Sometimes being different makes my heart ache a tiny bit.

I've been in New York visiting family for the past week. It's been about eight years since I was last here. Tabitha and I are staying in the home of a family member who passed away in January of this year. Everything about the house reminds me of her. We've been helping my aunt, whose mother owned this house, to clean closets, box up dishes, sort through clothing... It's difficult watching my aunt deal with the onslaught of emotions as we prepare her mother's home for a renter.

Usually we stay with my aunt when we come here. Having this house to ourselves, however, has given Tabitha and me a great deal of alone time--which I needed. It also means that my brain can't stop thinking, though, which is not always a good thing. Tonight Tabitha is ill. I'm guessing she has a touch of food poisoning, based on the symptoms, but she's adamantly opposed to going to the ER, so at 2 a.m., I'm watching her for signs that we might need to get some help for her.

And I'm still thinking.

I have a friend from high school that I talk to occasionally. Mostly we chat back and forth on Facebook. He's had a lot of sadness in his life, but he's positive and optimistic when many would give up. He's taught me a lot in the past few years about being happy in difficult circumstances. Recently he posted a meme on Facebook that resonates with me: "Pay attention to the ones who care instead of trying to get the attention of those who don't."

Naturally there are flaws in a pat statement such as this. It assumes that we know how people feel about us, when really, we don't. But I think there is merit in being present for the people who clearly wish to take time for us. I'm not suggesting that I stop extending my social circle or including other people, but I'm thinking it's time to let go of those whose lives have changed to the point that my involvement is no longer a vital thing for them.

I've written many posts where I've lamented the feeling that I was a convenience or that I cared more than another person. I believe all those posts were leading to the point I now have reached. It's a process, after all. And the embarrassment of allowing any blog readers to see my vulnerability and to know of the sensitivity and tenderness I may feel toward people who do not return the feelings, is worth the reward of finally coming to an understanding with myself through the process of raw blogging.

I've been told my feelings were going through a maturity process. I don't believe that. I've been told that my insistence that people are fickle--that they become bored with friendships and leave to find more exciting ones--my belief that in the end, everyone disconnects from people who are not bound to them by marriage and/or blood--all these beliefs are fueled by my inability to think, emotionally, like an adult.

There might be validity in that statement if the things I believed never happened, but the truth is, they do. Most of the adults I speak with do not have lifelong friends who have been involved in their lives on a regular basis. The friends enter and exit frequently, taking time out to deal with their own lives when those become busy or complicated, and meeting up every few years to "catch up" or spend a bit of time together. This is adult friendship.

I'm still on the fence as to whether or not this is a positive thing. It's a natural thing--perhaps even a necessary thing. People need time and space to live their lives and friends, as far as I can tell, fill a need that seems to be capricious, at best. People become rather incensed when I suggest this. They cling to their belief that they have the "best" friends. They tell me of trips they've shared with friends, going out weekly, getting back together after a long absence and feeling that no time has passed and they're as close as ever.

But when I ask them, "Do your friends like cilantro? What television shows do they like? Do you know what they'll order when you go out for dinner? Do they have allergies? What are they afraid of? What will they be doing this weekend? When did you last say, 'I love you'? Could you knock on the door right now and be invited to stay for dinner? Would your friend give you a ride to the hospital if you were ill? Would he or she call while you were there? Would there be follow-up to make certain you were doing okay when you came home? What is your friend afraid of? Can you call anytime you want? What happens if you call more than once in a day?" All those questions seem to be met with silence and confusion--especially if the person I'm speaking with is married. And in the end, their answer is: Why would any of those things matter?

They matter. To me, they will always matter. They say that I'm connected with the person--really connected. I care if they have a sniffle or a success. And that person really connects with me. They know what pens I like to write with and if I have nightmares at night and whether I prefer to buy shoes or chocolate. They know what makes me laugh and cry. They want to hear the sound of my voice or feel me sitting next to them sometimes.

This is immaturity?

I think it's called love. Genuine Love. It means I'm involved with those I care about. They're not a convenience, they're a necessity. It also means that I understand my way of friendship is not what I will encounter through most of my life and I'm going to be okay with that. It means that I will stop clamoring for the attention of those who have moved beyond me, those for whom I am a whim or a passing thought, and remain involved with those whose lives include space for me. It also means that I will return to being fairly solitary--but this time it will be by choice.

I choose to be sociable with those who call me "friend", who care about me a few times a year, and who might not contact me often. I choose to stop feeling slighted as they move away from me and into the lives of those they have bound to them by blood or marriage. I choose to view the process as natural and good. I choose to step back and allow it to happen.

Go ahead. Call my choices immature. Call my feelings immature. But those who remain, those who reconnect again and again, who visit, and talk with me on the phone or in person, who chat with me frequently and wish to spend time with me will understand that sometimes the people who care the most are not spouse or family, and they care not because of attraction or blood relation or law, but simply because they choose to.

Alternatives

Sometimes I want to scribble on a blog post.

There are drawbacks to not writing with a pen or pencil.

By the time I import the picture of a scribble, I don't want to do it anymore.

My brain feels tired.

This week I stopped trying to find people when I have panic attacks. I know Therapist says I need to talk to people because it keeps me from going into isolation mode, but:
1. People are busy and when you're panicking and trying to do what Therapist said and no one is answering, the panic gets worse.
2. I'm done feeling like people have to take care of me when I have something so stupid. A panic attack will not hurt me. It's uncomfortable. I don't like it. But I don't need a baby sitter while it's happening.
3. I'm tired of the feeling that the only reason I have relationships is so the other person can bail me out when my life gets stupid. I want real conversations and quality time together. That doesn't happen. I am not a liability--but I feel like one. I'm pretty certain that every time I appear in someone's chat box, the first thought that crosses their mind is, "I wonder what she wants now."
4. I'm actually very capable of handling the problem myself. And it's time. When I was emotionally depleted, caring for a suicidal daughter, or coping with a large amount of physical pain, I think it was wise of Therapist to assign me to have people to call. I did need help then. And maybe it's okay for me to be a liability sometimes. I know if the people in my life had stretches of time when I was needed mostly for support, I wouldn't mind. But I don't need to be the dependent person anymore.

But I suppose the biggest reason is that I don't think talking to people is solving anything. It just makes me feel vulnerable because then they know I panic about everyday, normal things like crowds, and being alone, and not being able to run yet, and construction sites, and my mother (except my mother isn't normal, so maybe it's okay to panic about her). And being vulnerable might be good and wonderful and terrific, but I think I've done it enough for awhile.

So I've been practicing instead. At this point I have memorized two Scarlatti sonatas, the first movement of a Mozart sonata, and two movements of Debussy's Reflets dans l'eau. That's about 30 minutes of music. So I have something to show for my panic. I think that's a good thing. 

Sometimes I write posts about when I was more stupid than I am today.

There was a time when I used to judge people who were:
1. overweight
2. jobless
3. in chronic pain or fatigue (I called it "hypochondria" because I'm an expert on these things).

I'm not proud of this. But as I believe life is a place of learning, I'm giving myself props for doing just that, and I'm giving The Big Guy props, too, because He sent me a number of life lessons and situations that would make me uncomfortable enough to figure out I was judgmental and stupid and just plain wrong.

One time I took a plane trip. I was seated between two lovely women. We chatted a bit before the plane took off. I settled in for a nice ride to my destination. Then the stewardess noticed that a very large man was sitting in front of one of the emergency exits. She looked up and down the aisles, then escorted the large man to my row and had him trade places with my seatmate nearest the aisle. When he sat, he spilled into my seat. I had barely enough room to squeeze over for him. The woman in the window seat pulled up the armrest so I could share some of her seat.

The man was so large that he couldn't do up his seatbelt. He couldn't put down the tray when drinks were served. Then he ordered two glasses of red wine. I was wearing a white blouse. I was certain he would spill on me (he didn't), and I would end up at my destination stained and smelling of wine (I didn't). I fumed and pouted. I was mad at the man for being large and at the stewardess for moving my original seatmate and making me uncomfortable. I did not like that large man.

As we got up to exit the plane, the man smiled at me and thanked me for being such a polite neighbor. He offered to help me with my bags. He apologized for taking up so much of the seat. He asked why I was taking a trip and offered information about his own reasons for flying. He talked about his son in Saint George, UT. In short, he was generous and kind and I missed out on an opportunity to get to know him better because he was large.

