A few years ago I spent a great deal of time and energy integrating parts of me that I had severed during times of trauma throughout my life. When I felt that I was finished, my next assignment was to learn who I was now that I was "complete". Who is Samantha when she allows herself to claim the child, adolescent, teen, and young adult parts?
It's strange to me to remember that eight years ago I had no participatory memory of my life before I was married. I knew it existed. I understood that I lived before that. But if others spoke of shared life events, I couldn't conjure the memory from my own mind. I simply accepted that what they said was true. If I spoke of my prior life, I referred to myself in third person. It felt natural to do that. The person who lived that life felt completely disconnected from me. I felt as if I was speaking of an acquaintance or, at most, a former friend.
Now I can't even imagine talking of myself in third person. That would feel odd, even uncomfortable. I believe this is a good indication that the integration work I did was successful.
However, before I could understand who I was as an integrated person, life became unmanageable. Tabitha was suicidal and often in the hospital. I sustained a serious injury which required surgical repair. I had my appendix removed. I got pneumonia, and because I have asthma, the residual effects of that lasted a very long time. I had a serious reaction to the flu shot, which lingered for nearly nine months. It became necessary to place Tabitha in a care center. I lost a lucrative job--in short, for the past four years my life has been far too chaotic to even think about doing the necessary work to acclimate to my newly integrated self.
Tabitha is home now. My health seems to be getting better and better. My life, while still extremely busy, is much more normal when looked at on the Samantha scale.
I've been experiencing rampant panic attacks and constant anxiety for quite awhile now. It affects how I view myself and discourages me from building positive, healthy relationships with people I care about. I feel distant from loved ones and have no desire to bridge that distance.
Friday I spent some time thinking about the upsurge of my PTSD symptoms, along with all the other things that seem to be causing me distress. I can cite several plausible reasons that this is happening right now, but the truth is, I think it's time for me to figure out who I am--to get to know myself.
I need to learn to like the person I am. I need to figure out who that person is now that I'm equipped with all parts of my past. I laid the groundwork while I was doing the integration exercises. I have conversations and emails and experiences that remind me of my value both to me and to others. Some of the people who participated in those exercises have left my life, not under the best of circumstances, but when the words were written or said, they were sincere and I intend to use them, understanding that while they are no longer valid today, that does not decrease the validity of the intent when they were communicated to me.
I had planned to ask for some help from people who are present in my life right now, but people are busy. It's been difficult to talk about this when I have spoken with loved ones, for many reasons. And I've been unable to contact some that I would choose to talk with. Perhaps it's for the best. I want people to live and be involved in their own lives. My life, and this attempt to understand who I am, is probably not really pertinent to anyone else. I had planned a gradual tapering from hearing from the voices of loved ones in the beginning, and being accompanied as I attempted this, to ending with allowing myself to walk alone as I figured out what it means to be me. Perhaps, as I often do, I will simply jump to the end. Solitude is something I often crave--and now I am presented with the opportunity to enjoy it.
I see Therapist only on an as-needed basis now. My last visit with him was in August of last year. I have called him when necessary, or chatted with him online, but I believe this exercise will be completed without him. It feels like an all or nothing assignment--either I do it with people, or I do it on my own.
Darrin, with whom I have discussed this at length, is concerned that I'm choosing to work on this by myself because of my deeply ingrained belief that people are not dependable and also, completely disinterested in me. In his mind, it is a necessity to involve people I love because he believes that not doing so will place me in an emotional state where I once again feel that I don't need anyone. He believes that involving others as I work to understand myself, will cause me to understand that integrating my life with others is important, even essential, to my emotional and mental health.
I understand where Darrin is coming from. I also feel that I don't have unlimited stamina right now. I assured him that I had attempted to contact people. Also, Brozy, if you read this, you should probably know that when you visited a few weeks ago, I gathered much of what I would need from you then, and if I decide to use help from others, that will be utilized. I probably should have asked permission. Forgive me? (but probably you don't need to worry about it, as yours is the only source I've gathered, it's not looking like it will be joined by others, and I need more sample data from different sources if this is going to be helpful)
I think if I do this, much of the localized anxiety will ease. I believe the source of that anxiety is the actual daily living with the knowledge of what each dissociated part of me represents, and now that they're all part of me, I need to look at the big picture and understand what it means. This has become a circular thought process for me, so I think before I begin repeating myself in this blog post, I'll just stop talking.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Sometimes "crazy" is the only truth life has to offer.
My energy level is finally returning to normal--which means I have too much. It means I'm thinking constantly, and researching, and asking myself questions that have no answers. It means that to keep all those questions at bay, and to make sure I can't dwell on anything too long, I've taken on four new students and another online job.
Therapist will tell me I need to not take anymore students and I should ponder only having one online job, especially since the class load I'm teaching fall semester is about three times as heavy as what I normally teach. I'm not going to tell him that I also agreed to accompany four competitions and festivals in the next four weeks, which means learning music and rehearsing with more than 100 students. He'll just roll his eyes at me and ask if I really think it's a good idea, which is irrelevant. I've committed. And it will be over by mid-May.
I've been thinking about my mother for the past few months.
I've changed my mind about many things, but not about everything. I maintain that most of what was said and done to me by her should never have happened. But it did and it belongs to us both. My mom's brain is deteriorating. At this point, she makes her own past and in her mind, it's very real. Currently, according to my mother, I was a sweet, congenial little girl who rarely was in trouble. The person she has conjured as her Samantha child never existed. I was stubborn and willful and under the best parenting, I would still have spent a great deal of my young life in time out. I have never been congenial or sweet.
My mother has created a past in which I lived a charmed life, we played together, and rarely disagreed. When I first became aware that she was living in this delusion, I was angry. I'm not anymore.
I cannot imagine how she felt as an abuser. She grew up in a home where she experienced what it was like to be abused physically, and dominated completely by her father. She was not allowed to think for herself or express an opinion. Her dreams and aspirations, if spoken aloud, were demeaned and criticized. My mother knew how it felt to be a victim. It is speculated that the brain damage that now spreads dark, dead spots through her mind was caused in her childhood--a result of the physical blows she felt from her drunken father.
My mom was the youngest of three. She wanted to have children--lots of them--and she did. But she had no idea how to be a parent. Her mother was absent, working to provide a steady income because her alcoholic husband had difficulty holding jobs. Her father was drunk most of the time. There was no real example of good parenting in my mother's childhood.
I remember, as a very small child, watching my mother, silently weeping as she sat in a rocking chair, holding one of my infant siblings. It was after an episode when I had been severely punished for using one of her potted plants as an anchor for a blanket tent. The ceramic pot had fallen and broken, spreading dirt and plant parts across our hardwood floor. I felt terrible about breaking the plant and it's holder. I wanted to apologize. I wanted my mom to stop crying.
I remember touching her shoulder and saying I was very sorry. At first she didn't acknowledge me at all. I apologized again. Still nothing. I said, "Mommy, I love you. I'm so sorry." Finally, an answer: I heard her whisper fiercely, "Go away."
So I did. I ran to my room, flung myself across my bed, and hated her with every ounce of my six-year-old self.
I used to believe she was still angry with me in that moment--the tears springing from the loss of a stupid plant. In my adulthood, I arrogantly judged her, calling her a terrible parent, vowing I would never value an object over my own children. I don't believe, anymore, that she was angry with me. I believe I have misjudged her.
I believe, now, that my mother was often overwhelmed with her own monstrousness. I think the tears shed in that moment were expressing the pain of her own childhood, coupled with her inability to control her angry impulses, culminating in her abuse of her own children. I believe she was aware that she was perpetuating a cycle that had robbed her of self-esteem and hurt her deeply, and I think that knowledge caused her incredible pain. Though I was willing to attempt making peace with her (and perhaps she wished she could meet me halfway), knowing she was acting in the abhorrent ways her father did, and without the aid of alcohol, kept her from making peace not only with me, but with herself. My expressed love could not be accepted--how could I love someone such as her?
My mother lived with untreated clinical depression. Her neurologist believes that the injury to her brain happened when she was very young and her ability to control her emotions and actions began to deteriorate when she was a teen. By the time I was six, her emotional stability was nonexistent.
I wonder, now, how much responsibility she can claim for the actions that harmed me. Her erratic behavior and extreme punishments, her inability to connect emotionally with me, and the mental and emotional abuse that were part of my everyday life--how much of that was beyond her control? My mother was cognizant that what she was doing was wrong; she has told me so. She has also said that she didn't know how to stop herself. I believe her.
And so I allow her the luxury of making up a new past; one in which there was no abuse and I was obedient and sweet, and she was loving and firmly kind. For a long time, I made a fantasy life of my own, and I completely understand the need to do that. It's a coping device that allows us to keep living. The difference is that I have recovered from my past and I no longer need the fantasy, but my mom will continue to build her fabricated past for the rest of her life. It will become her reality and I will not contradict nor compel her to face the truth.
I suppose I believe that she has suffered long enough. We both have. It's time for me to touch her shoulder and ask for forgiveness once again. Because while it is true that she bears the burden of causing me pain, I have borne anger and resentment toward her for actions I no longer believe were within her power to control or suppress. My mother has a good heart. She wanted more for me than that which she received in her childhood home.
So in my attempt to reconcile the real past with her new one, I will acknowledge that there was good in my life because of my mother. She believed I could do anything--and so did I. She made certain I received musical training when we could ill-afford the cost--and that training has led me to my vocation. She read to me, sang with me, taught me to clean and cook and sew and take care of myself. In short, my life, in spite of the abuse, was better than hers, and that was what she wanted.
So I will say to her once again, "I love you, Mom. Please forgive me," and she will, even though she'll have no idea why. And though she may never ask again (for she has asked me repeatedly in the past decade), I will forgive her, too. Because I understand that her tears were not for a broken potted plant, but for herself--broken in spirit and mind--for her inability to love naturally and her uncontrollable impulses that brought violence and fear instead.
Therapist once told me that I would know that I had made it "through to the other side" of my resentment and anger when I could feel empathy for my mother. I didn't believe him when he said it, but I think I'm finally there. It's a good place to be.
Therapist will tell me I need to not take anymore students and I should ponder only having one online job, especially since the class load I'm teaching fall semester is about three times as heavy as what I normally teach. I'm not going to tell him that I also agreed to accompany four competitions and festivals in the next four weeks, which means learning music and rehearsing with more than 100 students. He'll just roll his eyes at me and ask if I really think it's a good idea, which is irrelevant. I've committed. And it will be over by mid-May.
I've been thinking about my mother for the past few months.
I've changed my mind about many things, but not about everything. I maintain that most of what was said and done to me by her should never have happened. But it did and it belongs to us both. My mom's brain is deteriorating. At this point, she makes her own past and in her mind, it's very real. Currently, according to my mother, I was a sweet, congenial little girl who rarely was in trouble. The person she has conjured as her Samantha child never existed. I was stubborn and willful and under the best parenting, I would still have spent a great deal of my young life in time out. I have never been congenial or sweet.
My mother has created a past in which I lived a charmed life, we played together, and rarely disagreed. When I first became aware that she was living in this delusion, I was angry. I'm not anymore.
I cannot imagine how she felt as an abuser. She grew up in a home where she experienced what it was like to be abused physically, and dominated completely by her father. She was not allowed to think for herself or express an opinion. Her dreams and aspirations, if spoken aloud, were demeaned and criticized. My mother knew how it felt to be a victim. It is speculated that the brain damage that now spreads dark, dead spots through her mind was caused in her childhood--a result of the physical blows she felt from her drunken father.
My mom was the youngest of three. She wanted to have children--lots of them--and she did. But she had no idea how to be a parent. Her mother was absent, working to provide a steady income because her alcoholic husband had difficulty holding jobs. Her father was drunk most of the time. There was no real example of good parenting in my mother's childhood.
I remember, as a very small child, watching my mother, silently weeping as she sat in a rocking chair, holding one of my infant siblings. It was after an episode when I had been severely punished for using one of her potted plants as an anchor for a blanket tent. The ceramic pot had fallen and broken, spreading dirt and plant parts across our hardwood floor. I felt terrible about breaking the plant and it's holder. I wanted to apologize. I wanted my mom to stop crying.
I remember touching her shoulder and saying I was very sorry. At first she didn't acknowledge me at all. I apologized again. Still nothing. I said, "Mommy, I love you. I'm so sorry." Finally, an answer: I heard her whisper fiercely, "Go away."
So I did. I ran to my room, flung myself across my bed, and hated her with every ounce of my six-year-old self.
I used to believe she was still angry with me in that moment--the tears springing from the loss of a stupid plant. In my adulthood, I arrogantly judged her, calling her a terrible parent, vowing I would never value an object over my own children. I don't believe, anymore, that she was angry with me. I believe I have misjudged her.
I believe, now, that my mother was often overwhelmed with her own monstrousness. I think the tears shed in that moment were expressing the pain of her own childhood, coupled with her inability to control her angry impulses, culminating in her abuse of her own children. I believe she was aware that she was perpetuating a cycle that had robbed her of self-esteem and hurt her deeply, and I think that knowledge caused her incredible pain. Though I was willing to attempt making peace with her (and perhaps she wished she could meet me halfway), knowing she was acting in the abhorrent ways her father did, and without the aid of alcohol, kept her from making peace not only with me, but with herself. My expressed love could not be accepted--how could I love someone such as her?
My mother lived with untreated clinical depression. Her neurologist believes that the injury to her brain happened when she was very young and her ability to control her emotions and actions began to deteriorate when she was a teen. By the time I was six, her emotional stability was nonexistent.
I wonder, now, how much responsibility she can claim for the actions that harmed me. Her erratic behavior and extreme punishments, her inability to connect emotionally with me, and the mental and emotional abuse that were part of my everyday life--how much of that was beyond her control? My mother was cognizant that what she was doing was wrong; she has told me so. She has also said that she didn't know how to stop herself. I believe her.
And so I allow her the luxury of making up a new past; one in which there was no abuse and I was obedient and sweet, and she was loving and firmly kind. For a long time, I made a fantasy life of my own, and I completely understand the need to do that. It's a coping device that allows us to keep living. The difference is that I have recovered from my past and I no longer need the fantasy, but my mom will continue to build her fabricated past for the rest of her life. It will become her reality and I will not contradict nor compel her to face the truth.
I suppose I believe that she has suffered long enough. We both have. It's time for me to touch her shoulder and ask for forgiveness once again. Because while it is true that she bears the burden of causing me pain, I have borne anger and resentment toward her for actions I no longer believe were within her power to control or suppress. My mother has a good heart. She wanted more for me than that which she received in her childhood home.
So in my attempt to reconcile the real past with her new one, I will acknowledge that there was good in my life because of my mother. She believed I could do anything--and so did I. She made certain I received musical training when we could ill-afford the cost--and that training has led me to my vocation. She read to me, sang with me, taught me to clean and cook and sew and take care of myself. In short, my life, in spite of the abuse, was better than hers, and that was what she wanted.
So I will say to her once again, "I love you, Mom. Please forgive me," and she will, even though she'll have no idea why. And though she may never ask again (for she has asked me repeatedly in the past decade), I will forgive her, too. Because I understand that her tears were not for a broken potted plant, but for herself--broken in spirit and mind--for her inability to love naturally and her uncontrollable impulses that brought violence and fear instead.
Therapist once told me that I would know that I had made it "through to the other side" of my resentment and anger when I could feel empathy for my mother. I didn't believe him when he said it, but I think I'm finally there. It's a good place to be.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
One is the Loneliest Number
Yesterday was the four-week mark since my surgery. I am miles behind at work. I have another four weeks before the final tax deadline, and last Saturday marked the corporate one. I told my clients I would not be at my best and I might have to file extensions for them. Saturday I filed two. I'm sort of terrified I'll be filing more next month. I don't know why my clients came to me when I gave them referrals--knowing I might be late. I had hoped to be able to do lots of work this week, but physical therapy took a turn for the worse when we began working the muscles surrounding the place where the titanium post was pounded into my thigh bone. I could barely walk for a day and I'm still sore today.
Then I got the stomach flu. Insult to injury?
Today I'm feeling slightly more human. I'll go to work in a little while. I'm supposed to go to the gym and ride the stationary bike and do my PT exercises (which I have not done since my last session--and given the stomach flu and pain level, I'm not sure I could). I'm pondering if that's going to happen or not. Right now, tax clients seem more pressing.
I had lunch with a friend on Saturday. She's my age. Our oldest children are near the same ages, but she has two more that are younger than mine. One of those younger ones is a baby she had five months ago. He's very cute. My friend and I talked about our lives. I kept looking at that baby. He makes me feel exhausted. Tabitha pointed out that it's probably because I'm already exhausted. I think it's because parenting is not something that was easy for me. I love my kids. I think they're amazing. But I don't want any more. I don't know how my friend does it.
In my last post I talked about how I feel my siblings avoid me. So I called them. I asked why they don't try to visit--why they rarely contact me. I was told that they feel I have no interest in them. I've spent the past four years going back and forth to Utah, where most of them live, and not telling them I was there, not visiting with them. I've stayed with friends instead. I tried to explain; what I was going through personally, felt too difficult to talk about--and they wanted to talk about it. Tabitha's issues involved abuse by one of my brothers--and my other siblings met me with disbelief and attempted to tell me why Tabitha was lying. But the bottom line is that, regardless of what is true, Tabitha believes she was molested by my brother and I have to support my daughter. Talking about it with my siblings solves nothing. I don't want to do it.
But my siblings are correct about my avoidance issues when it came to visiting them. And I can't really blame them for thinking I didn't want to see them when they came to visit my parents, either. I don't really know how to change the status quo. I just told them I was sorry--that sometimes things happen and I didn't expect understanding, but I hoped we could try again. I received a lukewarm response, which is more than I expected.
Loneliness is odd. I feel it keenly today. It really has nothing to do with being loved or spending time with others. I think it's more about knowing how you fit in the world. Right now, in this moment, I'm not sure how I fit anywhere. I think when I'm lonely, the greatest help to me is the reassurance that, even if I can't feel it, I have a place in someone's life or heart, that I'm needed and wanted, and that this moment of feeling lonely won't last forever.
And then I go do something.
So right now I'm going to go to work. And then I'll do my prescribed physical therapy and get stronger. And I think I'll eat a cookie, too.
And you should watch this video of old guys singing with a live orchestra--no auto-tuning here, and these guys were popular long before I was around: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22QYriWAF-U
Then I got the stomach flu. Insult to injury?
