appropriate.
4. Ultimately, Samantha is responsible for what is happening to her and how she responds to it.
5. It's ridiculous to feel lonely because no one can change what is currently happening anyway.
6. Therapist has suggested I ask people for support or just a listening ear when I go through this type of episode. I feel worse (more insecure, guilt, shame, weakness) after I do that, therefore I am disregarding Therapist's erudite counsel.
7. If Samantha waits long enough this will all go away in some fashion, so there's no reason to take up anyone else's time by talking about it--the end result of which will be that Sam will cry while someone else is listening and that's never a delight.
8. Vitamin D helps.
9. Sunshine helps.
10. When Samantha feels able, she will eat, and food will help a little, too.

I talked with Therapist about a phone consultation. Probably that will happen in the next few weeks because I refuse to travel right now. I was stranded three times last year, resulting in loss of work, a great deal of stress, and unforeseen expense. I can't deal with that right now.

In the past few months I have tried to put some safety barriers in place so that I could stave off or manage PTSD symptoms as they cropped up or in situations that might potentially trigger them. Being alone is one of those potentially triggering situations; so is being in a crowd. So these are the safeties I've attempted:
1. If I am alone more than two hours, I need to call someone on the phone. The call need not last long and will help me balance reality with any extremity I begin feeling.
2. I am to seek sunlight whenever possible. Because I work in a garden level basement, this is important.
3. I am to plan meals and eat away from the computer to help me remember that mealtime is pleasant and an essential break from work.
4. When I begin to feel isolated and forgotten, I am to find someone to talk with online, on the phone, or in person. Should that not be possible, I am to look at previous chats, emails, or other saved correspondence and remember I'm not invisible.

There were more but I'm not listing them because I only got as far as number one. It was difficult enough that I didn't even attempt the others. But I can't even do that anymore. I'm too tired. I understand that I'm the one who has stewardship over me--no one else--but sometimes it seems that this is the way it's been since I was born and I'm tired. I'm embarrassed to admit that there are moments now when I wish I was accountable to someone; I feel the need to tell someone about my day, my stress, my needs, my joys, my fears...

Maybe I never really grew up.

The point is moot, though. I remember as a child, trying to tell my parents something I thought was very important. It wasn't. We were taking a walk and I was just noticing that if you open a snapdragon and brush your finger along the center, yellow powder clings to your finger. But they were talking with my older sister and when they finally noticed I'd been talking, they realized I'd picked flowers from someone's garden and I was in disgrace.

I've never forgotten that moment. It crops up again and again. I have something to say that feels profoundly important but I have to vie for attention, try repeatedly to make my voice heard, and in the end I realize what I had to say was overshadowed by something I should or should not have done and I wish I had said nothing. And now I'm too tired to find an audience anyway. Even if I found an empathetic ear, I don't believe I have the stamina to say anything--and I definitely don't have the strength to listen to all the things I'm doing wrong right now. I am doing the best I can, given the situation in which I find myself.

I feel like a coward. Some of my Facebook friends, however, have been circulating a Monson quote today. I believe, for once, I will buy into it: "Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says, 'I'll try again tomorrow.'"

And I will.

Adam is determined to beat me at Chess. He's been trying since he was ten years old. Years ago, I'd play with him each weekend. I never explain my moves, nor do I give hints. I think it's much more fun to learn on one's own. Darrin disagrees with me. He thinks I just enjoy winning. He doesn't seem to understand that winning against a child is not really a victory.

Adam and I played tonight for the first time in a couple of years. He's been practicing with other players, playing online, and reading tips and I have to admit, he's getting better. Our game lasted ten minutes this time. Adam is very bright, he just doesn't think ahead, and he forgets to use what he knows about his opponent to help him predict which moves might be played next. Admittedly, the last part wouldn't help him in our games. I start one strategy, then make a few random moves (when I know he's feeling frustrated and distracted) and change to a different one. Adam does not adapt well.

I am not an amazing Chess player. I like to play. I think it's fun. If I play against a stranger I win sometimes. Adam believes I'm the best player ever born. He will remain convinced of this until the day he finally beats me--and it will happen. He cares more than I do about winning, so it's inevitable that eventually I will lose.

I don't necessarily know why I'm thinking about this tonight.

Friday marked one more angry time. I hate those. Anger is uncomfortable. It seems impossible to wade through past without feeling it, though. I suppressed the emotion throughout the day, then when Adam went to work, I sent Tabitha and Darrin on a date. I told them I needed alone time (which was true, in a way). I tried writing about the emotions. I tried working, cleaning, practicing, reading. Nothing worked. The anger was going nowhere.

Finally I called Tolkien Boy and wept and ranted at him for the better part of 45 minutes. I do this type of thing with TB more often than I ought, for the simple reason that he allows it. And when I'm finished he doesn't hate me. I'm guessing most of what I say makes no sense, but he pretends I'm speaking intelligently anyway. I'm fairly certain I sound insane and hysterical. Fortunately, he interacts with me in that state often, so it probably just seems normal to him. Someday he and I should have a conversation when I'm not overwrought, just to allow him a basis of comparison.

Often, following my tirade to my innocent bystander friend, I feel guilty relief and the anger goes away. Today it's still lingering. The anger is centered around my cousins, Jeff and David.

When Jeff called me in September, for the first time in my life I stopped feeling crazy. Because no matter how deeply I knew that my memory was authentic and real, having someone else corroborate it validated my story. However, to have it validated by finding out that someone I cared for deeply had experienced the same pain and violation as my own was devastating. I can't seem to stop being angry about this.

When Jeff provided details which proved the things David had done to us were not only calculated, but that he had tried to prod Jeff into participating in raping me--and to repeat that treatment on one of my sisters--I became more angry; I also felt a great despair. Part of me has always hoped that what happened to me was just some weird, random, depraved act of an oversexed teen. I wanted it to be opportunistic. I don't know why it seems so much more heinous to know it was planned carefully, carried out on both Jeff and me, and then the plan was to encourage Jeff to perpetrate similar acts on my sister and me. I can't seem to stop feeling that the acts have now become even more deeply painful. I can't stop being angry about this information.

Jeff was a rape victim. That was bad enough. But when David suggested that Jeff should rape me, Jeff became physically ill. I've never seen him so sick. His body temperature was 103 degrees and would not respond to Tylenol or Ibuprofin. He couldn't eat without vomiting. He stopped talking to anyone--even to me. Within hours of the onset of fever, Jeff was on his way back to his home in Utah. I was angry with him for leaving me. At the same time, I was terrified that Jeff, the family member I loved best, would one day learn what David had done to me and think terrible things about me. That thought has stayed with me through all the subsequent years. What I didn't know is that Jeff was terrified that I would find out he knew what was happening to me and rather than getting help, he got sick and went home leaving me to cope with David by myself. Those respective fears have impeded Jeff's and my desire to be a part of each others lives for many years. I can't even express how angry this makes me.

I suppose the thing which angers me the most is that I can think of no satisfactory way to deal with all of this. I can't make it better. It's just a frustrating, crappy, situation. Even appropriate punishment for David cannot compensate for what he took from us.

Screaming helps a little bit--at least temporarily.

The truth is, I'm going to make it through this. I'll probably do it with a great deal more grace and dignity than such a situation warrants. And I'll make the best of my renewed relationship with Jeff and we'll enjoy each other and make new memories. I'm going to be okay--and probably that's the thing that makes me angrier than anything else.

That doesn't make sense, I know. Nothing makes sense tonight, and I have an overwhelming urge to punch someone. I won't. I just want to.

"Friends are God's way of apologizing to us for our families." --Tennessee Williams

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
This is another very long, drawn-out post exploring my inner psyche, past memories, and inane conclusions.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a post in my "Running With Butterflies" blog. I discussed how I had tried for the past six or seven years to understand friendship, and how I had begun an experiment to see if I could experience viable ones. The experiment was a colossal failure. What I learned was that friendship continues to be something that causes me stress and that I don't feel safe or valued within those relationships. The more I learned and experienced, the more insecure I became.

