I have a rather obnoxious aunt who, when someone we knew had passed away, would interrupt our silent mourning to gleefully chant in her obscenely loud voice, "It comes in threes, you know! It always comes in threes! Wonder who'll be next! Hope it's not you!" Then she would repeat the chant to every person present and name the possible second or third person based on their relative health or age.
Because this particular aunt has an IQ nowhere near genius level (shocking), she's a fairly easy target when she does things like that. Each time her relentless chant would begin, I would quietly approach her, tap her on the shoulder, and solemnly say, "No. I'm sorry, but I'm certain it always comes in ones." She would stop mid-sentence, think about what I said, then explain the validity of her "comes in threes" theory, adding concrete examples of how the threes had come to friends and relatives in her life.
I would wait until she finished, then add to each of her sets of deceased people one more person who had died within weeks of her third. Calmly, I would wait as she became more and more agitated, searching for reasons why my "fourth" didn't count and as she argued with me I would resume my assertion that the only real answer is that death comes in ones. Of course I won, not because I was right but because I was tenacious. She simply became tired of arguing with me. She would slump away from me muttering, "I still believe it comes in threes. Everyone says so. It comes in threes."
I assume she still does the same thing. Fortunately, I grew up and moved far away from her, leaving her desperately clinging to her "comes in threes" belief. It's probably best. Everyone needs something to believe in strongly, even if such a belief is ghoulishly declaring the death of a third person each time two other deaths occur.
I'm thinking of this today because three people I love have died in the past two days. The first is Carla. She died after an incredibly courageous battle with cancer. She left her husband and two sweet babies behind, not to mention thousands of people, myself included, who love and admire her like crazy.
The second is an elderly woman I've known for about 15 years. She had no children. She was a clean freak (as was her husband). They had a carpeted garage. She was a retired school teacher who never took herself very seriously. On the rare occasions when I was not in callings that kept me from attending Relief Society, she was one of the instructors. One week she was teaching and she told us she was very nervous--then said that if we didn't believe her, she would like to point out that she had been unable to decide which earrings to wear that morning. She found two pairs and debated between them for about twenty minutes, then began hurrying so she wouldn't be late for church. When she arrived she discovered she was wearing one earring from each pair. She said she would be teaching the lesson in profile so that we could get the full benefit of the different earrings. Then she giggled with us.
The third is the father of one of my closest high school friends who was also my family physician when growing up. He was a doctor when my father was in high school and still practicing on a limited basis until very recently. I believe his name is legendary throughout the community he served--he even has a street named after him. I'm guessing no one can count the number of babies he delivered. His eldest son passed away earlier this year and his first wife died about 15 years ago.
Death is a part of life. It's natural and someday it will happen to me. But no matter how prepared one might be, death carries with it an unavoidable sting and when you love the person who has died, grieving is inevitable. Today I'm missing those loved ones and wishing for a way to ease the pain of those who were closest to them, and I'm getting a little bit tired of crying.
Also today, I'm praying that the tenet fiercely proclaimed by my aunt is correct. I'm ready for people to live.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Spring
The birds believe they must make up for lost time. They sit on my crab apple tree eating the dried fruit and singing loudly. A few smaller ones sit near my window in the rose bushes. I love watching them. Bird noise after 6 a.m. is lovely.
Observing their annual spring ritual, dandelions are slowly taking over my garden. Darrin has only mentioned it once. Perhaps he's learning that I cannot eradicate them until they begin to choke out everything else trying to grow there. I love the bright yellow blooms, and while I understand that each flower will perpetuate thousands of new plants, I still want them. Sometimes when no one is looking, I play with the yellow pollen (Do you like butter?) or curl the stems or taste the bitter leaves and wonder how people can ever enjoy eating dandelion greens.
My grass is not yet green but it will be by Friday. DJ made fun of me for going barefoot on Sunday. I looked at him in surprise, "I always go barefoot." "Not outside," he answered. But he's forgotten. Even in winter I'll walk barefoot to my mailbox. Maybe in 30 years I'll stop doing that.
I made cookies last night. I haven't done that for awhile. I was surprised to find I wanted none of them. Darrin bought me Cadbury Mini Eggs. I didn't want those either. He raised his eyebrows at me and asked if I was sick. No. I'm not sick. I'm not sure why I didn't want them. I'm not sleeping well lately, maybe that's why.
I had a list of projects I wished to work on with Therapist's help. Today the list seems too long, daunting, even unnecessary. I wonder if I really need to fix all the things that are wrong with me--if it's even possible to do so. I wonder if it might be okay if I don't finish what I began seven years ago...seven years...
I can hardly believe so much time has passed. When I walked into my first therapist's office, I had allowed myself three weeks. I thought there was a plan I could follow that would lead me out of the the despair I was feeling, back into a life of empowerment and calm. I didn't know I would encounter memories and horrifying discoveries and former versions of myself--all waiting to be examined, accepted, and claimed as my own.
I have great respect for every person who has suffered childhood trauma and chooses to continue to live an emotionally healthy life--because it is a choice, and a very difficult one. I am tempted each day to lose myself in the despair that lives at my core. Most days the temptation is fleeting--I'm able to laugh at the impulse, knowing full well that giving in is not going to bring me peace or joy. Other days the temptation seems overwhelming to the point the no logical thought can keep it at bay. On those days I succumb, understanding that I will feel worse later. It doesn't matter. It just seems that what happened to me was so enormously harmful that I have to allow myself to cry, to wish those things had not happened, to imagine who I might be if I had been loved and protected.
Perhaps someday I won't give in anymore. Maybe that's when I'll know I'm healed. At that point, perhaps I can join all the panels and editorial blogs and help sites that have asked me to share my experiences and knowledge about abuse and rape. I can't do it right now. I don't feel I'm able to help anyone as long as I can't seem to manage my own pain successfully. However, if the time comes that I feel I can help, I have a feeling I'll be a very old lady by then and no one will want to listen to me anyway.
I wonder though, if that's how it should be. Regardless of what I've read or been told, my journey has been my own. I've forged my own path, made my own rules, and discovered what works and what does not. Therapist told me, after we had met for about four weeks, "Sam, I think you should tell me what you'd like to work on. I'll make suggestions and you can share the ideas you have about possible strategies. You hate the writing exercises and the textbook "tried and true" methods, so let's do it your way instead."
