I think I believed I was all better.

I didn't understand what making a report would mean-- what it would reveal about how much further I have to go in my healing. I had reached a stopping point. But I was not finished.

Things I learned:
1. I talk freely about what happened, but mostly here, where I pretend I'm anonymous. I spok about it on Facebook, but gave more details about how I've healed and not about what actually happened. In fact, I've never really talked about what happened beyond a few blog posts years ago, and once I told Josh a little bit. I'm pretty sure I told Tolkien Boy more than he wanted to know-- but that happens all the time. My conversations with him are basically made up of information he would be better off not knowing. Someday he'll scream, "STOP! I CAN'T KNOW ANYMORE ABOUT YOU! I HAVE NO MORE SPACE IN MY HEAD FOR SAMANTHA-TRIVIA!" and then I'll have to figure out how to talk about the weather without personalizing it.

2. I still pretend. All the time. I pretend it didn't happen. I know I'm doing it. I just get tired of being the person who was neglected, abused, unwanted, and raped. It's hard to be that person all the time. And I know I've grown beyond that and I'm not neglected, abused, unwanted, or raped now, but that part is still me. I took her back. I chose that. It was necessary. And sometimes it makes me exhausted. So there are days when I pretend I was never all those things-- days when I borrow parents who loved me and protected me, and people who would have helped me if they had known me as a child. I pretend I grew up happy and normal, and that I don't have PTSD now. It's a little embarrassing to admit all this, but the point is, I can't pretend anymore. What happened to me is a matter of record. My account, with Jeff's, is now sitting on the desk of the Attorney General who is trying to decide if this is a prosecutable case. I'm guessing it won't be, and I'm okay with that, but my pretense doesn't work anymore. I know this is real and my imagination is no longer adequate to combat reality.

3. I don't want to remember. When the interviewing deputy asked questions about details of what happened to me, there were times when I simply said, "I don't remember." And it was a lie. I do remember. I remember vividly. But sometimes I don't know if what I remember really happened. I'm not sure if I question the memories because they seem too awful to think about, or if I question them because I think I might have fabricated them. It's a stupid dilemma, really. My memory is horrifyingly accurate when I choose to access it, and I'm not really the type of person who gets pleasure from fabricated memories of horrible experiences. Those do not appeal to me. But I still told the officer I didn't know. I think what I meant was, "I can't talk about this or I might throw up."

4. When stuff like this happens, I can kiss PTSD management goodbye. Nothing helps. I find myself wanting people to be here NOW (I even called Darrin and said, "You need to be home. Right now," after the interview. Fortunately, he was off work and coming home when I called, so it was just a few minutes before he arrived.). And if they aren't here when I think I need them, I get angry. I find myself circling through the thoughts that they lied to me, they don't love me, they don't want me-- and then I move on to how much I don't want them anymore. From there I descend to the ways that I need to not be alive, how I'm clearly unloved and worthless, and then I move to the ways that death might peacefully occur. Do I know this is ridiculous? Yes. Absolutely. But it doesn't feel self-indulgent or self-pitying. It feels like a runaway train and I'm standing in front of it, helpless to stop it. I try all the therapy strategies I've learned, but nothing seems to help.

5. I think I probably need to talk to Therapist. But I don't know what to say. Part of me feels that this shouldn't be happening. I should be done with all this. I've been working for a DECADE to heal. How much longer will it take? Please, please do not tell me this is the rest of my life. I can't do that. I'm not kidding. I need this to get better.

So now I'm going to meet with a theory student. Then I'm going to make chokecherry jelly. It's Tolkien Boy's birthday. If you know him, you should wish him a happy birthday. He's an amazing person. If he was here, I would hug him. Tomorrow I'm going to a wedding. Next week I'll be getting ready to teach my classes and picking crabapples. These are all very good things. I need to think about them. I need to remember I'm supposed to keep living. I need to stop getting caught up in things that happened a long time ago. I need to stop crying about things that don't matter anymore.

I think I can do this.

Today I filed an official report. Jeff was to be contacted, as well, so that he could file his report. There is no statute of limitations. The most serious charge that can be filed (and this would be a longshot) is fourth degree sexual assault.

I don't want to do this. It sucks.

Balancing

I'm having lots of ups and downs lately. Stress does that to me.

Father-in-law went home yesterday. Adam was the last one to leave for work and it occurred to me that I was alone in my home for the first time in a couple of weeks. I'm not saying for sure, but I might have done a little dancing while singing loudly. It's also possible that I had my first talking-to-myself session in awhile. I'm a pretty fun person to talk to. I like me. And there is a slight chance that I ate a weird snack in my living room while reciting a poem with my mouth full.