And so I ended my research and experimentation. This does not mean I ended my friendships. It simply means that I decided to stop trying to understand and instead, just allow whatever may happen. In the process of this, I've noticed a number of things happened very quickly:

1. Within a couple of days I noticed my need for people decreasing. I spent much less time online and when I was online I didn't initiate chatting with anyone. I made no personal phone calls. I declined three lunch invitations on the basis that I was too busy. I skipped the monthly meeting with a music organization to which I belong because the meetings are largely social and I didn't feel like participating.

2. I no longer felt lonely. At all. I found myself absorbed in reading, practicing piano, working, watching sunrises and sunsets, and cleaning my house. My thoughts rarely turned to another person. It felt as though I was alone in the universe and that was the way it was supposed to be.

3. I felt at peace. For the first time in seven years it made no difference whether or not another person reached out to me and I had no desire to reach out to anyone, myself. I felt a great need for privacy and alone time. I felt secure and comfortable.

This does not mean that I cut myself off from people. I continued to converse online when friends hailed me. I spoke on the phone when people called me. I spent time with Darrin and my kids. I smiled at strangers when I was shopping. Still, what I do is not always in alignment with what I feel.

Shortly after this transition occurred, TB caught me online. He had been gone for a few days and opened our conversation by telling me he missed me. In the past when something similar has happened, I've felt a matching response. This time I just felt confused. It had only been about four days since we had last spoken. How could he possibly miss me?

Then I realized how my life had been affected by my Friendship Experiment. I had changed from someone who used social interaction on an "as needed" basis, to a person with real relationships. I no longer endured parties and lunches and phone calls, but I sought them out, enjoyed them, and felt regret when I had to leave. I had grown into a person who wished for and needed other people. There had been days in the past few years when I wanted desperately to talk to someone--and most often I could find someone who would listen to me. I was treated with dignity, warmth, and kindness, and sometimes I felt loved and important.

The Friendship Experiment began in October 2005, and I kept it active for more than seven years. And yet, when I ceased my quest to understand and immerse myself in friendships, I reverted to my former state, mentally and emotionally, within a matter of days.

My conversation with TB happened about a week ago. Since then I've been wondering what to do. There is no question that I'm most comfortable not pursuing relationships with people. In the days following my decision to stop my experiment I've felt a great deal of peace. My interaction with people has become less frequent and this has not brought me loneliness. I've felt less overwhelmed and stressed...

When I graduated from high school I was an exceptional pianist. I knew this. I had been granted acceptance with scholarships to three notable conservatories. I ended up going to none of them because I was a minor--and my mother chose the university which I ended up attending. At that point in my life I no longer cared about her micromanagement of my life. The goal was to become completely independent of her, and going to college--any college--would help me on my way.

At the university chosen by my mother, I was placed with a teacher who disliked me intensely. I had experienced this type of antipathy from a teacher only one other time in my life. The previous experience was with my seventh grade English teacher and I had that teacher for two periods every school day. I made few mistakes in that class, but when I did, my work was displayed in front of the class and publicly mocked by the teacher. Given the fact that I was still trying to survive the recent rape and ongoing abuse in my life and I had no sense of self on which to rely, the English teacher's mockery, snide comments, and demeaning acts simply served to send me deeply into depression. It was during this time that I stopped eating and tried with all the energy I possessed, to die.

My first university piano professor treated me in a similar fashion. During my private lessons he told me repeatedly that I had no talent, that I was stupid to try to pursue a degree in music, that I needed to change my major immediately. We had masterclass once weekly. In those classes, before all the students, he would point out that I was wasting everyone's time--I didn't play musically, I couldn't count, I made mistakes. His behavior mirrored that of my 7th grade English teacher and had a similar effect on me. I was depressed. My eating disorder returned with a vengeance. Eventually I stopped attending masterclass and by the end of the semester my teacher got his wish. I changed my major. I completed three more semesters and then I dropped out of school.

The ending of this particular story is that I eventually found people who supported and encouraged me to continue pursuing a piano performance degree. Some of that support came in the form of full-ride scholarships which allowed me financial stability while I studied, and I ended up not with one music degree, but three. However, I was left with a very special endowment from that first professor: severe performance anxiety.

Before I attended college, performance was a joy. I loved every moment of it. I rarely made mistakes because I lived and breathed every note. That joy was effectively sucked out of me by the end of my first year of college and replaced by uncontrollable shaking throughout my entire body each time I performed. I was terrified to play in public. This was a terrible handicap when I returned to my music major pursuit.

I spent two years finishing what I had begun. During those two years I contemplated changing my major each time I performed. Many of my performances were awful, fraught with mistakes, stuttering, and memory lapses. I remained a music performance major, however, because I remembered the joy I had felt in the past and I wanted desperately to feel that again. I worked ceaselessly to block the anxiety which caused the shaking and resulting poor performances. Eventually I began to find glimpses of that joy--enough to carry me forward, but there were definitely times when I wished to give up and become a fast food worker.

While I was working toward my degrees, I never did find the joy I was seeking. But years later I was performing a recital and the thought struck me: "I love this piece." It was then that I realized it was back--all of it--all the joy and abandon I had experienced so long ago, and it remains with me today. While the performance anxiety also remains, it no longer causes me pain nor does it interfere with my playing. I don't know when the change occurred but I'm very happy that it did.

I'm retelling this because when I gave up my dreams of majoring in music I felt a great deal of relief. I chose a different major (actually, a few different ones), which I enjoyed and I was comfortable pursuing it. I didn't feel a huge loss as I had expected, when I filled out the paperwork which took me out of the music department and I was completely committed to finding something else. There was peace in knowing I would have more time for homework now that I wasn't required to practice 20 hours weekly. In short, I felt completely happy with the change. I understand now that the relief and happiness I was experiencing was linked to being safe from an abusive teacher and to not having to face the stress of performance anxiety, and really had nothing to do with the degree program I was pursuing.

I think, maybe, there is something similar happening in the Friendship Experiment arena.

Friendship = Anxiety

Friendship causes me anxiety because, for it to work properly and with greatest effectiveness, one cannot control it. I have no say in how another person will feel or react. There is always a possibility of abandonment. I feel that I'm not particularly good at sharing my feelings with others, I'm almost always afraid, I feel a need for abundant reassurance and nurturing (which does not make me one bit happy), and I am always vulnerable.

However, this is not the only side of Friendship. If it were I would never have sought it in the first place. That would be stupid. So...

Friendship = Joy

I can't deny that some of my most joyful moments have taken place with other people, some of whom have chosen to be in my life because they want to be there. While I don't necessarily feel this way now, there have been moments when I have longed to be with another person. I have felt happiness in their presence. There have even been a few times when I felt completely relaxed with another person. It's rare that I feel completely relaxed--ever. To experience that because I was with someone who was safe, for me, is monumental.

Therapist has told me that it's okay if I wish to stay in my solitary comfort zone. He suggests, though, that I continue to seek out people and further believes that my peaceful time will eventually disintegrate. Probably he's right.

I suppose I'm wondering if one day, just as it coexists in my performance experiences, the anxiety I experience in friendship can also coexist with joy, and perhaps the joy will expand to the point that the anxiety no longer bothers me. I wonder if the peace I feel now is a result of relief from feelings of vulnerability and uncertainty. It's possible.

The difference between this particular experience and my piano conquest is that when I decided to immerse myself again in my music pursuit, it was all about and completely controlled by me. Friendship requires mutual commitment. I will definitely need to think about this a little longer before I decide anything.