I have a feeling he thought I'd get tired of doing everything my way and eventually go back to his textbook training and then I'd get better. Probably if I had, my seven years would have condensed into three or even two years. But maybe I'm wrong about that. Therapist has never seemed jaded by my incessant desire to find new ways to cope with problems; in fact, he's been my greatest cheerleader and supporter, pointing out weaknesses and flaws in my ideas and helping me fine tune those into structural strengths. He's quick to point out that my progress is unique but will probably be more lasting than many of his clients. And he's told me working with me is joyful for him because I have a great desire to overcome the things that cause me grief.
Yesterday I decided that Tolkien Boy could use a measure of the abundant sunshine I enjoy every day, so I sent it his way. It didn't arrive until afternoon and the cost of allowing him that sunshine meant that I enjoyed a cloudy day filled with wind gusts up to 65 mph. It was rather nasty. I'm hoping TB used up a large amount of that sunshine because today I'm keeping it here. He might share it with me but I'm not sending it away again. I need it, too.
I've been watching the sun rise as I write this morning. I love seeing the pale colors glow warmer and more golden. Now there is a rim of pastel orange ringing the entire horizon. It will last a few moments more and then fade into the blue, cloudless sky.
Yesterday was difficult. Today I'm feeling the aftermath of that. In a few minutes I will go to the gym, run on the elliptical, and be grateful that I can do that. Tomorrow I see my surgeon. I've been instructed by my physical therapists to ask him if I'm allowed to begin running on the track and treadmill. I hope he says yes, but if he doesn't I'll keep working on the things that will give me strength and allow me to heal, and soon he'll say I can run again.
If I've learned one thing in the past seven years, it's this: No matter how much I want to, or I wish I could, or even when it seems so much easier or better than what I'm doing--I don't give up.
Observing their annual spring ritual, dandelions are slowly taking over my garden. Darrin has only mentioned it once. Perhaps he's learning that I cannot eradicate them until they begin to choke out everything else trying to grow there. I love the bright yellow blooms, and while I understand that each flower will perpetuate thousands of new plants, I still want them. Sometimes when no one is looking, I play with the yellow pollen (Do you like butter?) or curl the stems or taste the bitter leaves and wonder how people can ever enjoy eating dandelion greens.
My grass is not yet green but it will be by Friday. DJ made fun of me for going barefoot on Sunday. I looked at him in surprise, "I always go barefoot." "Not outside," he answered. But he's forgotten. Even in winter I'll walk barefoot to my mailbox. Maybe in 30 years I'll stop doing that.
I made cookies last night. I haven't done that for awhile. I was surprised to find I wanted none of them. Darrin bought me Cadbury Mini Eggs. I didn't want those either. He raised his eyebrows at me and asked if I was sick. No. I'm not sick. I'm not sure why I didn't want them. I'm not sleeping well lately, maybe that's why.
I had a list of projects I wished to work on with Therapist's help. Today the list seems too long, daunting, even unnecessary. I wonder if I really need to fix all the things that are wrong with me--if it's even possible to do so. I wonder if it might be okay if I don't finish what I began seven years ago...seven years...
I can hardly believe so much time has passed. When I walked into my first therapist's office, I had allowed myself three weeks. I thought there was a plan I could follow that would lead me out of the the despair I was feeling, back into a life of empowerment and calm. I didn't know I would encounter memories and horrifying discoveries and former versions of myself--all waiting to be examined, accepted, and claimed as my own.
I have great respect for every person who has suffered childhood trauma and chooses to continue to live an emotionally healthy life--because it is a choice, and a very difficult one. I am tempted each day to lose myself in the despair that lives at my core. Most days the temptation is fleeting--I'm able to laugh at the impulse, knowing full well that giving in is not going to bring me peace or joy. Other days the temptation seems overwhelming to the point the no logical thought can keep it at bay. On those days I succumb, understanding that I will feel worse later. It doesn't matter. It just seems that what happened to me was so enormously harmful that I have to allow myself to cry, to wish those things had not happened, to imagine who I might be if I had been loved and protected.
Perhaps someday I won't give in anymore. Maybe that's when I'll know I'm healed. At that point, perhaps I can join all the panels and editorial blogs and help sites that have asked me to share my experiences and knowledge about abuse and rape. I can't do it right now. I don't feel I'm able to help anyone as long as I can't seem to manage my own pain successfully. However, if the time comes that I feel I can help, I have a feeling I'll be a very old lady by then and no one will want to listen to me anyway.
I wonder though, if that's how it should be. Regardless of what I've read or been told, my journey has been my own. I've forged my own path, made my own rules, and discovered what works and what does not. Therapist told me, after we had met for about four weeks, "Sam, I think you should tell me what you'd like to work on. I'll make suggestions and you can share the ideas you have about possible strategies. You hate the writing exercises and the textbook "tried and true" methods, so let's do it your way instead."
I have a feeling he thought I'd get tired of doing everything my way and eventually go back to his textbook training and then I'd get better. Probably if I had, my seven years would have condensed into three or even two years. But maybe I'm wrong about that. Therapist has never seemed jaded by my incessant desire to find new ways to cope with problems; in fact, he's been my greatest cheerleader and supporter, pointing out weaknesses and flaws in my ideas and helping me fine tune those into structural strengths. He's quick to point out that my progress is unique but will probably be more lasting than many of his clients. And he's told me working with me is joyful for him because I have a great desire to overcome the things that cause me grief.
Yesterday I decided that Tolkien Boy could use a measure of the abundant sunshine I enjoy every day, so I sent it his way. It didn't arrive until afternoon and the cost of allowing him that sunshine meant that I enjoyed a cloudy day filled with wind gusts up to 65 mph. It was rather nasty. I'm hoping TB used up a large amount of that sunshine because today I'm keeping it here. He might share it with me but I'm not sending it away again. I need it, too.
I've been watching the sun rise as I write this morning. I love seeing the pale colors glow warmer and more golden. Now there is a rim of pastel orange ringing the entire horizon. It will last a few moments more and then fade into the blue, cloudless sky.
Yesterday was difficult. Today I'm feeling the aftermath of that. In a few minutes I will go to the gym, run on the elliptical, and be grateful that I can do that. Tomorrow I see my surgeon. I've been instructed by my physical therapists to ask him if I'm allowed to begin running on the track and treadmill. I hope he says yes, but if he doesn't I'll keep working on the things that will give me strength and allow me to heal, and soon he'll say I can run again.