That will never happen again. I do have a phobia about people who are larger than I am (this would include most men and many women). I feel unsafe with them. I'm afraid. That is no excuse to treat them with disdain or draw incorrect conclusions about them. I've worked on this for about four years now. I'm finding that I like myself so much better when I'm not thinking about another person's size or making judgements about what they "should" weigh. In truth, it no longer matters to me--except when it endangers their health. Then I find myself wanting that health to be better. I have no desire to be without my loved ones. And I wish I could apologize to the person who shared my seat on that flight.

I used to believe that a person was only jobless if he/she was lazy or unemployable because of disability. I had a friend with MS. I would go to her home a few times a week to do small chores, help her exercise, and keep her company. I knew her family was struggling financially. She was on a medication that cost them $2000 monthly after the insurance paid their part. I didn't believe she was unable to work. I suggested many jobs that involved typing, working online, or telephone services. She would smile pleasantly and thank me for my suggestions, but she never tried them.

I will admit that I thought less of her for that. I thought she just didn't want to try--that she didn't want to make the commitment to employment. Perhaps I even judged her lazy. That is not beyond the realm of possibility.

Years later, I stumbled upon a web page about the medication she was taking. I read about the medication and the side-effects--which are much less severe now than they were when my friend was taking it. The truth is that, while it alleviated the physical MS symptoms, it also kept my friend from thinking clearly. She sacrificed her analytical thinking, her short-term memory, and her emotional clarity. In order for the medication to suppress her physical symptoms, it also had to suppress many of her other brain functions. She was also prone to depression (beyond that which she already suffered as she felt the disease remove her physical strength and watched her feet and hands curl and stiffen). She was unable to do the most basic of tasks--including using the bathroom unaided.

I think of my "encouraging" words and wish I could take them all back. They didn't encourage. They amplified the fact that she was unable to do the things I thought were so simple. She was doing the best she could. I didn't understand that. In fact, I probably heaped a great deal of hurt and anxiety on her already painful and anxious life.

I used to believe that people in chronic pain/fatigue were actually just really, really needy people. They lacked attention so they made up symptoms to garner sympathy from those around them. They procured pain killers which assuaged the emotional pain, but couldn't help imagined physical pain. They slept all the time. They were cranky and sad.

I thought they needed to just get up and go for walks. I thought being up early in the morning, enjoying the sunshine, would help them stop wanting to do unhealthy things to get attention. I thought, if they really did have pain, they probably didn't eat right, or they weren't getting enough exercise. I thought they just needed to stop focusing on wanting other people and do things to get healthy emotionally--and physically, if necessary (which I doubted).

I've been known to tell them all the ways I stayed healthy. I've talked about my exercise regimen, foods I don't eat, how movement will solve all their problems. I've been a consummate expert on the things that make them sad or hurt. And in the process, I've minimized a condition that seem enormous to them, belittled their difficulties, and judged them to be illogical and silly.

Then, for three years, I had the opportunity to live with chronic pain. I watched my diet. I exercised regularly. I got adequate rest and kept myself busy. And I wanted to die. Sometimes just driving to the gym made me cry. I didn't give up--but I also didn't get better. And in the midst of all that, I wanted to eat my words to other people who felt similarly. I admitted that I know nothing of what they endure. I wished I had not been so illogical and silly when I believed I knew what was best for them. I wanted to apologize for my callous dismissal of their very real, debilitating condition.

I am reminded of this today. A sweet friend of mine who has for years, been looking for answers as to why he suffers chronic pain, sleepless nights, and recurring depression, announced on Facebook that he was willing to do some retesting to hopefully, get some concrete answers and possible treatment. I don't know if he'll find what he's looking for, but I respect him as he continues to try. It's daunting and frustrating. I love his heart. But a different friend, perhaps one who lives in the space I used to inhabit, posted this:

"Have you tried yoga, swimming, stretching, are you living a fully active lifestyle? Like exercising properly? I've got scoliosis in my spine and I've always got back pain so I eat healthy, stay active, swim, stretch every morning before activities and constant throughout the day. Sorry, but man up [Samantha's Friend] . If you think about it. I've always told you that your a strong and wonderful person. First place to start would be to go to the gym and do some push up and sit ups. Less excuse, more victories!"

I sort of want to punch him. My friend has tried yoga, swimming, stretching, etc., for many years. While I appreciate the commentor's enthusiasm and desire to connect through his similar experience, he really has no idea what my friend experiences and it's wrong of him to make assumptions. Not only wrong--but unhelpful. Even more unhelpful is the instruction to "man up," and it sort of nullifies the comments about being a "strong and wonderful person." (I've decided not to lampoon this commentor's inability to use your/you're correctly, or castigate him for his grammar and style errors--it's Facebook, after all.) And while my friend might make an excuse occasionally, I think he's allowed that. He's dealing with something really painful and there are days when he just doesn't have the stamina to fight back anymore.

So I'm rewriting the comment here. My friend probably won't see it, but I'll talk to him later and tell him, myself.

"I know you've tried many things to help alleviate your pain. I know it's terribly difficult for you. I admire you for having the courage to try again, knowing there might not be answers or treatment. Facing that kind of disappointment will add to your stress and pain. You're amazing and I love you for trying. I've had pain of my own--but it belongs to me. Only you know how yours feels and it would be wrong of me to assume I can "fix" you. Remember that I'm here for you, I love you, and it's okay to be sad or frustrated or weak or tired or angry. You've been dealing with this a very long time. Don't give up. I believe one day, you'll find the answers and relief you seek. In the meantime, remember that you're not alone. It won't help the physical pain go away, but it might help alleviate some of the emotional stress. Thank you for letting me know the next step you plan to take. I appreciate you."

I can't undo my past ignorance and stupidity about beautiful, worthwhile people--but I can stop being stupid and ignorant now. And I will.

Kate Kelly is going to the Celestial Kingdom because she is a woman--and everyone knows all women go to heaven.

Okay. I can't stand it anymore. I was going to remain utterly silent about my views concerning misogyny and accepted mormnorm views of gender within the church. I was never planning to mention the Ordain Women movement, their leader, or their followers. There is so much being said right now that adding my words will only increase the cacophony.

However...

OH MY GOODNESS! WHY ARE PEOPLE STUPID???

Before I begin I will preface: Please do not ask me if I am a supporter of feminism or Ordain Women or anything else. Please do not ask me why I stay in the church. Please do not ask me to explain my conviction or testify as to my beliefs. If I feel like talking about those things, I will. Otherwise, I won't. The end.

Moving on.

I am disheartened every time I read comments on a post for/against feminism in the church, or the Ordain Women movement, or the pending discipline council for Kate Kelly. Over and over again I hear the rhetoric that women are more spiritual, nurturing, and caring. I hear people saying that there will be more women than men in the Celestial Kingdom based solely on that rhetoric. I say that's assuming a great deal about the afterlife (which hasn't happened yet, by the way, and in my opinion, there will be a larger number of people shocked out of their pants by the outcome, than those who predict the overwhelming presence of eternally glowing females), stereotyping women, and sending a really awful message to those of us who aren't nurturing or spiritual...ummmm...does that mean we're not really women?

Repeatedly I hear the argument that if women are ordained to the priesthood, they'll take over everything in the church--and the men will let them because men are inherently lazy. We have to let men, and only men, hold the priesthood because they need things to do so they don't get complacent. ACK!! REALLY????

Everything about that makes me feel nasty. And offended. And I'm not even a man.

PEOPLE are inherently lazy. Even people like me who were blessed with way too much energy and are always finding things to do. Just because we're busy doesn't mean we're doing things that are good for us, or assigned to us (yes--I procrastinate--often), or that we don't spend days playing stupid Facebook games or watching movies. 

We have to give men something to do in the church so they don't become complacent? Who thinks of these things? Are they spawned from words said somewhere by someone and then taken out of context or extrapolized (I know--not a word--don't care)?

I keep hearing all sorts of crappy things that smack of men and women needing to be or act or dress or whatever--simply on the basis of their gender. In my opinion, this is complete nonsense. Perhaps that's why I'm different.

I believe my mother tried to instill some gender role wisdom into us, but as she was always screaming at us, we ignored her. My dad, however, taught in a way that we were willing to listen. Our family started out with five girls, joined by two brothers at the very end. My father wanted his daughters to become whatever they wished to be. He encouraged us to read, play sports, learn to care for ourselves, wrestle, dance, and sing. We weren't spared the heavy work on our farm. We moved sprinkler pipe, lifted bales, helped with calving and branding and dehorning, killed and processed chickens, plowed and planted fields. He also sent us flowers, made sure we had prom dresses, and let us know we were beautiful and strong.

I do not believe differences between men and women, beyond the obvious physical ones, are inherent. I know men who nurture and empathize and women who are analytical, as well as men who love flowers and romance and women who enjoy sports and hunting/fishing. Don't tell me that "most" men or women fall into a stereotype. I don't believe it. And if it's true, then I believe it's a societal issue that needs to be mended.