Today I'm feeling slightly more human. I'll go to work in a little while. I'm supposed to go to the gym and ride the stationary bike and do my PT exercises (which I have not done since my last session--and given the stomach flu and pain level, I'm not sure I could). I'm pondering if that's going to happen or not. Right now, tax clients seem more pressing.
I had lunch with a friend on Saturday. She's my age. Our oldest children are near the same ages, but she has two more that are younger than mine. One of those younger ones is a baby she had five months ago. He's very cute. My friend and I talked about our lives. I kept looking at that baby. He makes me feel exhausted. Tabitha pointed out that it's probably because I'm already exhausted. I think it's because parenting is not something that was easy for me. I love my kids. I think they're amazing. But I don't want any more. I don't know how my friend does it.
In my last post I talked about how I feel my siblings avoid me. So I called them. I asked why they don't try to visit--why they rarely contact me. I was told that they feel I have no interest in them. I've spent the past four years going back and forth to Utah, where most of them live, and not telling them I was there, not visiting with them. I've stayed with friends instead. I tried to explain; what I was going through personally, felt too difficult to talk about--and they wanted to talk about it. Tabitha's issues involved abuse by one of my brothers--and my other siblings met me with disbelief and attempted to tell me why Tabitha was lying. But the bottom line is that, regardless of what is true, Tabitha believes she was molested by my brother and I have to support my daughter. Talking about it with my siblings solves nothing. I don't want to do it.
But my siblings are correct about my avoidance issues when it came to visiting them. And I can't really blame them for thinking I didn't want to see them when they came to visit my parents, either. I don't really know how to change the status quo. I just told them I was sorry--that sometimes things happen and I didn't expect understanding, but I hoped we could try again. I received a lukewarm response, which is more than I expected.
Loneliness is odd. I feel it keenly today. It really has nothing to do with being loved or spending time with others. I think it's more about knowing how you fit in the world. Right now, in this moment, I'm not sure how I fit anywhere. I think when I'm lonely, the greatest help to me is the reassurance that, even if I can't feel it, I have a place in someone's life or heart, that I'm needed and wanted, and that this moment of feeling lonely won't last forever.
And then I go do something.
So right now I'm going to go to work. And then I'll do my prescribed physical therapy and get stronger. And I think I'll eat a cookie, too.
And you should watch this video of old guys singing with a live orchestra--no auto-tuning here, and these guys were popular long before I was around: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22QYriWAF-U
Friday, March 14, 2014
Stomping My Foot and Having a Tantrum
I am recognizing as I write this that there are a few things I need to remember:
1. It has been only three weeks since surgery and I'm still feeling tired and over-emotional--and even, perhaps, a bit depressed.
2. I'm not yet able to expend a great deal of physical energy which has been a large contributor to PTSD management throughout my life.
3. I'm tired and frustrated most of the time.
4. There have been some unusual significantly difficult emotional obstacles that have presented themselves in the past four weeks including the death of a very young family friend, some mishmash crap with my mother, and an attempted suicide of another young friend who has been like a part of our family for nearly 12 years.
Given such circumstances, while I feel a great need to write this post, I may also, in a matter of days, also find the need to disappear it as I reevaluate. Then again, I might not.
It's no secret that, while I have always felt self-sufficient and capable of caring for myself, I've also always wondered about people who have close friends and family--people integrated into their daily lives; ones who live near or who communicate frequently; the dear ones who fly out to take care of a sick friend or family member, or who care for the kids when Mom and Dad are struggling, or friends,couples, or families who want to spend vacation times together. They mystify me. I know people like that. I believe there have been times in my life when I wanted to be those people.
But I'm not.
I live three blocks from my parents. My siblings have been known to stop to visit my parents for a weekend without notifying me that they were there. Sometimes, (because I feel obstinate and I believe that because we're related, they owe me an hour or two of their time every couple of years), if I am inadvertently alerted that they're visiting, I've dropped by unannounced. They always seem happy to see me. They're happy to visit with me. I'm the one who cuts the visit short when I've had enough of being with people. This confuses me. If they like me--like visiting with me--why do they come and not tell me. They know I'm not one who monopolizes, nor do I like crowds, so it's likely my time with them will be lovely, but brief. So...why?
There have been a few times when I've bought into the "close friends so we should live by each other" thing. I had a roommate in college who became a very close friend. After we were both married, we planned a couple of vacations with our spouses, and later, with their children (Darrin and I didn't have any yet). The vacations were fun and filled with laughter. We talked about how wonderful it would be if we could live near one another. It didn't happen. We tried to find jobs in the same area, but our vocational interests were different and in the end, perhaps it was all for the best. We rarely talk anymore. I've not seen them in about four years. They've made no effort to contact us, and I've been too overwhelmed with my life to contact them. And I don't really miss them.
When I realized how much I enjoyed spending time with some of my online friends, I made certain that when I was near where they lived, I visited. I wasn't really invited--I just did it. I let them know I was in the area and I'd like to see them and if they agreed, we'd go to lunch or I'd visit in their homes. Edgy was the only one, really, who was insistent that we have a standing lunch date every time I went to Utah--I loved that. I don't go anymore, though, and I miss him. There's something extremely validating in knowing someone not only makes time for you, but they expect you to do the same for them. It feels concrete and safe.
While I know I wasn't unwelcome, I always felt I sort of forced myself on AtP, Ambrosia, Boo, and Tolkien Boy. I remember telling TB, when we'd spent about two months getting to know one another, that any time he was in Utah, I would arrange my schedule to see him. He didn't ask me to--and I didn't ask if he wanted me to. I just wanted to see him. It was the same with AtP, Ambrosia, and Boo. I've also been known to let them know that, not only was I visiting, I was spending the night. Yes. I invited myself. And they weren't the only recipients of my assumed welcome.
I admit that with Josh and Tolkien Boy and AtP, I've always sort of wished we lived closer. I've wished that with lots of people, but always with the knowledge that they would probably be unhappy living by me, and I"m in no financial or emotional position to relocate any time soon, and I would never want the people I love to live in a place that made them feel unhappy.
Josh, though, seemed as if he and his family weren't quite settled. I thought they might like one of the nearby cities and opportunity seemed endless. Then I realized the climate would never be a good fit for his wife and the pipe dream was probably best left being just that.
AtP toyed with the idea of attending a nearby nursing school. He was serious enough to come for a tour and stay a couple of days with me. In the end, though, leaving Utah wasn't for him. He met his husband. They now have a family. Someday, when I'm better, I'll go visit again and insist they have dinner with me. Utah will have to be near enough.
When Tolkien Boy was single, I confess to wishing a few times that we lived closer. I told him that I wished it. I knew the wish was not reciprocated. It didn't matter. Wishes don't just go away. For awhile, even after he was no longer single, TB talked about leaving Seattle, living closer to family, being in a place with more sun. When I suggested living near me, he didn't swipe the idea away. I understand now that it was because he understood better than I, that moving from Seattle was his pipe dream. He didn't have to discuss the possibility of living near me because it was probable that moving was simply not going to happen.
I feel a bit nonplussed that I ever entertained the idea that a family member (yes, there were a few of those that I wished for) or friend would live nearby and be a part of my social and emotional life. It's not like I've not survived a life without that. Nor is it likely that I'd even be able to manage such a thing successfully. I'd probably hate it.
I had a recent conversation with TB, in which he was supposed to be expressing his opinion but was asking me questions instead, in which he said, "It sounds as if you feel you don't want to need people anymore?"
I sort of wanted to punch him for saying that.
The answer is obvious. Of course I don't want to need people! They're unreliable and misleading. They say they love you, and they do, but being a priority (and yes, there are times when I wish I was a priority) is not an option. They're interested in you as long as they don't have more pressing matters demanding their attention. A marriage contract is the only thing one can call upon to say, "Hey! We chose each other. Sometimes I need you and I need you to need me. And it might not be convenient or comfortable, but that's the way it is and as long as we're married, that's how it will be."
You can't say that to a friend--to "people". Not ever. But sometimes you wish you could. Sometimes life overwhelms both you and your spouse and you need someone else to step in and hold you just for a while. But you can't ask. There's no contract or commitment or promise.
So, yes, TB, I do not want to need people. I'm happy to be a part of their lives. I'm happy to give every shred of love and support I can when they're in need. I'd even be delighted if some of those people I love lived near me, and would come have dinner with me whenever they wanted. And maybe, every once in awhile, someone whimsical would build a blanket fort and sit inside with me while we read books and ate cookies. But I don't want to need it. Not ever. And I'm frustrated, embarrassed, and a little bit angry that I have needed people in the past few years. I've been through some awful things--things I would wish on no one.
I've been blessed that there were incredible people who responded to my needs. They collectively fed me, housed me, visited me, talked to me, prayed for me--I needed those things so very desperately. And I sort of hate myself for being so needy. I gave nothing in return. I was emotionally and very nearly financially depleted. And I was in more pain than I ever want to think about again.
My hip surgeon is a competitive body builder. He has trophies. And he's big. He understands pain and endurance. After my surgery, he said to Darrin, "She waited far too long to have this done. Her cartilage has been gone for at least nine months, so she's been working with bone against bone every time she moved, and one of those bones, at the time of surgery, was in eminent danger of collapse. I have no idea how she was walking--let alone going to the gym daily to lift weights, swim, or run on the elliptical. That's pain I can't even comprehend."
Darrin said to me, later, "You told me it felt better to go to the gym."
I wasn't lying. It did feel better. I felt less helpless. Going to the gym brought emotional relief. But I won't lie--I was always glad there was a bathroom near the elliptical I was riding, because the physical pain really did make me worried that I was going to vomit at any moment. In the month before surgery, I could only tolerate a 30 minute workout on the elliptical and there was one day when I lost consciousness while I was cleaning the machine. There was a "Call 911!" flurry, but I was only out for a few seconds and I assured everyone I was fine--I just forgot to eat before I worked out that day--and as I seemed to be just fine as I headed for the locker room, everyone put their phones away. That was the Saturday before surgery. I thought it would be prudent not to go back until after my hip was replaced.
So yes, it hurt, but it also made me feel better. I can't really explain it.
I feel a little angry right now. I feel angry that I ever wanted people in the first place. It's silly, because those who care about me have done nothing to warrant that anger. They've loved and supported me and cared for me whenever possible. I think I'm angry though, because they're not mine. They're not my parents or siblings. They get to leave whenever they need to--not that my family has ever been there for me, but they're supposed to be. And I'm angry that I needed them, too. I want to take care of myself. I can never leave me. I will always be there when something happens and I will always be responsible for finding a solution. It's in my contract with myself.
In the meantime, I have to admit that I'm really bad at giving myself hugs, and sometimes I'm not the best conversationalist, and just forget harmonization when I sing. It doesn't happen. So maybe I can't do everything for myself. That makes me mad, too.
1. It has been only three weeks since surgery and I'm still feeling tired and over-emotional--and even, perhaps, a bit depressed.
2. I'm not yet able to expend a great deal of physical energy which has been a large contributor to PTSD management throughout my life.
3. I'm tired and frustrated most of the time.
4. There have been some unusual significantly difficult emotional obstacles that have presented themselves in the past four weeks including the death of a very young family friend, some mishmash crap with my mother, and an attempted suicide of another young friend who has been like a part of our family for nearly 12 years.
Given such circumstances, while I feel a great need to write this post, I may also, in a matter of days, also find the need to disappear it as I reevaluate. Then again, I might not.
It's no secret that, while I have always felt self-sufficient and capable of caring for myself, I've also always wondered about people who have close friends and family--people integrated into their daily lives; ones who live near or who communicate frequently; the dear ones who fly out to take care of a sick friend or family member, or who care for the kids when Mom and Dad are struggling, or friends,couples, or families who want to spend vacation times together. They mystify me. I know people like that. I believe there have been times in my life when I wanted to be those people.
But I'm not.
I live three blocks from my parents. My siblings have been known to stop to visit my parents for a weekend without notifying me that they were there. Sometimes, (because I feel obstinate and I believe that because we're related, they owe me an hour or two of their time every couple of years), if I am inadvertently alerted that they're visiting, I've dropped by unannounced. They always seem happy to see me. They're happy to visit with me. I'm the one who cuts the visit short when I've had enough of being with people. This confuses me. If they like me--like visiting with me--why do they come and not tell me. They know I'm not one who monopolizes, nor do I like crowds, so it's likely my time with them will be lovely, but brief. So...why?
There have been a few times when I've bought into the "close friends so we should live by each other" thing. I had a roommate in college who became a very close friend. After we were both married, we planned a couple of vacations with our spouses, and later, with their children (Darrin and I didn't have any yet). The vacations were fun and filled with laughter. We talked about how wonderful it would be if we could live near one another. It didn't happen. We tried to find jobs in the same area, but our vocational interests were different and in the end, perhaps it was all for the best. We rarely talk anymore. I've not seen them in about four years. They've made no effort to contact us, and I've been too overwhelmed with my life to contact them. And I don't really miss them.
When I realized how much I enjoyed spending time with some of my online friends, I made certain that when I was near where they lived, I visited. I wasn't really invited--I just did it. I let them know I was in the area and I'd like to see them and if they agreed, we'd go to lunch or I'd visit in their homes. Edgy was the only one, really, who was insistent that we have a standing lunch date every time I went to Utah--I loved that. I don't go anymore, though, and I miss him. There's something extremely validating in knowing someone not only makes time for you, but they expect you to do the same for them. It feels concrete and safe.
While I know I wasn't unwelcome, I always felt I sort of forced myself on AtP, Ambrosia, Boo, and Tolkien Boy. I remember telling TB, when we'd spent about two months getting to know one another, that any time he was in Utah, I would arrange my schedule to see him. He didn't ask me to--and I didn't ask if he wanted me to. I just wanted to see him. It was the same with AtP, Ambrosia, and Boo. I've also been known to let them know that, not only was I visiting, I was spending the night. Yes. I invited myself. And they weren't the only recipients of my assumed welcome.
I admit that with Josh and Tolkien Boy and AtP, I've always sort of wished we lived closer. I've wished that with lots of people, but always with the knowledge that they would probably be unhappy living by me, and I"m in no financial or emotional position to relocate any time soon, and I would never want the people I love to live in a place that made them feel unhappy.
Josh, though, seemed as if he and his family weren't quite settled. I thought they might like one of the nearby cities and opportunity seemed endless. Then I realized the climate would never be a good fit for his wife and the pipe dream was probably best left being just that.
AtP toyed with the idea of attending a nearby nursing school. He was serious enough to come for a tour and stay a couple of days with me. In the end, though, leaving Utah wasn't for him. He met his husband. They now have a family. Someday, when I'm better, I'll go visit again and insist they have dinner with me. Utah will have to be near enough.
When Tolkien Boy was single, I confess to wishing a few times that we lived closer. I told him that I wished it. I knew the wish was not reciprocated. It didn't matter. Wishes don't just go away. For awhile, even after he was no longer single, TB talked about leaving Seattle, living closer to family, being in a place with more sun. When I suggested living near me, he didn't swipe the idea away. I understand now that it was because he understood better than I, that moving from Seattle was his pipe dream. He didn't have to discuss the possibility of living near me because it was probable that moving was simply not going to happen.
I feel a bit nonplussed that I ever entertained the idea that a family member (yes, there were a few of those that I wished for) or friend would live nearby and be a part of my social and emotional life. It's not like I've not survived a life without that. Nor is it likely that I'd even be able to manage such a thing successfully. I'd probably hate it.
I had a recent conversation with TB, in which he was supposed to be expressing his opinion but was asking me questions instead, in which he said, "It sounds as if you feel you don't want to need people anymore?"
I sort of wanted to punch him for saying that.
The answer is obvious. Of course I don't want to need people! They're unreliable and misleading. They say they love you, and they do, but being a priority (and yes, there are times when I wish I was a priority) is not an option. They're interested in you as long as they don't have more pressing matters demanding their attention. A marriage contract is the only thing one can call upon to say, "Hey! We chose each other. Sometimes I need you and I need you to need me. And it might not be convenient or comfortable, but that's the way it is and as long as we're married, that's how it will be."
You can't say that to a friend--to "people". Not ever. But sometimes you wish you could. Sometimes life overwhelms both you and your spouse and you need someone else to step in and hold you just for a while. But you can't ask. There's no contract or commitment or promise.
So, yes, TB, I do not want to need people. I'm happy to be a part of their lives. I'm happy to give every shred of love and support I can when they're in need. I'd even be delighted if some of those people I love lived near me, and would come have dinner with me whenever they wanted. And maybe, every once in awhile, someone whimsical would build a blanket fort and sit inside with me while we read books and ate cookies. But I don't want to need it. Not ever. And I'm frustrated, embarrassed, and a little bit angry that I have needed people in the past few years. I've been through some awful things--things I would wish on no one.
I've been blessed that there were incredible people who responded to my needs. They collectively fed me, housed me, visited me, talked to me, prayed for me--I needed those things so very desperately. And I sort of hate myself for being so needy. I gave nothing in return. I was emotionally and very nearly financially depleted. And I was in more pain than I ever want to think about again.
My hip surgeon is a competitive body builder. He has trophies. And he's big. He understands pain and endurance. After my surgery, he said to Darrin, "She waited far too long to have this done. Her cartilage has been gone for at least nine months, so she's been working with bone against bone every time she moved, and one of those bones, at the time of surgery, was in eminent danger of collapse. I have no idea how she was walking--let alone going to the gym daily to lift weights, swim, or run on the elliptical. That's pain I can't even comprehend."
Darrin said to me, later, "You told me it felt better to go to the gym."
I wasn't lying. It did feel better. I felt less helpless. Going to the gym brought emotional relief. But I won't lie--I was always glad there was a bathroom near the elliptical I was riding, because the physical pain really did make me worried that I was going to vomit at any moment. In the month before surgery, I could only tolerate a 30 minute workout on the elliptical and there was one day when I lost consciousness while I was cleaning the machine. There was a "Call 911!" flurry, but I was only out for a few seconds and I assured everyone I was fine--I just forgot to eat before I worked out that day--and as I seemed to be just fine as I headed for the locker room, everyone put their phones away. That was the Saturday before surgery. I thought it would be prudent not to go back until after my hip was replaced.
So yes, it hurt, but it also made me feel better. I can't really explain it.