If I've learned one thing in the past seven years, it's this: No matter how much I want to, or I wish I could, or even when it seems so much easier or better than what I'm doing--I don't give up.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
It's not that I'm picky--I'm just a purist.
As I've worked in the public schools and taught classes in higher education, I've been baffled by the fact that the average person does not know how, or simply does not choose, to use good grammar. I've graded numerous papers in which I've explained that slang terms are to be used sparingly and only under special circumstances, there is no place for profanity in a professional paper, it's a good idea to choose one narrative mode and stick with it throughout the paper, and subject-verb agreement is a necessary component. It always surprises me that I'm explaining these things to college level students (sometimes grad students, but those are usually not native English speakers, so I grant them a great deal of leeway).
Then I stumble onto things that cause me to say, "Ah-hah!"
For instance, this article which was not in the Huffington Post itself, but reprinted in a related Huffpost blog:
Then I stumble onto things that cause me to say, "Ah-hah!"
For instance, this article which was not in the Huffington Post itself, but reprinted in a related Huffpost blog:
Allergy Season Myths Debunked
Posted: 03/19/2012 8:42 am
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By Hanna Brooks Olsen for Blisstree.com
This year's relatively warm winter led to a mild flu season that was the latest in over two decades. Which was nice, because it meant fewer people were sick overall. But now, those same mild months may mean a perfect storm of sniffling and sneezing, because they could lead to an early onset of allergy season, creating an overlap between the two. Yup, that runny nose may not be due to a late-blooming flu, but rather, prematurely high pollen counts. It's time to brush up on your seasonal allergy knowledge to make sure you can separate myths from facts.
Just as flu myths and wive's tales prevail during the chilly months, when the first crocuses begin to bud, so, too, do the fallacies surrounding allergy season. Seemingly-sensible pieces of advice (like eating local honey) get passed between friends, old assumptions (like that flowers cause irritation) get repeated and, as a result, people suffer through watery eyes and sniffly noses, waiting for relief that probably won't come.
Flip through this gallery to see some of the most commonly-held allergy myths, and why they're simply not true. Good luck this season!
Yellow problem: Dear writer, this is called a fragment. The preceding period is unnecessary as is the comma following "nice."
Orange problem: This is not a horrible mistake and people do it all the time (myself included), but it's not a great idea to begin a sentence with a conjunction. Once again, please note the unnecessary commas.
Green problem: Really? "Yup"? Also, I ask you again to check your comma usage.
Turquoise problem: Because "wive" is not a word, one cannot make it plural. However, "wives" is a word and "wives'" would be its possessive. This is something you should have learned a very long time ago before you considered yourself a writer. Again (this is becoming annoying), excessive comma usage.
Blue problem: Please explain to me why you have hyphenated the first two words. They stand alone and are perfectly understandable (and correct) without the hyphen. However, congratulations on your correct comma usage at the end of this clause.
Lavender problem: My dear old high school English/Lit teacher would roll over in her grave (I assume she's dead only because she was ancient when she taught me many years ago and I believe she is immortal only in the sense that her legacy of critical examination seems to be continuing right now in my blog). There is never an excuse for using such an awkward senseless word set ("like that...") when "for example" is the clear choice for your meaning, unless you're seven years old. I suppose such a mistake is forgivable for a precocious child writing Canadian blog posts for Huffington.
Purple problem: Please learn how to use commas properly--I'm begging now.
I suppose if this is considered professional writing and people read it daily, there's no mystery as to why my students can't write. I also can't whine too loudly because I never proof my own blog posts and there are undoubtedly a very large number of mistakes here. However, my blog is not endorsed by any widely read publication, it's written for my personal use and published for those who are selectively interested in my life, and I'm guessing there are fewer mistakes in a dozen of my posts than there are in the above news article.
And now I will retire my soap box for a season. Thank you.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
5K
We have a local race that takes place in mid-May every year. One year we ran it as a family and placed third--and that included DJ who walked backward for most of the race and took time out to swing with his friends at the park. Tabitha's time was second for her age group, and mine was, as well. The girls in the family bailed out the slow boys. Thank goodness Darrin had to work and couldn't compete with us.
For the past few years, however, I've not been able to participate because I've been performing and accompanying at festivals and competitions on the day the race has been scheduled. Tabitha has traveled with me and been my faithful page-turner, so she's not competed in the 5K either. However, this year I have no conflicting performances in May, so my goal is to run in the race--and if I can't run, I will walk it. I need to be able to run at least 3.5 miles when mid-May comes around. This means no more injuries or setbacks in my therapy progress. It also means I'll be running regularly at that point. This makes me very happy.
The past three weeks have brought intermittent snowstorms. The snow is beautiful, but last week the highways in and out of our small town were closed for nearly eight days. While it's not unusual for the roads to close, to have them shut down for so many consecutive days is not a regular winter occurrence. Now the storms seem to be over for awhile, but the wind has been howling. I hate that sound. Fortunately I hear it for only about a week during the year, then the wind calms and we can enjoy our plentiful sunshine even on the coldest days.
I checked my pansies this morning. They have buds all over them and one stubbornly blooming orange flower continues to defy the snow and ice that have nipped its petals. This is the first year the flowers have bloomed throughout the winter. Usually a hard January frost sends them into dormancy for a month or two, but for some reason it hasn't happened this year. No doubt we'll get more snow throughout March and even into April, but typically the flowers begin blooming again in February and last even through the springtime snow. Since February is finished, I suspect they'll not stop blooming again until next January. Somehow, the silly pansies never seem to get the message that winter is here and as long as the sun shines, they try to bloom.
Tolkien Boy would find some sort of lesson in their hardiness/stubbornness. I prefer to just enjoy them--always surprised and delighted when their spots of color appear in the melting snow. I'm not dismissing TB's moralizing--no doubt it's applicable and appropriate--I simply don't want to work that hard.
And now I'm going to sleep. In the morning, if the virus Tabitha is harboring will allow her to join me, we'll go to the gym at 5:30 a.m., then get her ready for school and me, for physical therapy. I'm hoping she feels better.
Oh! I have a new nephew. He weighs 9.5 pounds and is just shy of 23 inches long. Tabitha was less than 17 inches at birth. New Nephew's giantness is the equivalent Tabitha and Adam's birth weight combined and neither one of them hit nine pounds until they were about three months old. While I understand that my kids were premature and tiny, the size of this new baby boggles my mind a bit.