Running is wonderful. Today I hit 21 minutes of intervals. I'm not supposed to do more. Possibly I run 3-5 minutes successively while I'm supposed to be cooling down, but that's against the rules. But if I did that, it would make make me very happy. I'm usually happy when I'm finished running. I have to maintain this until Wednesday, at which point I'm allowed to go to a 1:1 minute ratio of running/walking which will last for another week and a half.

My physical therapist had this conversation with me last Monday:

PT: You've not been able to run regularly for more than two years now. Running-- building up to running can feel really awful.
me (staring at her blankly): Really? I've never done that before.
PT: You've never had to build up your running stamina?
me: No. Except for the time recently when my hip stopped working, I've always run. I don't remember a time when I didn't.
PT: Well, there's a good chance this is going to suck then.

And then we went over the red/yellow/green signs of pain.

Perhaps because I ran about six elliptical miles at an 8-10 mph pace prior to surgery (and I've worked back up to that now), I've felt no cardiovascular discomfort. The one-minute intervals feel effortless (seriously, one minute? Everyone in the world can run that!). I've been doing them at 5-7 mph because PT told me not to go too fast, but I'm anxious to run more, and a slower pace feels ridiculous. I've had no stiffness nor soreness after the first day. I'm guessing my hip had to process the fact that things were a little different, and now that we've made it through that, all is fine. I feel like I never stopped running at all.

This has been very helpful as PTSD presents itself. I don't have energy stored up inside. Energy seems to feed the PTSD symptoms. There have been plenty of negative and difficult feelings, but I'm coping with them fairly well.

These are all good things.

Things I'm not sure are good:
1. I don't feel lonely anymore. Ever. Don't get me wrong. I don't think loneliness is something to strive for, but missing people--wanting people-- seems like a healthy thing when it happens at a low level. It reminds me that I'm not alone and that I need people in my life. But right now I don't feel that. It's not the "I don't care about people anymore" feeling that I sometimes experience. It's more a feeling that people are really nice, and I like them--even love them, but I'm fine if they don't contact me or visit. I know this makes me seem... actually, I don't know how it makes me seem. But it does seem a bit out of character for me. I might ponder this a little bit and decide if it matters.

2. I'm not finished with my syllabi, nor my lesson plans, nor have I downloaded music or visited the wreck of our fine arts center as it goes through a remodel. Actually, I haven't started writing even one syllabus. I have 2 weeks to get those things done. My Intro to Music class is full (150 students). This is nuts. I'm pretty sure no one should ever teach this many students at once. I haven't done it since I was in grad school.

3. I agreed to play the organ every other week in church. I hate playing the organ.

4. I need flowers. Daily. And chocolate. I don't remember wanting those things as often nor as forcefully as I do now, and have done for the past few weeks. It's a little weird.

5. I did cartwheels on Monday this week. I asked my PT first. She gave me a weird look and said I could if I wanted to...in a tone that suggested no one would want to. So I did. But since then I've been wondering why I want to. Most of the people I know don't really want to do cartwheels, but then again, most of them haven't had a hip replaced. Maybe you only want to do cartwheels if you have a fake hip.

6. After nine months of being clean, my cousin Jeff relapsed. This week. I saw him Wednesday. He was drunk within three hours of our visit. I'm not sure he's been sober since. This was our text conversation late last night:

Jeff: It was dark and musty smelling and I never slept.
me: I'm sorry. I'm sorry the memories hurt so much. Do you need to talk?
Jeff: I am losing it and I am drinking...
me: I know. I love you, Jeff.
Jeff: How?
me: How do I love you?
Jeff: How do you love me, and how do I go on?
me: I love you because I know you. I know the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. I will always love you. Going on is the hard part. You're feeling some scary, awful stuff right now. You won't always feel it. You do need to get some help.

He didn't answer after that. I don't know what happened. I don't need to know. This hurts me more than I like to admit. Every word Jeff shares triggers a similar memory for me. Then I get to sort through all the aftermath.

So part of me is doing very well, and part of me feels awful. I don't know how to deal with the awful part. I wonder if I don't feel lonely because there is a persistent feeling that it's pointless to feel that. It is very difficult to battle the belief that Jeff and I were, and are, and will always be alone. Not physically, but emotionally. There is also a very strong feeling that people have tried to reach us, to help us, to love us-- and we used them all up. They have different people to reach and help and love now, and it's time for Jeff and I to become independent-- to figure things out on our own.

But I can't. I can't figure it out. I need a hug tonight, and I need someone to tell me it's going to be okay.

Running Again

Yup. I am.

Right now I'm still learning to use my new hip and I'm limited to using the treadmill-- one minute running/two minutes walking, no more than 10 minutes daily, but I don't care. I'm running. Three weeks from today, the goal is to double my time with a 1/1 ratio, at which point I'll be evaluated to see how this is effecting bionicness.