The best parental compliment I've ever received was when my Adam came home from class one day and said, "Mom, did you know there are men who think women are not as good as they are--just because they're women? Some men think women can't do math, don't make good doctors, and should just be mothers or work in jobs that don't require degrees. I didn't know there were people who thought that way. How does that happen? It makes me a little bit angry. Tabitha's better at math than DJ and me, and you're the smartest person I know. If you were a doctor or a lawyer or a police officer or an interior designer, you'd be the best. How can people make assumptions based on another person's gender? And why would they demean the opposite gender? We need to talk. You need to explain this to me."

Yes. He said that. Which means Adam grew up in a home without stereotypes and gender bias. He watched his father do household chores with his mother. There was a time when Adam was a preschooler when his primary caregiver was his father. He's seen both parents contributing to the household budget through various means of employment. He has witnessed times when Mom has taken charge and led the family, and other times when Dad has done the same. Always Adam has noticed that his parents work together, support one another, and never assume that something will be done based on gender.

I understand that other homes work differently, and I support that. Each family must find what works best for them. My job is to not place a value judgment on how other homes operate, but to find the balance in my own home. I get to choose the lessons instilled in my children. Darrin and I, together, decide what examples of gender and gender roles our children will see as they spend time in our home.

So I am disheartened as I hear the ignorance (yes, it IS ignorance to make assumptions about a group of people based on race, religion, or gender) spewed in the comment sections of the posts I read. Today it became so overwhelming that I needed to rant. I'm pretty sure it's asking too much for many people within the church to think about reality rather than rigid mormnorms which have place in tradition but not in doctrine or actual fact. It's just easier to spout words you've heard before rather than to come up with your own thoughts and ideas based on logic. It's also less scary to rely on supposition and rumor, rather than think about--even pray for--answers to difficult or uncomfortable questions that turn tradition upside-down.

Seriously, people. Just stop it. You sound ridiculous and you're making me crazy.

P.S. Having said that generalizations are evil, I admit that not all commentors are insane. Some give thoughtful, even thought-provoking, responses. It's just that their quiet voices are ramrodded by the people who are certain their view is the only possible correct one. Having made it clear that I am not trying to stereotype commentors (but managing to stereotype them in spite of myself), I must stop before the rant inside me becomes aggressively unruly. 

Understanding the Crazy in Me

I once knew a person who dealt with bi-polar disorder. He would take his medication religiously for awhile, then go off it. He said it was because he felt better and didn't think he needed it anymore. Then one day he told me that while that reason was valid, there was also a part of him that wanted the intensity of feeling that came with the manic part of the disorder. The euphoria and energy felt joyful and wonderful. He missed it when long periods of time passed without it. While he understood that inducing such a state by not taking his medication was unwise, he said there were times when he felt a huge loss as his feelings and demeanor remained stable.

I mention this because, for the first time in months, PTSD symptoms have been waning. They're not completely gone and I still battle periods of stress and panic, but I can feel myself leveling out, becoming less extreme in my feelings and reactions. This is an overall state of being and is not yet constant. There are still moments when I'm irrational and oversensitive, but those are lessening as the symptoms become more benign--more of a lurking in the background feeling, rather than being in my face all the time.

And I understand a bit of what my friend was trying to tell me. While, for the most part, PTSD symptoms are overwhelming and frustrating, they also allow me a corridor into deep feelings I have difficulty tapping otherwise. I feel moments of greater intimacy, or a large depth of love, or intense yearning for connection. It doesn't make sense to me. My brain tells me the opposite should be true--that I am so distracted by the negative impulses and emotions stirred by the PTSD symptoms that my capacity for love and intimacy would logically be diminished.

Logical or not, though, as the symptoms subside I find myself feeling less inclined to seek out conversation and company on a regular basis. I am content immersing myself in my life, my work, my own thoughts. I need less reassurance and desire for intimacy and connection are less important than spending time outside or practicing the piano. And for the first time in my memory, I find myself missing the intensity of love feelings that seem to be a byproduct of PTSD.

I miss the heart-melting joy that used to come when someone said, "I love you." I wonder why I don't feel pain when I understand that I'm not needed as I used to be, or someone I was close to is now content with online conversations or telephone calls. That recognition, when PTSD was rearing its ugly head, would incite deep feelings which indicated I was alive and involved with people. I wanted that. I desired to care. And I did care--too much. But it was still an indication that I could feel deeply.

Anyone who talks with me when PTSD symptoms are strong, will tell me, "But Sam, you're frustrated by all the feelings. They make you feel helpless and stressed and afraid. I'm not sure you know what you're talking about."

And they would be right.  I don't. I sound like one who is never satisfied. I want PTSD to wane--but I want to keep feeling--how can I want both?

The truth is that in the past decade I have discovered that there is beauty in nonsexual intimacy and closeness. It fills a huge void that has been aching inside me for most of my life. There is comfort in connection and bonding. It makes me feel human and loved in ways that I did not believe were possible. And there is something incredibly satisfying and joyful in knowing there are people who love me in spite of me--and I love them back.

I can have all those things without PTSD devouring my soul, but on a smaller scale, and without the intense flashes of joy and longing that come when symptoms ramp up my emotions beyond my ability to manage them. And while I know the lack is healthier, I still miss thinking randomly of someone and wanting to see them, hug them, feel the essence of who they are, and know that they are the only person present for me--just for a moment.

I can write about it when it's finished.

When the process is happening, I always wonder if I'll be successful, or if I'm doing the right thing, or if, when I'm finished, I'll be in in a larger mess than before. And writing about the things that might go wrong usually sends me into panic attacks and makes me grumpy. So I wait. It seems best.

One of the things I did not expect when I began all this therapy stuff, was that I would lose control of my thoughts and feelings. I understand that was naive of me, but I've had such a stranglehold on those for most of my life, that I could not comprehend any other state of being. As I did the therapy exercises, I got a taste of what was to come, but I was completely unprepared for what happened after integration.

My integration experience required me to reclaim parts of myself that I had separated from completely. I had to reclaim childhood memories, feelings, and experiences, and also those from my teen and young adult years. I had to include those parts of myself as "Me". I expected it would be unpleasant (it was) and frustrating (oh, so frustrating) and that I would resist strongly (I didn't understand how difficult it is to be in a struggle with myself). What I did not expect was that after the integration was finished, I would sometimes think thoughts, or imagine scenarios, or believe in things as a child does. Things that are completely illogical and highly emotional.

Sometimes I would get caught up in a daydream. I don't believe that has happened to me before--or if it has, I don't remember it. Occasionally I would find myself lost in thought as I wished for experiences, or people, or things that have no actual possibility in my life. It was a little bit shocking to find myself in that place. I'm a practical person. I don't waste time on what cannot be.

As with each new development, I thought about this a long time before I decided how I wanted to respond to it. In my opinion, there really is no place for it in my life. I don't have time to wish for impractical things, and in reality, I probably don't want them anyway. They're passing whims and they cause me distress when I find myself missing people or distracted from work as I dream about sitting on a beach that does not exist.

So for the past few months, I have been working on regulating this part of me. Therapist says it's not unexpected that I would find myself thinking in a childlike way about future possibilities and relationships with people, but I am not a child. I have no desire to be one again--that part of my life was particularly unpleasant.

I have systematically taken the daydreams and disassembled them, reminding myself that they serve only to cause me stress and distract me from what is important. These daydreams are different from the "meditation" part of my PTSD maintenance regimen. They bring to mind things I cannot have and would never choose--in the way that dreams move through our subconsciousness, teasing us with nonsensical ideas, scenarios, and people.

Something that has caused me a great deal of distress is the way that I have fixated on my need to have people near me. Somehow I have formulated a subconscious belief that those I love the most will simply end up being my next door neighbor, for the sole purpose of being near me. Job security is, of course, irrelevant, as is a paycheck which will cover necessities, bills, and provide a comfortable disposable income. I have no idea how I became so self-centered.

Therapist says it's not really about being self-centered. He says I have found people I'm learning to trust, people I want to spend time with. As a child, that was very rare. But children are usually surrounded by people they love and trust. He believes my subconsciousness is trying to provide that for me even though the time for it is long past.

Therapist could be right. That does not, however, make my obsession with this healthy in any way. So I have used my meditation time, and my exercising-thinking time, and my alone time, to purge my head of the thoughts and beliefs that have formed in reference to this. And I have contacted the people involved and asked them to tell me in words that there is no need (or desire on their part) for them to be closer geographically. Sometimes the request has been hidden within a conversation in such a way that the person is unaware that I have asked that of them. Other times I have simply explained the problem and asked for the necessary response.