Okay--to bed. Good night!
For the past few years, however, I've not been able to participate because I've been performing and accompanying at festivals and competitions on the day the race has been scheduled. Tabitha has traveled with me and been my faithful page-turner, so she's not competed in the 5K either. However, this year I have no conflicting performances in May, so my goal is to run in the race--and if I can't run, I will walk it. I need to be able to run at least 3.5 miles when mid-May comes around. This means no more injuries or setbacks in my therapy progress. It also means I'll be running regularly at that point. This makes me very happy.
The past three weeks have brought intermittent snowstorms. The snow is beautiful, but last week the highways in and out of our small town were closed for nearly eight days. While it's not unusual for the roads to close, to have them shut down for so many consecutive days is not a regular winter occurrence. Now the storms seem to be over for awhile, but the wind has been howling. I hate that sound. Fortunately I hear it for only about a week during the year, then the wind calms and we can enjoy our plentiful sunshine even on the coldest days.
I checked my pansies this morning. They have buds all over them and one stubbornly blooming orange flower continues to defy the snow and ice that have nipped its petals. This is the first year the flowers have bloomed throughout the winter. Usually a hard January frost sends them into dormancy for a month or two, but for some reason it hasn't happened this year. No doubt we'll get more snow throughout March and even into April, but typically the flowers begin blooming again in February and last even through the springtime snow. Since February is finished, I suspect they'll not stop blooming again until next January. Somehow, the silly pansies never seem to get the message that winter is here and as long as the sun shines, they try to bloom.
Tolkien Boy would find some sort of lesson in their hardiness/stubbornness. I prefer to just enjoy them--always surprised and delighted when their spots of color appear in the melting snow. I'm not dismissing TB's moralizing--no doubt it's applicable and appropriate--I simply don't want to work that hard.
And now I'm going to sleep. In the morning, if the virus Tabitha is harboring will allow her to join me, we'll go to the gym at 5:30 a.m., then get her ready for school and me, for physical therapy. I'm hoping she feels better.
Oh! I have a new nephew. He weighs 9.5 pounds and is just shy of 23 inches long. Tabitha was less than 17 inches at birth. New Nephew's giantness is the equivalent Tabitha and Adam's birth weight combined and neither one of them hit nine pounds until they were about three months old. While I understand that my kids were premature and tiny, the size of this new baby boggles my mind a bit.
Okay--to bed. Good night!
Sunday, February 19, 2012
The Customer is Always Right
I know there are people who grouse about stores anticipating holidays two months in advance, but I never do. It means I can find cinnamon and cherry gumdrop hearts from late December until February 14th, Cadbury mini eggs and Dove truffle eggs from February 15th until whenever Easter happens to come and mint chocolate or raspberry chocolate Lindor balls from October 31st until Christmas. And to be completely honest, I have no problem celebrating holidays when they're not scheduled on the calendar. I'm flexible like that.
So last night I bought Easter candy (the Cadbury mini eggs) and we watched movies and ate chocolate. It was actually a double movie night because we went to the theater, then came home and watched a video. I don't know that I've ever done that before. It's a lot of screen time, especially when one adds the fact that I was also working online during the last movie.
And just in case you get the idea that my entire life is centered around chocolate, allow me to disillusion you--it's not. It's centered around cookies; chocolate is simply a nice substitute. Although, right now I'm a little bit obsessed by tomatoes because we bought 20 pounds of them through Bountiful Baskets. They came to a little more than 40 cents a pound and they're amazingly good. Who gets good tomatoes in the winter? However, 20 pounds is a lot. We've eaten half but I think the rest might become homemade salsa. Recipes anyone?
I met with an odd man yesterday. He wanted me to prepare his taxes. We began the interview and he handed me a list of all the items he wished to have deducted. I looked at it for a few minutes, then said, "I'm sorry but the majority of those things cannot legally be deducted. And for every item you do deduct, you'll need a receipt as proof of purchase or a canceled check." He looked at me blankly, then said, "My last accountant deducted everything I asked him to. He just found a place for it on the form. And I never keep receipts."
I picked up his list and handed it back to him. I said, "Well, I'm not an accountant, I'm a tax preparer, but it sounds like you will have your needs better met by your last accountant." The man said he'd heard good things about me and wanted me to prepare his taxes. I said, "If I prepare your taxes this year, I will not deduct anything that has no proof of purchase, nor will I deduct items or services that are not legitimate according to the IRS codes." He said, "You're really so well off that you can afford to offend clients? And did you forget you would be working for me?"
I stood up. I said, "Mr. Prospective Client, I work for no one but me. I provide a service for which I am paid, but I am not on your payroll, so I am not your employee. And I have a motto: 'Never go to jail for a client.' I've been preparing taxes for many years and I've never yet gone to jail. I don't intend to do so for you. Thanks for stopping by."
So Mr. Prospective Client got mad. He started saying weird things about making sure I never work again and how the client's interests should be my first priority and then I stopped listening. My dad came into the room and asked Client to leave--which he did, but first he said we would regret our rude treatment of him. It felt like I was in some strange black and white movie. The Client continued to rant all the way to his car. We couldn't hear him, but we could see his mouth moving and his abrupt movements.
My dad and I looked at each other for a moment, then my dad asked, "Where did he come from?" I said, "I have no idea. He told me I'd been referred by a former client and I said we could meet and I'd look over his paper work for the year and give him an estimate." My dad answered, "Maybe it's time to stop taking new clients." I answered, "Yeah, that's a great way to keep a healthy business on its feet."
I'm left with one thought: No matter how insane I may become, there is at least one person crazier than I am, and I am not preparing his taxes.
And now I believe it's time for a cookie and some chocolate...and maybe a tomato, too.
So last night I bought Easter candy (the Cadbury mini eggs) and we watched movies and ate chocolate. It was actually a double movie night because we went to the theater, then came home and watched a video. I don't know that I've ever done that before. It's a lot of screen time, especially when one adds the fact that I was also working online during the last movie.
And just in case you get the idea that my entire life is centered around chocolate, allow me to disillusion you--it's not. It's centered around cookies; chocolate is simply a nice substitute. Although, right now I'm a little bit obsessed by tomatoes because we bought 20 pounds of them through Bountiful Baskets. They came to a little more than 40 cents a pound and they're amazingly good. Who gets good tomatoes in the winter? However, 20 pounds is a lot. We've eaten half but I think the rest might become homemade salsa. Recipes anyone?