I can't even express how happy this makes me. Picture me smiling because I am.

Maybe when I'm 80 I'll understand.

My father-in-law does nothing. I'm pretty sure he wants to do something, but unless someone suggests it, he does nothing. On Saturday he asked us when we attend church on Sunday. We told him 9:00 a.m. Then we got up and went to church. FIL is not a member of our church and has, in the past, been more than a little antagonistic about our membership and attendance. When I got home, FIL said in a voice that meant he was miffed that I had not invited him, "Sometimes I go to church with Darrin's sister."

Now I ask you, how am I supposed to know he wants to go? Definitely, I'm at fault for not using my hostess skills and inviting him even when I assumed he didn't want to go. The invitation should still have been extended, but sometimes it's okay to TELL ME WHAT YOU'RE THINKING!

Sigh...

So today was packed. I had 30 minutes of down time between 5 a.m. and midnight. That's a long workday even for me. And FIL just sat on the couch for eight hours until Darrin came home at 5:00-- at which time FIL asked if Darrin would take him to Safeway. This is a good thing because if I had been asked to do the Safeway trip, there would have been no downtime for me today. But still, how does he sit on the couch for that long. I'm assuming naps were involved.

Tomorrow I have scheduled an hour to go with him to do some legal stuff involving his estate. But that's all. My day tomorrow looks very much like today--although it's sort of already tomorrow since it's after midnight. I think I might go sleep.

Today I went shopping with my father-in-law

Darrin is the youngest in his family. I am one of the oldest. My dad is in his late 60s. Darrin's dad is ancient.

Because of his ancientness, and four heart attacks, and a stroke, FIL opted for one of those riding scooters at the store. He walks S-L-O-W-L-Y. But the riding scooters always seem to be agonizingly slow, as well. However, not when my FIL is driving.

After nearly hitting about six shoppers because they weren't walking quickly enough, I suggested that my FIL give pedestrians the right of way. This was met with a chilly reception. FIL tried to leave me behind, giving that electric scooter all the juice he could. Fortunately (or unfortunately, if you're viewing this from my FIL's point of view), I'm a pretty fast walker and didn't get left behind. FIL continued to make walking shoppers leap out of the way, and then played chicken with another scooter driver. He won.

FIL will be here for seven more days. Pray for me.

Putting myself in time-out

Because sometimes when I'm unable to manage PTSD (not even close to "managing" right now), I think about weird things, and imagine weirder ones. And, of course, all of those things involve how I feel about people in my life and are completely irrational. That does not mean I don't feel those things deeply and seriously. It does mean that I feel completely crazy pretty much all the time.

I felt this coming on a month ago. I had hoped that getting away with friends and family would help, and it sort of did. For about a week. I've not had time to follow my routine that helps me keep my insane feelings in check. My schedule has been unpredictable and too busy for someone like me. I have been known to fill my schedule with things, so as to avoid any time that would allow me to brood or sulk or think too much. But those are things I choose myself. The things that make me busy right now are not of my choosing, which adds to the sense of losing control and leads to thoughts about people which make no sense, but feel completely logical.

So I need a time-out. Having an online presence exacerbates the intensity and frequency of the feelings. That will be gone for awhile. I need my communication to happen in person so that I can better understand nuance and not misinterpret intent or assume incorrect things about the person speaking. Email is also a good venue. It allows me time to think while I read and offers me an opportunity to sort through the crappy thoughts that insist on being in my head. Before I reply, I can at least acknowledge that I'm insane. Phone is also an option. Hearing a voice behind the words helps me. No one likes to talk on the phone anymore. I get that. But since I usually don't expect communication from anyone, that's not relevant. And quite honestly, at this point I would rather not communicate at all than become a victim of myself.

I've stocked up on books. Today I started running again. I have work enough to do. I'll probably blog a bit because shouting at the cosmos seems to appeal to me. I'm guessing this will be a short time-out of just a few months. I'm thinking I'll let myself leave it next spring.

Enough

Years ago I was in the pediatrician's office, waiting for my child to be called to an exam room. I was pretending to read a magazine. I sort of hate magazines. When boredom and waiting force me to read something I hate, I begin reading at the end and go towards the front. For some reason this makes me feel less grumpy about reading it. So I was reading the end of the magazine - the part with all the ads and classifieds and partial recipes and shopping information for things I would never in a million years want or need - and something caught my eye. It was a vacation ad for the islands off the coast of Maine. For two weeks one could kayak from island to island. Nights would be spent at an island bed and breakfast, meals and lodging were part of the package. In short-- an outdoor adventure during the day with a hot meal and comfortable room at night. This is my kind of camping.