I won't lie. Hearing my child-dream deflated by their words has been more painful than I expected, which only reinforces my belief that this was necessary and right. But I haven't liked it. And I've found myself wishing, as I've had those unpleasant conversations, that someone would say, "Are you kidding? I want nothing more than for us to be neighbors! I've always wished for that. Someday (soon, I hope) I believe we will be. We need to make a list of things we want to do when that happens."And now you have a slight glimpse into the workings of my mind when I'm not reigning it in and reminding it that I have work to do and no place for wild imagination that has no basis in fact.

It's not really rejection because I asked for the statements and information, and also because I've never actually issued an invitation for anyone to live near me. In fact, a long time ago when ATP was thinking of moving near me to go to school, I thought it was very good that he was looking at a college about 50 miles away from me. That would afford us both distance enough to not feel crowded by each other. But that good sense present in me a long time ago, seems to have fled.

But it feels like rejection. I'm not sure why. I think Tolkien Boy would say it's because everyone needs to be wanted. But that doesn't sound right to me. I'm not UNwanted. I think it's just a weird side-effect of a weird side-effect.

Regardless, it's done. At this point I get to concentrated on being an adult, taking care of business, and living in the real world. But I have to admit, the world my childthoughts created was a lot more fun, much gentler, and I think I could be happy there.

“The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly.” --Buddha

When I was growing up, some famous person used to say, "Eat right and exercise every day." I'm guessing it was on a television commercial or some PBS show, because I remember hearing it more than once. It always made sense to me--even though when I heard it, I'm not sure I understood what "eat right" meant. Quite frankly, I'm not sure most people know because nutrition standards change often and they work best when they're personalized. However, I think that phrase was one of the reasons I began with healthy eating and regular exercise when I needed to manage PTSD.

I learned it wasn't enough after about three months. It helped a great deal, but I was still struggling with a number of other symptoms. So I incorporated a mind/body connection. Movement is incredibly helpful for me, but I go to it because I have always found sitting still to be difficult. I have learned that I need time to sit quietly every day, and think.

I don't have to do this for long periods of time, but I do need to have uninterrupted quiet. It is during this time that I figure out a number of things that have been racing around in my brain, trying to attract my attention. I am an expert at ignoring them.

Some have referred to this time as meditation. That might be the proper term. I know I'm unable to do structured meditation, such as one might encounter in a yoga class. I've tried this. It's stressful. It's not what I need. What I need is simply quiet time during which I allow my mind to wander.

I cannot do this outside. If you've ever taken a walk with me, you'll remember that our conversation is punctuated by: "Wow! Look at the clouds!" or "Did you see that shiny bug?" or "I love the way the wind sounds when it blows through the prairie grass," or "Yay! Butterflies!" or "Those are my favorite flowers. So are daisies, and roses, and irises, and orchids, and bachelor buttons, and ..." or "Those birds are flying!" or some other completely off-topic observation I'm noticing in the moment. I am completely distracted by my surroundings. And probably when I get home I'll remember the bird or flower or cloud or bug or sky or wind--and I'll have no idea what we covered in our conversation.

So I make time when everyone is still sleeping, or I stay up after they've gone to bed, and I think. Sometimes I let myself imagine scenarios that make me feel peaceful or comforted. Occasionally I allow other people into my thoughts. I do not guide my thoughts, but I do block any that might be practical or necessary (like, "Oh! I need to pay bills tomorrow," or "I should go clean my fridge," or "This might be a good time to plan menus for the week."). I try to let my mind go where it will, as long as it has nothing to do with tasks before me, work topics, or thoughts that cause me stress.

The thinking times have taken on different forms during the past decade. There have been times when I've been working on something abstract for therapy, when I have used that time to figure things out or speculate on possible solutions or scenarios.

There are also times when I have no planned direction in my thoughts, but I allow myself to consider many possibilities. Sometimes I think about sleep. Sometimes I allow myself a tiny bit of time and space to think about how my life would be different without PTSD--without memories of rape and abuse--without social anxiety or trust issues. I think about having a life where love is accepted without question, people are allowed to be close without my having to strictly monitor my feelings and fears. I think about who I am and how I wish I could comfortably be that person. But, as I said, I limit that thinking time.

Mostly I think about relaxing, living in the moment, accepting what is mine no matter what that means. I always know when I am finished. My body tells me it's ready to move again, my brain says it's time to think about more present tasks, and I find that I'm breathing better and feeling more capable of accomplishing the things on my to-do list.

I have no doubt that this quiet time of mine will morph into many different things as my needs change. It's the part of my PTSD regimen I dislike the most, but is too important and helpful to disregard. There are times when I skip it--the thought of sitting still with my thoughts sometimes feels terrifying. Then I realize that skipping this part only intensifies the PTSD symptoms.

Wow. I really hate writing about this. I think about Darrin, whose Monday-Friday routine consists of rising in the morning, shave/showering, eating breakfast, playing a bit on Facebook, going to work, teaching computer and accounting classes, talking with students, coming home, helping with and eating dinner, grading papers/watching stupid car shows on TV, then going to bed. On Saturday he sleeps till 10, then fixes any car problems, does yard work, grades more papers, watches more stupid car shows...His life just seems simpler.

I know. Comparing is a very bad idea. I think it's just this week. Every day, doing what I know is helpful and good feels like a struggle. I'm out of sorts and cranky. Therapist would tell me I'm not following my PTSD maintenance plan consistently. I would tell him that I dislike him intensely. Then he would laugh at me. More than likely I'd join him. But I'd still dislike him because he's right. Then Therapist would say, "If you could do what you wanted today, what would it be?"

And I would tell him, even though I know he's just doing one of his fancy therapy tricks to help me get my brain and motivation back on track, because no matter how aggravated I am that I have to do this stupid routine, I want to be better, to continue healing, and to learn how to comfortably have relationships or die trying. Right now the "die trying" part seems more likely.

"Only in the frictionless vaccuum of a nonexistent abstract world can movement or change occur without that abrasive friction of conflict. --Saul Alinsky

Physical movement saves me. I have no background in a health field of any kind. All I know is that if I run, I feel better for the rest of the day. It has been three years since I have been able to run.

I've substituted non-impact movement found through swimming or on the elliptical machine. After my surgery I've been able to walk again and I've been taking very long walks. These help, but they are not the same. I want to run again.

I keep reminding myself that running is not a lifelong exercise. Thirty years from now my body might not tolerate it anymore. Also, it doesn't help the life of my new hip. My surgeon makes me laugh. Each time I see him, he goes over precautions necessary to heal completely. Then he tells me all the things I need to avoid so the hip will last as long as possible. Then he looks me in the eye and says, "You're young. Live your life. Do the things that make you feel happy. If we have to repair the hip a couple of times before you die, that's better than reducing your activity level to that of a 70- or 80-year-old. You need to be aware that you have a replaced hip but not base your life on that fact."

I plan to follow his advice.

In the years that my movement has been restricted I have experienced a great deal of pessimism about my future. It has also been incredibly difficult to manage PTSD symptoms. Movement is necessary for my emotional well-being.

I have found that I feel the most optimistic and emotionally strong when I utilize both short, intense workouts and longer workouts of more moderate exertion. When I was at my best, I would run in the mornings for 30-45 minutes, then go for a walk in the evening after dinner. The walk was usually about an hour in duration. The combination of the two types of movement helped me sleep better and manage stress problems that cropped up during the day.

I would add three days of strength training each week. This is not for PTSD management, but because I have a condition called benign hypermobility joint syndrome. This condition brings some benefits--I'm extremely flexible and I heal from injuries very quickly. But it also has drawbacks: my joints dislocate very easily and multiple sprains to the ankle and wrist are common. Shoulders and knees are key points of dislocation and poor posture can cause vertebrae displacement if my back is weak. Strengthening all muscle groups keeps my joints in place even when I engage in impact activities.

While I say the strength training is not a focus for PTSD management, it still provides a benefit. The strong muscles allow me to engage in the cardio activities without fear of injury (provided I don't fall down any big, rocky hills). There is also a subconscious belief that if I am strong, no one can hurt me. It's a false belief, but it helps me have the emotional stamina to engage in some social activities I might otherwise avoid.

The problem with using movement for PTSD management is that sometimes (often) I just don't want to do the things I know I need to. Or I'm traveling and I don't have the facilities or equipment necessary for my workout regimen. And sometimes I feel tired.