I feel a little angry right now. I feel angry that I ever wanted people in the first place. It's silly, because those who care about me have done nothing to warrant that anger. They've loved and supported me and cared for me whenever possible. I think I'm angry though, because they're not mine. They're not my parents or siblings. They get to leave whenever they need to--not that my family has ever been there for me, but they're supposed to be. And I'm angry that I needed them, too. I want to take care of myself. I can never leave me. I will always be there when something happens and I will always be responsible for finding a solution. It's in my contract with myself.
In the meantime, I have to admit that I'm really bad at giving myself hugs, and sometimes I'm not the best conversationalist, and just forget harmonization when I sing. It doesn't happen. So maybe I can't do everything for myself. That makes me mad, too.
Monday, March 3, 2014
What's Good for the Goose is Good for the Gander
I've often stated that I hate make-up and rarely wear it. That doesn't mean I don't own it. Every once in awhile I think, "I'm a woman and maybe I should try some of that creamy stuff that will make me look ravishing and irresistible and everyone will smile at me and think I'm beautiful. After all, it has all those ingredients in it that are supposed to make your skin healthier and smoother and younger--and I'm not getting any younger. Besides, it's supposed to help cover up zits and even though I never get those, you never know--someday I might get one and I'll need this stuff because apparently a zit is a social disgrace and I wouldn't want to be one of those."
So I buy some. And I use it once or twice and see no visible difference. Besides, it takes time and I hate wasting time trying to look like something I'm not. My skin is my skin. End of story.
I do wear sunscreen, however. Religiously. My family has a history of skin cancer and I'd rather not have that. It's painful and can be malignant, so I'm trying to take care of my skin. Naturally, this means lecturing my children to the point of watching them pretend to gag as I go on and on and on...
They've listened to me, though. I have a tube of very nice, expensive Neutrogena sunscreen for faces on the table near the door, and I watch as they apply a bit to their faces and the backs of their hands when they leave the house, so clearly the nagging has gotten through a bit (or maybe it was the fact that their grandfather just had to have a large portion of the skin by his ear and cheek removed and the stitches and swelling look painful).
Adam came to me a couple of days ago and said, "I like the sunscreen in your bathroom better than the stuff you put by the door. I've been using it for a couple of weeks and my skin looks better and I really like the way it feels."
I wracked my brains for a minute or two, trying to figure out if I'd left some other brand of sunscreen in my bathroom. Unable to come up with an answer, I asked, "Why do you like it better?" He answered, "I'm not sure. I put it on and it smells like grapefruit and my skin looks really smooth and nice. I really like it."
I thought some more, and then the light bulb went on. I said, "Are you sure the bottle said it was sunscreen?"
"I think so," he answered, "I didn't really look that hard."
"What color was it?
"Sort of tannish--it matches my skin exactly."
I waited a moment, trying to figure out how to let my son know that he had been using a vitamin C infused foundation I'd bought on a whim a few months ago. Finally I decided just to be blunt.
"Adam--that's not sunscreen. It's make-up."
Adam thought for a minute, then said, "Huh! No wonder girls like to use it. It's nice."
This was not the answer I expected--nor was what came next: "Is it okay if I keep using it. I really like the way it smells."
Why not? I thought. I'm not using it. So I gave my permission and Adam went away feeling very happy.
So if you happen to pass a very nice looking young man with flawless skin, be sure to say hello. It's probably Adam. And at some point I have to let him know that his make-up doesn't actually have any sunscreen in it and he'll have to use both. I'm thinking this is not really going to bother him.
So I buy some. And I use it once or twice and see no visible difference. Besides, it takes time and I hate wasting time trying to look like something I'm not. My skin is my skin. End of story.
I do wear sunscreen, however. Religiously. My family has a history of skin cancer and I'd rather not have that. It's painful and can be malignant, so I'm trying to take care of my skin. Naturally, this means lecturing my children to the point of watching them pretend to gag as I go on and on and on...
They've listened to me, though. I have a tube of very nice, expensive Neutrogena sunscreen for faces on the table near the door, and I watch as they apply a bit to their faces and the backs of their hands when they leave the house, so clearly the nagging has gotten through a bit (or maybe it was the fact that their grandfather just had to have a large portion of the skin by his ear and cheek removed and the stitches and swelling look painful).
Adam came to me a couple of days ago and said, "I like the sunscreen in your bathroom better than the stuff you put by the door. I've been using it for a couple of weeks and my skin looks better and I really like the way it feels."
I wracked my brains for a minute or two, trying to figure out if I'd left some other brand of sunscreen in my bathroom. Unable to come up with an answer, I asked, "Why do you like it better?" He answered, "I'm not sure. I put it on and it smells like grapefruit and my skin looks really smooth and nice. I really like it."
I thought some more, and then the light bulb went on. I said, "Are you sure the bottle said it was sunscreen?"
"I think so," he answered, "I didn't really look that hard."
"What color was it?
"Sort of tannish--it matches my skin exactly."
I waited a moment, trying to figure out how to let my son know that he had been using a vitamin C infused foundation I'd bought on a whim a few months ago. Finally I decided just to be blunt.
"Adam--that's not sunscreen. It's make-up."
Adam thought for a minute, then said, "Huh! No wonder girls like to use it. It's nice."
This was not the answer I expected--nor was what came next: "Is it okay if I keep using it. I really like the way it smells."
Why not? I thought. I'm not using it. So I gave my permission and Adam went away feeling very happy.
So if you happen to pass a very nice looking young man with flawless skin, be sure to say hello. It's probably Adam. And at some point I have to let him know that his make-up doesn't actually have any sunscreen in it and he'll have to use both. I'm thinking this is not really going to bother him.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Saying Good-Bye to Annie
Annie and DJ were born on the same day. DJ is older by four hours. They met for the first time in my piano studio when they were nine years old and hated each other on sight. Annie was loud and constantly vying for attention. DJ was quiet and loved group lessons where we played games and learned about music history and performed music. They would sit at opposite ends of the studio and glare at one another.
About a year after Annie began studying with me, I had need to reduce my studio. Darrin had gone back to school and I had taken a job teaching general music in one of the local elementary schools. Annie was one of the students I referred to a different teacher, mainly because I thought it would help reduce DJ's stress when she was present. I actually enjoyed teaching Annie. She was incredibly talented, though undisciplined, but she had a lovely enthusiasm for life, and she always had a song she wanted to sing for me. She was a joyful person.
As often happens, Annie and DJ continued to cross paths. Both being talented musicians, they performed in the same groups; being the same age, they shared classes; and their pool of friends were basically the same, so around their thirteenth year, they called a truce and decided to be friends. The friendship flourished. They began a tradition of celebrating their shared birthday together--going to lunch or exchanging silly gifts or just spending time with their friends.
By the time they graduated, DJ and Annie were fast friends. When an opening at the cut-rate theater where Annie worked became available, she made certain that DJ was hired--not because he needed the job, but just because it would be fun to work together. There was never a spark of romance, but always a closeness of knowing they somehow were bound together and that life was better because of that.
Last year Annie began acting strangely. She forgot important events (like work schedules and the DJ/Annie birthday celebration). DJ was frustrated. She wouldn't talk to him, and denied that anything was different. Then one day Annie's sister called the theater. Annie would not be coming into work. She had seen some doctors that day and was diagnosed with stage four brain cancer. People don't often survive stage four brain cancer
I didn't know how to talk about this with DJ. I asked how he was feeling. He hugged me in his huge bear hug and said, "It's okay, Mom. I've fasted and prayed about this. Annie is going to be all right. I know it."
I didn't tell DJ that sometimes "all right" still means people die. I just hugged him back and said to be sure to visit her often and help her stay encouraged and strong. And for a year, DJ did just that.
Six weeks ago it became obvious that Annie was dying. I watched as DJ struggled through anger and frustration, and sorrow. Annie passed away the day I came home from my surgery. I had no opportunity to visit prior to her death, but probably that's okay. She was overwhelmed with pain and had little knowledge of who was with her or what was happening.
I told DJ it was okay to feel whatever came--no matter what that feeling was. And I told him to find the places he felt safe and be sure to cry for his friend. He said he would.
DJ was asked to give the eulogy at Annie's wake. He wrote a beautiful tribute to his friend listing all the things he learned from her during her short lifetime. But he was worried about being understood as he spoke, knowing it would be difficult not to cry as he delivered the eulogy and he wanted his words to be heard.
The day before Annie's wake, a neighbor brought dinner for our family. She included a bag of miscellaneous "stuff". She said, "Probably you don't need these things, but they're kind of fun and I just felt like giving them to your family." There was a terracotta garlic keeper, a mortar and pestle, a whisk, and a tiny green wind chime shaped like an owl. As she had said, they were kind of fun.
DJ walked in as I was going through the bag. I saw his hand reach out and take the wind chime. His eyes were larger than normal, and he said, "Mom, can I have this?" I laughed. DJ has always collected odd things. I said, yes, and asked why he wanted it.
His answer: "Annie collected owls. We usually exchanged them on our birthdays. This can be my present from her this year."
So DJ delivered his eulogy the next day, his hand curled around a tiny green owl given to us by a neighbor who had never met Annie and had no idea the impact her miscellaneous gifts would have.
I don't know what other people believe about God or no god or kismet or the universe or coincidence, but in my heart, I'm really glad that someone or something knows the beauty of my Dj's heart and they're looking out for him. Who knows? Perhaps it's Annie.
About a year after Annie began studying with me, I had need to reduce my studio. Darrin had gone back to school and I had taken a job teaching general music in one of the local elementary schools. Annie was one of the students I referred to a different teacher, mainly because I thought it would help reduce DJ's stress when she was present. I actually enjoyed teaching Annie. She was incredibly talented, though undisciplined, but she had a lovely enthusiasm for life, and she always had a song she wanted to sing for me. She was a joyful person.
As often happens, Annie and DJ continued to cross paths. Both being talented musicians, they performed in the same groups; being the same age, they shared classes; and their pool of friends were basically the same, so around their thirteenth year, they called a truce and decided to be friends. The friendship flourished. They began a tradition of celebrating their shared birthday together--going to lunch or exchanging silly gifts or just spending time with their friends.
By the time they graduated, DJ and Annie were fast friends. When an opening at the cut-rate theater where Annie worked became available, she made certain that DJ was hired--not because he needed the job, but just because it would be fun to work together. There was never a spark of romance, but always a closeness of knowing they somehow were bound together and that life was better because of that.
Last year Annie began acting strangely. She forgot important events (like work schedules and the DJ/Annie birthday celebration). DJ was frustrated. She wouldn't talk to him, and denied that anything was different. Then one day Annie's sister called the theater. Annie would not be coming into work. She had seen some doctors that day and was diagnosed with stage four brain cancer. People don't often survive stage four brain cancer
I didn't know how to talk about this with DJ. I asked how he was feeling. He hugged me in his huge bear hug and said, "It's okay, Mom. I've fasted and prayed about this. Annie is going to be all right. I know it."
I didn't tell DJ that sometimes "all right" still means people die. I just hugged him back and said to be sure to visit her often and help her stay encouraged and strong. And for a year, DJ did just that.
Six weeks ago it became obvious that Annie was dying. I watched as DJ struggled through anger and frustration, and sorrow. Annie passed away the day I came home from my surgery. I had no opportunity to visit prior to her death, but probably that's okay. She was overwhelmed with pain and had little knowledge of who was with her or what was happening.
I told DJ it was okay to feel whatever came--no matter what that feeling was. And I told him to find the places he felt safe and be sure to cry for his friend. He said he would.
DJ was asked to give the eulogy at Annie's wake. He wrote a beautiful tribute to his friend listing all the things he learned from her during her short lifetime. But he was worried about being understood as he spoke, knowing it would be difficult not to cry as he delivered the eulogy and he wanted his words to be heard.
The day before Annie's wake, a neighbor brought dinner for our family. She included a bag of miscellaneous "stuff". She said, "Probably you don't need these things, but they're kind of fun and I just felt like giving them to your family." There was a terracotta garlic keeper, a mortar and pestle, a whisk, and a tiny green wind chime shaped like an owl. As she had said, they were kind of fun.
DJ walked in as I was going through the bag. I saw his hand reach out and take the wind chime. His eyes were larger than normal, and he said, "Mom, can I have this?" I laughed. DJ has always collected odd things. I said, yes, and asked why he wanted it.
His answer: "Annie collected owls. We usually exchanged them on our birthdays. This can be my present from her this year."
So DJ delivered his eulogy the next day, his hand curled around a tiny green owl given to us by a neighbor who had never met Annie and had no idea the impact her miscellaneous gifts would have.
I don't know what other people believe about God or no god or kismet or the universe or coincidence, but in my heart, I'm really glad that someone or something knows the beauty of my Dj's heart and they're looking out for him. Who knows? Perhaps it's Annie.
Monday, February 17, 2014
I am ridiculous
I'm going to get a new hip.
This is a good thing. I've been in incredible pain for the past two years as the cartilage in my hip has disintegrated and the bones have deteriorated. The pain has increased until walking is an Olympic event for me and lying in bed at night brings nothing but misery. Bone scrapes on bone as tiny cysts form and burst, bringing their own form of exquisite sensation.
This is a good thing. The pain will be relieved and there's a good chance I'll be able to walk without limping for the first time in a few years.
I've been told not to run. Running will decrease the lifetime of my hip replacement and increase my chances of dislocation.
My doctors say it's not a big deal. I can ride a bicycle or swim--infinitely superior forms of exercise anyway.
My doctors have never survived rape. They don't live daily with PTSD. They don't understand the psychological significance running has for me. I've mentioned it to a few people, but I've never written it here--because it's silly:
When I run, I feel powerful and in control. No one can hurt me. I'll just run away from them. I'm not particularly fast, but I can run for a long, long time. Eventually, whomever wants to hurt me will get tired and stop chasing me. Running will keep me safe.
Do I know that's untrue? Yes. Do I understand that if I was truly a target for someone who wished to hurt me, chances are, running wouldn't really help? Yes. I completely understand that. But still, in my heart, I believe running will keep me safe. And somehow, when I think in my head, "I'll just jump on my bike and get away, should someone try to harm me," or "I'll just find a pool and swim really, really fast and the person who wants to hurt me will stay away because...he doesn't want to get wet...yeah...that's it..." Those thoughts just don't have the same protective impact as the running away thought does.
My surgeon says I'll feel better when I have my new hip. He says things will go well and he's happy I'm healthy, young, strong--unusual for him when it comes to hip replacement patients. He also says I get to choose how long I keep this particular hip. It will have to be replaced again, as the life of it is between 20 and 30 years for a sedentary person, and about 15 years for a moderately active person. Surgeon judges me to be more than moderately active, and suggests we shoot for at least 7-10 years on this particular hip. He says can't recommend running, but he knows some people do run on a hip replacement. He says I need to choose what activities will keep my quality of life optimal--but also says that if I choose to run, I shouldn't tell him about it.
I like my surgeon.
Getting my hip replaced is a good thing.
Tomorrow morning at 5 a.m., I will get in my car, drive three hours to the hospital, and by the afternoon, the procedure will be finished.
But today I keep crying about it. I'm the world's worst coward. I should be thinking of all the ways my life will be better--instead I'm thinking about how I really like my poor old hip and I'm sad that the surgeon is going to cut out my bones and take them away from me. I should be looking forward to less pain--but I'm thinking about the difficulty of physical therapy and remembering that I'm already tired and I don't want to do therapy again. I should be thinking about how, in a few weeks, I'll be able to sleep for more than an hour at a time at night--instead I'm worried about missing work because I'll be away from home for three days.
And did I mention that I'm kind of terrified about all this?
I need to stop being ridiculous.
This is a good thing. I've been in incredible pain for the past two years as the cartilage in my hip has disintegrated and the bones have deteriorated. The pain has increased until walking is an Olympic event for me and lying in bed at night brings nothing but misery. Bone scrapes on bone as tiny cysts form and burst, bringing their own form of exquisite sensation.
This is a good thing. The pain will be relieved and there's a good chance I'll be able to walk without limping for the first time in a few years.
I've been told not to run. Running will decrease the lifetime of my hip replacement and increase my chances of dislocation.
My doctors say it's not a big deal. I can ride a bicycle or swim--infinitely superior forms of exercise anyway.
My doctors have never survived rape. They don't live daily with PTSD. They don't understand the psychological significance running has for me. I've mentioned it to a few people, but I've never written it here--because it's silly:
When I run, I feel powerful and in control. No one can hurt me. I'll just run away from them. I'm not particularly fast, but I can run for a long, long time. Eventually, whomever wants to hurt me will get tired and stop chasing me. Running will keep me safe.
Do I know that's untrue? Yes. Do I understand that if I was truly a target for someone who wished to hurt me, chances are, running wouldn't really help? Yes. I completely understand that. But still, in my heart, I believe running will keep me safe. And somehow, when I think in my head, "I'll just jump on my bike and get away, should someone try to harm me," or "I'll just find a pool and swim really, really fast and the person who wants to hurt me will stay away because...he doesn't want to get wet...yeah...that's it..." Those thoughts just don't have the same protective impact as the running away thought does.
My surgeon says I'll feel better when I have my new hip. He says things will go well and he's happy I'm healthy, young, strong--unusual for him when it comes to hip replacement patients. He also says I get to choose how long I keep this particular hip. It will have to be replaced again, as the life of it is between 20 and 30 years for a sedentary person, and about 15 years for a moderately active person. Surgeon judges me to be more than moderately active, and suggests we shoot for at least 7-10 years on this particular hip. He says can't recommend running, but he knows some people do run on a hip replacement. He says I need to choose what activities will keep my quality of life optimal--but also says that if I choose to run, I shouldn't tell him about it.
I like my surgeon.
Getting my hip replaced is a good thing.
Tomorrow morning at 5 a.m., I will get in my car, drive three hours to the hospital, and by the afternoon, the procedure will be finished.
But today I keep crying about it. I'm the world's worst coward. I should be thinking of all the ways my life will be better--instead I'm thinking about how I really like my poor old hip and I'm sad that the surgeon is going to cut out my bones and take them away from me. I should be looking forward to less pain--but I'm thinking about the difficulty of physical therapy and remembering that I'm already tired and I don't want to do therapy again. I should be thinking about how, in a few weeks, I'll be able to sleep for more than an hour at a time at night--instead I'm worried about missing work because I'll be away from home for three days.
And did I mention that I'm kind of terrified about all this?