I met with an odd man yesterday. He wanted me to prepare his taxes. We began the interview and he handed me a list of all the items he wished to have deducted. I looked at it for a few minutes, then said, "I'm sorry but the majority of those things cannot legally be deducted. And for every item you do deduct, you'll need a receipt as proof of purchase or a canceled check." He looked at me blankly, then said, "My last accountant deducted everything I asked him to. He just found a place for it on the form. And I never keep receipts."
I picked up his list and handed it back to him. I said, "Well, I'm not an accountant, I'm a tax preparer, but it sounds like you will have your needs better met by your last accountant." The man said he'd heard good things about me and wanted me to prepare his taxes. I said, "If I prepare your taxes this year, I will not deduct anything that has no proof of purchase, nor will I deduct items or services that are not legitimate according to the IRS codes." He said, "You're really so well off that you can afford to offend clients? And did you forget you would be working for me?"
I stood up. I said, "Mr. Prospective Client, I work for no one but me. I provide a service for which I am paid, but I am not on your payroll, so I am not your employee. And I have a motto: 'Never go to jail for a client.' I've been preparing taxes for many years and I've never yet gone to jail. I don't intend to do so for you. Thanks for stopping by."
So Mr. Prospective Client got mad. He started saying weird things about making sure I never work again and how the client's interests should be my first priority and then I stopped listening. My dad came into the room and asked Client to leave--which he did, but first he said we would regret our rude treatment of him. It felt like I was in some strange black and white movie. The Client continued to rant all the way to his car. We couldn't hear him, but we could see his mouth moving and his abrupt movements.
My dad and I looked at each other for a moment, then my dad asked, "Where did he come from?" I said, "I have no idea. He told me I'd been referred by a former client and I said we could meet and I'd look over his paper work for the year and give him an estimate." My dad answered, "Maybe it's time to stop taking new clients." I answered, "Yeah, that's a great way to keep a healthy business on its feet."
I'm left with one thought: No matter how insane I may become, there is at least one person crazier than I am, and I am not preparing his taxes.
And now I believe it's time for a cookie and some chocolate...and maybe a tomato, too.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Valentine's Day
The rules of time-out state that one should remain there one minute for each year of life. I must be 11,520 years old.
Valentine's Day is my anniversary. It is also my favorite holiday. For many years I have obstinately thumbed my nose at those who would call it Singles Awareness Day out of sensitivity for those who are not paired romantically, because in my mind this has never been a day about romance. While I have no argument with those who wish to celebrate with their significant others, Valentine's Day, to me, is simply about love--all kinds of love.
I believe I was fifteen when I decided I needed to celebrate this day. I'd been listening for three years to the drama of high school and junior high romances...would that special someone send flowers? would there be a card or a gift? would they kiss for the first time? or go out to dinner and a movie? It seemed completely silly to me. If you're in love with someone, why should a particular day make a difference?
I wasn't immune to teen hormones. I had people with whom I was in love. We made special plans to spend time together or wrote love notes or exchanges gifts/chocolate/flowers, but it always seemed strange that one must make some sort of statement on Valentine's Day. I did those "Valentine" things often. If I was in love with someone--they knew it and I never apologized for showing how I felt.
Valentine's Day was special to me for other reasons, though. It was the one day in the year when my mother made it a point to give me a love token. Cards were important to her. She spent hours finding the one she thought would "fit" the person for whom it was chosen. The words didn't mean as much as the illustrations. Mine always had cutesy little girls with dark eyes and curly hair, and she always signed the cards, "Lots of love, Mom and Dad." There was never a message. She never said, "I love you Sam." But I pretended she did. Even when I was older and I hated her with every fiber of my being and wished she would die, I still wanted to be loved by her.
I saved every card she gave me and I cried each year as I opened and read the cards. It's the only time I remember crying as a teen. I remember vowing that every person in my life whom I loved would know how I felt, and I would never be embarrassed or ashamed for loving them.
And so, every year on Valentine's Day I gave cards and cookies and hugs to the people I loved. I had some friends who suggested friend Valentines were for elementary school kids. My response was to say, "I make really great cookies--you should try them--and by the way, I love you!" Eventually they got used to my celebration and by the time I was a high school senior, they joined me.
We made large, gaudy, elementary-school-style envelopes and put them on our lockers the week before Valentine's Day. We bought the campy cartoon character Valentines and left them in each other's envelopes. I expected that by the time Valentine's Day came, the envelopes would be torn from the lockers and all the cards scattered down the hall. To my surprise, not only did they remain intact, but others appeared on lockers of people outside my circle of friends. I added Valentine cards to those, as well.
On the day of love, we had a large Valentine's Day party in the school hallway. The administrators had said we could set up tables for goodies and everyone brought something. My friends and I opened our envelopes, laughed at the funny Valentines, rolled our eyes at the innocently suggestive ones, and exchanged hugs with those who had written heartfelt notes on their flimsy cardboard Valentines. We had all had gotten a few from people we knew from class associations, but who were not close friends, so I was glad I had randomly distributed cards to all the locker envelopes that popped up during the week. We ate cookies and cupcakes and chocolate until we were sick, and we made a vow to never make this day about getting stupid romantic gestures from our girlfriends or boyfriends.
Probably I'm the only person who kept that vow.
To this day, I celebrate Valentine's Day by sending cards, or making phone calls, or giving chocolate to my friends. My children always receive a gaudy pink heart filled with chocolate truffles, as does my dear friend, Darrin. I've stopped broadcasting my love quite so widely in recent years because several of my single friends made it known that on the day I celebrate love, they mourn the fact that they don't have a significant other, and nothing that expresses love from me can put a dent in their sorrow. That's okay--I'll take my love elsewhere--but not until I've let them know how unfortunate it is that they've spurned my enthusiastic offering. After all, I have always said that people should consider themselves blessed to be loved by someone like me, and no, I don't really care how egotistical that sounds. I believe it.
I believe it because all kinds of love are special. I believe it because it took me years to acknowledge that regardless of how I had been treated and no matter what had been done to me, my love was valuable and I was entitled to give and receive love. I believe it because even when my love is not reciprocated, or even when I may love someone more than I'm loved in return, love makes people "better." It heals hurts and builds strength and reaches out and protects the hidden, vulnerable places people long to share but fear to reveal.