Still, in the process of thinking during the past couple of weeks, I believe there are few things I've made peace with:

1. People who care don't really abandon one another, but they have to live real life. Regardless of how much I rebel against this, friendship is a secondary relationship. I understand my antagonistic feelings because there is a part of me that feels disregarded when relegated to the role of "friend." It feels I have no authentic importance, I am a convenience, and no matter how much I am loved I will always be an afterthought. I further understand that this belief is a result of the treatment I received within my family, but it is also something I reinforce on my own and that is something I can change. It will probably take more years, but I can change it.

2. All relationships require consistent nurturing and mutual trust. I believe I've done well in the nurturing department, but I must give myself an "F" in the trust department. When someone tells me I'm loved and needed, or I'm important, or I'm a joyful part of their life, I need to learn to trust their words. Should they prove they feel otherwise, this is not a reflection on me. Sometimes it's not even a reflection on the other person. Life happens. My hope is that if I'm important, I would be informed of things that might cause absence, but if that doesn't happen it's still no reflection on my willingness to trust and believe. Again, learning this trust thing might take more years and probably it will hurt a lot. I'm less confident about my ability to learn trust and sometimes I believe I just can't. Still, I'll work on it.

3. The one thing that helped me move forward after I had been thoroughly thrashed by my piano professor, was the memory of joy. I have an abundance of joyful memories within my relationships with other people. And I have complete control over those memories. They're mine. So no matter what the future brings in reference to the choices of my friends, I'm keeping those joyful memories and I'm going to use them to move forward.

Therapist is right--what I'm feeling now is probably temporary and one day soon I just might find myself sending a chat message to someone saying, "I've missed you..."

Beautiful World Gets Political

Okay--anyone who knows me at all understands that I don't discuss politics. I don't debate, I don't ever tell who I will vote/have voted for, and I never talk about the issues or my opinions. There is a reason for this: It's none of your business.

However, today I have something to say.

First--the disclaimer: Nothing said here indicates endorsement of, or agreement with, any known political candidate including the current U.S. President.

I want to talk about flip-flopping.

I believe in it.

I don't like voting for people who have never changed their minds. I've not lived as long as most of the candidates, but I know I've changed my mind about major issues. My reasons for changing my mind had to do with personal experience, education, or just plain logic. Because I'm a skeptic, I'm guessing political candidates change their minds because they believe it will procure more votes, but I'm also an optimist, so I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt at least 10% of the time and assume some of them changed because of a shift in personal beliefs.

So I suppose what I'm saying is this: I don't trust politicians who have never flip-flopped on the issues. If they don't ever change their minds about anything, they aren't listening to the changing needs of the public they represent, they don't notice the diversity in our world, and they're unlikely to choose what constitutes the most good for the majority of people and will instead remain mulishly convinced that the beliefs they formed decades ago continue to be applicable in any situation.

Therefore, when I go to the polls in November, I will certainly vote for a candidate who flip-flops on the issues. It's a good thing I'll have a large number of people to choose from.

I must also point out that flip-flops are my footwear of choice at least four months out of the year.

The End.

No Longer Avoiding Life

When I closed this blog last year I had some idea of why I felt that was necessary, but mostly I did it because I was having difficulty managing the stress I felt when I thought about people reading my words. That seems silly because my purpose in writing in the first place was to allow myself some privacy (writing under a pseudonym) while expressing things I have hidden for most of my life. The blog was to aid my therapy progress, to allow me a voice, to let me say the things I've felt were unacceptable, while allowing me the creativity to just be me and to talk about whatever struck my fancy. For quite a few years, the blog was exactly what I intended.

I suppose the problems began when I met some of the people who were fellow bloggers and who read my words. As time passed, I became increasingly aware that I was no longer free to express whatever came to mind. There was oversight, and people who have learned to care about me would follow up; I might have to explain myself or admit that the words spewed all over my blog had no concrete foundation, but simply expressed how I felt in the moment--and that moment might be completely PTSD induced.

The problem with this is that my feelings are misleading. They really don't represent who I am at the core, nor do they last forever. For instance: For three months I was convinced that DJ did not love me. I was a convenient dinner stop, but he had no interest in sharing his life or important people in his life with me, nor did he have any interest in what was going on in my life. And during those three months I built up wall after wall against my own son.

Eventually I reached a point where I began talking about it. I told Adam of my belief that DJ had no interest in me and that he really wouldn't care if I disappeared. At that point I spoke of these things with emotionless conviction--as though I was talking about the weather and this was just pleasant, meaningless conversation. Naturally, Adam was deeply concerned. He told me I was completely wrong at which point I played the, "How many times have you known me to be wrong" card. Adam believes I know almost everything in the world so he backed down immediately, but I could tell he was upset.

A few weeks later that particular bout of PTSD nonsense subsided. This was aided by a few visits from DJ where he simply spent time with me. Adam swears he didn't tell DJ of my delusional beliefs, but it doesn't really matter. The truth is, in the moment when Adam and I talked, I truly believed every word I spoke. DJ no longer cared about me, did not respect me as his mother, and had no interest in continuing a relationship with me. The scariest part is that I was in the process of protecting myself from the pain of those beliefs, which meant I was working on detaching myself emotionally, from DJ--and he had no idea I was experiencing this.

What does this have to do with closing my blog?

I recognized last February that I was feeling insecurity and stress every time I posted. The content of the post made no difference in how I felt after publication. I felt judged. I was certain the majority of people who read my words were inwardly mocking my failure at life and thinking it was high time I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I felt this in spite of the fact that some readers left encouraging comments filled with sympathy and kindness. I had no understanding as to why they would take time to do that, which seemed only to compound my stress and panic.

So one day I decided my blog was no longer serving its purpose. It wasn't reinforcing my therapeutic work. It was no longer providing a forum for me to talk without judgement. It was, in fact, a place which seemed to exacerbate my more irrational PTSD symptoms, leaving me feeling insecure, unsafe, and self-conscious. On that day, I wrote my final post and closed the blog. I wrote again on the anniversary of my one-year-with-no-flashbacks because I felt compelled to share that with people who had walked with me throughout the past six years. They had seen me fight those nasty episodes for a long time. It felt right to share with them that small victory even though I knew most of those who would be interested were long gone and wouldn't even see the post. Sometimes one writes a post not to current readers, but to those one wishes were readers--or perhaps I'm the only blogger who does this.

As 2011 came to an end, I found myself wishing to write in my blog again. Many of the paranoid PTSD symptoms had subsided. I was having moments that felt level and healthy. I wished once more for a blog where I could talk about the anxiety of PTSD (Running with Butterflies) and one where I could discuss everyday living--one which showed me to be a three-dimensional being who doesn't immerse herself in the emotional whirlpool of PTSD, but actually has a life which is rewarding and beautiful.

And so I began writing once more. I can't promise that shades of PTSD won't seep into my posts here, nor can I promise that I'll never be self-pitying or self-indulgent. I can't promise that the posts will always be upbeat or comedic or entertaining. But this is my blog. This is where I talk. Recently I've felt again that my voice--the audible one--is present too often; in short, I've begun to talk too much. So I think I'll save that for my blog. One doesn't have to watch as the listener's mind wanders, or hear the disinterest in the listener's voice. No one personalizes what I'm saying and in doing so, causes my point to be misconstrued. No one cares if I meander to different topics or speak too quickly or if I talk about something inappropriate. It's my place to say whatever I wish.

And the beautiful thing is this: No doubt, if someone passes through, I'll be judged and found wanting. However it's likely that whomever finds me thus will not comment about it, so I'll never really know. And as I'm writing once again only for me, it doesn't matter if someone finds my words inane or irrelevant. I need to talk; I need a voice; and if the words I need to say are distasteful or inappropriate in a live audience, I'll save them for my virtual world.