I need to stop being ridiculous.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
"We experience moments absolutely free from worry. These brief respites are called panic." ~Cullen Hightower
I'm an early riser. This doesn't mean I'm a morning person--just that I get up early. I can also stay up late with no problem. I've been known to stay up all night, grab a 2-3 hour nap in the morning, and have no problem with my sleep needs. I'm what's known as a "short sleeper". I have a genetic anomaly which actually causes me a great deal of misery if I get too much sleep. A sleep-in, for me, means my day will be pretty awful.
What this amounts to is a lot of alone time, something I usually enjoy. This morning, however, I awoke to continuous panic. A friend told me last night that I could call today--and I almost did. Then I remembered it was 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and there's also a one hour time difference which would make his time only 4 a.m. I decided no one loves me enough to field a panicked phone call at that time of day and put my phone away.
Panic makes me feel like screaming--and running. Especially when I don't know the source of it. I did neither. I worked steadily for about three hours, then I went to the gym. Usually this alleviates most of the panic, but today it hasn't put a dent in it. Darrin says it's understandable. I'm having hard, crunchy parts of my body cut out in three days. No one would feel especially relaxed about that. It was nice to have him sympathize. It would be nicer if he had stayed awake to talk me down. To his credit, he tried. But at this moment, he is snoring on the couch and has been in that position for an hour now.
Darrin took me to lunch yesterday for our anniversary/Valentine's Day. After years of coming home, exhausted by crowds and wishing we'd just stayed in and cuddled, we've learned to celebrate lightly on the day of, and do something romantic on a different evening when most couples are not vying for the same restaurant table, or theater tickets, that we want.
Valentine's Day, however, has always been a day I've loved. I've never ascribed it to romance, but rather, a special day to let people I care about know that they're important to me. I think this is because, growing up, Valentine's Day was the only day of the year my parents (mostly my mom) acknowledged that they loved me. I got a lovely card and sometimes a treat, and my mom made special once-a-year Valentine cookies. I loved them so much I had them served at my wedding. I suppose, for one day annually, I felt like I was loved--wanted--by my family.
So I made sure that others in my life knew of my love for them on Valentine's Day. I know many people despise the holiday. I understand why. I can't allow their negative experiences to change my feelings about a day of love for other people. I've always sent cards and chocolate (and sometimes those favorite cookies) to various people. One year my kids helped me make the cookies and we took them to several people in our neighborhood. No one understands the importance of the holiday to me--but I do, and I never want anyone in my life to doubt that I love them. I use the holiday to make sure they know.
Except this year I didn't. I've had so many consultations with doctors and surgeons and medical test people. And I've been trying to put in extra hours at work because I'll miss some time while I'm recovering from surgery. I'm scared, too. Probably that's stupid, but I am anyway.
I wish I'd been able to celebrate Valentine's Day as I wanted to.
I also think I want one of those chicken enchilada Subway sandwiches.
And I'd like to stop panicking. That would be good.
What this amounts to is a lot of alone time, something I usually enjoy. This morning, however, I awoke to continuous panic. A friend told me last night that I could call today--and I almost did. Then I remembered it was 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and there's also a one hour time difference which would make his time only 4 a.m. I decided no one loves me enough to field a panicked phone call at that time of day and put my phone away.
Panic makes me feel like screaming--and running. Especially when I don't know the source of it. I did neither. I worked steadily for about three hours, then I went to the gym. Usually this alleviates most of the panic, but today it hasn't put a dent in it. Darrin says it's understandable. I'm having hard, crunchy parts of my body cut out in three days. No one would feel especially relaxed about that. It was nice to have him sympathize. It would be nicer if he had stayed awake to talk me down. To his credit, he tried. But at this moment, he is snoring on the couch and has been in that position for an hour now.
Darrin took me to lunch yesterday for our anniversary/Valentine's Day. After years of coming home, exhausted by crowds and wishing we'd just stayed in and cuddled, we've learned to celebrate lightly on the day of, and do something romantic on a different evening when most couples are not vying for the same restaurant table, or theater tickets, that we want.
Valentine's Day, however, has always been a day I've loved. I've never ascribed it to romance, but rather, a special day to let people I care about know that they're important to me. I think this is because, growing up, Valentine's Day was the only day of the year my parents (mostly my mom) acknowledged that they loved me. I got a lovely card and sometimes a treat, and my mom made special once-a-year Valentine cookies. I loved them so much I had them served at my wedding. I suppose, for one day annually, I felt like I was loved--wanted--by my family.
So I made sure that others in my life knew of my love for them on Valentine's Day. I know many people despise the holiday. I understand why. I can't allow their negative experiences to change my feelings about a day of love for other people. I've always sent cards and chocolate (and sometimes those favorite cookies) to various people. One year my kids helped me make the cookies and we took them to several people in our neighborhood. No one understands the importance of the holiday to me--but I do, and I never want anyone in my life to doubt that I love them. I use the holiday to make sure they know.
Except this year I didn't. I've had so many consultations with doctors and surgeons and medical test people. And I've been trying to put in extra hours at work because I'll miss some time while I'm recovering from surgery. I'm scared, too. Probably that's stupid, but I am anyway.
I wish I'd been able to celebrate Valentine's Day as I wanted to.
I also think I want one of those chicken enchilada Subway sandwiches.
And I'd like to stop panicking. That would be good.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Good-byes
A long time ago I was chatting with Tolkien Boy. I was telling him something--I don't remember what--but he stopped me and said, "It sounds like you're saying good-bye." This was an old theme. I was always threatening to go away, not from a place of emotional manipulation, but because staying in any close relationship made me feel stressed and frustrated. So it was not unusual for me to take breaks, or disappear for a few days, or discuss the possibility of not being a permanent person. Honestly, I'm still a little puzzled as to why TB is still around at all.
But I've come to a number of realizations since that time and I think I'll share here, a tiny bit of what I learned.
I was saying good-bye. Not in the way TB meant, but definitely bidding a farewell of sorts.
You see, many times I have ideas and wishes which involve another person. Those are deeply felt and, I believe, sweet and good. However, they belong to me, and not to us. In truth, there really is no "us". When reality would hit and I would look at one of those things in my head or heart, and recognize that the wish was not shared by the other person involved, it was difficult for me.
I assume this type of thing takes place in adolescence and teenhood, when most people learn about feelings and reality. I did some of that as a teen, but I was also very separate from the effect of feelings. When a friendship or romance went badly, it was easy for me to look at it logically, briefly feel sad, and move on--effectively circumventing the natural process of grieving.
What I'm talking about now is different, of course, but I don't believe it's abnormal to wish to spend time with loved ones, regardless of whether or not those loved ones are platonic or romantic. And I don't believe it's unusual to have expectations or wishes within those same relationships that are not shared by both participants.
There was never anything profound about the things I wanted. Those wishes were small, insignificant, and to mention them would be silly. But in my heart, they had deep meaning, connections only I could understand, and were deeply rooted in the desperate needs I developed a long time ago.
So I was saying good-bye. Not to Tolkien Boy or anyone else. Not to my relationships or chat times or hopes for continued sociality. I was saying good-bye to those tiny little things I wanted; things that would make me whole but which I had no right to ask. I was understanding that who I have become will always be broken in some ways and I cannot ask well-meaning, kind friends to help me mend.
It's a difficult process--coming to such an understanding and letting go of the desperate hope that has always existed, but has never been acknowledged. I still do it. I have piles of such wishes and dreams inside of me. Slowly, very slowly, I have let them go and accepted the hole left behind. It's okay to be broken. One can still love and be loved. Life continues, relentlessly passing, and I can choose to hide behind the piles of all the wished-for things, or I can grieve the loss and take life as it comes.
I'm getting better at recognizing what's happening when one of those tiny needs and wishes dies; when I recognize that I have no right to ask anything of anyone when it benefits only me; when I assume there is an "us" when there is not. I'm getting better at not expressing the good-bye because it only serves to confuse whomever might be with me in the moment. I'm getting better at moving on.
But the cost seems to be that I am less hopeful, less brilliant, more willing to accept that life cannot become better and other people cannot help. I am saying good-bye but I'm not going away. I need to think about this a little bit more, because I don't really know how I feel about it.
But I've come to a number of realizations since that time and I think I'll share here, a tiny bit of what I learned.
I was saying good-bye. Not in the way TB meant, but definitely bidding a farewell of sorts.
You see, many times I have ideas and wishes which involve another person. Those are deeply felt and, I believe, sweet and good. However, they belong to me, and not to us. In truth, there really is no "us". When reality would hit and I would look at one of those things in my head or heart, and recognize that the wish was not shared by the other person involved, it was difficult for me.
I assume this type of thing takes place in adolescence and teenhood, when most people learn about feelings and reality. I did some of that as a teen, but I was also very separate from the effect of feelings. When a friendship or romance went badly, it was easy for me to look at it logically, briefly feel sad, and move on--effectively circumventing the natural process of grieving.
What I'm talking about now is different, of course, but I don't believe it's abnormal to wish to spend time with loved ones, regardless of whether or not those loved ones are platonic or romantic. And I don't believe it's unusual to have expectations or wishes within those same relationships that are not shared by both participants.
There was never anything profound about the things I wanted. Those wishes were small, insignificant, and to mention them would be silly. But in my heart, they had deep meaning, connections only I could understand, and were deeply rooted in the desperate needs I developed a long time ago.
So I was saying good-bye. Not to Tolkien Boy or anyone else. Not to my relationships or chat times or hopes for continued sociality. I was saying good-bye to those tiny little things I wanted; things that would make me whole but which I had no right to ask. I was understanding that who I have become will always be broken in some ways and I cannot ask well-meaning, kind friends to help me mend.
It's a difficult process--coming to such an understanding and letting go of the desperate hope that has always existed, but has never been acknowledged. I still do it. I have piles of such wishes and dreams inside of me. Slowly, very slowly, I have let them go and accepted the hole left behind. It's okay to be broken. One can still love and be loved. Life continues, relentlessly passing, and I can choose to hide behind the piles of all the wished-for things, or I can grieve the loss and take life as it comes.
I'm getting better at recognizing what's happening when one of those tiny needs and wishes dies; when I recognize that I have no right to ask anything of anyone when it benefits only me; when I assume there is an "us" when there is not. I'm getting better at not expressing the good-bye because it only serves to confuse whomever might be with me in the moment. I'm getting better at moving on.
But the cost seems to be that I am less hopeful, less brilliant, more willing to accept that life cannot become better and other people cannot help. I am saying good-bye but I'm not going away. I need to think about this a little bit more, because I don't really know how I feel about it.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Why I Don't Take Pain Killers, and other stories
Actually, there probably won't be any other stories.
I'm not talking about OTC pain relief. Sometimes I take those--except for ibuprofen, because I'm allergic to it. I'm talking about prescription pain drugs. I try not to take those.
But my current surgeon/doctor has asked me to take Percocet (oxycodone) during the night until my surgery so that I can sleep better. He believes I'll heal faster and be able to manage PTSD more productively if I'm not sleep deprived. I tried to tell him it's difficult for me to become sleep deprived. He said he wouldn't insist, but he wanted me to take the pills at night if I could.
So I have been. For about 10 days now.
Here's what happens when I take oxycodone:
1. It makes me sleepy, but doesn't necessarily make me sleep. It's possible for me to wake myself up and stay awake, even if I seem a little woozy.
2. It doesn't really affect my pain level, but the pain seems inconsequential. It's still there, I just don't care about it.
3. The pills do affect my emotional state. They remove all the built up stress and panic and I feel very relaxed and a great deal of relief. And that's the problem.
Anyone who has experienced problems with chronic stress/panic understands that when those things are gone, however briefly, the feeling of relief is overwhelming. For me, that relaxation of tension in my guts is the best feeling in the world. I want it badly. In fact, I want it so much that when I identify a source of that release, I've been known to do just about anything I can to get my "fix" as often as possible. Physical contact from certain people in my life gives me that relief. With those unfortunate individuals I become a cuddle whore. I have to monitor my actions when I'm with them so they don't feel smothered or aggravated by my need for touch, which in turn causes me so much stress that I find myself wishing they were far away so I could stop wanting to be next to them. Catch-22.
So when I find the source of my "fix" in the form of a pill--something that can't be aggravated or annoyed by my need to ingest it--well, that creates a new problem.
As mentioned above, I've been taking oxycodone for about 10 days. At this point, my entire day is spent waiting for the time when I can take a couple of pills and go to bed. Yup. That's all I want. I don't want to talk to people, or work, or practice the piano, or read--I just want to take a pill.
Once I take the pills, I sleep off the initial drowsiness (about an hour), then I wake myself up and enjoy the sensation of not having a panic attack. I usually do this for 3-4 hours (so much for getting a good night's sleep). When the pills start wearing off, I'll allow myself to sleep for 2-3 hours. Then I get up--because that means it's day and when night comes again, I get to take more "medicine."
It's plenty embarrassing to admit that I have a propensity for addiction. I'm willing to shoulder the embarrassment and be honest about what's happening to me. I told Darrin this morning. I'll probably talk with Therapist before Friday. Oversight is good.
The thought of discontinuing the pain meds makes me weep a little. When you spend most of your life so stressed that it feels normal, to find relief from that is heavenly. But I'm not stupid. While spending the rest of my life popping pain killers actually sounds like a really great idea right now, I know it's not.
Okay. Complete honesty: The thought of going without the oxycodone is completely overwhelming and it has nothing to do with pain management. Probably it's time to stop.
There are times when I really hate the fact that I have PTSD and all it's accompanying delights. It sucks.
I'm not talking about OTC pain relief. Sometimes I take those--except for ibuprofen, because I'm allergic to it. I'm talking about prescription pain drugs. I try not to take those.
But my current surgeon/doctor has asked me to take Percocet (oxycodone) during the night until my surgery so that I can sleep better. He believes I'll heal faster and be able to manage PTSD more productively if I'm not sleep deprived. I tried to tell him it's difficult for me to become sleep deprived. He said he wouldn't insist, but he wanted me to take the pills at night if I could.
So I have been. For about 10 days now.
Here's what happens when I take oxycodone:
1. It makes me sleepy, but doesn't necessarily make me sleep. It's possible for me to wake myself up and stay awake, even if I seem a little woozy.
2. It doesn't really affect my pain level, but the pain seems inconsequential. It's still there, I just don't care about it.
3. The pills do affect my emotional state. They remove all the built up stress and panic and I feel very relaxed and a great deal of relief. And that's the problem.
Anyone who has experienced problems with chronic stress/panic understands that when those things are gone, however briefly, the feeling of relief is overwhelming. For me, that relaxation of tension in my guts is the best feeling in the world. I want it badly. In fact, I want it so much that when I identify a source of that release, I've been known to do just about anything I can to get my "fix" as often as possible. Physical contact from certain people in my life gives me that relief. With those unfortunate individuals I become a cuddle whore. I have to monitor my actions when I'm with them so they don't feel smothered or aggravated by my need for touch, which in turn causes me so much stress that I find myself wishing they were far away so I could stop wanting to be next to them. Catch-22.
So when I find the source of my "fix" in the form of a pill--something that can't be aggravated or annoyed by my need to ingest it--well, that creates a new problem.
As mentioned above, I've been taking oxycodone for about 10 days. At this point, my entire day is spent waiting for the time when I can take a couple of pills and go to bed. Yup. That's all I want. I don't want to talk to people, or work, or practice the piano, or read--I just want to take a pill.
Once I take the pills, I sleep off the initial drowsiness (about an hour), then I wake myself up and enjoy the sensation of not having a panic attack. I usually do this for 3-4 hours (so much for getting a good night's sleep). When the pills start wearing off, I'll allow myself to sleep for 2-3 hours. Then I get up--because that means it's day and when night comes again, I get to take more "medicine."
It's plenty embarrassing to admit that I have a propensity for addiction. I'm willing to shoulder the embarrassment and be honest about what's happening to me. I told Darrin this morning. I'll probably talk with Therapist before Friday. Oversight is good.
The thought of discontinuing the pain meds makes me weep a little. When you spend most of your life so stressed that it feels normal, to find relief from that is heavenly. But I'm not stupid. While spending the rest of my life popping pain killers actually sounds like a really great idea right now, I know it's not.
Okay. Complete honesty: The thought of going without the oxycodone is completely overwhelming and it has nothing to do with pain management. Probably it's time to stop.
There are times when I really hate the fact that I have PTSD and all it's accompanying delights. It sucks.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Retiring My Wonder Woman Status
I have always been strong. Often it got me into trouble.
Age six: I live in Ogden, UT. We have a very large tree in our front yard, with a thick branch extending straight out from the middle. My father, because safety has never really been something he thinks about regularly (yes, it's a miracle I'm still alive), rigs a long rope with a 10-inch dowel attached at the bottom (so we could sit or hang from it) from a much higher branch, and we stand on the lateral branch and leap off.
I loved the swing. I don't believe I ever sat on it, but I learned all sorts of rope tricks during gym time at school. I could climb the rope and ring the bell. I could straighten my body upwards while hanging upside-down, I could wrap the rope several times around my thigh and hang from the rope, no-handed, upside-down (no, this was not sanctioned by the gym teacher). And the beautiful thing was that those last two tricks translated well on our homemade swing. There was nothing more amazing than hanging upside-down and swinging.
My older sister wasn't as flexible or daring as I was, but she could climb. So one day she climbed the tree as high as she felt safe--then dared me to climb higher. So I did (one does not think these things through at six years of age). And I got really, really high. It was amazing. And then I tried to climb down. Turns out up is easier than down.
I couldn't do it. My mother tried to have my older sister climb up and show me where the footholds were to get down. She couldn't quite get high enough, and every time she would get close, I would scream at her to get away. Yeah, I'm cooperative. My mom said I'd have to stay up there forever. I pondered. At the moment, it didn't seem a bad plan. I was comfortable. There was a fork in the branches where I could straddle the branches and sleep (nope, didn't think about falling out while I was asleep--remember--six years old). My mom said they'd have to tie my meals to the swing and toss them up to me. I thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever heard.
My mom gave up and called the fire department. In a minute or two, a hook-and-ladder truck was in front of my house and a fireman was helping me out of the tree. Once I was off the branch, I was ready to see how fast I could go down the ladder and I was very put out at the fireman who insisted on descending before me and showing me how to put my feet carefully on the next rung. I said, "I know how to go down a ladder." He said, "I'm sure you do. Now, carefully lower your foot to the next rung and don't move your hands until both feet are on the same rung." It took forever.