When I got home from the appointment I couldn't stop thinking about that advertisement. At the time, Darrin and I had quite a bit of disposable income. The price was reasonable, we had never taken a vacation of that duration together since the kids had been born, and I wanted to do it. I talked about it with Darrin that night. To my disappointment, rather than sharing my excitement, Darrin listed 100 reasons why we shouldn't go. Among those were concern about competent child care and ability to get time off. Those were valid. I agreed with him. All Darrin's other reasons were, in my opinion, silly: Maine was too far away; if we were going to spend that much money, he'd rather just take the kids and visit family in NYC; he didn't want to eat seafood...

I looked at him for a moment, wondering what was happening. Then I realized he simply did not want to go on my vacation. What I had chosen didn't appeal to him. He didn't want to go to Maine, he didn't want to go kayaking, didn't want to risk staying at a B&B or eat meals that came with a prepackaged vacation. But most of all, he wanted to plan the vacation himself.

This has been a chronic problem for Darrin and I. When it comes to decisions involving a lot of money, like buying a car or planning a pricey vacation, Darrin objects to anything I choose without him. In the end, we usually end up with my choice anyway because I don't just choose on a whim. I research and haggle and find great prices, and Darrin is all about getting a great deal-- but he objects on principle because I didn't include him in all that.

So I asked Darrin to help me plan a vacation and we ended up spending about $150 to take the family to a reunion and stay with my parents and siblings (and their families) in our old home on the other side of the state. Not really a vacation for me, since that house has a lot of very ugly memories and I spent my time taking care of kids and juggling family politics. I really wanted my kayak time.

I didn't forget. In the past, when I've come up with an idea for Darrin and I to spend time together, if he's not shown reciprocal interest, I've given up the idea. It's not fun to spend time with someone who doesn't want to be there. But this time, I really wanted my vacation.

When I began seeing Therapist, one of his observations was that I was very independent at work, in my parenting skills, and in my personal life, but when it came to my interaction with Darrin I was no longer sure of myself. I often compromised things that I wanted in order to assure his comfort and ease. That is not to say that we never argued-- but that usually happened when I had compromised to the point that I felt my needs were completely ignored (interestingly, Darrin has often felt that he compromises to that same extent with me). When I could no longer tolerate the feeling that I was completely at the mercy of what Darrin wanted, a huge fight ensued, sending my children running for cover and leaving Darrin wondering who he had married. These things happen. Fortunately, for us, they haven't happened very often.

So Therapist and Darrin and I had some conversations where we talked about alternative ways to make decisions. Therapist said a compromise usually involves giving on both side, so what I was doing was not compromise but capitulation. That was not something I wished to hear. Nor did Darrin. Then Therapist told us that Darrin and I are both great capitulators, but not great compromisors. We needed to switch gears, say more words about why things were important to us when a conflict arose, and allow each other alone time to pursue the things that one of us enjoyed (cars for Darrin), but the other did not (running/working out/kayaking for me).

That made complete sense to Darrin and me. And we spent five years honing our skills and strengthening our marriage. But in the process, some things happened to me.
1. I stopped being emotionally dependent on my husband.
2. I took the first solo trip of my life and spent a week on the road, visiting friends and being alone.
3. We needed a car. Darrin said I could choose - so I did. As was his habit, he found a different car he thought would be better. I stood my ground, reminded him he said I could choose (and that my car had nearly 80,000 fewer miles and was $4000 cheaper and I WANTED that dent in the bumper), and Darrin remembered that sometimes I can make decisions without him. We bought the car I had chosen. I felt rather empowered going through the process of researching what I wanted, finding the vehicle and setting the price.
4. I began spending some of my free time with people other than Darrin. I invited friends to lunch with me. I planned alone time. I didn't allow myself to feel guilt when my social life blossomed and Darrin was left to fill some of his with things he wished to do. The fact that he didn't choose to fill that new time was not my fault.

In short, I became a whole person without Darrin. I still wanted him. I was still in love with him. I just didn't NEED him all the time. And I was much happier.

On the other hand, Darrin had to deal with a loss. I wasn't always there when he wanted me. Sometimes I just said no when he asked me to do something and I had too much to do. Often I asserted my needs or wants, reminding him that mine were equally as important as his. Darrin supported me in this. He understood why it needed to happen. But it was still uncomfortable for him.

 So one day, when I was with a someone-not-Darrin, I talked about my Maine kayaking vacation and asked that person if she would like to come with me. She said, "YES! That sounds amazing!" And I decided that I was going to go one day, with or without Darrin. He said he was fine with that.

That was three years ago.