"How do I love thee?"
If you are someone I love, this is a question you might be able to answer yourself, because I will have told you many, many times, and hopefully, I will also have shown you in many, many ways. And I will continue to do so, not just on Valentine's Day, but on many, many days in the years to come.
Valentine's Day is my anniversary. It is also my favorite holiday. For many years I have obstinately thumbed my nose at those who would call it Singles Awareness Day out of sensitivity for those who are not paired romantically, because in my mind this has never been a day about romance. While I have no argument with those who wish to celebrate with their significant others, Valentine's Day, to me, is simply about love--all kinds of love.
I believe I was fifteen when I decided I needed to celebrate this day. I'd been listening for three years to the drama of high school and junior high romances...would that special someone send flowers? would there be a card or a gift? would they kiss for the first time? or go out to dinner and a movie? It seemed completely silly to me. If you're in love with someone, why should a particular day make a difference?
I wasn't immune to teen hormones. I had people with whom I was in love. We made special plans to spend time together or wrote love notes or exchanges gifts/chocolate/flowers, but it always seemed strange that one must make some sort of statement on Valentine's Day. I did those "Valentine" things often. If I was in love with someone--they knew it and I never apologized for showing how I felt.
Valentine's Day was special to me for other reasons, though. It was the one day in the year when my mother made it a point to give me a love token. Cards were important to her. She spent hours finding the one she thought would "fit" the person for whom it was chosen. The words didn't mean as much as the illustrations. Mine always had cutesy little girls with dark eyes and curly hair, and she always signed the cards, "Lots of love, Mom and Dad." There was never a message. She never said, "I love you Sam." But I pretended she did. Even when I was older and I hated her with every fiber of my being and wished she would die, I still wanted to be loved by her.
I saved every card she gave me and I cried each year as I opened and read the cards. It's the only time I remember crying as a teen. I remember vowing that every person in my life whom I loved would know how I felt, and I would never be embarrassed or ashamed for loving them.
And so, every year on Valentine's Day I gave cards and cookies and hugs to the people I loved. I had some friends who suggested friend Valentines were for elementary school kids. My response was to say, "I make really great cookies--you should try them--and by the way, I love you!" Eventually they got used to my celebration and by the time I was a high school senior, they joined me.
We made large, gaudy, elementary-school-style envelopes and put them on our lockers the week before Valentine's Day. We bought the campy cartoon character Valentines and left them in each other's envelopes. I expected that by the time Valentine's Day came, the envelopes would be torn from the lockers and all the cards scattered down the hall. To my surprise, not only did they remain intact, but others appeared on lockers of people outside my circle of friends. I added Valentine cards to those, as well.
On the day of love, we had a large Valentine's Day party in the school hallway. The administrators had said we could set up tables for goodies and everyone brought something. My friends and I opened our envelopes, laughed at the funny Valentines, rolled our eyes at the innocently suggestive ones, and exchanged hugs with those who had written heartfelt notes on their flimsy cardboard Valentines. We had all had gotten a few from people we knew from class associations, but who were not close friends, so I was glad I had randomly distributed cards to all the locker envelopes that popped up during the week. We ate cookies and cupcakes and chocolate until we were sick, and we made a vow to never make this day about getting stupid romantic gestures from our girlfriends or boyfriends.
Probably I'm the only person who kept that vow.
To this day, I celebrate Valentine's Day by sending cards, or making phone calls, or giving chocolate to my friends. My children always receive a gaudy pink heart filled with chocolate truffles, as does my dear friend, Darrin. I've stopped broadcasting my love quite so widely in recent years because several of my single friends made it known that on the day I celebrate love, they mourn the fact that they don't have a significant other, and nothing that expresses love from me can put a dent in their sorrow. That's okay--I'll take my love elsewhere--but not until I've let them know how unfortunate it is that they've spurned my enthusiastic offering. After all, I have always said that people should consider themselves blessed to be loved by someone like me, and no, I don't really care how egotistical that sounds. I believe it.
I believe it because all kinds of love are special. I believe it because it took me years to acknowledge that regardless of how I had been treated and no matter what had been done to me, my love was valuable and I was entitled to give and receive love. I believe it because even when my love is not reciprocated, or even when I may love someone more than I'm loved in return, love makes people "better." It heals hurts and builds strength and reaches out and protects the hidden, vulnerable places people long to share but fear to reveal.
"How do I love thee?"
If you are someone I love, this is a question you might be able to answer yourself, because I will have told you many, many times, and hopefully, I will also have shown you in many, many ways. And I will continue to do so, not just on Valentine's Day, but on many, many days in the years to come.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Time Out
I'm a believer in time-out for misbehavior. I also believe in using time-out when a child just needs a break and a little bit of calm silence. My children's time-outs were not punishments. I explained the unacceptable behavior, told them they needed time to rest for just a few minutes and when the time was up they would be given a second chance to try to make better choices. Sometimes I would say, "This is a calming time-out. It won't be long and I'll stay with you. We just need to do something quiet to help us rest for a moment; then you can go play again."
As time passed, I realized sometimes I, myself, needed a time-out. I would tell my children when that time arrived, explain why I would be missing for a few minutes, and ask not to be disturbed while I took time to regroup. Darrin was always afraid those moments would seem like "anything goes" times and the kids would erupt while I was absent. To his surprise, they almost always retreated to their bedrooms to read or do some quiet activity until I emerged from my isolation chamber.
My life has spiraled out of control. I am overwhelmed and in constant pain. Emotionally, I am unable to navigate even the smallest of stresses. It's time for me to take a time-out.
I'll be back soon. I need this place to express my thoughts and work through intricate details of my life. Right now, however, I just need to be able to live again.
Thank you to those who have emailed, texted, phoned, or otherwise communicated with me to lend support and offer prayers. I appreciate you and hope you'll continue to communicate with me through those venues even while I'm in time-out.
And while I'm gone--please don't make any big messes or get into large amounts of trouble.
As time passed, I realized sometimes I, myself, needed a time-out. I would tell my children when that time arrived, explain why I would be missing for a few minutes, and ask not to be disturbed while I took time to regroup. Darrin was always afraid those moments would seem like "anything goes" times and the kids would erupt while I was absent. To his surprise, they almost always retreated to their bedrooms to read or do some quiet activity until I emerged from my isolation chamber.