So one could analyze this story and say I was reckless--but I was six. I'm cutting myself some slack. However, that same driven, recklessness has been a part of who I am for all my life. And the physical strength I enjoyed as a six-year-old, has been present, as well. I'm small but compact. I spent a good part of my life hauling hay, driving tractors, feeding livestock, moving hand irrigation, fixing fence, and doing whatever heavy, dirty job needed to be done.
I've also dealt with some pretty hefty emotional crap, and I think, given my age and the circumstances, I was fairly strong then, too.
My kids have always jokingly referred to me as "Wonder Woman". I've always assumed it was because I spend my day in a glittery bustier/blue underwear combo, complete with awesome high-heeled boots, but they say it's because I've always been able to do whatever I wanted, physically, emotionally, and mentally. They don't actually know if this is true, because I haven't told them when I failed miserably (or I took some time and flew away in my invisible plane until I could put on a happy face about everything). It also could have something to do with the fact that I always knew when they were lying--they believe my lasso of truth was cluing me in. I've told them that's just a mom thing. They don't believe me.
I'm not strong anymore.
The past four years, dealing with a suicidal daughter, learning of her abuse by my own brother, having to place her in a treatment facility--these things have robbed me of my emotional resilience.
The physical problems I've had in the past four years--four surgeries for various reasons, deterioration of bone and cartilage in my hip, increasingly intense pain--these things have gradually robbed me of my physical strength.
The past four years of declining ability to use physical activity to deal with stress and manage PTSD, being emotionally overwhelmed, feeling panicked all the time--these things have robbed me of my mental stamina.
Tabitha is home now and doing well. I've put a plan in place for when my family is unsupportive or unbelieving about the abuse she has suffered--and I've stuck with the plan for nearly a year now. I'm getting surgery which won't restore me to my original state, but will relieve pain and allow me movement again. I'm doing things to put my brain back together, learning new ways to manage PTSD, and learning how to find small bits of hope for the future.
But for now, I'm hanging up my Wonder Woman title. While I'll miss the ultra-comfy clothing and footgear, I need to stop trying to be something I'm not. At this point in my life, loading the dishwasher, making my bed, and vacuuming are challenging for me. I'm just not up to making the world a better place.
I'll be renting out my lasso and invisible plane. You're free to take them for a test drive. If you can see them.
Age six: I live in Ogden, UT. We have a very large tree in our front yard, with a thick branch extending straight out from the middle. My father, because safety has never really been something he thinks about regularly (yes, it's a miracle I'm still alive), rigs a long rope with a 10-inch dowel attached at the bottom (so we could sit or hang from it) from a much higher branch, and we stand on the lateral branch and leap off.
I loved the swing. I don't believe I ever sat on it, but I learned all sorts of rope tricks during gym time at school. I could climb the rope and ring the bell. I could straighten my body upwards while hanging upside-down, I could wrap the rope several times around my thigh and hang from the rope, no-handed, upside-down (no, this was not sanctioned by the gym teacher). And the beautiful thing was that those last two tricks translated well on our homemade swing. There was nothing more amazing than hanging upside-down and swinging.
My older sister wasn't as flexible or daring as I was, but she could climb. So one day she climbed the tree as high as she felt safe--then dared me to climb higher. So I did (one does not think these things through at six years of age). And I got really, really high. It was amazing. And then I tried to climb down. Turns out up is easier than down.
I couldn't do it. My mother tried to have my older sister climb up and show me where the footholds were to get down. She couldn't quite get high enough, and every time she would get close, I would scream at her to get away. Yeah, I'm cooperative. My mom said I'd have to stay up there forever. I pondered. At the moment, it didn't seem a bad plan. I was comfortable. There was a fork in the branches where I could straddle the branches and sleep (nope, didn't think about falling out while I was asleep--remember--six years old). My mom said they'd have to tie my meals to the swing and toss them up to me. I thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever heard.
My mom gave up and called the fire department. In a minute or two, a hook-and-ladder truck was in front of my house and a fireman was helping me out of the tree. Once I was off the branch, I was ready to see how fast I could go down the ladder and I was very put out at the fireman who insisted on descending before me and showing me how to put my feet carefully on the next rung. I said, "I know how to go down a ladder." He said, "I'm sure you do. Now, carefully lower your foot to the next rung and don't move your hands until both feet are on the same rung." It took forever.
So one could analyze this story and say I was reckless--but I was six. I'm cutting myself some slack. However, that same driven, recklessness has been a part of who I am for all my life. And the physical strength I enjoyed as a six-year-old, has been present, as well. I'm small but compact. I spent a good part of my life hauling hay, driving tractors, feeding livestock, moving hand irrigation, fixing fence, and doing whatever heavy, dirty job needed to be done.
I've also dealt with some pretty hefty emotional crap, and I think, given my age and the circumstances, I was fairly strong then, too.
My kids have always jokingly referred to me as "Wonder Woman". I've always assumed it was because I spend my day in a glittery bustier/blue underwear combo, complete with awesome high-heeled boots, but they say it's because I've always been able to do whatever I wanted, physically, emotionally, and mentally. They don't actually know if this is true, because I haven't told them when I failed miserably (or I took some time and flew away in my invisible plane until I could put on a happy face about everything). It also could have something to do with the fact that I always knew when they were lying--they believe my lasso of truth was cluing me in. I've told them that's just a mom thing. They don't believe me.
I'm not strong anymore.
The past four years, dealing with a suicidal daughter, learning of her abuse by my own brother, having to place her in a treatment facility--these things have robbed me of my emotional resilience.
The physical problems I've had in the past four years--four surgeries for various reasons, deterioration of bone and cartilage in my hip, increasingly intense pain--these things have gradually robbed me of my physical strength.
The past four years of declining ability to use physical activity to deal with stress and manage PTSD, being emotionally overwhelmed, feeling panicked all the time--these things have robbed me of my mental stamina.
Tabitha is home now and doing well. I've put a plan in place for when my family is unsupportive or unbelieving about the abuse she has suffered--and I've stuck with the plan for nearly a year now. I'm getting surgery which won't restore me to my original state, but will relieve pain and allow me movement again. I'm doing things to put my brain back together, learning new ways to manage PTSD, and learning how to find small bits of hope for the future.
But for now, I'm hanging up my Wonder Woman title. While I'll miss the ultra-comfy clothing and footgear, I need to stop trying to be something I'm not. At this point in my life, loading the dishwasher, making my bed, and vacuuming are challenging for me. I'm just not up to making the world a better place.
I'll be renting out my lasso and invisible plane. You're free to take them for a test drive. If you can see them.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
I don't like ice cream.
This morning I sat in a square of sunshine on my living room floor and ate salted caramel gelato for breakfast. I did this because:
1. It's not good for me.
2. I'm lactose intolerant so it's REALLY not good for me.
3. It tasted good.
4. I wanted it.
5. I'm an adult and I don't have a mom to tell me I can't eat ice cream for breakfast.
I tell people I don't like ice cream. This isn't untrue--I don't really like it. But sometimes I want it because everyone else in the world seems to love it and I feel I'm a bit of a freak because I don't. I've learned to choose wisely, however, when I try ice cream to see if I still don't like it. I choose a variety that is very expensive, high quality, and includes ingredients I like outside of the ice cream (like nuts or salted caramel), and I don't eat very much of it. I've learned to stop after my third bite.
So, to be accurate, this morning I sat in a square of sunshine on my living room floor and ate three bites of salted caramel gelato for breakfast.
Then I ate an apple. I think this is a very good breakfast. Darrin doesn't. So I made myself a lactose-free protein shake and drank half of it. Protein shakes do not taste as good as apples. Or gelato.
DJ moved in with us last year so he could save money to go back to school, and recover from his knee surgery. He went to one part-time semester of school, and also got his EMT certification. Now he just wants to be an EMT. No more school. But EMT jobs are scarce.
Adam has been telling us since he was 17 that he was moving out soon and going to college in Australia. He's been looking at apartments and going to school. But last year he began having migraines--3-5 weekly. We were alarmed. He was missing a great deal of school and felt miserable. So I took Adam to a neurologist who prescribed an epilepsy medication. From the day he took the first dose, Adam has not had a migraine. However, he did experience debilitating fatigue, fogginess in his brain, and a complete personality change. Once again, we were alarmed. Adam is now medication-free and migraine-free, and slowly returning back to normal. But his grades during the first year of college were terrible. Adam petitioned the scholarship department, explained the situation, and his scholarship was reinstated for this year, but last semester wasn't stellar. Adam now tells us that he has no plans to move away from home. He's sticking around for awhile until he can figure out how to manage money, keep a good job, and not fail at life.
Tabitha planned to live at home for a year, complete gen-eds, apply to the nursing program in the fall of 2014, and leave home to attend said nursing program at that time. She's been working and going to school full-time and last semester was pretty tense as she tried to figure out how to fit 25-30 work hours, 16 credit hours, homework, and sleep into her life. She did it, but just barely. Now I understand that the current life plan has changed. She's not leaving home in the fall, she's staying another year and completing an Associates degree in psychology.
Darrin and I have a bucket list of things we will do when our children are gone. I want to do those things.
Don't get me wrong. I love having these kiddos at home. But it's kind of like living with three roommates who haven't figured out how to be grown-ups yet. And they don't like it when I say, "You're adults. Stop asking me to intervene in disagreements. Clean up after yourselves. Don't take it personally if you have to make meals, do laundry, and pay for your upkeep. We'll help, but you need to learn to be your own person."
Nor do they like it when I remind them that the upstairs bathroom is not their exclusive property, but is also our guest bathroom so they need to keep it clean and keep toilet paper on the proper bathroom appliance.
Darrin says I'm just feeling cranky lately, and he's right. I actually love having these three amazing people living with me. But solitude has been more than just a little bit appealing in the past few weeks, and it's rare in our house. DJ keeps to himself, so I actually don't mind it when he's home. But Adam wants to talk constantly and expects me to respond, and even though Tabitha just wants to talk (no response required), that can become a little trying, as well. Adam and Tabitha find me no matter where I go, and they always have something to say. Darrin says I'll miss this when they're gone. Probably he's right.
Darrin asked me yesterday what bugs me so much about having my children at home right now. I thought for a moment, then I said, "Their rooms are scary messy and they're too old now, for me to tell them to clean them."
I really do think that's the problem. And when your kids are too old to be bossed around anymore, you just have to sit in the sun and eat three bites of gelato. . .
1. It's not good for me.
2. I'm lactose intolerant so it's REALLY not good for me.
3. It tasted good.
4. I wanted it.
5. I'm an adult and I don't have a mom to tell me I can't eat ice cream for breakfast.
I tell people I don't like ice cream. This isn't untrue--I don't really like it. But sometimes I want it because everyone else in the world seems to love it and I feel I'm a bit of a freak because I don't. I've learned to choose wisely, however, when I try ice cream to see if I still don't like it. I choose a variety that is very expensive, high quality, and includes ingredients I like outside of the ice cream (like nuts or salted caramel), and I don't eat very much of it. I've learned to stop after my third bite.
So, to be accurate, this morning I sat in a square of sunshine on my living room floor and ate three bites of salted caramel gelato for breakfast.
Then I ate an apple. I think this is a very good breakfast. Darrin doesn't. So I made myself a lactose-free protein shake and drank half of it. Protein shakes do not taste as good as apples. Or gelato.
DJ moved in with us last year so he could save money to go back to school, and recover from his knee surgery. He went to one part-time semester of school, and also got his EMT certification. Now he just wants to be an EMT. No more school. But EMT jobs are scarce.
Adam has been telling us since he was 17 that he was moving out soon and going to college in Australia. He's been looking at apartments and going to school. But last year he began having migraines--3-5 weekly. We were alarmed. He was missing a great deal of school and felt miserable. So I took Adam to a neurologist who prescribed an epilepsy medication. From the day he took the first dose, Adam has not had a migraine. However, he did experience debilitating fatigue, fogginess in his brain, and a complete personality change. Once again, we were alarmed. Adam is now medication-free and migraine-free, and slowly returning back to normal. But his grades during the first year of college were terrible. Adam petitioned the scholarship department, explained the situation, and his scholarship was reinstated for this year, but last semester wasn't stellar. Adam now tells us that he has no plans to move away from home. He's sticking around for awhile until he can figure out how to manage money, keep a good job, and not fail at life.
Tabitha planned to live at home for a year, complete gen-eds, apply to the nursing program in the fall of 2014, and leave home to attend said nursing program at that time. She's been working and going to school full-time and last semester was pretty tense as she tried to figure out how to fit 25-30 work hours, 16 credit hours, homework, and sleep into her life. She did it, but just barely. Now I understand that the current life plan has changed. She's not leaving home in the fall, she's staying another year and completing an Associates degree in psychology.
Darrin and I have a bucket list of things we will do when our children are gone. I want to do those things.
Don't get me wrong. I love having these kiddos at home. But it's kind of like living with three roommates who haven't figured out how to be grown-ups yet. And they don't like it when I say, "You're adults. Stop asking me to intervene in disagreements. Clean up after yourselves. Don't take it personally if you have to make meals, do laundry, and pay for your upkeep. We'll help, but you need to learn to be your own person."
Nor do they like it when I remind them that the upstairs bathroom is not their exclusive property, but is also our guest bathroom so they need to keep it clean and keep toilet paper on the proper bathroom appliance.
Darrin says I'm just feeling cranky lately, and he's right. I actually love having these three amazing people living with me. But solitude has been more than just a little bit appealing in the past few weeks, and it's rare in our house. DJ keeps to himself, so I actually don't mind it when he's home. But Adam wants to talk constantly and expects me to respond, and even though Tabitha just wants to talk (no response required), that can become a little trying, as well. Adam and Tabitha find me no matter where I go, and they always have something to say. Darrin says I'll miss this when they're gone. Probably he's right.
Darrin asked me yesterday what bugs me so much about having my children at home right now. I thought for a moment, then I said, "Their rooms are scary messy and they're too old now, for me to tell them to clean them."
I really do think that's the problem. And when your kids are too old to be bossed around anymore, you just have to sit in the sun and eat three bites of gelato. . .
Saturday, January 25, 2014
This will be a very odd post, which means, of course, that I've been doing therapy stuff. This particular thing has been hanging around for years. I've been kicking it back, avoiding it--probably because I know what it reveals about me and I don't like it. But not liking something doesn't mean it's not real.
I've noticed that when things in my life become stressful, I'm more inclined to look honestly at myself, which makes me more likely to finish tasks from therapy. I sometimes think I should wait until I'm feeling better, but that never happens. When I feel level and happy, I'm more likely to just accept whatever is amiss inside me. It's not bothering me, so why expend effort trying to figure out what it means? So I've been working a great deal lately, on things that Therapist and I have discussed for the past ten years.
Therapist used to tell me, "The only relationship in your life that REALLY matters is the one you have with your spouse."
In my head, this is how that translated:
People come and go. Some stay longer than others. But it doesn't really matter because in the end, the only one you're really tied to is your spouse. No matter how much you try to foster any other relationship, it will end. Your children will leave you to find spouses of their own. Your friends will leave or die. Your progeny will eventually regard you as the laughable old woman who, at dinnertime, rolls food around in her mouth because she can't chew it, then puts it back on her plate, sits in her chair, and mutters. Only your spouse remains with you and remembers who you really are.
My interpretation of that translation: Relationships are sort of pointless. Except spousal ones, of course.
Therapist says this is not what he meant at all. Therapist's translation:
Your spouse is your major source of love and support. You've made covenants with one another that you will never leave, you'll work on always building the relationship, you'll forgive and move forward, you'll be best friends and lovers, and each will always come first in the other's life. Other relationships are not built to be as close or resilient. Children leave parents to make their own lives and families--but they remain in their parents' lives, just not as present. Friendships wax and wane because they have their own families and spouses which must, of necessity, come first. But no one really forgets their friends, and when time permits, they rejoin and spend limited time together. However, your spouse is a constant and should always be given priority over any other person.
Therapist's interpretation of this: All relationships are valuable, but emphasis must always be placed on those that are spousal.
Therapist is correct. I've always known that. And I don't disagree, necessarily. But I have always had difficulty maintaining relationships--always. Therapist traces this to the breakdown of the childhood relationship I had with my parents who were largely unreliable and unavailable, emotionally, and who discouraged any closeness or intimacy I might initiate. When you're a little girl and you really need a hug, you go to your mom or dad, I think. I was too afraid of my mother. My dad would hug me briefly, then move away. My little girl impression of the act was that touching me was embarrassing to him.
Little girls form friendships quickly and deeply. Holding hands and cuddling are part of that--at least they were when I was a child. Perhaps in today's world, where homosexuality is a hypertopic and people are highly sensitive to how their acts with another person are interpreted, little girls are encouraged to touch less. I don't really know. I'm hypothesizing. I hope I'm wrong. Such touch, for me, was the only real affection I received between the ages of six through twelve.
As I grew up, I had no interest in dating boys--but they seemed interested in dating me. So I did. And I had boyfriends. And I let them cuddle and kiss because I really, really wanted that. However, it seemed to affect them more deeply than it did me, and after awhile I was finished with that. I wanted nothing more than to be held and loved. The boyfriends definitely weren't satisfied with only that.
Darrin, alone, seemed to understand my need to be touched without strings attached. Granted, he was the first person I told of the sexual and physical abuse in my life, so he understood my background, but it was clear to me that he would allow me to call the shots when it came to our physical interaction--which is one of many reasons that I married him.
And for a long time, Darrin WAS all I needed. He was my most important relationship--my only important relationship. After my children were born, I experienced new levels of relationship depth. Other people came and went. I enjoyed them but had no desire to work to make secure friendships with them. That desire has never been paramount for me. And when they left, I felt a tiny shock of loneliness, then turned immediately to Darrin to appease it.
Unhealthy?
No doubt about it. And I was lonely. I ignored the loneliness and filled my life with other things, other temporary people, other books to read or music to play. I learned new skills and got new jobs and refused to think about loneliness or friends or anything that caused me discomfort. After all, in the end, I had Darrin, and that was all that mattered.
Ten years ago I began to face the things that haunt me. I went to a therapist (or two...or three...or four...and then finally found a good fit in Therapist). I stopped running. I decided to look at the things that scare me. At the top of my list were "People". I told Therapist I was going to learn to have real relationships outside of Darrin and my kids. He looked alarmed and immediately told me that those were my most important relationships. I knew that. I just wanted to see if I could have more--other relationships with other people--relationships that could last longer than a few months or a year.