Last week, as we were traveling, Darrin was sharing his bucket list with me. A day or two later he said, "You didn't tell me the things on your bucket list." I actually had shared some with him, and I reminded him. He wanted to know what I hadn't shared. I said, "Well, most of what's left are things I like to do, but you don't." He wanted me to name one. So I mentioned the kayak vacation. Darrin was quiet for a minute. Then he said, "I'd like to do that with you."

Therapist told me a long time ago that this would happen. He said that Darrin and I both harbor fears that we're not enough for each other-- which is why we sometimes argue even when we don't know why. We feel insecure. We need to reestablish the status quo. We don't know how to say, "This makes me feel vulnerable." And the truth is, we're not "enough" for each other. One person can never fill another's needs completely. But we ARE enough in the sense that we don't have to do more, or be more, or have more, to be the person each of us chooses. Every time.

Darrin does not want to go kayaking in Maine. But he does want to be with me. And that's enough.

Learning to love like a normal person

I am a hoarder.

Not in the normal sense of the word-- I hate clutter and I don't collect things. I routinely sort and purge my belongings. But I hoard messages.

I believe this began when I was trying to connect with people outside of my family. When that connection happened, it was magical to me. I wanted to keep it, remember it. Because of this need to keep messages, I routinely receive the warning on my cell phone that I've run out of room in my text messages, I have thousands of conversations in my chat history, and countless emails from people I love that have been collecting in my inbox for nearly a decade.

I've been thinking for the past few months, though, that I cling to those things and those people more than is prudent. Earlier this month I spoke with someone about growing past the part of my life when we were bonding. It's a weird concept, but I really do wish to remain in that place when we were excited about learning about one another and an email or chat or text message was not mundane. Growing past that place is a little bit scary and for me, causes a bit of heartache. I can't really explain it.

After my conversation with that person, however, I made a goal to move forward. I've been purging my emailbox and my chat history. Yesterday I made the final step and erased all my text messages. I think I kept some of those things because in them words of love and support were expressed. I needed those words. Sometimes I still do. Often I do. But it's time for me to understand that those were spoken in a time when the person sending the message was involved with me. Most of those people no longer are or are involved in a more casual way. And reading words written in the past by someone who no longer cares for me in the same way is pointless. The words need to be relevant now.

I admit that when PTSD symptoms have been emphatically reminding me that I am alone and irrelevant, reading those past chat conversations/emails/texts have helped me remain grounded, reminded me that there was a time when someone said I was important and loved. But now all I see  is the date stamp on those messages. They happened a long time ago.

Darrin tells me every day that he loves me. I don't believe he's missed a day since we were married, and that's a lot of love messages. I don't get tired of hearing it. I believe I never will. Because of the transient nature of people and relationships, a deeply felt, "I love you," is incredibly meaningful to me. My sister said it to me two days ago. Boo and Blueyedane said it to me yesterday. My children say it daily. I need to hear it. A lot.

Maybe I'm the only one in the world like this. Maybe everyone else hears it once and believes it  forever. I'm not really that kind of a person-- probably I will never be that kind of a person. I need to be reminded. I need to demonstrate love to others and receive it in return. If  you say you care about me and then I don't see or hear from you for a few months, probably I don't believe you.

I think I kept those messages because my natural inclination is to just move on when people no longer respond to me. And I do that very thoroughly. I emotionally eliminate people. It isn't malicious, but rather, methodical and logical. It just makes sense. I don't really have a lot of time, so I want to spend it with people who want to be with me. In my past, though, I was eliminating people so efficiently that I wasn't bonding with them at all. Trust issues, of course, facilitated this. I wanted to change that part of my life and learn to trust people. But that involves the painful recognition that some of the people I bond with will not bond with me, or will allow the bond to weaken when I wish to keep it strong. It's not easy.

I'm trying to connect all that I've written here about my hoarding of words from people I love, and I'm having difficulty explaining myself. I guess I wanted to keep them-- the people, not the messages. The messages were a link to remembering what we had, love and laughter we shared as we learned about and got used to each other. When the messages came less often, I found myself  strenuously clinging to the old ones. It's a little embarrassing how much I wanted things to remain. I wanted PEOPLE to remain. But the truth is, once all the layers are removed and people see who you really are, some of them leave. There are many reasons for this: boredom, life events, transference of love to another person, but regardless of the reason, the end result is the same. Some people leave or lessen the bond previously shared. I didn't want to face or accept that.

However, not wanting something has never deterred me from learning to accept it. Sometimes it takes a great deal of time, but I do it. Accepting the inevitable is actually something I do rather well. I've been working on moving forward, accepting the losses, and embracing the changes. I've acknowledged that I didn't want those, but I have to allow my relationship counterparts to want them. I've spoken to those who are closest to me, apologized for not wanting to move forward and for any grouchiness or resentment I may have felt as they moved on and I tried to remain stagnant.