I refuse to be silenced by my past. I refuse to be valued by the abuse in my life. In the past six years I have recognized that I, Samantha, have always been someone delightful and aggravating and loving and annoying and conflicted and amazing. That's unlikely to change. I need to be the person I am. Those people who wish to keep company with someone like me will continue to do so, but even if that turns out to be no one, I will express myself right here--in the place where I originally stopped hiding and finally began speaking.

If you're reading this, I hope you'll feel free to speak here, too. And if you're not, well, probably you already know everything I have to say.

Fickle

It seems that I am.

I've never thought of myself in that way before. I am true blue, predictable, stick-in-the-mud, never varying Samantha. Except recently, I'm not.

I asked Therapist about this because I was sort of alarmed by it. He laughed. Although I do not hate him, I might never be in love with him again.

Here's how this works:

In the past, my heart has chosen certain people who belong in my life. They don't really get to decide if they like this or not and neither do I. It just happens. I fall in love. Of course, this happens on a regular basis, and sometimes I fall out of love, but that's rare and usually takes a long time. Occasionally, the person I fall in love with also loves me back and we become fast friends. This is a good thing.

Because I am human, I also choose favorites. It's no secret that there are a few people who talk with me frequently and with whom I spend time whenever I can. I unabashedly ask to sleep on their couches when I visit (although I often try to make up for my lack of manners by cooking dinner and helping with housework when I'm there). I have no qualms about stealing them from airports and not delivering them to their families, but instead, forcing them to spend the entire day with me (because it's my car and it goes wherever I drive it). I've been known to simply assume I have standing lunch dates with certain people. I feel no guilt about dropping by someone's home unexpectedly simply because I want to see them. In short--if you become one of my favorite people, I lose all sense of social decorum and treat you like family.

Among those people, however, I have found myself feeling drawn to one more than another. I would name that person, but this is where the "fickle" enters the stage. Recently (as in, during the past month and continuing to the present day), that person is whomever spends time with me. Ambrosia was my favorite person for at least a day, because she emailed me and said she wanted a phone call--huge points for her. And then she actually did call and she allowed me to gossip in the most wicked way, about her neighbor who abstains from vaccinating her children, and when they contract pertussis, she shares that delight with everyone at church, and continues her generosity in playgroup...

However, AtP dethroned Ambrosia the next day because he caught me at work and wanted to chat. And because I really did not want to work that day, I was happy to waste time instead.

A few hours later AtP was replaced by Tolkien Boy because I had a bee in my bonnet about a comment made on my podcast and I texted him to see if I could run my reply past him before I published it...and although he didn't reply right away (leaving me to contact the blog administrator instead--who became my favorite person briefly even though I've never met him), he called me later and allowed me to spout about people who don't know what they're talking about and who pretend they actually listened to my incredibly long interview (seriously, who has that kind of time?), but who clearly did not since everything he wrote is inane and has no relevance to what was discussed in the interview in the first place.

And then Jason made his move...

Jason and I have marathon conversations. We talk about every topic in the world and then we create new ones. Naturally, we spend time disagreeing and arguing and follow up by reminding each other that we are, indeed, the most intelligent, amazing people ever born and all of the earth is blessed by our presence. And then we laugh hysterically. Anyone previously in the "favorite" spot is automatically usurped when I'm having a three-hour long phone call with Jason. We don't stop talking until the wee hours of morning when we have no idea what the topic of conversation is and we're both dropping off mid-sentence.

So...somewhat alarmed at my inability to maintain some semblance of hierarchy among my friends, I chatted with Therapist. I thought he might have a few answers as to why I've recently become so disloyal.

He didn't. Instead he told me (in capital letters, naturally) that he thought the whole situation was HILARIOUS, and wasn't I lucky I had SO MANY PEOPLE to circulate through my "favorite" spot. I said it was NOT funny (one must communicate in CAPS when Therapist is talking online), and I needed answers.

So Therapist provided me with a most unsatisfactory answer: I have PTSD.

Duh.

Oh, sorry. DUH!

Therapist elaborated. He believes that right now my emotions vacillate wildly because of the upheaval I have recently experienced. He further thinks that because I rebel against the idea that I need ANYONE (his caps, not mine), I allow my focus to move from person to person as they interact with me. Also, because I care deeply for all involved parties, I feel intense affection when they make an effort to spend time with me online, in person, or on the phone. He also believes the traitorous feelings will abate in a few weeks and I'll figure out which person I love best. Then he said he was kidding--what will really happen is that I'll have fairly level feelings, interspersed by moments of tenderness, for each person I care about, which is a perfectly acceptable emotional state of being in reference to close relationships with people.

Then Therapist said, "I think it's probably high time you experienced being fickle. I also have to mention that, in true Samantha style, you're doing it with people who have been in your life for a long time, are unlikely to leave, and who understand the motivation behind your unpredictable emotions. Basically, you picked a safe place in which to EXPERIMENT--which is something you do frequently, even if it's a subconscious impulse."

I have to add, the reason I'm unhappy with Therapist has nothing to do with his very logical assessment of the situation, but rather because he laughed at me. He was not laughing at the ridiculous situation, but rather, he thought it was funny that I was alarmed by it. I don't consider this an empathetic, nor therapeutic reaction (although, I have to admit, I don't even know if "therapeutic reaction" exists because I just made that up).

In the meantime, if you're feeling like you'd like to be my best friend for awhile, just catch me on the phone, chat with me, or maybe leave a comment here. For at least five minutes we'll be bonded for life...

Yeah. I know. That last paragraph makes no sense at all. Welcome to my fickle life. GAH!!

I could be working right now. Instead I'm just sitting here thinking.

When I began blogging about six years ago, I worked about 20 hours weekly. This was by choice. Darrin had a well-paying job, my kids were younger and I wanted to spend time with them, and I had finally decided to seek out therapy to help me with some past trauma. I needed time for me.

A few months later, Darrin lost his job. I got another part-time job to help with bills, and for six months we lived on that and our savings account until Darrin found another job. The new job paid less and had expensive benefits. I kept my new part-time job.

Two years passed and found Darrin once again unemployed--this time he was a victim of an overzealous supervisor and a failing economy. I found two more part-time jobs. At this point my weekly hours were edging toward fifty per week, and Sunday was my only day off. This time it was nearly a year before Darrin was able to find another job. He took a couple of classes during that time, which was good for his resume and self-esteem, but bad for my budding addiction to work...I took another part-time job. I was now beginning work at 5:00 a.m. and finishing at midnight.

Darrin's new job came with a nice salary and benefits, but the the year of no income from him had hurt us. I convinced myself that we needed my new jobs to play catch-up and I continued working 50-60 hours weekly. Tabitha and Adam began to complain that I wasn't present even when I was home. I was either working one of my online jobs, too stressed to communicate with them, or too tired to do anything. I dubbed them ungrateful and continued working like a crazy person.

Finally, in February of last year, I recognized that I was in trouble. The real reason I had not stopped working so many hours was because work was the only thing I wished to do. I'd stopped all other activities. I didn't read anymore. I chatted with people, but rarely enjoyed it. I was cranky much of the time. I played games with Darrin and my kids occasionally, but I always longed for them to be over so I could go back to work.

I'm certain the work addiction helped fill some of the void created by my injury-induced inability to run or be active. I also believe it was used to help me avoid dealing with a number of PTSD related symptoms which were overwhelming and frustrating. By August I was feeling disconnected from nearly every person in my life. I took a few days and went to visit with Therapist, spent time with a number of friends, met Tolkien Boy at the airport and took him home with me for a couple of days.

The morning after TB and I got home, we slept in. We'd ended up driving until about 3:00 a.m. because we left Utah too late in the evening. We'd been visiting friends, some of whom TB hadn't seen for at least a year and lingered way too long.