I used to be so rigid in my physical exercise requirements that I would go running even if I felt terrible. I remember having the stomach flu once, and still taking a 20-minute run (it actually took about 30 minutes because I kept puking). Therapist told me that was extreme and taking health to an unhealthy level. We worked for nearly a year, preparing me emotionally and mentally to allow myself breaks and days of rest. It wasn't easy.

When I injured myself, Therapist thought that would be a good thing. I would have to take time off to rest. Except I didn't. I still ran. The fall had detached the cartilage in my right hip. It should have been terribly painful to walk and run. But the only thing I felt was that something was wrong with my gait and my stamina seemed considerably less. Three miles was the longest I was able to run. My doctore believes I was confusing fatigue with pain. It's not impossible. I have difficulty still, even after years of therapy, understanding how to feel and process physical pain.

So I had surgery to fix the cartilage and I had to stop running. Three years later, I've still not been able to start running again. In August, my physical therapist believes I will be running. We're working towards that now. She's adamant that my muscles be developed enough to support the joints, that my form be absolutely correct, and that I drop at least twenty pounds to reduce the impact before I begin. I'm working like crazy to jump through all her hoops and I'm not taking shortcuts. This is important to me and I don't want to start running, only to be injured again, or find out that it's not something I'll be able to sustain long-term.

In the meantime, I'm marking how my body responds, emotionally, to the different types of physical activity I'm able to do now. Thirty years in the future, I want to have options if running is taken off my list. Elliptical running seems to be fairly effective and I believe (if I'm ever able to become good at it and stop hating it) swimming might also be on that list. Walking is good but I might have to change how I do it--add some fast/slow pacing and more hills.

Someday I want to be able to write about this and feel empowered and courageous. I have PTSD and I'm doing what's necessary to help me have a "normal" life. Right now, though--today--I just feel aggravated that I'm writing about it at all. I don't feel empowered--I feel like a victim of circumstances. And I definitely don't feel courageous--I feel desperate. The last few months, as my movement has been restricted due to the hip replacement, I've endured some difficult emotional CRAP, with no real way to manage what has presented itself. I'm still battle feelings of failure and listlessness, and motivation is far away. I feel defeated before I even begin.

That being said, I'm going to the gym. Just because I feel this way, does not mean I have to buy into it. And when I get home I'll feel better (and if I don't, I'm having cookies for breakfast).

"As long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all questions for the time being." --Fraz Kafka

I don't want to have PTSD for the rest of my life.

There.

I said it.

There was a time, when I had not yet been beaten repeatedly by life, when I completely believed I could make it go away, or reduce the symptoms to the point where I rarely, if ever, noticed them.

I suppose I still believe that sometimes. What I have learned, however, is that in order for that to happen, the upkeep and maintenance will be very daunting. Through research and therapy, I have devised a process that works dramatically, but it takes a great deal of time and effort and sometimes I'm tired. However, I'm going to write the process here, in the hope that seeing it, understanding why I'm doing it, and remembering the consequences if I don't, will help me continue working. Today I'm talking about food.

It is crucial for me to eat healthily. Even without PTSD this would be a necessity. I've been blessed with a body that reacts to artificial sweeteners, flavorings, and colors. It sends me inordinate pain when I eat chemically treated meats like ham, salami, pepperoni, hotdogs, bacon--you know--all the fun things everyone loves. My body will tolerate a small amount of dairy. If my intake exceeds the tolerance point, I'm ill for a day or two. I can drink a carbonated beverage every three to four months now. Ten years ago, such a drink would send my bladder the message that it needed to grow tumors, as would any food item with more than 150 milligrams of sodium. Animal and dairy fats also affect me adversely. So what does that leave? Natural lean meats, fruits, vegetables, soy/coconut/almond milk, homemade breads and cookies, and chocolate. And lots of water. Who can whine about that?

But having these limitations makes eating out an olympic event. And no one understands when I don't eat at a picnic or cookout which, in general, does not offer much from my diet plan. They think I'm trying to lose weight as I nibble carrots and celery (sans dip) from a vegetable tray, or try to eat watermelon (good for me--but I dislike the way it tastes), and I opt for water over the Kool-aid, artificial lemonade, or soda pop. I've learned to treat such events as social only. I eat before I go. Sometimes I do the same when I meet friends at a restaurant. And sometimes I'm thought rude when I eat at someone's home but I bypass much of what is served.

I underwent three years of tumor removal and chemotherapy administered to my bladder through my urethra. When it's happening three times weekly, the illness from the medication and pain from repeated catheter insertions are huge motivators to stay healthy so the process never has to be repeated again. I think I'm okay if I'm judged a rude, compulsive dieter while I protect the vulnerable parts of my body.

I've also learned that when I don't eat correctly (or when I don't eat at all, which sometimes happens), I become tired, irritable, and exhausted. In that condition, there is no chance that I will do the other things necessary to manage PTSD. Panic attacks are normal occurrences. I avoid conversations and interactions with others as I find myself overreacting to words, imagining false motives, and picking arguments. I know why it's happening, I remind myself how stupid I've been to let it happen, which in turn, exacerbates all symptoms and makes me feel that I've failed all of mankind because I ate Chinese food.

I've learned strategies to soften the impact of understanding that I will never be able to comfortably eat like other family members and friends. I research menus for fast food and sit-down restaurants whenever possible before I go there. Usually I can find at least one menu item that will fit my needs. I ask waiters to please tell the cooks to limit use of fat and place all sauces on the side. I always drink water.

Not only do I eat a small meal before attending picnics/cookouts/barbeques, I bring a main dish salad (regardless of whether or not I'm asked) to share. That way I can participate without people asking lots of questions (which I don't really mind for short periods of time) or telling me I don't need to lose weight (actually, I do because my physical therapist says it will reduce impact when I start to run) or wondering if I have an eating disorder (I do--it's in remission, but still something about I have to be cautious).

When I visit in other peoples' homes, I ask for the privilege of making them dinner.  I ask many questions about the types of food they like/dislike, then I try to make something flavorful and beautiful--something new and original that they will enjoy as much as I will, but I won't have to explain about the reactions my body has to boxed or prepared foods, nor will I insult them by not eating a meal they've prepared for me. So far, no one has whined a great deal about having me prepare their food. This is a good thing.

It's okay that I need to work a little bit harder, I guess, to meet my nutritional needs. Diabetics do it. Actually, anyone with a food allergy or sensitivity will go out of their way to make sure the trigger foods are avoided. But I can't say I'm diabetic or allergic or I have celiac disease...I'm not and I don't. And how does one explain in a socially acceptable way that my bladder doesn't process certain substances and the result is painful and extensive--or that some foods trigger PTSD symptoms and make me depressed/angry/anxious and sometimes suicidal? That seems to be beyond the understanding of most people and I get that. It sounds ridiculous.

All that being said, I'm committed to eating in such a way that I can use my food intake as a management tool. And I think I'm good at it, right now, about 70% of the time. There's definite room for improvement. Summer is a good time to work on that. Now I just need to remind myself that this is not a new or temporary thing--this is my life. It's forever.

Sharing

I shared my last post on Facebook. Sometimes I do things just to see what will happen to me if I do. The Facebook thing may have been a mistake. I might not have been ready.

Because I'm me, and I assume I'm invisible unless present, and Facebook has changed its policy so that the newsfeed things that are promoted usually have video or pictures, and my post did not--I decided that only a few people (meaning only 4) would see the Facebook post and then it would be over. I could say I did it, be really, super proud of myself, and go on with life.

So four people saw the post and liked or commented on it. And I liked the comments back.

And then more people started saying things and adding likes and I freaked out. Over a Facebook post. I am ridiculous.

No one said anything remotely unkind. Everyone was enormously supportive. But I have stupid PTSD, which means I started to feel a whole bunch of feelings at once, got really confused, didn't know HOW to feel at all, and today, when all the traffic has gone away and no one remembers my post anymore, I'm still feeling grouchy and out of sorts and panicky.

And I keep stupid crying. I hate crying.

Sorting things out:

1. Some of my nieces and nephews commented or liked the post, indicating they read it. That makes me uneasy. It's a little silly. Most of them with Facebook accounts are over twelve and should be talking about rape with their parents, if only to help them understand that there is always help and protection available--regardless of what is said by the perpetrator. But I'm still confused about what I feel when I know they've read my post.