So the final step was to say goodby to the past and remove the tangible reminders, and I've done that. They're gone. Perhaps now I'll be free to move forward, too. But from some of the people I kept just one message. I chose one that helped me in a time when I was very stressed, or sad, or frustrated; a time when I felt valueless and unloved and they reminded me that I was not. I think it doesn't matter if they don't feel that way anymore. They did when they reminded me. I think it's okay to remember that.

Therapist

Therapist sent me an email today. Part of the email was this sentence, "What I want you to know is that you have inspired me with the work you've put into your life / happiness."

It's funny, when I first met Therapist I knew he would help me-- not in the cookie cutter, do-these-therapy-assigments, take these steps then you'll be better, kind of way-- but he would help me by allowing me to figure things out for myself. He would, within reason, allow me to have control over the course my therapy would take. He would let me be the person I am while allowing me to become the person I needed to be. I knew this. I wasn't wrong.

Therapist would challenge me when I was wrong, empathize when I was sad, and encourage me as I sought unconventional ways to find answers and peace. He welcomed the people I brought with me and helped them understand the best ways to support me. I have been working with Therapist for many, many years-- probably too many. I think most people would have gotten tired long before I did, or been satisfied with results before I was. I think Therapist was frustrated with me much of the time as I asked the same questions, wept repeatedly about the same problems, and laughed at him when he suggested things he thought would be helpful. But even when I laughed, I still considered his suggestions and often I tried them, as well. Because he was Therapist and I knew he would help me.

I find myself, years later, finally able to do some of the assignments he asked me to do. Better late than never? It's just that I was too afraid when he asked. I needed to be more brave and more strong and more ME. But I didn't forget. I remember most of what we've discussed. I don't know how to forget.

I've known Therapist a little bit longer than I've known Tolkien Boy and not quite as long as I've known Josh and AtP. Tolkien Boy and AtP have accompanied me to therapy sessions. Tolkien Boy has joined me in a few. AtP has patiently waited for me in the lobby. One time Therapist asked me how I could doubt that the people in my life care about me. I said I didn't doubt it. I just didn't trust them. Therapist said you can trust people who go to therapy with you and wait until you're done-- the ones who know you'll be an emotional mess after the session, and who will stay with you anyway. I still didn't trust them, but I believed Therapist and I worked on learning how to trust. Sometimes, in recent years, I've almost felt that I could do that trust thing for a few seconds at a time.

Therapist says he learns from me when I come. I'm pretty sure what he learns is that I'm stubborn and aggravating and arguing with me is destined to end up with both of us giggling. I think he also learns that not everyone fits into a mold, and some of us refuse to fit simply because we're willful and spiteful. And he learns that even if I don't know who I am, or how to feel, or what to say, I'll still smile at him and say something that will make him smile back, because if I'm going to spend that much time and money just to talk with someone, we need to like each other.

One time Therapist told me that I've made him rethink a number of beliefs he's held about several different things. I told him he's done the same thing for me. He said, "Well, that's my job." I said, "Yes. Good thing you do it so well." He told me I was a good person. I told him he was, too. He said, "I'm really glad things didn't work out with your other therapists and that you decided having a male therapist would be okay." I said, "I am of the opinion that no one should stop therapist-shopping until they have found just the right fit." He agreed.

Therapist is my friend. This means that we have seen each other very often for a period of time, shared thoughts and ideas, and spent time together. And now it's time for us to not be together as often, not talk as frequently, and learn to live independently of each other. Well, that last part pertains only to me, but I like to think Therapist will miss me. I'm glad he thought of me today and that he told me so when he sent me an email. I don't really care about inspiring him, but it's nice to know I'm not forgotten.

Strategic Withdrawal

I have been blogging more than eight years. This blog, Beautiful World, is and extension of another blog, Magical World, which I began in March of 2006. I have other blogs, some of which are private, some which are dead, and a couple under my real name which sporadically live and die depending on my time demands. My reasons for blogging as "Samantha" are varied.

1. There was a fellow blogger I wanted to meet, so I fashioned Magical World after his template. I had questions for him. We met and talked via our blogs. He ended his blog a few months later. We continued to correspond through email for about a year. Then he disappeared from my life.

2. I wanted to meet other bloggers who were in similar marital arrangements to my own (i.e. mixed-orientation spouses). We corresponded through our blogs, then moved to chatting online. Most of the blogs that then existed are now gone. Some of the marriages are, as well. I still communicate with a number of the people I met. A few have become close friends.

3. I wanted a place to express what was happening to me as I went through therapy. Blogging served that purpose and seeing my thoughts and feelings written allowed me to work through a number of issues as they appeared. Today I see Therapist on an as-needed basis. Most of the time we communicate through chat or email (something I could never do a couple of years ago). I don't know that I will see him again in person, but I might continue to write about things I need to work on or work through. I don't know that the writing will take place in this blog, however.