I awoke at 7:30, but opted out of going to church. I was tired and I had too much on my mind. Darrin and the kids left without me at 8:45. Tolkien Boy woke around 10:30. At that point I was an emotional mess. I'd had a late night and just enough alone time to stir up all sorts of PTSD symptoms, and I couldn't stop thinking about my conversation with Therapist. We'd talked about a number of things, but the bottom line--I was addicted to work and I wasn't going to feel better until I addressed that issue. Therapist said the first step was to quit one of my jobs. I didn't want to.

It seems like such a small thing...just stop working so much. I list this with all the other small things that bother me and seem impossible to overcome:
--just stop feeling miserable about things that happened a million years ago
--just stop agonizing over personal relationships and interactions
--just stop having nightmares
--just eat

So I decided to enjoy the one day of visiting with Tolkien Boy (since he was leaving the next day) and then I would work on that impossible list. And that's what I did.

I quit one of my jobs in September. Then I spent October and November trying to manage all the new symptoms that cropped up in response to not working. They were aggravated by the new revelations about Jeff's abuse by our mutual rapist cousin and the news that my hip injury would not be getting better with physical therapy but would have to have surgery.

In spite of all this, I've been working on the work addiction thing. I haven't talked about it very much because doing so gives me panic attacks. But I think I'm making progress in spite of that.

I won't be teaching at the university for the next three semesters. I've turned away all prospective private students and will continue to do so, keeping my private studio at ten students. Last spring I cut the hours for one of my jobs in half (which also involved a pay cut--a worthy sacrifice). I'm now contemplating finishing this year's tax season and retiring that particular shingle. I haven't yet decided if I'll do that, but it's a definite possibility.

For the first time in three years, I opted not to work on Thanksgiving and I took time off for Christmas, as well. I put off beginning the semester for my private studio until next week (it was scheduled to begin yesterday) because I felt I needed one more week to rest (this was actually based on the fact that I slipped while getting out of the pool last week and am now working with inflammation at the surgery site--that's another story altogether). And for the past hour I've been sitting in front of my computer...not working. Instead, I've been recognizing that many of the emotional difficulties I've encountered are linked to my addiction to work. There are other elements which influence the relationship insecurity, loss of personal self-worth, touch phobia, desire to isolate, and stress/panic attacks, but I believe if I can keep my resolve to pare back my work hours to forty or fewer per week, some of those symptoms will wane or even disappear.

So I'm not going to work anymore tonight. I'm going to bed early. I'm going to spend some time chatting and cuddling with Darrin. I'm going to read for half an hour, and I might even write a letter to a friend. And I'm going to do the same thing tomorrow night.

As soon as my hip is back on track and the inflammation is gone, I'll schedule another visit with Therapist. We're going to talk about all the things I've been processing since my visit with Jeff last month; and we're going to make a plan so that I can continue my work detox program without exacerbating my eating or panic disorder, and without an increase in nightmares or threat of flashbacks; and I'm going to beat this. I'm going to make money efficiently, with fewer distractions and greater return. And I'm going to schedule in rest time and time to remember how to do all the things I used to love--including playing games with my family and chatting with people I adore.

By the time I run my first mile I will no longer be dependent on work to help me manage stress. It's going to happen...because I said so...and I'm magic.

New Year's Day

I'm posting this on both of my Samantha blogs because I think I need to remember it more than once.

I spent yesterday celebrating the end of a very difficult year. In all honesty, I hated 2011. So many things seemed to happen without breaks to allow recovery or rest. I became tired by the time February rolled around.

I went to sleep last night around 2:00 a.m. I woke a couple of hours later thinking. That happens to me often, so it wasn't extraordinary. But I want to record the thoughts that woke me for a few reasons:
1. I needed to recognize the truths in them.
2. I'm still thinking about them.
3. Those thoughts--those realizations--are why I am me.

Yes, there were some really awful times last year. Yes, I had some huge setbacks, physically, which affected how I manage PTSD and I suffered overwhelming emotional stress because of it. Yes, there were major changes in my support network upon which I have learned to rely, oftentimes too much. Yes, I was tired and aggravated and sulky on New Year's Eve because I did not like 2011 at all, BUT...

In 2011 we had one of the most beautiful summers I have ever experienced. There was little wind. We had an abundance of water which kept everything green and lovely through September. I wasn't able to run or walk in it as I would have liked, but I still planted my garden and harvested tomatoes and herbs and reveled in the riot of colors as my flowers bloomed.

In 2011 I enjoyed each sunrise and sunset with a depth of feeling I've not experienced before. Perhaps it's because I was still as I watched, or because I was allowing myself to just live in the moment. My heart responded to each colorful change, rejoiced when the sun finally bathed my world in golden light, and felt peace as the sun sank behind the mountains, the sky glowing a deep royal blue before it darkened and allowed the stars to shine.

In 2011 I was visited by loved ones, some of whom live very far away. The visits were brief but I loved each moment. I was able to return some of the visits and also spend time with friends who weren't able to come my way. We shared time, and laughter, and food, and love.

In 2011 I watched some of the people who are closest to me find new measures of happiness and love as they were married or found partners or had children. I was grateful for their opportunities to experience different levels of life and very happy for their newfound joy. I was also glad to be included, in a small measure, in the newest moments of their lives.

In 2011 I struggled--but I also laughed and played and meditated and prayed. I learned that my body is pretty amazing and while it doesn't always recover as quickly as I would like it to, it still mends more quickly than average and my expectations are unreasonable. I became grateful for health insurance and jobs. I learned to rely on people to help me when I was unable to get around as I was accustomed. I weathered emotional, physical, and spiritual storms. And I made it to 2012--I wasn't always certain that would happen.

Yesterday I celebrated the end of things that were difficult and sometimes agonizing. Today I celebrate a year that brought many blessings and beautiful moments. Those things are always there. Sometimes it takes me awhile to discover them, but I always do because that's who I am.

I am Samantha. My world, although sometimes touched by pain or difficulty or sadness, is filled with beauty and with remarkable people. And someday, because I do not avoid life, I will find peace.

With a grateful heart I say goodbye to 2011, and for each person I love, I wish your days to be filled with wonder and delight in 2012.

It's Just Another New Year's Eve

I'm not sorry to say goodbye to 2011. And I don't really care if that labels me as having a bad attitude. It's been a very difficult year physically, mentally, financially, and emotionally. I'm a bit offended at my body. Being injured to the point of needed surgery in the same year as deciding it no longer needs an appendix seems excessive. And when my body isn't functioning normally, everything else seems to go a little crazy.

So I'm looking forward to 2012. I intend to celebrate the heck out of this day as I usher in the new year and hasten the old one away. I started by going to the gym, riding the bike for 30 minutes, then walking in the "Lazy River" for another 20 minutes. When I came home, I put a batch of bread into my bread maker. I don't really care if that seems celebratory to anyone except me, and I don't really eat a lot of bread...well...I don't really eat a lot of anything, really...but still, I love the smell of it baking and that smell can make a whole lot of stress disappear.

I folded all the laundry and vacuumed my house from top to bottom (hearing in the back of my head my elder sister's nurse-voice as it reminded me I'm only four weeks post-op, and two weeks off crutches, and I need to take it easy still--I told the voice to shut up), swept the kitchen and cleaned my bathroom.

I followed this up with playing turns in my 32 games of Scrabble. I'm uncertain how I came to be playing that many games, but they were there waiting for me so I took my turns. Then I looked in on Kingdom of Loathing. I'm a lamentable player at best, but I love the game's sense of humor and occasionally I play a trick on my KOL friend, Morcai. I thought about doing that today, but I don't remember how, and I currently lack his cleverness when it comes to follow-up, but someday...he should watch his back...

It's horribly ugly outside. The wind continues to blow from all directions and tiny blizzards pop in occasionally to remind us it can always be worse. When I went to the gym this morning, the sun was shining. Not anymore. One could not ask for a more gloomy, stormy day. I've been drowning out the wind by practicing Prokofiev's Toccata in D Minor. Darrin is home now, though, and he is not a fan of the Toccata.