My life has spiraled out of control. I am overwhelmed and in constant pain. Emotionally, I am unable to navigate even the smallest of stresses. It's time for me to take a time-out.
I'll be back soon. I need this place to express my thoughts and work through intricate details of my life. Right now, however, I just need to be able to live again.
Thank you to those who have emailed, texted, phoned, or otherwise communicated with me to lend support and offer prayers. I appreciate you and hope you'll continue to communicate with me through those venues even while I'm in time-out.
And while I'm gone--please don't make any big messes or get into large amounts of trouble.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
I know I said all that stuff about being more upbeat, having a better attitude, managing life more positively...there are times, though when I'm just not sure I can do all that's being asked of me. This is not having a bad attitude; it's me, acknowledging the fact that there are many things in my life beyond my control and I"m having difficulty dealing with them.
Tabitha got her first speeding ticket last week. It happened in the morning. She was going 35 mph in a 30 mph zone. She came home in a panic. I told her everyone speeds occasionally, she wasn't going extremely fast, and made a deal with her to cover the ticket and she could pay me back by filling the car with gas a couple of times when she started working. Then I hugged her, told her I loved her, and this would be okay.
The same afternoon while driving on a residential street, Tabitha hit a spot of ice and slid into a parked car. By the time I got to her, she was having an extreme anxiety attack and had become suicidal. The attending police officer was gentle and accommodating. He allowed us to postpone the reports and escorted Tabitha and I to the hospital to have her admitted so she could get immediate help.
There were no rooms in the inn. I was sent home with my anxious, depressed, suicidal daughter.
Tabitha's problem with cutting escalated. It was clear she was very troubled and not getting the help she needed. Her therapist/psychologist discussed changing medications but we made no decisions. Two days ago I drove my daughter to school. She was not feeling well and I knew it. She grabbed her mountain of bags and books and her violin and struggled up the sidewalk. I waited.
A few minutes later Tabitha returned to the car, threw her stuff on the back seat and said she was failing anyway and she didn't need that stuff. Then she told me goodbye and headed back to the building. I waited.
Again Tabitha returned to the car. She asked me angrily why I was still there. I said, "Well, I thought maybe later you might need one of those books, and I don't really have a full schedule this morning, so I'm just waiting here in case you need me."
Tabitha got into the car. I heard a tirade about giving up, not caring anymore, nothing mattered, she just wanted to go back to bed and stay there forever...I listened and I realized, she's not getting better and I can't help her.
I drove Tabitha home, finished getting ready for the day, and checked on her. She was still angry and hopeless and more cutting had happened. I called the hospital. They told me they had a bed available for her. I called the school to notify them that Tabitha would not be there for awhile, then I had my daughter get into the car with me.
Tabitha did not refuse. She followed me to the car. On the drive to the hospital she told me she would be dropping out of school and working at Walmart the rest of her life. She said what we were doing was a waste of time and money. I said nothing. She yelled at me because I had confided in a family friend that Tabitha was having difficulty and my friend's daughter had reached out to Tabitha--they've been friends since first grade. Then she accused me of not listening because I wasn't responding. I said I was listening--I just didn't want to interrupt.
We reached the hospital. Tabitha said again that we were wasting our time and money and then said she was just going to go through the motions, do whatever they told her until she could come home, but nothing would change. I told her I was sorry she was upset and sometimes it was okay to waste money on things like this. She said, "No, it's not!" But she didn't fight me when I asked her to please come with me, nor did she refuse to go inside.
In the emergency room, my daughter was congenial and cooperative. She answered all the questions honestly, gave a urine sample, and allowed blood to be drawn. There was a wait of about three hours during which we were visited by various nurses and a doctor. Tabitha ignored me during that time. I said nothing.
The ER doctor who did the initial evaluation asked me to leave the room while he interviewed Tabitha, then joined me a few minutes later in the family waiting room. He told me Tabitha was bright and lovely. I agreed. He said when he asks parents to leave during an evaluation, the teen usually spends about ten minutes verbally abusing the parent. He hears all the reasons the teen hates his/her parents and how useless and horrible those parents are. He said, "Tabitha speaks very highly of you. She cares for you deeply and admires you. That's unusual. I don't remember the last time I heard a teen in crisis tell me good things about their parents."
I started crying. I said, "She's very angry that I brought her here." The doctor said, "That's a healthy response." I nodded. I said, "I think she's really scared." Again, the doctor said, "That's very healthy and understandable."
Tabitha was admitted at 10:30 a.m. I was allowed some time alone with her before I was asked to leave. I sat on her bed. I said, "I'm so sorry you're angry. I didn't bring you here because you're being punished or because I want to get rid of you. You're here because I love you so much, I know you're hurting beyond your ability to manage it, and I want you to get the help you need so you can feel better. I can't help you. I don't have the training and I don't know how."
I continued, "I did tell my friend about you. She's known you since you were six. She drove you to school every morning for five years. She's watched you grow up. You've spent the night at her house and gone on vacations with their family. She loves you. I'm sorry if you feel I breached trust when I did that."
Finally I said, "Tabitha, the only thing I want for you is for you to stop hurting so much. I want you to feel you're able to take care of yourself and that people love you. I wish so much that I could take you home with me--but that won't help you."
Tabitha whispered, "I know. You did the right thing." Then she hugged me and said, "I didn't mean the things I said. It's okay that you told our friend. I'll work with the people here and try to get better."
And so I left her there. I'm not sure there is a more horrible feeling than leaving your child because they are beyond your help.
We met with her treatment team yesterday morning. Tabitha was there for the first hour. She confessed that the bullying problem at school had escalated recently. She has been a victim of bullying most of her life because she's very small and likes to spend time alone. She felt she was old enough to try to deal with the problem herself so she hadn't reported the newest attacks to me or to school administration. Tabitha has also been feeling more isolated since Adam graduated last month. She's alone at school now. Even though her interaction with Adam was sparse, knowing he was there gave her peace of mind. He'e not there now.
The doctors and therapists on the treatment team feel that Tabitha's cutting and depression are a response to the bullying, but also an empathetic response to the difficulties I've been having recently. They believe she is unaware that her stress is related to mine, but because she loves me she feels trapped in that stress.
What do I do about this? I said, "I can pretend I'm okay, but I don't believe that will be healthy for Tabitha or for me." The psychiatrist said, "This is a no-fault situation. It just happened. I believe you're handling it correctly; Tabitha just needs to be given the training and tools to learn how to support rather than empathize. She doesn't know how to do that yet, but she's bright and capable and I think she can learn."