4. I needed to talk about my experience with rape and abuse in a place where other people could see it. I didn't necessarily want people to read my blog, I just wanted my story out there, visible, no longer hidden. Initially, I had no desire for anyone who knew who I was to connect the truths on this blog with me in real life. Blogging under a pseudonym allowed me to speak with impunity. Today I don't care if people know what happened to me. I say it sometimes to friends or family members or even people I don't really know. I wrote a Facebook post about it, inviting all who have known me (some for all, or most, of my life) to understand a bit more about who I am and what I have been working on for the past decade. I no longer need a pseudonym.

I have had difficulty with shifting identity. A few months after I started this blog, I found myself BEING Samantha. I lived on a blog. My social circle consisted of people I had never met. My real life felt imaginary unless I blogged about it--and I blogged daily. I registered on social media and other online sites with the pseudonym. I purchased items online, created email accounts, and commented on other blogs under my pseudonym, feeling comfortable and at home in that persona. When Samantha borrowed a friend's birthday so I could play an online game I recognized the unhealthiness of the situation. There was no need for anonymity in that case. I was registering as Samantha simply because I was online and since she needed a birthday... Yeah, the insanity was beginining.

Knowing I needed to get back to MY life, I decided I needed to schedule more offline time. I made certain I was outside more, or practicing, or spending time with my family. I took steps to meet the people I communicated with most often. Most of the time we chatted online for a week or so, then we spoke on the phone or met in person. The feeling of being Samantha persisted for more than three years.

When I finally finished my integration work, I had included a segment I did not talk about here--that of learning how to recognize and really FEEL that Samantha was an extension of me, a persona created for blogging, but not really the entirety of my existence. I am Samantha in the sense that I write this blog and I experience the things I write about, but that is not my real name nor my reality. In a sense, I had to work backward. The integration purpose was to incorporate parts of my persona that I had separated and withdrawn from in the past. But with this, I had to recognize that my life existed outside my blog and was real regardless of how many people noticed or commented on it. In essence, I had to withdraw from my blog persona, recognize that this was a pseudonym, and allow Samantha to be a part of me, but not all of me. I know--I'm whole lot of crazy, but there it is.

Today I am older. My children have grown up; much of their growing up time has been recorded on my blogs. As they have gotten older, I have drafted many of the posts that they might feel self-conscious about. I want to respect their privacy. It's interesting that when blog readers meet my children now, they often feel that they watched them go from adolescents to adults--that they have known them for years even though they may have only just met. Blogging is an oddity in that it allows a sense of intimacy and community between complete strangers.

Most of the blogs I began reading years ago are now gone. Mine has continued to exist purely to serve me as I needed a place to write and work through issues linked to PTSD. I continue to write, but I no longer do so every day. Samantha becomes less real as time progresses, and when people refer to me by my pseudonym, it sometimes takes me a moment to register what we are talking about.

Today I feel a great deal of distance in the relationships that were created online. I'm guessing that's just a symptom of what I'm going through right now. I'm hopeful that those who are involved in my life will help me a little bit. Therapist would say I'm emotionally depleted. Darrin would agree, as would DJ, Adam, and Tabitha. And Samantha. But I don't know what "help me a little bit" means. That sentence stems from a conversation with Therapist a few years ago:

Therapist: That's called emotional depletion.
me: No emotions? I've experienced that much of my life.
Therapist: This is a little bit different. Emotional depletion occurs when you expend a lot of energy with people who seem to need a great deal and/or when a lot of things that affect you deeply occur simultaneously. 
me: Okay, that's what's been happening. How do I fix it?
Therapist: Sam, you don't have to fix everything.
me: This seems to be something that needs to be fixed. Being emotionally depleted does not sound healthy.
Therapist: I think it's just a state of being. Give yourself time. Rest. Be with people who help you feel relaxed, accepted, and loved. Your emotions will balance out eventually.
me: I'd rather just fix it.
Therapist: I'm not surprised. It doesn't work that way. 
me: The "be with people" thing-- I'm pretty sure that's not a good idea for me right now.
Therapist: Why?
me: Because when I'm with people I feel like I have to be engaging or listening or building them somehow. And I like doing those things, but right now it sounds exhausting.
Therapist: Because you're emotionally depleted.
me: I guess.
Therapist: Actually, Sam, being with people - the right people - will help your emotions stabilize more quickly than time will. 
me: I don't agree.
Therapist: Why not?
me: It still sounds exhausting.
Therapist: You know, you don't always have to be the one "helping". Sometimes you can ask other people for help. You can tell them you're tired, or emotionally spent. Maybe you just need a hug or some quiet time sitting with someone who loves you. Maybe you need to let someone else make dinner or do the dishes or read the story. Maybe in these times you need to say, "Can you help me a little bit? I'm having trouble feeling. I think I need someone to say it's okay, and that they love me. Maybe I need someone to take care of me for just a minute."
me: I don't think I can do that.
Therapist: Work on it. 
me: I'd rather not.
Therapist: I know.