I believe I will call one of the friends who asked us to celebrate with them tonight and ask what we can bring--and tonight I will actually go. I'm not excited about this, but Darrin is and part of my celebration is that we'll do something Darrin wants to do.

For now, I believe I'll get back to playing on Facebook for a minute, and then I'm going to read something while my bread bakes, and my only resolution for 2012 is that this is going to be a better year than 2011. And it's going to be. I promise.

I will be released from my calling in the Young Women's organization on Sunday. The bishopric member who called to notify me is an older man whom I deeply respect. He thanked me for my service, then added, "I'm going to miss you. I've loved hearing you teach--learned so much. Our young women have been very blessed to have you as a teacher, and so have I." That was unexpected.

I called my stake president after I ended the phone call. I'd spoken with him in September, letting him know I had done an interview with FAIR on the topic of same-gender attraction. I told him then that I was concerned about the reaction of some of the stake members, should they listen to the interview. They would have no difficulty identifying me. Stake President said he didn't care--in fact, he would welcome the opportunity to discuss the topic with anyone who was uncomfortable with me (homosexual woman) teaching the youth of our church.

I thought about this a lot after the interview aired. I realized that while my stake president was willing to take on the members who might find me objectionable, I was not emotionally strong enough to do so, myself. I've struggled with self-esteem in the past year, especially in my closest relationships. I've questioned my worth, my place in life, and wondered if there was really any need or desire for me--or if I was a convenient distraction who happened to work online and was therefore readily available to others. While I don't object to that, I do like to understand how I'm perceived by others, regardless of what that might say about me.

The result of the wondering was that I found myself more insecure in relationships, less likely to bond with people, and avoiding interactions that might be meaningful to me but not to the person I was with. I recognized that I've become emotionally drained and very tired, and that almost none of my perceptions regarding my relationships and the feelings of others toward me are accurate.

The thought of having to go on the defensive about a topic which, in my mind, has nothing to do with anyone except me, and having to "prove" that I was not any kind of threat to our young women, especially after spending the majority of my life teaching and serving them, was not something I felt I could manage. I waited a few weeks, spoke with a couple of people, talked with Darrin, and then went to the Bishop to ask for a release.

My stake president was unhappy with me. He started with his, "If anyone says anything about you, I'll gladly tell them to stick it up their stupid butts." I proposed that was probably not a fitting remark from a stake president. He let me know he was completely disinterested in propriety and I needed to be working with the youth. I said (using his first name because I'm fairly disinterested in propriety, as well, and besides, we went to high school together and have been friends for most of our lives), "K, this is not a battle I can fight right now."

The phone was quiet for a few seconds, then he said, "You're not doing very well, are you, Sam?"

I'm doing better, actually, than I've been for about a year. But no, I'm still not at my best. I said, "I've had a few things that have been difficult to deal with recently, yes." His tone changed immediately. He thanked me for letting him know about the release and told me he was available if I need to talk about anything.

I don't. I've talked enough.

Darrin reminded me tonight that I have problems with Vitamin D deficiency this time of year because I'm out in the sunlight less--and with my inability to run, it would be a good idea to start supplementing again. He also suggested I visit with Therapist in the next few weeks rather than waiting the five months I had hoped for. Darrin believes it would be a good idea to take some time to discuss much of what I've been processing in reference to my cousins, and there are a few other things that have cropped up unexpectedly that I might need help with. I'll probably take his advice.

I'm feeling well, actually. But again, as Darrin pointed out, it might be a good change to visit with Therapist and implement the advice he gives when I'm not feeling anxiety. I might experience a greater amount of relief and learn to manage things more successfully in a moment when I feel relaxed and calm. This is something I need to lend serious consideration.

I spent many months in the past couple of years, analyzing and brooding over the relationships in my life. I made breakthroughs and experienced setbacks and wondered if I would ever figure anything out. Eventually, I did. I found that the reason I struggle with relationships of all types is because I don't really believe expressions of love and appreciation aimed at me. I try to believe. I do all sorts of mental gymnastics to make myself understand the words and trust the person speaking.

The problem, as I finally came to understand it, is that while I believe people love me, I believe they appreciate the things I do, I believe they enjoy spending time with and getting to know me, I simultaneously have no understanding of how that can last beyond a moment. I simply cannot conceive of anyone wanting me to remain in their lives, nor can I fathom a place being reserved for me in someone's heart. I have always felt that if something were to happen to me, Darrin would simply find someone else, my children would grieve and move on, and no one else would find my absence remarkable.

I asked Tolkien Boy to work on this with me (not exactly like that--instead I asked lots of uncomfortable questions and he graciously agreed to answer them). He responded clearly and compassionately. I have read and reread what he wrote to me. There is a part of me which rejoices at the answers he has given, and another part that utterly rejects them. It has nothing to do with trust or belief--the social condition outlined by him in which he feels things for or about me, simply does not compute in my head. I cannot make sense of it. I am overwhelmed and confused as I try to apply what I'm reading to myself. My brain sends me a continuous message that none of this can possibly be connected with Samantha--she is an irrelevant part of the equation and must be factored out.

Yet every answer is about me in some way. If I'm factored out, the answers become irrelevant and everything written is nullified. I need to discuss this with Therapist. Soon.

In the meantime, I watch the changes taking place in all my relationships and wonder how to manage the confusion and stress caused by those changes. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe that's part of what makes vital relationships work.

At least I understand now what I do not understand. I know. That makes no sense to anyone except me.

Tomorrow I'll start that Vitamin D thing, and I'll walk in the pool and do my therapy exercises, and I'll play with my kids and do my work. Probably I'll practice for a couple of hours and when no one is around, I'm going to sing. Right now, however, I'm going to bed. I keep having odd dreams involving people in my life doing things completely out of character and also things that are very inappropriate. This is better than nightmares, I think. It makes me giggle in my sleep.

P.S. Eva--thank you for your email. Sometimes I forget that people read what I write here. And actually--that quote you sent me was exactly what I needed to hear tonight. I had forgotten those things. Thank you for reminding me.

I have heard a story retold at Christmas which I wish to record here. At times the protagonist is female, other times, male. For my purpose, gender is irrelevant. The story is about a young student and a beloved teacher. The student wishes to present to the teacher a wonderful gift and so is absent for a couple of days. Returning, the student presents the teacher with a perfectly formed, beautiful shell. The teacher is delighted with the gift, but upon learning where the student found it, expresses dismay at the great length the student traveled to obtain the gift, to which the student replies, "The long journey is part of the gift."

This story is a Christian allegory referencing that our lives are a symbolic gift to the Lord--that the journey to present to him something perfect and beautiful must be long and sometimes arduous, but in the end He accepts not just the result, but all the twists, turns, disappointments, challenges, successes, and growth encountered as we become who we are. In general, I shy away from such allegories, finding them trite, overused, and obvious. I also despise stories designed to elicit an particular emotional response in the guise of spiritual revelation or communication.

A man whom I have always admired retold this story in church today. He is older, in his late 80s, a recent survivor of leukemia. In the many years during which we have been friends, he has said things which have spoken to my heart as I recognize both the truth of his words and the application in my life. Today was no exception.

The journey of my life is not one I wish to repeat. There are many moments I would wish away. People have acted toward me in ways I would like to forget, and I have had my share of acting in shameful ways when I wish I had chosen otherwise. I own experiences I would like to delete; I have said words I would take back; made choices which hurt people I love. In addition, I have endured hurt innocently, been damaged by the violent and senseless acts of others, and lived in the aftermath of those experiences. As I think of this, I wonder how my life can ever be considered a gift. There is so much overwhelming sadness, tragedy, disappointment. I still suffer from childhood deficits in love and nurturing, from abuse, from being forced to grow old before I was twelve. Who would accept such a gift? Perhaps it would be best to discard it and move on...