So I did. And I wrote about it in my blogs. A lot.
Maintaining longterm contact with people was difficult for me, and very stressful. There were many times when I just wanted to cut everyone loose and never see them again. Sometimes I would hide for a week while I collected myself, gathered strength, and decided to keep trying.
I don't expect anyone to understand this. I know of many people who maintain their relationships with no problem or conflict or stress. I'm not one of them. It's hard for me. I'm afraid of people.
In spite of everything, I've had quite a few friendshps that have endured nearly 8 years now. That's a very long time. And I think I can truly say that I did it--we did it. I'm not eternally damaged by abuse and rape and I can be as human as the next person. But what I've noticed in the past year is that my drive to maintain my relationships is waning. I don't love the people less. I still want them. I just don't feel that, should the relationships become less important to all parties concerned, it doesn't say anything about me or my ability to interact with people. And at this point, all of us have spouses--and our spousal relationships are supposed to be the most important.
I guess I'm just feeling that after all is said and done, as close as we've been, as important as I might be (which isn't hugely important, I admit), I'm not really irreplaceable, and should I no longer be in the picture (for whatever reason), everyone still has their spouses, and that's what matters. But Therapist says it's not a black-and-white issue, even though that's what he said at first. And he says part of the reason he feels that way is because in the last decade I've convinced him otherwise. While he still believes that spousal relationships are parmount, there are equally important relationships that serve different purposes which should be nurtured and cherished. And he says I'm really not replaceable.
I don't know that I believe him. I often feel that I'm a convenient diversion. I don't object to being that. But sometimes I would like to feel that I make people's lives better and that they seek me out because I provide something they want and need.
My parents hug me now. It's awkward and I don't like it. They do it because they understood, too late, how hurt I was growing up and they DO love me, and they want to make things right, somehow. They can't--but I let them hug me anyway because it seems to make them feel better. It doesn't make me feel better, but it doesn't hurt me either. I guess that's what I don't want my relationships with other people to become--something they allow to happen because, even if they don't really like it, it doesn't hurt them and it seems to help me. That, in my mind, is not honest or healthy. I want more.
And maybe that's the entire problem expressed in three words. I want more. But maybe "more" is a figment of my imagination. Therapist says it's not, but he also says he was wrong about the importance of non-spousal relationships, and quite frankly, I don't think he knows any more than I do.
Last night I questioned a number of people who are currently present in my life about this topic. They all think I'm delving too deeply and I just need to let life happen and enjoy it. Maybe they're right--but it also illustrates how little they know me.
Okay. I'm done. Time to go to the gym.
I've noticed that when things in my life become stressful, I'm more inclined to look honestly at myself, which makes me more likely to finish tasks from therapy. I sometimes think I should wait until I'm feeling better, but that never happens. When I feel level and happy, I'm more likely to just accept whatever is amiss inside me. It's not bothering me, so why expend effort trying to figure out what it means? So I've been working a great deal lately, on things that Therapist and I have discussed for the past ten years.
Therapist used to tell me, "The only relationship in your life that REALLY matters is the one you have with your spouse."
In my head, this is how that translated:
People come and go. Some stay longer than others. But it doesn't really matter because in the end, the only one you're really tied to is your spouse. No matter how much you try to foster any other relationship, it will end. Your children will leave you to find spouses of their own. Your friends will leave or die. Your progeny will eventually regard you as the laughable old woman who, at dinnertime, rolls food around in her mouth because she can't chew it, then puts it back on her plate, sits in her chair, and mutters. Only your spouse remains with you and remembers who you really are.
My interpretation of that translation: Relationships are sort of pointless. Except spousal ones, of course.
Therapist says this is not what he meant at all. Therapist's translation:
Your spouse is your major source of love and support. You've made covenants with one another that you will never leave, you'll work on always building the relationship, you'll forgive and move forward, you'll be best friends and lovers, and each will always come first in the other's life. Other relationships are not built to be as close or resilient. Children leave parents to make their own lives and families--but they remain in their parents' lives, just not as present. Friendships wax and wane because they have their own families and spouses which must, of necessity, come first. But no one really forgets their friends, and when time permits, they rejoin and spend limited time together. However, your spouse is a constant and should always be given priority over any other person.
Therapist's interpretation of this: All relationships are valuable, but emphasis must always be placed on those that are spousal.
Therapist is correct. I've always known that. And I don't disagree, necessarily. But I have always had difficulty maintaining relationships--always. Therapist traces this to the breakdown of the childhood relationship I had with my parents who were largely unreliable and unavailable, emotionally, and who discouraged any closeness or intimacy I might initiate. When you're a little girl and you really need a hug, you go to your mom or dad, I think. I was too afraid of my mother. My dad would hug me briefly, then move away. My little girl impression of the act was that touching me was embarrassing to him.
Little girls form friendships quickly and deeply. Holding hands and cuddling are part of that--at least they were when I was a child. Perhaps in today's world, where homosexuality is a hypertopic and people are highly sensitive to how their acts with another person are interpreted, little girls are encouraged to touch less. I don't really know. I'm hypothesizing. I hope I'm wrong. Such touch, for me, was the only real affection I received between the ages of six through twelve.
As I grew up, I had no interest in dating boys--but they seemed interested in dating me. So I did. And I had boyfriends. And I let them cuddle and kiss because I really, really wanted that. However, it seemed to affect them more deeply than it did me, and after awhile I was finished with that. I wanted nothing more than to be held and loved. The boyfriends definitely weren't satisfied with only that.
Darrin, alone, seemed to understand my need to be touched without strings attached. Granted, he was the first person I told of the sexual and physical abuse in my life, so he understood my background, but it was clear to me that he would allow me to call the shots when it came to our physical interaction--which is one of many reasons that I married him.
And for a long time, Darrin WAS all I needed. He was my most important relationship--my only important relationship. After my children were born, I experienced new levels of relationship depth. Other people came and went. I enjoyed them but had no desire to work to make secure friendships with them. That desire has never been paramount for me. And when they left, I felt a tiny shock of loneliness, then turned immediately to Darrin to appease it.
Unhealthy?
No doubt about it. And I was lonely. I ignored the loneliness and filled my life with other things, other temporary people, other books to read or music to play. I learned new skills and got new jobs and refused to think about loneliness or friends or anything that caused me discomfort. After all, in the end, I had Darrin, and that was all that mattered.
Ten years ago I began to face the things that haunt me. I went to a therapist (or two...or three...or four...and then finally found a good fit in Therapist). I stopped running. I decided to look at the things that scare me. At the top of my list were "People". I told Therapist I was going to learn to have real relationships outside of Darrin and my kids. He looked alarmed and immediately told me that those were my most important relationships. I knew that. I just wanted to see if I could have more--other relationships with other people--relationships that could last longer than a few months or a year.
So I did. And I wrote about it in my blogs. A lot.
Maintaining longterm contact with people was difficult for me, and very stressful. There were many times when I just wanted to cut everyone loose and never see them again. Sometimes I would hide for a week while I collected myself, gathered strength, and decided to keep trying.
I don't expect anyone to understand this. I know of many people who maintain their relationships with no problem or conflict or stress. I'm not one of them. It's hard for me. I'm afraid of people.
In spite of everything, I've had quite a few friendshps that have endured nearly 8 years now. That's a very long time. And I think I can truly say that I did it--we did it. I'm not eternally damaged by abuse and rape and I can be as human as the next person. But what I've noticed in the past year is that my drive to maintain my relationships is waning. I don't love the people less. I still want them. I just don't feel that, should the relationships become less important to all parties concerned, it doesn't say anything about me or my ability to interact with people. And at this point, all of us have spouses--and our spousal relationships are supposed to be the most important.
I guess I'm just feeling that after all is said and done, as close as we've been, as important as I might be (which isn't hugely important, I admit), I'm not really irreplaceable, and should I no longer be in the picture (for whatever reason), everyone still has their spouses, and that's what matters. But Therapist says it's not a black-and-white issue, even though that's what he said at first. And he says part of the reason he feels that way is because in the last decade I've convinced him otherwise. While he still believes that spousal relationships are parmount, there are equally important relationships that serve different purposes which should be nurtured and cherished. And he says I'm really not replaceable.
I don't know that I believe him. I often feel that I'm a convenient diversion. I don't object to being that. But sometimes I would like to feel that I make people's lives better and that they seek me out because I provide something they want and need.
My parents hug me now. It's awkward and I don't like it. They do it because they understood, too late, how hurt I was growing up and they DO love me, and they want to make things right, somehow. They can't--but I let them hug me anyway because it seems to make them feel better. It doesn't make me feel better, but it doesn't hurt me either. I guess that's what I don't want my relationships with other people to become--something they allow to happen because, even if they don't really like it, it doesn't hurt them and it seems to help me. That, in my mind, is not honest or healthy. I want more.
And maybe that's the entire problem expressed in three words. I want more. But maybe "more" is a figment of my imagination. Therapist says it's not, but he also says he was wrong about the importance of non-spousal relationships, and quite frankly, I don't think he knows any more than I do.
Last night I questioned a number of people who are currently present in my life about this topic. They all think I'm delving too deeply and I just need to let life happen and enjoy it. Maybe they're right--but it also illustrates how little they know me.
Okay. I'm done. Time to go to the gym.
Monday, January 20, 2014
I don't watch movies with an R rating.
Some people will suppose that this is because LDS people have been cautioned to use good judgment when choosing what they watch (and R-rated movies have been specifically mentioned as things to avoid), and I am part of that group. But anyone who knows me understands that blind obedience isn't really my style, and it's rare for me to do something simply because I've been told to (or told not to, as the case may be). Imagine having me as a child...yeah...I was a bit obstinate. So I'm not an adherent of the popular saying, "When the prophet speaks, the debate is over." I'm pretty sure I'm an Old Testament candidate for flood victim, wilderness wanderer, or pillar of salt. That's just who I am.
My choice to avoid rated R movies (and some PG-13 movies) was made when I was quite young and I encountered my first triggering violent movie. Television is not the big screen, and I found that my tolerance for violence (especially sexually related violence) went way down when it was large and in my face and I had no control over the volume. I've often said that I don't identify with movies and I'm constantly aware that an actor is playing a role--and I appreciate it when it's done well. But there are times when something triggers a memory, it could be a sight, a sound, or just a situation, and when that happens, I'm no longer watching the movie on the screen but am, instead, a victim of that triggered memory.
I recognized, after a rather unfortunate date, that if the violence in a PG-13 movie could trigger me, probably the degree allowed to be portrayed in an R-rated movie would be lengthier, or more intense, or more frequent, and because I was embarrassed that I left the theater with my date with no idea of what had happened in the movie, I decided I would not put myself in that position again. And I didn't.
My resolve to stay away from R-rated movies was further strengthened when I spent a year living with my outspoken, rather loud, mother-in-law, who declared her undying enthusiasm and enjoyment of slasher movies based on real life (I believe her favorite was Scar Face). I found her need to describe the bloody Hollywood depictions of the horrific crimes, with not a word spoken about the victims or their families, to be ghoulish at best. Mother-in-law was not accepting of my assertion that I just didn't want to watch--so the mormnorm edict became a convenient crutch for my escape when the movies were shown in the evenings, and I was grateful it existed.
It's rare for me to go to a movie theater and choose from the list of available movies. I will almost always research what I wish to see so I know what I'm up against, before deciding whether or not I'll be safe when I view it. It's just a good idea for me.
My reluctance to view films with sex and violence has been misconstrued by many people. And some believe I judge them harshly because they choose to watch movies I do not. I'm often overwhelmed with excuses or explanations of why the movie has merit, in spite of its rating. I'm told that they know we're not "supposed" to watch rated R movies. I'm prodded to just watch it with them and they'll edit out the "bad" parts.
They don't understand. I don't really care what they choose to watch. It changes nothing in my opinion about, or love for, them, any more than knowing that they eat ice cream daily would alter my feelings or opinions. But I am frustrated that they cannot accept my decision not to watch, and I feel a great deal of stress as they attempt to goad or persuade me. They don't know that I feel I am less of a person because my ability to process the types of situations I see on the screen is diminished by the violence I have experienced in my life, and that I am embarrassed and a little bit angry when I have to explain. I feel, instead, that they do not care about my feelings when my quietly spoken, "Maybe we could choose a different movie, please?" is met with resistance and little understanding.
So for future reference, should I decline a movie invitation, please go without me and enjoy yourself. Or if you wish to spend time with me, help me choose a different movie or activity we both can enjoy. Let's just forget for a moment, that there are any religious guidelines that apply to me, and just believe I'm an adult who makes good decisions for myself--because sometimes I do that.
My choice to avoid rated R movies (and some PG-13 movies) was made when I was quite young and I encountered my first triggering violent movie. Television is not the big screen, and I found that my tolerance for violence (especially sexually related violence) went way down when it was large and in my face and I had no control over the volume. I've often said that I don't identify with movies and I'm constantly aware that an actor is playing a role--and I appreciate it when it's done well. But there are times when something triggers a memory, it could be a sight, a sound, or just a situation, and when that happens, I'm no longer watching the movie on the screen but am, instead, a victim of that triggered memory.
I recognized, after a rather unfortunate date, that if the violence in a PG-13 movie could trigger me, probably the degree allowed to be portrayed in an R-rated movie would be lengthier, or more intense, or more frequent, and because I was embarrassed that I left the theater with my date with no idea of what had happened in the movie, I decided I would not put myself in that position again. And I didn't.
My resolve to stay away from R-rated movies was further strengthened when I spent a year living with my outspoken, rather loud, mother-in-law, who declared her undying enthusiasm and enjoyment of slasher movies based on real life (I believe her favorite was Scar Face). I found her need to describe the bloody Hollywood depictions of the horrific crimes, with not a word spoken about the victims or their families, to be ghoulish at best. Mother-in-law was not accepting of my assertion that I just didn't want to watch--so the mormnorm edict became a convenient crutch for my escape when the movies were shown in the evenings, and I was grateful it existed.
It's rare for me to go to a movie theater and choose from the list of available movies. I will almost always research what I wish to see so I know what I'm up against, before deciding whether or not I'll be safe when I view it. It's just a good idea for me.
My reluctance to view films with sex and violence has been misconstrued by many people. And some believe I judge them harshly because they choose to watch movies I do not. I'm often overwhelmed with excuses or explanations of why the movie has merit, in spite of its rating. I'm told that they know we're not "supposed" to watch rated R movies. I'm prodded to just watch it with them and they'll edit out the "bad" parts.
They don't understand. I don't really care what they choose to watch. It changes nothing in my opinion about, or love for, them, any more than knowing that they eat ice cream daily would alter my feelings or opinions. But I am frustrated that they cannot accept my decision not to watch, and I feel a great deal of stress as they attempt to goad or persuade me. They don't know that I feel I am less of a person because my ability to process the types of situations I see on the screen is diminished by the violence I have experienced in my life, and that I am embarrassed and a little bit angry when I have to explain. I feel, instead, that they do not care about my feelings when my quietly spoken, "Maybe we could choose a different movie, please?" is met with resistance and little understanding.
So for future reference, should I decline a movie invitation, please go without me and enjoy yourself. Or if you wish to spend time with me, help me choose a different movie or activity we both can enjoy. Let's just forget for a moment, that there are any religious guidelines that apply to me, and just believe I'm an adult who makes good decisions for myself--because sometimes I do that.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Marriage--specifically, mixed-orientation marriage
When I began blogging, this was something that greatly interested me. I wanted to find others in MOMs who were happy, as I was--people like me, who somehow, against great odds, had found fulfillment and joy with a partner of the opposite sex. I think this was important to me because my marriage experience was greatly different from opposite sex attracted married people. Maybe I didn't want to be the "only one". I think I wanted dialogue with people who understood my situation. Regardless, the topic was on my mind and I wanted to talk about it.
Once I began speaking, there were quite a few people who entered the conversation. I learned a lot--which was also something I was seeking. To my dismay, I learned that two camps exist on the topic and both of them have strong opinions and speak very loudly. Personally, I have a strong opinion about my own marriage, but I really don't have one about any other marriage. I'll talk about mine, but probably not yours. And I strongly resist joining either of the two camps.
Camp One: Mixed orientation marriage is unnatural and should be avoided (actually, I've heard the words "should not be an option" in the place of "should be avoided" more often than I'd like, and it bothers me because it sort of dictates who one must not marry--in the same way some states' laws do). It will ultimately end in divorce, which is harmful to any offspring, and also to both spouses, emotionally, physically, and mentally. Those who are in MOMs and who attest to successful marriages are being dishonest and their words should be disregarded.
Camp Two: Gay people choose their orientation. They have an agenda (no one's really sure what this agenda is, but certainly it is EVIL and will bring about ARMAGEDDON and the world will die because of it). The only reason they can't change is because they don't want to. If gay people meet the right person of the opposite sex and get married, they'll live happily ever after and never be gay again. Just like Samantha. We use marriages like Samantha's because it proves that gay people are imaginary.
Clearly these are extreme views. I don't really have extreme views about anything. Except, maybe, chocolate. I love it. Extremely.
Over the past decade, I have been approached several times to talk about my marriage and my life in different venues. Those invitations have come from several different sources, not all extreme, and some for very good reasons--reasons I support. However, in making a video, writing a brief essay, participating in a podcast, writing a guest blog, or being interviewed, I understand that once my words become public, they can and will be misconstrued.
People from camp one will mock my marriage, question my honesty and sincerity, accuse me of attention seeking, and wait for my marriage to fail. People from camp two will harm gay family members and friends as they press them to "change" or to date members of the opposite sex, or twist my words to prove that gay people are inherently wrong or evil. I have no interest in providing fodder for either camp.
I believe the majority of people are more moderate and really don't care about me or my marriage. I'm an oddity worthy of three or four seconds of perusal, and that is all. But even without the MOM aspect, my marriage is remarkable. The average length of a first marriage is 8 years. Mine has survived more than 20 years. That's a long time. And I suppose that's what I've been thinking about.
My reasons for finding other MOMs are no longer as important to me. What I've learned is that every marriage is unique and some have greater challenges than others. Being gay has not caused me as much stress, perhaps, as it causes others in MOMs. I've been more challenged by the abuses of my past than by my sexual orientation mix-match of the past two decades.