So I actually have worked on it. I'm not good at it. I don't believe anyone is good at it, which is why we have passive aggression and emotional manipulation. Needs aren't being met, emotions are spent, so unhealthy tactics are employed to get the things we need from other people. I'm not really good at passive aggression or emotional manipulation. But I'm also not good at saying I need some TLC because I'm a little bit fragile right now. Mostly I just stay away from people and let time work its magic because time doesn't care if we use it and people do.

Dodging a Bullet

I got home from New York to find a letter and five phone messages letting me know that my mammogram screening showed a problem and I needed to schedule further testing right away, which I did not do. I arrived home on a Friday night and left at three the following morning for Utah, where I spend the next four days. Monday morning I called to make my appointment. This is what was said:

Me: I received a notice that I need to schedule more tests following my mammogram.

Hospital Person: Name, please.

Me: Samantha Stevens

(pause for about 10 seconds, which is a very, very long time during a phone conversation)

Hospital Person: How soon can you come in this morning?

Me: Actually, I can't. I'm out of town and won't be back until tomorrow night. May I schedule it on Wednesday?

Hospital Person: Could you possibly come home a day early? We could schedule you tomorrow.

Me: No. How about Wednesday?

(pause for about 10 seconds, which is a very, very long time during a phone conversation)

Hospital Person: Well, we got your test results more than two weeks ago and we'd really like to get you in as soon as possible, but if you won't be back until Wednesday, we'll go ahead and schedule on that day.

Me: Thanks.

Hospital Person: How early can you come in Wednesday morning? 

Me: I have a dental appointment at 8:30. I could come in before or after that.

Hospital Person: Hmmm... probably we'll have you do both. There are a couple of tests to run, so you can do one at 7 (is that too early?) and one at 10:00.

Me: No, that's not too early. I'll see you then.

It was sort of a stressful conversation.

I arrived bright and early at the hospital on Wednesday morning. The check-in person was waiting for me (apparently you have to have a hospital bracelet and all sorts of stickers and paperwork when you go back in for tests after a mammogram). She got my signature a million times, then took me to radiology where they were also waiting for me. I was ushered through a packed waiting room (Yes, people really get up that early to go to radiology for tests. I was a little shocked.), directly to the nurse who escorted me here and there and I was poked and prodded and squished for an hour, at which point I left for the dentist.

I arrived at my dental appointment where I was supposed to have a lost filling replaced. The receptionist welcomed me, then said, "Your appointment is at 10:30." I looked at my phone which told me my appointment was at 8:30. Then I said, "I like to be early." She laughed and asked if I wanted to wait at home. I explained that I was due back at the hospital at 10:00 for more tests following my mammogram. She said she'd see if they could fit me in. They could. I left 40 minutes later with a new filling.

I arrived at the hospital with my bracelet still intact, and was directed back to radiology where I was once again poked, prodded, and squished, then told to wait. My results from all tests were back in 20 minutes, along with a clean bill of health and the following explanation: Because my mother is a breast cancer survivor, any possible abnormalities--any change in the tissue, regardless of how small--will require further tests to rule out cancer. This year they found a tiny spot that seemed slightly larger than it was last year, which triggered the need for more tests.

So I'm fine. But I'm also kind of tired of medical drama in my life. Actually, I'm kind of tired of everything right now. I socialized nonstop for more than 2 weeks--and it was lovely. I saw people I've not seen for eight years and met young cousins who were born during my absence. I spend time with people I love in Utah. I overcame jet lag and lack of sleep. But I'm still tired. Life feels sort of grueling. Probably the medical stress and dental visit didn't help.

Darrin asked me what I need, but I'm not sure. There is a decided lack of interest in people and work and, well, everything. He thought I would be more stressed about the problematic mammogram and follow-up tests, and is concerned that I didn't really care. I sort of don't care that he's worried, either.

Sigh. I'm guessing everyone goes through this at times and it will pass. Darrin thinks my visit with Jeff triggered this. He says when I spend time with my cousin, I usually come home feeling this way. Darrin believes it's linked to the fact that Jeff and I lost so much due to our abusive cousin and it's overwhelming to me. That could be true. I just know that the thought of talking to people, spending time with anyone, just makes me tired and I don't want to. Also, I don't have cancer.

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.