Today as my elderly friend spoke, I realized my journey is not over, and that part on which I am focused was a tiny moment in the lifespan that will be mine. I have taken those moments and I have moved forward. For many years I refused to own them, to even acknowledge them. Today, regardless of the the pain it costs, I call them mine. While I do not believe they have made me a better person, they have definitely shaped my views, my beliefs, my choices. Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes it's not.

I have processed a great deal of anger and bitterness for the past three months--things I believed I had laid to rest. The result of this was an increased phobia to touch, a loss of logical thought process, and emotional separation from people I love. But during that time, I learned to ask difficult questions, I found out which people I can rely on and trust, and when I felt completely lost I found out that I never quite give up--even when I desperately wish to.

I received communication from people I love during those months. Some of those people are close and current and interact with me daily. Others are people I've not heard from in years, but somehow encountered them again. Those communications let me know I have importance, there have been moments when my life has touched or influenced another, when I have shared strength, lent courage, or given love.

The parts of my journey which have left me drained of strength, filled me with fear, and damaged my soul will always be a part of the gift I offer to the Savior. As much as I would like to, I cannot make them disappear. But when weighed against the person I have become and the person I will become, the person I am determined to become, those parts seem important but incidental. They were boulders which have continually impeded my progress, but which have never stopped me.

There are days when I ask to be reminded that I'll be okay, that I'm loved and needed, and that I'm very strong. This, too, is a measure of the person I'm becoming as I ask for and accept help from others. My deepest fears remain intact; my insecurities rage constantly; my self-doubt never wavers--but through all this I continue my quest to find peace.

Perhaps the real beauty lies in the word "journey." It symbolizes forward movement toward a destination or goal. Sometimes my journey is nomadic--I have no idea where I'm going, I just know I need to continue. I cannot stop in one place for very long. Other times I know exactly where I'm going and move purposefully toward that goal. But as long as my journey continues, as long as I'm not stopping permanently, I'm making progress, I'm learning new things, I'm becoming Samantha.

And one thing I learned a long time ago is that I am loved and wanted by the One who created me.

Tonight I am grateful for the opportunity to live. I'm grateful for the capacity to love and learn and grow and become. I'm endlessly thankful for a Savior who heals my heart and encourages me to find out who I am. And I believe, in the end, when presented with my journey--with all its flaws and misery and ungainly messiness--He will choose, instead, to remember I never stopped trying, that I loved when I could have chosen to hate, that I built when I wished to destroy, that I sought help from those I loved when I was discouraged, and that I learned to see and love Samantha as only He can see me.

That was the purpose of Jesus Christ. Not to be lauded for miracles or revered because he had great power--but to show us the strength of love and the joy of being. His life provided a way for us to be healed from all that hurts us. During his lifetime He treated those who were despised and condemned with gentleness and dignity; He had deep, meaningful relationships with the men and women who spent time with him; He knew and cherished the worth of a soul.

I suppose it doesn't really matter if one believes in Christ or not--those basic concepts of humanity espoused by him would improve the quality of any person's life if they choose to follow them. I have never regretted treating people with kindness and respect regardless of the response to that treatment--but I do believe in him, and tonight I celebrate Christ's birth and his life. Mostly, though, I celebrate the fact that through Him I am alive today and I have become more than I ever believed possible.

Once more, as always, I dedicate my journey to my Savior. No matter the twists and turns, I am always grateful for his presence at my side.

Merry Christmas.

I'm not sure why I want to write here again, but I do.

Physically, I have always been incredibly blessed. I get a cold/virus/flu/whatever every two or three years. Usually it's very mild, lasting only 2-3 days. Occasionally I get something that knocks me off my feet and keeps me down for a week or longer. That has happened twice in my life:

1. I was teaching 44 private students (six days weekly), running a bookkeeping/tax prep business, and trying to raise three small children while Darrin was traveling most days and weekends from 2 p.m. till after midnight. It was grueling. And given my exposure to the variety of germs from students, I contracted something which impeded my ability to inhale, gave me an incredibly sore throat, kept me from sleeping at night, and made me miserable; naturally, my doctor said, "Virus--get some rest. It will go away." A month later it was still hanging around. Two months later there was no change and I was exhausted. Three months later, in the same condition, I went to the doctor again. I sat on his exam table and listened to him tell me it was a virus--then I interrupted him: "I don't care if it's a virus. I don't care if there is nothing you can do for me. I don't care if you don't like prescribing antibiotics that aren't helpful. I've had this crap for three months. I haven't taken antibiotics for more than four years. I'm not getting better. At this point, I believe we should try the placebo effect. I'm not leaving without a prescription for something." So the doctor prescribed an antibiotic and a decongestant. I was better in a week. No doubt, the virus just ran its course.

2. Being quite busy, I did not get a shot for the H1N1 virus when I should have. One of the schools in which I accompany the choir ended up with 60% of the student body contracting the virus. Two of those students were also part of my piano studio. I, of course, ended up with H1N1. I seriously considered dying as a possibility. It was awful. Because I have asthma, my chances of that dying thing were greatly augmented. Because I'm ridiculously healthy, I survived--but it took many months before I could breathe normally once again, which interfered with my running. It was during this time that I took that miserable fall which messed up my hip. I blame H1N1.

Prior to my surgery, the doctor's assistant was going through a list of questions with me: Do you have high blood pressure, diabetes, cancer, high cholesterol...those types of things. I said no to every question. When asked which medications I take regularly, I said, "None." The nurse checked my blood work report, my medical history, and said, "You might be the healthiest person I know." This was repeated to me by several other medical workers as I was prepped for surgery, as they took care of me post-surgery, and in all my follow-ups with doctors, nurses, and physical therapists.

It's true. I'm the healthiest person I know, too. No allergies. I don't have problems with blood pressure, cholesterol, bone density, diabetes. My asthma is managed with an inhaler which I use as needed. I've needed it about five times in the past 10 years. Sometimes I forget completely that I have asthma at all. My cardiovascular fitness is amazing...

My surgery was painless. I took no pain medication and I had very little swelling. The only times I had discomfort were when they missed the first IV placement prior to surgery (and when they flushed the IV), and when my stitches were removed (I heal quickly, so the skin was already trying to grow over the sutures). Yesterday, 15 days post-op, I was cleared to walk in water and ride a stationary bicycle daily for 20 minutes at a time. The scope sites look like three small pink stars on my thigh. They get smaller each day.

In the midst of this, it feels that my emotional healing is taking forever. I suppose one can't have everything, though.

I've had a number of very difficult days in the past couple of years. I believe this is, in part, because I've not been able to run as I'm used to, I've had physical injury and pain, and I've had a number of outside events which have caused me stress.

I spoke with my physical therapist about this yesterday. I told her of the PTSD symptoms I find most daunting:
1. Inability to connect with people.
2. Inability to interpret body language, implied meanings, and humor.
3. Confusion about my role in the lives of people I love.
4. Lack of self-worth.
5. Depression.
6. Phobias that exhibit themselves in elevators, crowds, and any type of touch.

Her response, "I wish you had told me. I've been touching you for months with deep tissue massage and muscle manipulation. I've probably talked about things that have triggered memories or phobias. If I had known, I would have been more careful."

But I don't want "careful."

I want to be treated like everyone else. It's why, when I ask for help in an email or chat box or phone conversation, I always say, "This is something I'd appreciate, but I completely understand if you can't do it. And it's okay. I'll figure something else out and we can just pretend I didn't ask." And then I do my best to honor that statement.