2. Friends who grew up with me--people with whom I lost contact who later found me on Facebook--indicated that they love me. This is a good thing. But a few of them also intimated regret that they had not known about the crime when we were growing up. They would have loved and supported me, if only I had told them. They don't understand. I couldn't tell. I didn't know how. I didn't even have the words to express to myself what had happened, let alone share it with others. But I feel guilty that they wish I had told them. I feel I was a bad friend, somehow, because I didn't know how to utilize available support--or maybe they think I just didn't trust them (which is true because I trusted no one)--or maybe they cared about me more than I cared about them. Regardless, while I appreciate what they're saying, it still causes a great deal of anxiety.

3. I have Stupid-Facebook-Game friends. Please note that the "Stupid" modifies the games, not the friends. I have never met these people. I know nothing about them. I play Scrabble, or other games with them on Facebook. We enjoy playing. We're Facebook friends. That is all. But some of them also read my post. Some of them responded. And some of them share an experience similar to mine. I want to tell them that one day it will be okay--but maybe it won't, so probably I shouldn't say that. I want to thank them for taking time to read and respond kindly to a post by a complete stranger. But that means I have to talk about the post again. With strangers. Who play games with me. That's weird.

4. People responded with things like, "You're a hero..." or "I'm proud of you." I'm not a hero. I'm a survivor. I did what I had to do to get better because the alternative was intolerable. I didn't save anyone or make history or cure global warming. I'm just me. I'm insignificant and I took care of myself. Heroes are people who endanger their own lives to save others--like firefighters. Or people who rescue children from sex slavery, or abuse, or hunger. Or teachers who help kids learn to read and write. Or really great parents who don't have PTSD, who actually understand how to parent, and can raise wonderful, healthy kids. Or people who figure out how to cure global warming. I know--I already said that. And I don't understand why anyone would be proud of me for finally figuring out how to state the obvious. Admitting and accepting that one has been used by another in a traumatizing way is difficult, but it usually doesn't take a couple of decades for the person to be able to talk about it. I'm just a very slow learner, I suppose, when it comes to talking and sharing. It's nice that they're acknowledging that this was difficult for me, but I still don't understand.

5. Part of me wants to help others with similar experiences make it to the point where life feels "normal." But I'm hearing people say things that make me want to scream. Things about my experience being "meaningful" or saying that my being raped will help other people or that it's made me stronger, or more empathetic, or a better person. LET ME BE CLEAR: Being raped has not made me a better person in any way. It has brought so much chaos and anger and pain to me, that there are days I'm left gasping and curled up in a ball because I cannot process the memories without reacting that way. It has not made me more empathetic or more loving--I was already empathetic and loving and I believe I would have continued to foster those traits even if some stupid person had not hurt me sexually. In fact, I believe those traits would be easier to access because I wouldn't have to work through fear and mistrust to get to them. And I was already strong--ask anyone who knew me as a child. I was physically and mentally strong, and also very strong-willed. I was born with those traits, I did not earn them because someone repeatedly forced his penis in my child-body and hurt me beyond what I could comprehend. Rape is wrong and horrifying. It does not make people better in any way. If they recover and appear "better" it is because they had what they needed, or were able to find it through therapy and support from other people, to survive and to heal from an experience that should never have happened. Stop telling me I am a better person because I was a victim. That is untrue. If I am a better person than I was yesterday or the day before or a year ago, it is because I chose to become so.

And now I'm left feeling that I am childish because I can't seem to make myself just gracefully accept the kind words that were written on my profile.

This is PTSD. One moment I feel calm and accepting and strong enough to talk about my life in a semi-public forum. The next I feel aggrieved and misunderstood and afraid--for no reason at all. I haven't even read more than halfway down the comments. I haven't looked at the names of the people who have liked the post. While I don't necessarily want to take it back, I wish I knew how to process what's happening in my guts.

Maybe it's time to talk to Therapist again. It's been a decade of therapy. That's a really long time.

Memorial Day 2014

I would like to write something profound and patriotic to commemorate this day. However, I am neither profound, nor ardently patriotic--although I suppose, in my own way, I have a fair sense of patriotism.

However, today I have other things on my mind and in my heart--and this is my place.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm not saying this because it's news, or to garner sympathy, or because I think I'm somehow different or special because of it. It's not, I would never do that, and I'm not.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because ten years ago I couldn't even think or remember or silently acknowledge it--let alone allow the words to escape my mouth. I knew what had happened, but glossed over it as, "a small amount of sexual abuse." Today I'm not even sure that means--except it represents my inability to face the truth, and also my deeply held belief that I was somehow responsible.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because four years ago, while I could say it and write it, I felt afterwards that I might scream or throw up and my body wouldn't stop shaking. I wanted to rage and throw tantrums. I wanted to make it go away. I felt helpless because I couldn't change the fact that it happened, and I desperately wanted to be held and soothed and protected.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because I finally understand that, while I wish with all my heart that it had not happened, there is no shame on my part. I was a child. I said no. I was manipulated and abused. I did not have the means to protect myself. There is horrifying vulnerability in acknowledging that there was nothing more I could to do prevent what happened. There is also truth.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because I did not deserve to have it happen to me. I was a lovely, giggly, perpetually happy preadolescent. I had curly hair, a quirky sense of humor, and boundless energy. I loved playing hide and seek, and freeze tag, and Red Rover. I loved playing the piano and reading and writing really awful poetry. I was tiny and funny. My favorite color was orange.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because today I can. And when I say it, these are my words: "I'm a rape survivor--and it's okay. I've made it through a lot of anguish and healing. I've learned to forgive in so many ways. I understand who I am--and I like me. I live with PTSD, but I've done some really great things as I've learned to manage what PTSD adds to my life. Last summer I was able to have my first physical in 18 years, and my first mammogram ever. And I was able to tell the medical professionals involved about my past and my current needs. And it was awful, but I did it. I'll do it again this year. While I understand that this is WAY more information than you wish, ten years ago I couldn't tell you any of this and today I can. I think that's progress. I hope you do, too."

I am a rape survivor.

I still have curly hair. Sometimes I let it remain in a mess of curls, but most of the time I straighten it. I still love to play hide and seek, but I limit the time I spend playing Red Rover and freeze tag since I've not yet been cleared to run after my hip replacement. I still read avidly, write terrible poetry, and playing the piano has become my vocation. My quirky sense of humor has not changed, nor has my energy level. I'm usually happy, and if you talk to me, within the first 30 seconds, you can count on it--I will giggle.

I am a rape survivor...and so much more. It has taken me many years to understand this, and the journey was incredibly painful. To any person who still reads this blog, who walked with me in person or online, who offered support in thought, prayer, or word--I love you. Thank you for helping me learn once again, to love myself.

Let it go...

A few months ago I noticed that there were a number of things in my life that made me unhappy--and I was holding onto them with all my strength. I had good reasons for keeping those things, but there seemed no way to alter the fact that they simply did not bring me happiness. There were time consuming habits online (daily Facebook drivel, Youtube video binges, waiting for chat people) and offline (trying to sleep on weekends when I was no longer sleepy just because Darrin wasn't up yet, reading magazines that came in the mail even when I had no interested in them and didn't order them, shopping when I had nothing I needed to buy), and there were a few relationships that I'd been clinging to that needed to change in some way.

The offline habits were easy to let go. I simply chose different things. I added a new piece to my practice schedule, went to the library and borrowed new books, increased the amount of time I spent on physical therapy assignments, and as the weather improved, I added daily walks to my routine.

The online habits weren't as easy. They still aren't. I spend a great deal of time online because I work there. But I find myself feeling restless and dissatisfied as I waste time doing things online that aren't fulfilling to me in some way.

I was talking with an online friend--he's a motivational speaker and does amazing things to help people learn to find happiness in their lives (also an abuse survivor at the hands of a Catholic priest--yeah, one of those kids--who has learned that the Church isn't bad, but sometimes bad people hide there--I learned the same lesson as a child). He's started a Facebook group about unplugging social media one day weekly and one weekend monthly. He wants to see if it affects how he feels about people and how his PTSD symptoms react to the experiment. The number of people asking to join the group is incredible. He wants me to participate. I've joined the group but I have difficulty with people telling me what to do--I like things to be my own idea. I can see myself subconsciously sabotaging myself or REALLY wanting to connect online on the days when I'm supposed to be unplugged. Unplugging includes cell phones. I haven't committed yet but it might be a good idea.

There are other things I've come up with to limit the amount of non-work time I spend online. Some overlap with the offline changes of habit I've implemented. But now that spring is here, I'll be planning things like planting and weeding and vacations and fall classes...I think I'll be able to master myself in regards to online time.

The relationships in which I've felt unhappy were more difficult. I had to decide why I felt that way, and if it was because of something amiss in myself. But in some cases I made my relationship counterparts aware that I wasn't feeling happy with how our relationships were evolving and asked for their input about the situation. In others, I simply began to limit the amount of time spent together (online or in person). It was different from my former cut-and-run routine, because I wanted to continue contact with those people, just in a different way.