We have a follow-up meeting on Monday at which time it will be determined how much longer Tabitha needs to stay.
I'm trying to stay positive. I'm trying to remember Tabitha is in a safe place where she can get help I cannot give. I'm trying to remember I did the right thing.
It's not easy. All I want to do is cry.
Tabitha got her first speeding ticket last week. It happened in the morning. She was going 35 mph in a 30 mph zone. She came home in a panic. I told her everyone speeds occasionally, she wasn't going extremely fast, and made a deal with her to cover the ticket and she could pay me back by filling the car with gas a couple of times when she started working. Then I hugged her, told her I loved her, and this would be okay.
The same afternoon while driving on a residential street, Tabitha hit a spot of ice and slid into a parked car. By the time I got to her, she was having an extreme anxiety attack and had become suicidal. The attending police officer was gentle and accommodating. He allowed us to postpone the reports and escorted Tabitha and I to the hospital to have her admitted so she could get immediate help.
There were no rooms in the inn. I was sent home with my anxious, depressed, suicidal daughter.
Tabitha's problem with cutting escalated. It was clear she was very troubled and not getting the help she needed. Her therapist/psychologist discussed changing medications but we made no decisions. Two days ago I drove my daughter to school. She was not feeling well and I knew it. She grabbed her mountain of bags and books and her violin and struggled up the sidewalk. I waited.
A few minutes later Tabitha returned to the car, threw her stuff on the back seat and said she was failing anyway and she didn't need that stuff. Then she told me goodbye and headed back to the building. I waited.
Again Tabitha returned to the car. She asked me angrily why I was still there. I said, "Well, I thought maybe later you might need one of those books, and I don't really have a full schedule this morning, so I'm just waiting here in case you need me."
Tabitha got into the car. I heard a tirade about giving up, not caring anymore, nothing mattered, she just wanted to go back to bed and stay there forever...I listened and I realized, she's not getting better and I can't help her.
I drove Tabitha home, finished getting ready for the day, and checked on her. She was still angry and hopeless and more cutting had happened. I called the hospital. They told me they had a bed available for her. I called the school to notify them that Tabitha would not be there for awhile, then I had my daughter get into the car with me.
Tabitha did not refuse. She followed me to the car. On the drive to the hospital she told me she would be dropping out of school and working at Walmart the rest of her life. She said what we were doing was a waste of time and money. I said nothing. She yelled at me because I had confided in a family friend that Tabitha was having difficulty and my friend's daughter had reached out to Tabitha--they've been friends since first grade. Then she accused me of not listening because I wasn't responding. I said I was listening--I just didn't want to interrupt.
We reached the hospital. Tabitha said again that we were wasting our time and money and then said she was just going to go through the motions, do whatever they told her until she could come home, but nothing would change. I told her I was sorry she was upset and sometimes it was okay to waste money on things like this. She said, "No, it's not!" But she didn't fight me when I asked her to please come with me, nor did she refuse to go inside.
In the emergency room, my daughter was congenial and cooperative. She answered all the questions honestly, gave a urine sample, and allowed blood to be drawn. There was a wait of about three hours during which we were visited by various nurses and a doctor. Tabitha ignored me during that time. I said nothing.
The ER doctor who did the initial evaluation asked me to leave the room while he interviewed Tabitha, then joined me a few minutes later in the family waiting room. He told me Tabitha was bright and lovely. I agreed. He said when he asks parents to leave during an evaluation, the teen usually spends about ten minutes verbally abusing the parent. He hears all the reasons the teen hates his/her parents and how useless and horrible those parents are. He said, "Tabitha speaks very highly of you. She cares for you deeply and admires you. That's unusual. I don't remember the last time I heard a teen in crisis tell me good things about their parents."
I started crying. I said, "She's very angry that I brought her here." The doctor said, "That's a healthy response." I nodded. I said, "I think she's really scared." Again, the doctor said, "That's very healthy and understandable."
Tabitha was admitted at 10:30 a.m. I was allowed some time alone with her before I was asked to leave. I sat on her bed. I said, "I'm so sorry you're angry. I didn't bring you here because you're being punished or because I want to get rid of you. You're here because I love you so much, I know you're hurting beyond your ability to manage it, and I want you to get the help you need so you can feel better. I can't help you. I don't have the training and I don't know how."
I continued, "I did tell my friend about you. She's known you since you were six. She drove you to school every morning for five years. She's watched you grow up. You've spent the night at her house and gone on vacations with their family. She loves you. I'm sorry if you feel I breached trust when I did that."
Finally I said, "Tabitha, the only thing I want for you is for you to stop hurting so much. I want you to feel you're able to take care of yourself and that people love you. I wish so much that I could take you home with me--but that won't help you."
Tabitha whispered, "I know. You did the right thing." Then she hugged me and said, "I didn't mean the things I said. It's okay that you told our friend. I'll work with the people here and try to get better."
And so I left her there. I'm not sure there is a more horrible feeling than leaving your child because they are beyond your help.
We met with her treatment team yesterday morning. Tabitha was there for the first hour. She confessed that the bullying problem at school had escalated recently. She has been a victim of bullying most of her life because she's very small and likes to spend time alone. She felt she was old enough to try to deal with the problem herself so she hadn't reported the newest attacks to me or to school administration. Tabitha has also been feeling more isolated since Adam graduated last month. She's alone at school now. Even though her interaction with Adam was sparse, knowing he was there gave her peace of mind. He'e not there now.
The doctors and therapists on the treatment team feel that Tabitha's cutting and depression are a response to the bullying, but also an empathetic response to the difficulties I've been having recently. They believe she is unaware that her stress is related to mine, but because she loves me she feels trapped in that stress.
What do I do about this? I said, "I can pretend I'm okay, but I don't believe that will be healthy for Tabitha or for me." The psychiatrist said, "This is a no-fault situation. It just happened. I believe you're handling it correctly; Tabitha just needs to be given the training and tools to learn how to support rather than empathize. She doesn't know how to do that yet, but she's bright and capable and I think she can learn."
We have a follow-up meeting on Monday at which time it will be determined how much longer Tabitha needs to stay.
I'm trying to stay positive. I'm trying to remember Tabitha is in a safe place where she can get help I cannot give. I'm trying to remember I did the right thing.
It's not easy. All I want to do is cry.
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