Sometimes I can't. I try, though. Sometimes the answers I seek can only come through particular people. So I might, occasionally, ask again. It sucks. I hate asking for help. I hate even more, asking twice. I go through this cycle:
I asked for help--I'm an idiot to do so in the first place--no one has the time or inclination to help and that's completely valid; why would they want to help me in the first place?--but I'm unable to work through this on my own and it's hurting beyond my ability to ignore it--I need help--I hate this, but I'll ask again--but it's stupid because if they couldn't help the first time, they won't be able to help now--but I don't know what else to do--

Wow. The ridiculousness of that cycle is enough to keep me from asking for help again usually for more than a year. And maybe that's all part of why I take such a long time to heal, emotionally.

Emotional healing requires people. It requires challenging persistent beliefs which keep us trapped and isolated. It requires positive feedback and responses. It requires a model of trust and love which can be emulated by me.

Quite honestly, there are times when I believe the emotional healing I need is not possible--which doesn't mean I won't keep trying. This is something I want more than anything else. I want to reach a point where Samantha feels entitled to love and support; a point where I can love with abandon and know that love is returned because I'm me--not because of anything I do or say. I want to become able to shake hands with warmth and enjoyment. I want to stop feeling that I'm irrelevant, used up, unimportant--because I'm none of those things. I have a voice--it's quiet, but filled with intensity, conviction, and honesty. I contribute in many ways. Most are small and unremarkable and will probably be quickly forgotten; but perhaps they'll have a lasting effect in the future. I believe I bring happiness to a number of people and sometimes I provide a place of rest and relief. That's important. I am important.

I can say those things, and there are days when I believe them, but not every day. I think, however, that this is part of the human condition. Everyone has days when they feel less that the sum of their great worth. Everyone has times when asking for help is difficult and when dealing with lack of response feels personal. Everyone has moments when life feels impossible and frustrating and sad and lonely.

I know this. I've encountered many who just needed a smile or a hug or a moment to talk. So perhaps, while the depth of what I feel is more extreme than most, I'm just experiencing life.

This is my life. Right now it's difficult, but it isn't always this way.

Today is incredibly sunny and windless. The sky is a million shades of blue and in the moments when I'm not working, I'm making a list of books I want to read, music I wish to play, and people I would love to see.

And just so you know: my pansies are still blooming. They're orange this year.

No Apologies

For a long time now I've felt that what I had to say, what I feel about life, my philosophy about people and love and beliefs, were all irrelevant. I visit sites where lively arguments take place about homosexuality and religion and who is right or wrong and things that happen that shouldn't (primarily mentioned in that category: mixed-orientation marriage). I listen as people talk scathingly about things I believe or hold sacred. I say nothing, knowing people do not understand why I choose that which I do, believing those things are not really important in the larger landscape and pertain only to me.

Years ago that bothered me. It doesn't anymore.

There are many things going on in my life right now that cause me anguish. Things beyond my ability to manage at present that hurt not only me, but also people I love. For a few weeks I believed I would be crippled by them--that everything I've fought for and all the healing I've been blessed with were for nothing. I've spoken with Therapist and a number of other people recently and while nothing has changed, necessarily, I'm willing to keep trying awhile longer. Giving up--giving in--acceptance--all these have their place in certain aspects of our lives. I had decided this was one of those times; perhaps, though, I was wrong. I'm willing to wait a few more weeks before I decide.

In the midst of all this, a new development has taken place. Months ago I was approached about being interviewed for an online blog. I thought about it for awhile. Feeling as I do, that my life, opinions, and voice are irrelevant, I hesitated. Eventually, though, I decided it would do no harm to answer questions in that arena, and so I did.

The podcast was posted earlier this week. My belief was (and still is) that a few people would listen. Some would be bored, others would find it mildly interesting, a few comments would be made, and the event would be forgotten. What I did not expect was that AtP would text me, wondering why I had not told him about the interview. I didn't expect that he would listen to it (the topic was religious, something that causes AtP aggravation and stress), nor that it would be something he would appreciate.

AtP was not excluded from the information. I mentioned the interview to no one. Again--it seemed such a tiny thing. But in discussing it with him, I was reminded once more of who I am--and I am grateful for the person I have become, I am convinced that what I believe is right for me, and I appreciate my personal convictions. So tonight, in my closed blog, I am listing a few of the things that make me Samantha. It no longer matters if those things are irrelevant to the rest of the world, or if I am a lone, quiet voice in the midst of all the shouting. It doesn't matter if no one ever believes as I do, or if I am always uniquely wrong. This is who I am:

I believe one of the most sacred rights all people share is the right to choose what we believe. I will never tell you I am right and you are wrong, and I will defend with all my strength your right to disagree with me. I am grateful for differing opinions. I learn from them, or am strengthened by them. I am always glad when people think for themselves, ask questions, and search for answers.

I understand that my life and beliefs do not make sense to many people. I know some would tell me to make different choices and counsel me that I would be happier and less anxious if I would follow the natural inclinations of my body and attractions. I also understand those who advise me in this way do so because they care about me and are not trying to undermine anything I have built into my life or belief system. I respect their right to tell me their thoughts, and I am grateful they are mindful of me.

I believe there is a time when resentment, hurt, shame, anger, and pain must be felt, explored, and expressed in some way. I also believe that at some point those things must be allowed to dissipate. They might never leave, but they must not be allowed to govern our lives and interfere with out ability to find peace, joy, and satisfaction each day. There is a necessity for forgiveness--not necessarily to ease the lives of those who have caused us harm (although there is value in that), but because we cannot thrive until we have reached a point of resolution and acceptance. We do not have to accept that everything we have experienced is all right, but rather that WE are going to be all right, that we look forward to abundance in our future lives, and that we understand the past will continue to touch us (which might cause occasional pain), but will not rule us. Life is meant to be filled with joy, passion, and wonder.

I believe in loving people. I believe in looking for and finding the beautiful things often missed by others. I believe in remembering what foods people like/dislike, their favorite colors, music they enjoy, favorite authors or stories, where they like to spend their free time. I believe in spending quiet time with people--not saying anything--just feeling who they are. And I believe in laughing, always. Shared laughter is best, but it's not unheard of to find me giggling at something hilarious I've just seen or thought or said to myself. I laugh often--mostly because really, life is pretty funny.

And if you want to know more--if you wish to know how I answer certain questions--or even if you're the tiniest bit curious about what my voice sounds like, you can find me right here:
http://www.fairblog.org/2011/12/07/fair-examination-2-an-active-lds-mother-with-same-gender-attraction/

August 2, 2011

I know this blog is finished, but today is an enormously special day for me and I need to celebrate it here.

One year.

One entire year of no flashbacks.

This means I've not had to experience the following for 365 days:

1. Disorientation and embarrassment when with friends because I have no idea what we were discussing or the conversation has continued without me and I didn't hear what was said.

2. Stumbling while walking because my knees buckle during flashbacks and a few times I've lost consciousness.

3. Canceling doctor or dentist appointments because I couldn't face the thought of going through the experience brought to me by the flashback one more time.

4. Fatigue--emotional and physical.

5. Reliving ugly, violent memories.

6. Feeling like I was some sort of freak because at any time I could be attacked and raped in my head.

7. Phantom bleeding--horribly embarrassing when I was not prepared and completely unexplainable.

8. Random feelings of intense fear and vulnerability.

9. Always being hyper aware, ready to mask my reactions and shelve them until such time as I could appropriately react (which usually meant large-scale tremors, crying, loneliness, and misery).

I understand that this seems silly--after all, everything took place in my head. But it felt completely real and I often spent long moments reminding myself I was safe after a flashback took place.

During this last year I've had plenty of opportunities for flashbacks to occur. The usual triggers haven't disappeared, but for whatever reason, I've not had to endure even one.

I call it a blessing--a huge blessing--and I'm grateful beyond words.

So today--all day--I'm celebrating quietly. And I'm recording this here, in the same place where I've mourned the interruptions and inconvenience and horror of flashbacks, because I've treasured every single flashback-free day this year.

I'd like another year free of flashbacks, but even if it doesn't happen again, it happened once.

An entire year without flashbacks.

How beautiful is that?