I've also learned that sexual compatibility can be problematic for anyone, regardless of whether or not they marry a person of the same orientation. Things that seem to guarantee longevity in any relationship are linked to common interests, ability to weather changes and crises, desire to remain in the relationship, willingness to work out disagreements and find common ground, enjoyment of each other's company, and intense interest in each other. Sex is a component of that, naturally, but one that can wax and wane based on age and health. Devotion plays a large part in marriage longevity.
That last paragraph is not advisory. I don't give advice. It's simply a list of observations I've made as I've researched and studied marriages over the past decade--including my own. Darrin and I have had our ups and downs (still do). But I believe, at the core, we both want to spend our lives together--and WANTING is a huge motivator.
So I've said no to the invitations to discuss my marriage in public (with one exception--Darrin and I were once on a panel about mixed orientation marriage, and in that experience I learned that my view differs vastly from views of others who share marriages like mine, and I've not participated again). What I have decided is that it doesn't really matter what people in camp one think about me. I'm happy. I don't believe my children are maladjusted or dysfunctional. In fact, they seem to be intelligent, open-minded, devoid of gender bias, and are some of the most non-judgmental people I've met. I like them very much. I see no reason to expose my marriage to those who will mock it or expect it to fail, and who attribute many of society's woes to people like me. I understand many of them speak from experience--but that is not my experience and I do not expect it ever will be.
And I would never, ever, provide fodder for people in camp two--those who do not respect the right of their gay family members and friends to choose for themselves. That right to choose, I believe, is God-given and irrevocable. Yet the people closest to us are often those who punish or ostracize if we exercise that right to choose and our choice does not align with what they wish for us. The hurt that springs from such pressure to conform, and the damage to the soul and psyche, are often irreparable and always avoidable. I do not need my marriage to become a bludgeoning instrument for those who think they can "make" someone believe, or choose, or become. That right to believe/choose/become belongs to the individual, not to the masses.
Which leaves me at the end of this train of thought. My decision to silently live and love my spouse, for me, is the right one. It does not nullify the importance of voices like my friend, Josh, who chose to tell the world about his experience with mixed orientation marriage. I support and applaud him. I believe he did what was right for him, and helpful for many people. As can be expected, the extremists used his words, and some people were hurt by them--but this was not, and never has been, Josh's intent. I believe he has a right to speak, even if there are those who object to or misinterpret what he says. But I also have a right to remain silent, which has a reflection only on me.
Once I began speaking, there were quite a few people who entered the conversation. I learned a lot--which was also something I was seeking. To my dismay, I learned that two camps exist on the topic and both of them have strong opinions and speak very loudly. Personally, I have a strong opinion about my own marriage, but I really don't have one about any other marriage. I'll talk about mine, but probably not yours. And I strongly resist joining either of the two camps.
Camp One: Mixed orientation marriage is unnatural and should be avoided (actually, I've heard the words "should not be an option" in the place of "should be avoided" more often than I'd like, and it bothers me because it sort of dictates who one must not marry--in the same way some states' laws do). It will ultimately end in divorce, which is harmful to any offspring, and also to both spouses, emotionally, physically, and mentally. Those who are in MOMs and who attest to successful marriages are being dishonest and their words should be disregarded.
Camp Two: Gay people choose their orientation. They have an agenda (no one's really sure what this agenda is, but certainly it is EVIL and will bring about ARMAGEDDON and the world will die because of it). The only reason they can't change is because they don't want to. If gay people meet the right person of the opposite sex and get married, they'll live happily ever after and never be gay again. Just like Samantha. We use marriages like Samantha's because it proves that gay people are imaginary.
Clearly these are extreme views. I don't really have extreme views about anything. Except, maybe, chocolate. I love it. Extremely.
Over the past decade, I have been approached several times to talk about my marriage and my life in different venues. Those invitations have come from several different sources, not all extreme, and some for very good reasons--reasons I support. However, in making a video, writing a brief essay, participating in a podcast, writing a guest blog, or being interviewed, I understand that once my words become public, they can and will be misconstrued.
People from camp one will mock my marriage, question my honesty and sincerity, accuse me of attention seeking, and wait for my marriage to fail. People from camp two will harm gay family members and friends as they press them to "change" or to date members of the opposite sex, or twist my words to prove that gay people are inherently wrong or evil. I have no interest in providing fodder for either camp.
I believe the majority of people are more moderate and really don't care about me or my marriage. I'm an oddity worthy of three or four seconds of perusal, and that is all. But even without the MOM aspect, my marriage is remarkable. The average length of a first marriage is 8 years. Mine has survived more than 20 years. That's a long time. And I suppose that's what I've been thinking about.
My reasons for finding other MOMs are no longer as important to me. What I've learned is that every marriage is unique and some have greater challenges than others. Being gay has not caused me as much stress, perhaps, as it causes others in MOMs. I've been more challenged by the abuses of my past than by my sexual orientation mix-match of the past two decades.
I've also learned that sexual compatibility can be problematic for anyone, regardless of whether or not they marry a person of the same orientation. Things that seem to guarantee longevity in any relationship are linked to common interests, ability to weather changes and crises, desire to remain in the relationship, willingness to work out disagreements and find common ground, enjoyment of each other's company, and intense interest in each other. Sex is a component of that, naturally, but one that can wax and wane based on age and health. Devotion plays a large part in marriage longevity.
That last paragraph is not advisory. I don't give advice. It's simply a list of observations I've made as I've researched and studied marriages over the past decade--including my own. Darrin and I have had our ups and downs (still do). But I believe, at the core, we both want to spend our lives together--and WANTING is a huge motivator.
So I've said no to the invitations to discuss my marriage in public (with one exception--Darrin and I were once on a panel about mixed orientation marriage, and in that experience I learned that my view differs vastly from views of others who share marriages like mine, and I've not participated again). What I have decided is that it doesn't really matter what people in camp one think about me. I'm happy. I don't believe my children are maladjusted or dysfunctional. In fact, they seem to be intelligent, open-minded, devoid of gender bias, and are some of the most non-judgmental people I've met. I like them very much. I see no reason to expose my marriage to those who will mock it or expect it to fail, and who attribute many of society's woes to people like me. I understand many of them speak from experience--but that is not my experience and I do not expect it ever will be.
And I would never, ever, provide fodder for people in camp two--those who do not respect the right of their gay family members and friends to choose for themselves. That right to choose, I believe, is God-given and irrevocable. Yet the people closest to us are often those who punish or ostracize if we exercise that right to choose and our choice does not align with what they wish for us. The hurt that springs from such pressure to conform, and the damage to the soul and psyche, are often irreparable and always avoidable. I do not need my marriage to become a bludgeoning instrument for those who think they can "make" someone believe, or choose, or become. That right to believe/choose/become belongs to the individual, not to the masses.
Which leaves me at the end of this train of thought. My decision to silently live and love my spouse, for me, is the right one. It does not nullify the importance of voices like my friend, Josh, who chose to tell the world about his experience with mixed orientation marriage. I support and applaud him. I believe he did what was right for him, and helpful for many people. As can be expected, the extremists used his words, and some people were hurt by them--but this was not, and never has been, Josh's intent. I believe he has a right to speak, even if there are those who object to or misinterpret what he says. But I also have a right to remain silent, which has a reflection only on me.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
The solstice was December 21st--the darkest day of the year has past.
My reaction to my situation has been of interest to me. Prior to my "death sentence" diagnosis, when I felt pain in my hip I would think: "This hurts, but it's going to get better. I just need to do my physical therapy exercises and keep working on flexibility. This is not forever." After the diagnosis, when I felt pain I would panic and think: "My bone is dead! There is nothing I can do about it! It has to be CUT OUT!!!" This would be followed by horrible sadness after which I would remind myself that I'm not dying and this is a condition which can be remedied (even if the remedy was not what I wanted).
The "interesting" part of all this is that my pain tolerance decreased considerably as I realized I was not going to get better. My general feeling of helplessness increased. My desire to withdraw and cease interaction with people became overwhelming.
The doctor didn't tell me to stop going to the gym. He told me continuing to build the muscles surrounding the bone would be beneficial if I could tolerate the movement of bone on bone in my hip. He made no recommendations for treatment in the interim between now and when the hip would be replaced, preferring to wait for the MRI results so he would have more information before making such recommendations.
My depression increased as my ability to manage pain became nonexistent. In only a few days, I had come to view myself as disabled and old. Random crying was part of every waking hour. Sleep was miserable.
Christmas morning was rather lovely. Around 4 a.m., I got up and did some online work while my family slept. DJ, who has never been able to sleep well on Christmas Eve, finally decided everyone had been asleep long enough and woke everyone at 8:30. We opened gifts, made breakfast, and settled into a game of Monopoly.
My mother had invited us to Christmas dinner. I was trying not to be unpleasant about another Thanksgiving-like turkey dinner--but I have my limits. As I provided most of the dinner for Thanksgiving and grocery shopping had been sparse prior to Christmas day, I chose not to volunteer food or help for Christmas dinner. I know--that was unkind--but I was feeling miserable and I didn't care.
We arrived at my parents' house around 2:00. I visited with my family (parents, brother and family, grandmother), but was feeling increasingly ill. Finally, after 30 minutes, I said I needed to go home. My father, who has experienced the pain of bone against bone movement (he has post-polio syndrome, which causes cartilage to decrease and bones to wear out), sent me home with two of the very potent, prescription pills he takes to manage pain. Legality sometimes takes a back seat to helping a loved one in distress, I suppose.
I went home and fell asleep on what we fondly call "The Napping Couch". When I awoke, I felt better, but still nauseated and in pain. I thought about taking one of my dad's pills, but opted for an OTC pain killer instead. I didn't want drug-induced sleep for the rest of Christmas day.
I read a book. I cleaned my kitchen. I watched the sun set. And I thought about a lot of things.
I decided that until I'm told I cannot, I will continue to work out as I have been. I feel better both during and afterward, so I don't believe I'm hurting myself, and I'm using and building the muscles that will help with recovery after surgery.
I decided I'm not going to feel sorry for myself anymore. It has its place, but I've allowed it enough time. At this point, it's just making me more miserable.
I decided to start researching and looking at my options, finding information about the things I'm facing, and learning about what's happening to my body so I can prepare for my future and cope with my present.
I decided I should probably talk to Therapist.
Thursday I went to the gym for the first time in nearly a week. I lifted weights, ran on the elliptical, and sat in the jacuzzi. There was some discomfort, but the benefit was worth it.
Friday I talked with Therapist. He had some good things to tell me and felt suitably sympathetic toward my situation. He thanked me for talking with him--said I'm a "bright spot" in his life. That was nice to hear. I don't feel very bright right now.
Yesterday, I filled out an application for an appointment to see a doctor who specializes in Birmingham hip resurfacing procedures, which is basically a hip replacement for runners. The procedure is about a decade old and has had fairly good results. I didn't think I would be a candidate for this, but when I went to the website and found it was recommended for "young" people--and realized I'm not even old enough to be considered a "young hip replacement candidate" (young = people in their 50s and 60s), I decided I needed to look into this. I'm really not ready to stop running.
The MRI will determine my eligibility based on the extent of bone death and condition of the remaining bone. I'm encouraged by the fact that avascular necrosis was listed with the conditions that are considered for this joint replacement. I have nothing to lose. If I'm told I can't have the joint replacement I want, I'll get the total hip replacement and plan on a few more before I die. I'll find something else to love. I'll be okay.
In the meantime, my emotions are all over the place and I don't want to be with people at all. I telephoned someone on Christmas day, because I knew the desire to isolate was becoming unmanageable, but I've not been able to talk to anyone since then. I've made attempts, but my ability to follow through is gone, so if I'm not met halfway, it's probable that the attempt will die. I just don't feel able to pursue anyone right now, to insist on attention--and doing so makes me feel unwanted and annoying. I'm not excited about placing myself in that position, so I probably won't.
But I'll keep going to the gym, and I should have MRI answers next week, and I'll see the hip specialist as soon as I can. Therapist said it's best if I keep talking to people, but if I have to chase them down, I would be better off using my energy for more pressing things--like staying sane, and managing pain and depression. I think he's right.
In the meantime, if you come visit me, I'll play you some Debussy. I learned a couple of his pieces to give away as Christmas gifts, but was unable to do so--so I've been giving them to anyone who chances by. They seem to be happy to listen for a few minutes. One sweet friend said it was "transcendent" but she adores Debussy, so that's to be expected. I won't be able to play for a few months after my hip replacement, so I'm performing as much as I can right now.
The "interesting" part of all this is that my pain tolerance decreased considerably as I realized I was not going to get better. My general feeling of helplessness increased. My desire to withdraw and cease interaction with people became overwhelming.
The doctor didn't tell me to stop going to the gym. He told me continuing to build the muscles surrounding the bone would be beneficial if I could tolerate the movement of bone on bone in my hip. He made no recommendations for treatment in the interim between now and when the hip would be replaced, preferring to wait for the MRI results so he would have more information before making such recommendations.
My depression increased as my ability to manage pain became nonexistent. In only a few days, I had come to view myself as disabled and old. Random crying was part of every waking hour. Sleep was miserable.
Christmas morning was rather lovely. Around 4 a.m., I got up and did some online work while my family slept. DJ, who has never been able to sleep well on Christmas Eve, finally decided everyone had been asleep long enough and woke everyone at 8:30. We opened gifts, made breakfast, and settled into a game of Monopoly.
My mother had invited us to Christmas dinner. I was trying not to be unpleasant about another Thanksgiving-like turkey dinner--but I have my limits. As I provided most of the dinner for Thanksgiving and grocery shopping had been sparse prior to Christmas day, I chose not to volunteer food or help for Christmas dinner. I know--that was unkind--but I was feeling miserable and I didn't care.
We arrived at my parents' house around 2:00. I visited with my family (parents, brother and family, grandmother), but was feeling increasingly ill. Finally, after 30 minutes, I said I needed to go home. My father, who has experienced the pain of bone against bone movement (he has post-polio syndrome, which causes cartilage to decrease and bones to wear out), sent me home with two of the very potent, prescription pills he takes to manage pain. Legality sometimes takes a back seat to helping a loved one in distress, I suppose.
I went home and fell asleep on what we fondly call "The Napping Couch". When I awoke, I felt better, but still nauseated and in pain. I thought about taking one of my dad's pills, but opted for an OTC pain killer instead. I didn't want drug-induced sleep for the rest of Christmas day.
I read a book. I cleaned my kitchen. I watched the sun set. And I thought about a lot of things.
I decided that until I'm told I cannot, I will continue to work out as I have been. I feel better both during and afterward, so I don't believe I'm hurting myself, and I'm using and building the muscles that will help with recovery after surgery.
I decided I'm not going to feel sorry for myself anymore. It has its place, but I've allowed it enough time. At this point, it's just making me more miserable.
I decided to start researching and looking at my options, finding information about the things I'm facing, and learning about what's happening to my body so I can prepare for my future and cope with my present.
I decided I should probably talk to Therapist.
Thursday I went to the gym for the first time in nearly a week. I lifted weights, ran on the elliptical, and sat in the jacuzzi. There was some discomfort, but the benefit was worth it.
Friday I talked with Therapist. He had some good things to tell me and felt suitably sympathetic toward my situation. He thanked me for talking with him--said I'm a "bright spot" in his life. That was nice to hear. I don't feel very bright right now.
Yesterday, I filled out an application for an appointment to see a doctor who specializes in Birmingham hip resurfacing procedures, which is basically a hip replacement for runners. The procedure is about a decade old and has had fairly good results. I didn't think I would be a candidate for this, but when I went to the website and found it was recommended for "young" people--and realized I'm not even old enough to be considered a "young hip replacement candidate" (young = people in their 50s and 60s), I decided I needed to look into this. I'm really not ready to stop running.
The MRI will determine my eligibility based on the extent of bone death and condition of the remaining bone. I'm encouraged by the fact that avascular necrosis was listed with the conditions that are considered for this joint replacement. I have nothing to lose. If I'm told I can't have the joint replacement I want, I'll get the total hip replacement and plan on a few more before I die. I'll find something else to love. I'll be okay.
In the meantime, my emotions are all over the place and I don't want to be with people at all. I telephoned someone on Christmas day, because I knew the desire to isolate was becoming unmanageable, but I've not been able to talk to anyone since then. I've made attempts, but my ability to follow through is gone, so if I'm not met halfway, it's probable that the attempt will die. I just don't feel able to pursue anyone right now, to insist on attention--and doing so makes me feel unwanted and annoying. I'm not excited about placing myself in that position, so I probably won't.
But I'll keep going to the gym, and I should have MRI answers next week, and I'll see the hip specialist as soon as I can. Therapist said it's best if I keep talking to people, but if I have to chase them down, I would be better off using my energy for more pressing things--like staying sane, and managing pain and depression. I think he's right.
In the meantime, if you come visit me, I'll play you some Debussy. I learned a couple of his pieces to give away as Christmas gifts, but was unable to do so--so I've been giving them to anyone who chances by. They seem to be happy to listen for a few minutes. One sweet friend said it was "transcendent" but she adores Debussy, so that's to be expected. I won't be able to play for a few months after my hip replacement, so I'm performing as much as I can right now.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Avascular Necrosis
About a month ago I noticed that the pain in my tendon was becoming pain in my outer hip and the muscles in my thigh and backside were in spasm almost constantly. I was losing mobility in my joint. When I stepped on my right leg, or shifted my weight from side to side, there was audible popping in my hip. But most importantly, I was sleeping very little at night when the pain would intensify to the point that I could barely tolerate it.
So I made an appointment to see a sports medicine surgeon, thinking that it was time to get that tendon release and just get better--and why not see a doctor who would do the surgery and get me right back into running?
I saw him Friday. There were x-rays and a brief exam and a diagnosis. Then I went to the parking lot and cried for 20 minutes before I went home.
I'm not going to run again. I don't have tendonitis. I have avascular necrosis. Translation: the bones in my hip and upper thigh, and all the surrounding tissue and cartilage, have died.
This is a condition usually contracted by the following:
-Men between the ages of 30 and 60 years old
-People with sickle cell anemia, AIDS/HIV, lupus, diabetes, or Gaucher's disease
-People who drink alcohol excessively
-People who take steroids or osteoporosis drugs
-People who have had dialysis, or organ transplants, or who have undergone radiation therapy for cancer
As you can see from the list, I am not part of the "at risk" group. My doctor kept saying, "This is really, really bad!" and "I've never had a female patient as young as you who has contracted this!" After about the fourth repetition of those statements (with variations), I said, "Stop saying those things--you're making me really stressed!"