Of those I spoke to, only one responded positively. Probably it's not fun to have someone say, "My relationship with you is making me unhappy. These are the reasons I believe this is so. What do you think?" With the exception of the one, the others blamed my PTSD, or my recent surgery, or the past four years of stressful things I've experienced. There was no give/take proposal. I was expected to take complete responsibility for being unhappy in the relationship. I'm pretty sure that's not what they intended for me to take from our conversation, but what I heard was, basically, "If you're unhappy, that belongs to you. There are many possible reasons, but probably if you just give it time, everything will resolve itself."

What they didn't take into consideration (and they should have--they've known me for quite a few years) was that I'd already given the situation a great deal of time and thought. I'd made some changes in myself, and I'd considered all the possibilities they proposed. But there were other reasons I felt unhappy that had nothing to do with my past, recent trauma, PTSD, or surgery. When I was dismissed and told to solve the problem on my own, it actually helped me decide how to manage those particular relationships. And I did. And I was happier.

There were a few relationships, however, that I knew needed to change in some way. I didn't want them to end. I wanted continued closeness. But I understood that somehow I had gotten stuck and I didn't want to allow those relationships to evolve as they should. I was clinging to past memories and feelings that had been enormously helpful to me, and while I wasn't trying to duplicate those feelings and memories, there was a huge fear that allowing the people involved to move forward and away from me would steal those moments from my life.

I don't believe, for someone who has experienced dissociation, which for me involved lost or detached memories, that this is an unreasonable feeling. As I tried to allow the relationships to evolve--and I did try--my attempts were met with an intense feeling of crisis. My reaction to that was that the relationship had become unhealthy/toxic and needed to end. My brain would rescue me, tell me to wait before acting, and I would think some more--trying to come up with solutions which wouldn't catapult me backward a decade to my inability to manage close relationships.

Integration taught me that I can claim my memories again--I MUST claim them, for they are a part of me. As I thought about that, I understood for the first time that while I remember things in an individual, unique way, my memories are often shared by another person. I'd never thought about that before. It was unsettling, upsetting, and aggravating to me. I tried to talk about it. I was unable to. I felt that my privacy had somehow been invaded. It was ridiculous but I had no means of figuring out how to manage what I was feeling.

Fortunately, Therapist, while perhaps not knowing exactly how to help me, knows how to guide me to help myself. After a few discussions and suggestions from Therapist, I tried some strategies to help me figure out the emotional mess that was causing me distress. I can't say I was completely successful, but some of the work I did moved me toward what I needed to do to deal with allowing relationships to evolve.

There is a difference between pulling back/adding distance, and letting go. When I would try to let go, allow autonomy in my relationships, I knew I was doing the right thing, but I would feel horribly sad, a little bit desperate, and completely overwhelmed with panic. And I couldn't make it happen. Even though I had no idea what "it" was, I knew nothing had changed. I was still unhappy, I still felt mistrust, and I did not feel safe in the relationship. Somehow, moving forward, I was certain, would bring me some peace.

So I wasn't letting go. I didn't have the capacity to do so. I do now.

Letting go still brings a feeling of sadness, but it's soft and quiet. It understands that some things are ending, and those things were joyful, things I have cherished. I might miss them. But it also understands that putting those things away means making room for more, and relationships are living, breathing entities that require new and different in order to thrive. Letting go also brings a feeling of acceptance--an acknowledgement that things must change. Not all of the change will be what I wish, but much of it will bring growth that will enhance past feelings and experiences.

It still makes me stressed, but now that I can do it, with practice, I think it will become easier.

Talking/writing about it still makes me feel a bit of panic, though, so I think it's time to read a book now.

Theory Class is NOT Boring

Today's theory class (remember, consisting of all Middle School aged BOYS) finished 20 minutes early. They listen--and do the work--it sort of freaks me out. So rather than move on to the next topic, I suggested swing dancing (I was kidding, yes). The next thing I knew, "Rockin' Robin" was blaring from the desktop computer in the band room, all the chairs and stands were neatly stacked against the wall, and I was dancing with a lanky ninth grader.

The others decided, since I was the only girl in the room, to put aside all homophobia and they partnered up--and I have to say, they know some pretty sweet moves (I have to say it because they told me so). Except for the one guy no one would dance with. Not even me. Because his sweet swing dance moves included back flips and round offs. He's just dangerous.

And middle school boys are actually able to giggle about things that have no sexual connotation. They couldn't stop giggling. I think they might really be girls. 

Seriously, this might be more fun than I've had in a long time.

Four months ago I signed out of my chat program and have not signed in since. I'm unsure exactly what motivated me, but I think it had something to do with how the smartphone signs people in to chat programs automatically, but they're really not there. For someone like me, this is equivalent to being ignored. It's not that I expect to be hailed all the time, but knowing that my hello will bring no response is a little bit frustrating. So I sat down, had a good talk with myself, and decided that chatting was causing me stress. And I turned it off. 

I thought I would have difficulty for awhile. I've been chatting with people daily for over a decade. But I didn't. In fact, I have no desire to go back to that. I thought my phone calls to people would increase. They didn't. I thought maybe I'd email when I wished to talk--but that wish hasn't presented itself. 

One might assume that as I removed myself from my virtual social circle, that I'd venture more into real time sociality. This, too, has not proven to be the case. Instead I have filled my time with reading and working and thinking and trying to recover from my three-month-old hip replacement. And I've been happy. Except for the fatigue and depression which follows any bout I have with general anesthesia, I've felt better. 

I've remained in contact with people who are very close to me, but even that desire seems to be waning. I encounter the same obstacle sometimes--that is, wishing to talk but not being able to connect with them. I'm talking about busy schedules colliding, but also about my ability to feel close. I can't seem to do it. And it has nothing to do with desire. It's like every barrier I tore down ten years ago has been replaced and doubled in strength. I feel a yearning to connect, followed by a violent reaction inside that warns me away, reminds me that what I want is probably not what they want, followed by Tolkien Boy's voice telling me, as he did nearly eight years ago, "You can't ask people to feel the same way you do."

I know that--I've always known it. But I sort of want to scream at Tolkien Boy because he said that to me. Having it said by someone I respect and love just reinforces in my head that what I feel is wrong, somehow. And I hear the words again and again and again--every time I wish for something loving and human from another person. 

That was not his intention. He was just talking about feelings, and people, and life. My brain simply seized on the thing that seemed most relevant to me and kept those words looping through my mind and controlling my emotional life. I did that. 

Still, I've become used to my own company now, and I feel okay about that--so maybe Tolkien Boy did me a favor. I think he would like that. Maybe someday, when I feel like talking again, I'll tell him.

Lessons Learned

1. There is not enough money in the world to compensate for helping with a middle school musical production. The kids begin squirrelly and progress to beyond squirrelly. Yesterday one of them lost his clothes. I found them on the floor backstage. I do not want to know why they were there.

2. Accompanying 45 middle school band students on their solos for festival can cause temporary deafness. Especially if they are playing saxophone or percussion. Also, some of them actually have musical sensitivity and talent. Scratch that. Two of them do. That's not a particularly compelling reason to continue accompanying them every year. However, when you and the band teacher got your undergrad degrees together, sometimes there are reasons long past that are. Sigh...I'll be doing this until I die...or go permanently deaf...

3. Flowers bloom in the spring even when the weather believes it's winter. We've had snow every day since Sunday, but also enough daytime warmth to melt the white stuff. And I have some pansies heroically blooming beside my dandelions (which I halfheartedly and unsuccessfully attempted to kill last week). My trees and bushes have continued to sprout leaves. Should the snow ever decide to leave for a few months, it will be gorgeous and green.

4. I have songbirds. My dad has crows. He lives three blocks from me so I don't know why there is a difference in bird residence, but I'll take it. I'm listening to blackbirds hailing the sunrise. He's listening to crows fighting over roadkill. Bad luck, Dad!

5. Since DJ moved back home, claiming my former guest room, we have had more company than we ever did during the three years he was gone. Our new guest room is my piano studio floor equipped with a queen-sized air mattress. There is no privacy in our house and Darrin and I are up for work by (or before, in my case) 5 a.m. We try to be quiet, but I'm guessing we're not particularly successful (we = me, because Darrin actually is quiet and doesn't run into things in the morning). When we told people we had a guest room, they would make a comment about how it might be nice to visit and we ended up about two visits per year. DJ moved home about a year ago. In that year alone, our air mattress has had five residents. It's almost as if when we say, "We don't have a lot of room--couch or air mattress, only," people are challenged to show us that they're tough enough to rough it a few nights in our house-without-a-guest-room. And since I like visitors, when DJ (and Adam and Tabitha) moves out, I'm thinking about continuing the rumor that we have no guest room just so people will keep coming.

6. I hate physical therapy. And I love it. But mostly I hate it. So I need to go do the work at the gym now. But I'd rather just go run outside and listen to the birds. But I can't do that until my physical therapist says I'm ready. So I hate her, too. And I love her.

Okay. Going to the icky gym now.

Making Peace

I have never been able to resolve parts of me that I perceive as odd or problematic until I could understand why they happen in the first place. This goes beyond simply knowing the root cause, and is more centered around the "why" of today. I know what inspires the idiosyncracies, but why are they still troubling me? Why do I cling to them? Why do they pop up regardless of what I do to dispel them? What purpose do they serve NOW?

For many years this has been the case when I think about friendship. I have written about this more times than any reasonable person should. I've mocked the institution of friendship, calling it a convenience which allows people to be fickle and undependable simply on the auspices that they owe one another nothing.

I've never understood why I felt so intensely antagonistic toward that relationship, nor why I'm actually insulted when someone who is very close to me refers to me as a friend. My brain automatically thinks, No. I'm not a friend. That's someone unreliable and disposable, and if that's how you feel about me, I'm gone.

I understand now.

Trust, for me, is intermittent at best, and nonexistent at worst. But I want to trust people. I just don't seem to be able to make that happen. No matter how a person has shown me repeatedly that he or she is present, that I'm loved, that I'm important--it seems impossible for me to accept that, believe it, and feel comfortable trusting that person. I try. In fact, trying to trust causes me so much anxiety that I've been known to be sick over it. I want to trust people.

Trust allows one to let go, believing that absence means nothing more that a space of time and distance that will be bridged whenever possible. It allows one to believe that silence is insignificant and will be remedied when time permits. Trust keeps people in our lives when life throws curve balls that separate us. It's probably trust which initiates the feeling, after a long absence, that time has change nothing and that friends still feel close and intimate.

I've never experienced that. If you leave my life then reenter it later, I'll be very glad to see you but I won't feel at all close. I'll be interested but detached. And I probably won't suggest that we try to see each other more often. You see, probably when you left it caused me all sorts of emotional trauma because I didn't understand that you would come back--and what I interpreted was that I'm not important enough to you to make an effort to continue any relationship we might have been enjoying. In my mind, this was not a temporary separation. This was a termination.

When I began to recognize that I'm not able to trust in the "normal" way, I felt a little bit desperate. I don't want the people in my life to feel we have to constantly reconnect or I'll have be experiencing an emotional rift which effectively removes any close relationship we might have had and moves them to my group of acquaintances--people I enjoy when we're together, but don't really think about often. I don't want to be that person whose relationships become unhealthy because I'm so afraid to let go and I'm incapable of applying consistent trust.

I realized last week that I've been agonizing over this long enough. I am who I am. I'll probably never stop trying to figure out how to "fix" this problem in myself. I'll probably continue to hide the fact that every close, beautiful relationship in my life makes me want to throw up and causes me to panic most of the time. It's likely that the process which is natural to me, but completely unnatural to people who have not been abused, molested, or raped as children, will be a part of my life forever--but that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to circumvent, reroute, and striving to become more like healthy people.

That being said, I think it's time for me to stop being nasty about friendship. People like it. They want it. It plays an important, integral part in the lives of healthy people. They get it. I need to stop verbalizing antagonism stemming from my inability to make it work in my head and heart. My deficits do not diminish an institution that's been around for eons and will continue whether I participate or not.

So I'm making peace with myself. And I'm letting go. And if people are absent for awhile, probably my emotional self will cut off from them because it's natural to me. But that's okay. The world won't end and the absent people won't even know it happened and I'll go to work and read books and keep doing physical therapy and notice tiny details in the world around me that bring me joy--and the other person will go on with his or her life, too. My trust is not essential and my lack of trust makes no one uncomfortable except me.

Looking back on all my agonizing, I think I wanted someone to save me--to teach me how to be like everyone else. I think I wished that I would be reassured, reminded that even if someone leaves, it's temporary and I'm still loved. Clearly I'm still a child in this regard. Having suffered abandonment and neglect, I know no other way to feel secure. I needed to hear the verbal assurance that we're still "friends."

Adults don't do that with other adults. I understand that. So today I allow myself to be at peace. I'm okay, even if this trust and friendship thing is not something I can do. I still have relationships and interactions with people and those are joyful even if they also make me stressed. I'm willing to keep doing this on my terms and stop feeling inadequate because I don't have the emotional maturity necessary to be those people who can be apart for years, then come together again feeling as if no time has passed and the relationships is still thriving.

I also don't have to keep talking about it. And probably the other parties in my relationships will feel those friendship things, even if I don't, so I'll have half-friendships. And half is better than none.

Spring has sprung a leak.

Today I was asked to guest lecture in a middle school choir class. The choir is finished with performances and competitions, but there are three weeks of school left. So the teacher offered four topics to the class--each student could choose one. They'll have two lectures on the topics, one day for independent research, and then they'll write a short research paper or take a test, depending on which topic they choose. I'm lecturing on music theory.

When I was hired to do this, I assumed I would end up with between four and six students. Theory is no not a hot topic among middle schoolers. I walked into class today and found twelve boys waiting for me. That was a bit of a shock. Not only were they ready to listen and learn (seriously--I'm talking about MIDDLE SCHOOL), but they participated and did all the activities I had planned. I'm not quite sure what to think about this.

Change of subject

I've spent the past decade resolving much of what was causing me pain, emotionally and physically. I'm ready to take a break. I may always deal with anxiety and panic attacks. I'm okay with that. Most of the time I just wait them out. I know what they are, and while they're uncomfortable, they're not life threatening. Some of the panic attacks this week have caused me some difficulty as they were accompanied by nausea, but again, I know how to manage them and they will pass. I've been lucky enough to find someone to talk me through them both times. That won't always be the case. I'm okay with that, too.

I'm going to do some traveling this summer. Darrin's aunt has been asking me to come visit for a few years. I've declined because she lives in the New York City area and I've not been willing to go there until I could manage the PTSD symptoms more easily. I can do that now. I'll be spending about ten days in that neck of the woods during the first part of July. Then I'll be going with Tabitha to visit some Utah friends. I also have a week planned in a very remote part of Wyoming. I've invited my husband and children to join me there. I also invited Tolkien Boy, but it doesn't look like that will happen. Boo and family might possibly make it for a weekend, but there's room for more. Message me if you're interested in spending a day or two in a place with little phone service and dubious internet connection. We'll talk.

I may also be traveling a bit with my parents. I have a couple of nephews getting married this summer and would like to attend those weddings, but my car is becoming less roadworthy. I've put a large number of miles on it since it was purchased seven years ago. Darrin is convinced he can fix whatever ails it. Until he cries uncle, there will be no talk of a new vehicle. So we'll limp along and hope for the best. There are worse things.

Next week marks my last performance for this school year. I'll be accompanying solos at a festival Tuesday morning. We start at 8 a.m. and I'm guessing I'll be finished by noon. I've talked to the Big Guy and told him I'm expecting a pristinely gorgeous day, because I intend to celebrate by disappearing into the mountains that afternoon. He's the only one I've told (except for you, Brozy, because you read this). I'm contemplating keeping it that way. Otherwise I have offspring who will decide they need to keep me company. I'm desperately wishing for some solitude.

I began the dandelion eradication process this week in my garden. It makes me sad, but I have basil that needs to be transplanted and soon there will be tomatoes and a variety of flowers waiting for a place. The dandelions have been allowed to bloom for a couple of months, which, Darrin assures me, is long enough to ensure that they have sown enough seeds in my lawn and garden to continue propagation for the eternities. Darrin does not love my dandelions.

The songbirds that have taken up residence in my front and back yards are lovely. I might be the only one who enjoys listening to them at 4:30 a.m., but since I'm up anyway, it's nice to have the company. Tabitha says she would like them better if they would sleep a few more hours. I'll take them any time of day.

Today was one of those days when the weather simply could not make up its mind. It started out very cool, with temperatures in the mid-30s and progressed to light rain which turned into weird, tiny hailstones. Thunder grumbled throughout the afternoon and the wind put in an appearance for a couple of hours. Sunshine and snow occurred simultaneously and the high temperature ended up being in the 50s. I just have to say, it's difficult to know what to wear on days like this. It makes me want to stay home and read a book all day.

Getting to Know You

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.

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.