Then I learned that:
-There is no cure
-I no longer have any tissue between the ball and socket of my hip (bone on bone)--hence the loud popping sound, loss of movement, and intense pain
-I'm at risk for stress fractures, hip fracture, and eventual bone collapse
So I'll be having an MRI as soon as possible to determine the extent of the bone death and rule out bone cancer, and then a total hip replacement--with at least two more to look forward to in my future, as I am "so young!" Yay.
It's not the worst thing that could happen. And when I have a new hip I can still bike or swim or even play tennis. And the pain will be significantly less. But it's not the answer I wanted. And sometimes when I think about the moments when I would push through that threshold--the one where my breath comes in ragged gasps and I'm feeling like I might die if I run one more step--to the place where rhythm kicks in and I feel stronger with every breath and I'm absolutely certain I can run forever...well, it makes me sad.
Until two years ago I had run nearly every day of my life. I miss it. And sometimes, on warm spring days, the butterflies would circle and keep pace with me, and wildflowers covered the entire prairie, and in the summer I watched baby hawks learn to fly, or antelope running in front of me, or listened as breezes whispered through long prairie grass.
Everything will be fine. I'll get a new hip. I'll be free from pain. I'll still be me. But there won't be anymore running with butterflies, and part of me--right now a very large part of me--can't seem to stop feeling sad about that.
So I made an appointment to see a sports medicine surgeon, thinking that it was time to get that tendon release and just get better--and why not see a doctor who would do the surgery and get me right back into running?
I saw him Friday. There were x-rays and a brief exam and a diagnosis. Then I went to the parking lot and cried for 20 minutes before I went home.
I'm not going to run again. I don't have tendonitis. I have avascular necrosis. Translation: the bones in my hip and upper thigh, and all the surrounding tissue and cartilage, have died.
This is a condition usually contracted by the following:
-Men between the ages of 30 and 60 years old
-People with sickle cell anemia, AIDS/HIV, lupus, diabetes, or Gaucher's disease
-People who drink alcohol excessively
-People who take steroids or osteoporosis drugs
-People who have had dialysis, or organ transplants, or who have undergone radiation therapy for cancer
As you can see from the list, I am not part of the "at risk" group. My doctor kept saying, "This is really, really bad!" and "I've never had a female patient as young as you who has contracted this!" After about the fourth repetition of those statements (with variations), I said, "Stop saying those things--you're making me really stressed!"
Then I learned that:
-There is no cure
-I no longer have any tissue between the ball and socket of my hip (bone on bone)--hence the loud popping sound, loss of movement, and intense pain
-I'm at risk for stress fractures, hip fracture, and eventual bone collapse
So I'll be having an MRI as soon as possible to determine the extent of the bone death and rule out bone cancer, and then a total hip replacement--with at least two more to look forward to in my future, as I am "so young!" Yay.
It's not the worst thing that could happen. And when I have a new hip I can still bike or swim or even play tennis. And the pain will be significantly less. But it's not the answer I wanted. And sometimes when I think about the moments when I would push through that threshold--the one where my breath comes in ragged gasps and I'm feeling like I might die if I run one more step--to the place where rhythm kicks in and I feel stronger with every breath and I'm absolutely certain I can run forever...well, it makes me sad.
Until two years ago I had run nearly every day of my life. I miss it. And sometimes, on warm spring days, the butterflies would circle and keep pace with me, and wildflowers covered the entire prairie, and in the summer I watched baby hawks learn to fly, or antelope running in front of me, or listened as breezes whispered through long prairie grass.
Everything will be fine. I'll get a new hip. I'll be free from pain. I'll still be me. But there won't be anymore running with butterflies, and part of me--right now a very large part of me--can't seem to stop feeling sad about that.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Getting It
So I wrote a post not long ago, about finally understanding how human sociality works; how it's possible to love someone deeply and wish to spend a great deal of time with him or her, but a few years later the novelty has worn off and one has moved on to another person (also deeply loved and interesting, of course). And I do understand.
I am not a stupid person, so it's likely that I always understood, I just didn't want to. I am also a stubborn person.
(I am eating a bagel with sesame seeds which keep dropping into my keyboard as I write this. While I'm not happy with the situation, I'll probably keep eating the bagel.)
My social pattern, until about eight years ago, was to charm people, enjoy their company, build a circle of those I could call or invite to lunch, but never divulge information about the person inside me. Ever. And should one of those people get close to me, I would simply become very busy, avoid contact, and wait until they lost interest. And they always did.
When I actually allowed people into my life--complete strangers, many of whom I met online--and bonded with some of them, it was dreadful. I felt exposed and afraid all the time. ALL THE TIME.
I thought it was because I knew they were just going to use me up and then leave. But there was more.
My experience has always been that when I love someone deeply (Darrin excepted), eventually they leave. And while I'd like to be the person who can shrug it off and go find someone else, that really isn't how I'm built. And so I knew from the start that any lasting relationship/friendship/companionship/whatever that I became involved in, would change. That's to be expected--even anticipated, sometimes.
However, there is a feeling I've been getting, of late. I am familiar, predictable, no longer scintillating company. There are just too many other people in the lives of people I love who are more....everything. They're funnier and warmer and more beautiful and smarter and just MORE.
Truthfully, they're not. However, they're not "old" friends. They're undiscovered territory and that's compelling and interesting. I have become the book that has been reread enough times that it's no longer good for anything but nostalgia.
In a perfect world, I would be making my own new friends so that when I become a nostalgic memory, I'll have buddies to spend time with. I don't work that way.
I rarely tire of the people I love. There is always something new and beautiful about them just waiting for my discovery. Always. So when I become hackneyed to the other person, I'm still finding out more about them, still getting to know them, still fascinated by what I'll discover next. Clearly, I'm a little slow when it comes to social development. Either that or I'm a great deal less complex than the people I know and it takes less time to discover everything about me.
Tolkien Boy once told me that real relationships were worth fighting for. I think he meant that. But I'm not really a fighter when it comes to making sure someone continues to care about me. And while I've often said there should be rules about how relationships work and how people love each other, I didn't really believe it. What I believe is that in any relationship each person should be absolutely free to authentically act as they see fit. So if that means I watch as someone walks away, or wish for visits and phone calls that aren't going to come because I'm no longer a priority, that's probably exactly what I will allow to happen.
It doesn't mean I won't resent it. And sometimes I might cry a little, just because that's what you do when you miss someone. And probably I'll call or email or try to make sure the other person understands I still want them. And maybe sometimes, when I'm feeling weak, I might think it's not fair. But in the end, I don't fight. I never have. And I'll watch whatever happens--then I'll read a book, or practice, or work, or clean my house. Because that's what I do. And besides, I know the contact with that person isn't ending--it's just becoming more spaced out. They still care--just not as deeply and not as often.
It's not a tragedy. It's my personal inconvenience. I was built a little differently...not that there's anything wrong with that...
(A more pressing problem is that I think it's time to clean the sesame seeds from my keyboard and I'm not quite sure how to do that.)
I am not a stupid person, so it's likely that I always understood, I just didn't want to. I am also a stubborn person.
(I am eating a bagel with sesame seeds which keep dropping into my keyboard as I write this. While I'm not happy with the situation, I'll probably keep eating the bagel.)
My social pattern, until about eight years ago, was to charm people, enjoy their company, build a circle of those I could call or invite to lunch, but never divulge information about the person inside me. Ever. And should one of those people get close to me, I would simply become very busy, avoid contact, and wait until they lost interest. And they always did.
When I actually allowed people into my life--complete strangers, many of whom I met online--and bonded with some of them, it was dreadful. I felt exposed and afraid all the time. ALL THE TIME.
I thought it was because I knew they were just going to use me up and then leave. But there was more.
My experience has always been that when I love someone deeply (Darrin excepted), eventually they leave. And while I'd like to be the person who can shrug it off and go find someone else, that really isn't how I'm built. And so I knew from the start that any lasting relationship/friendship/companionship/whatever that I became involved in, would change. That's to be expected--even anticipated, sometimes.
However, there is a feeling I've been getting, of late. I am familiar, predictable, no longer scintillating company. There are just too many other people in the lives of people I love who are more....everything. They're funnier and warmer and more beautiful and smarter and just MORE.
Truthfully, they're not. However, they're not "old" friends. They're undiscovered territory and that's compelling and interesting. I have become the book that has been reread enough times that it's no longer good for anything but nostalgia.
In a perfect world, I would be making my own new friends so that when I become a nostalgic memory, I'll have buddies to spend time with. I don't work that way.
I rarely tire of the people I love. There is always something new and beautiful about them just waiting for my discovery. Always. So when I become hackneyed to the other person, I'm still finding out more about them, still getting to know them, still fascinated by what I'll discover next. Clearly, I'm a little slow when it comes to social development. Either that or I'm a great deal less complex than the people I know and it takes less time to discover everything about me.
Tolkien Boy once told me that real relationships were worth fighting for. I think he meant that. But I'm not really a fighter when it comes to making sure someone continues to care about me. And while I've often said there should be rules about how relationships work and how people love each other, I didn't really believe it. What I believe is that in any relationship each person should be absolutely free to authentically act as they see fit. So if that means I watch as someone walks away, or wish for visits and phone calls that aren't going to come because I'm no longer a priority, that's probably exactly what I will allow to happen.
It doesn't mean I won't resent it. And sometimes I might cry a little, just because that's what you do when you miss someone. And probably I'll call or email or try to make sure the other person understands I still want them. And maybe sometimes, when I'm feeling weak, I might think it's not fair. But in the end, I don't fight. I never have. And I'll watch whatever happens--then I'll read a book, or practice, or work, or clean my house. Because that's what I do. And besides, I know the contact with that person isn't ending--it's just becoming more spaced out. They still care--just not as deeply and not as often.
It's not a tragedy. It's my personal inconvenience. I was built a little differently...not that there's anything wrong with that...
(A more pressing problem is that I think it's time to clean the sesame seeds from my keyboard and I'm not quite sure how to do that.)
Sunday, December 15, 2013
It's beginning to look a little like Christmas.
Yesterday:
1. I finished grading my last final.
2. I began working on the 18 credits of continuing education the IRS requires of me if I wish to continue preparing tax returns professionally. Yes, I've had all year to work on it. Yes, it's due December 31st.
3. I called four friends. They didn't answer, but I did it, so I'm counting it.
4. I paid bills.
5. I went shopping.
6. While I was shopping my Christmas tree fell over. I'm not saying whether or not I took a long time shopping so Darrin would have to clean it up.
7. I made grilled baby Swiss and tomato pesto sandwiches for dinner. No one wanted one except me, so it was only my dinner. It was delicious.
8. I sang. All day. Out loud, in my head, and in my heart.
9. I picked the pansies that chose to bloom after 10 days of below zero weather (below zero ALL DAY LONG!) and put them in a vase because they're just going to freeze when the weather turns cold again. Besides, I think they like being with me in my warm house while I sing and Darrin cleans up the fallen Christmas tree.
10. I made Christmas treats. You should come share them with me.
1. I finished grading my last final.
2. I began working on the 18 credits of continuing education the IRS requires of me if I wish to continue preparing tax returns professionally. Yes, I've had all year to work on it. Yes, it's due December 31st.
3. I called four friends. They didn't answer, but I did it, so I'm counting it.
4. I paid bills.
5. I went shopping.
6. While I was shopping my Christmas tree fell over. I'm not saying whether or not I took a long time shopping so Darrin would have to clean it up.
7. I made grilled baby Swiss and tomato pesto sandwiches for dinner. No one wanted one except me, so it was only my dinner. It was delicious.
8. I sang. All day. Out loud, in my head, and in my heart.
9. I picked the pansies that chose to bloom after 10 days of below zero weather (below zero ALL DAY LONG!) and put them in a vase because they're just going to freeze when the weather turns cold again. Besides, I think they like being with me in my warm house while I sing and Darrin cleans up the fallen Christmas tree.
10. I made Christmas treats. You should come share them with me.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Today I will decorate for Christmas.
The past four years I have been too tired to do anything except find the boxes where we store ornaments, tinsel, wrapping paper, lights, and decorations. Any actual decorating was done by Darrin and the kids. Last year Adam decided to rearrange my storage area, so finding anything was an adventure. I found the bare necessities for Christmas and left everything else hidden. I think this year I will dig through his stacks of whatever-we-are-storing-but-don't-really-need until I find all four (or six) boxes of Christmas. Perhaps it's time to rid myself of some of it, but the rest will be displayed for the month of December.
Darrin and I had a long talk yesterday. He's concerned because I am still a shell. There are emerging traits of what make me Samantha, but they come and go, and I seem jaded about everything. Darrin mentioned how I used to love talking on the phone with friends, visiting them, spending time with my kids. He talked about how I would get so excited about a sunset that I would prod and nag until he finally came upstairs to watch it with me. He remembers that I used to giggle all the time, that when I walked in a room everyone noticed because I couldn't stop smiling. He said, "Do you remember when you would go to Walmart--not because you needed anything, but just because you wanted to see how many people would smile back at you?"
Yes. I remember. I remember feeling anticipation and excitement and pure joy. But those aren't things you can just make happen. They're sort of spontaneous and unpredictable.
Darrin says I'm still tired. I've not recovered. I suppose he's right, but recuperation seems to be more work than staying tired--which makes no sense at all.
I taught my last class of the semester on Thursday. This was a lovely group of students. The majority of them worked very hard, but more than that, they were engaged and participating in class. Many of them would mention that they were learning things, that they loved my class--two students have changed their majors and will be pursuing pedagogy degrees because of the things they discovered abut themselves during my class. It's kind of a teacher's dream to be able to help a student find where he or she excels. I feel a tiny bit of delight about this--but three years ago I would have been ecstatic. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to stop talking about it. I'd be energized and happy to write the necessary recommendations as those students applied to different programs, and I'd probably follow up with them.
One student needed my help to make some recordings for her audition. I coached her, and rehearsed with her, and stayed seven hours until the recordings were complete. She had done well and she knew it. Exultantly, she turned to me and thanked me for my help. She wanted a hug. I knew this. I congratulated her, smiled my best, and walked away without hugging. I was just too tired. Hugging felt like a huge effort I was unable to make.
I played a short recital on Friday--arrangements of Christmas music I refer to as "trash with flash". But even though I disparage the music, I've always loved it--loved playing it. My millions of years of practice and training slipped into place and I performed very well. An audience member told me afterward that she loves hearing me play; that this particular recital of beloved Christmas music brought tears to her eyes. I thanked her, but I felt a bit of resentment. It's been a long time since I've felt moved by music.
And so I am doing a Christmas experiment. I don't k now if I'll be able to finish, because the time is growing short, but I am learning a piece I heard many years ago; one whose beauty left me breathless. I'm aware that what I connect with is usually not what others would find beautiful, but should the piece be finished on time, it will be my gift to some of my loved ones. I'm also aware that they would probably rather have something tangible, but this will never break, or be the wrong color, or one day be used up and discarded. It might disappear, depending on the interest and memory of the recipient, but that's up to him or her.
I am doing this because I need to value who I am and what I can do. I have begun to play by rote, because it is easy. I need to remember that I was given a gift, one I can share, and no one in the world can play as I do, because they are not me.
For Darrin, for my children, for everyone who cares about me--but mostly for me--I am going to rediscover what makes me amazing. And I'm going to share it. It's time to recover Samantha.
Darrin and I had a long talk yesterday. He's concerned because I am still a shell. There are emerging traits of what make me Samantha, but they come and go, and I seem jaded about everything. Darrin mentioned how I used to love talking on the phone with friends, visiting them, spending time with my kids. He talked about how I would get so excited about a sunset that I would prod and nag until he finally came upstairs to watch it with me. He remembers that I used to giggle all the time, that when I walked in a room everyone noticed because I couldn't stop smiling. He said, "Do you remember when you would go to Walmart--not because you needed anything, but just because you wanted to see how many people would smile back at you?"
Yes. I remember. I remember feeling anticipation and excitement and pure joy. But those aren't things you can just make happen. They're sort of spontaneous and unpredictable.
Darrin says I'm still tired. I've not recovered. I suppose he's right, but recuperation seems to be more work than staying tired--which makes no sense at all.
I taught my last class of the semester on Thursday. This was a lovely group of students. The majority of them worked very hard, but more than that, they were engaged and participating in class. Many of them would mention that they were learning things, that they loved my class--two students have changed their majors and will be pursuing pedagogy degrees because of the things they discovered abut themselves during my class. It's kind of a teacher's dream to be able to help a student find where he or she excels. I feel a tiny bit of delight about this--but three years ago I would have been ecstatic. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to stop talking about it. I'd be energized and happy to write the necessary recommendations as those students applied to different programs, and I'd probably follow up with them.
One student needed my help to make some recordings for her audition. I coached her, and rehearsed with her, and stayed seven hours until the recordings were complete. She had done well and she knew it. Exultantly, she turned to me and thanked me for my help. She wanted a hug. I knew this. I congratulated her, smiled my best, and walked away without hugging. I was just too tired. Hugging felt like a huge effort I was unable to make.
I played a short recital on Friday--arrangements of Christmas music I refer to as "trash with flash". But even though I disparage the music, I've always loved it--loved playing it. My millions of years of practice and training slipped into place and I performed very well. An audience member told me afterward that she loves hearing me play; that this particular recital of beloved Christmas music brought tears to her eyes. I thanked her, but I felt a bit of resentment. It's been a long time since I've felt moved by music.
And so I am doing a Christmas experiment. I don't k now if I'll be able to finish, because the time is growing short, but I am learning a piece I heard many years ago; one whose beauty left me breathless. I'm aware that what I connect with is usually not what others would find beautiful, but should the piece be finished on time, it will be my gift to some of my loved ones. I'm also aware that they would probably rather have something tangible, but this will never break, or be the wrong color, or one day be used up and discarded. It might disappear, depending on the interest and memory of the recipient, but that's up to him or her.
I am doing this because I need to value who I am and what I can do. I have begun to play by rote, because it is easy. I need to remember that I was given a gift, one I can share, and no one in the world can play as I do, because they are not me.
For Darrin, for my children, for everyone who cares about me--but mostly for me--I am going to rediscover what makes me amazing. And I'm going to share it. It's time to recover Samantha.
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