Definitions

Tabitha: There's a boy in the seventh grade who's from Mexico. He doesn't speak much English. So Gabriela's little sister has to follow him around and translate for him.

Me: That doesn't sound right. He should have a paraprofessional of some sort assigned to him. 

Tabitha: Well, usually Bishop Rinehardt goes with him and translates.

Me: I thought Bishop Rinehardt was a math teacher.

Tabitha: He is. But he also speaks Spanish.

Me: Really? I didn't know that!

Tabitha: Mom!! He's the transient bishop!!

Me: Yes, he is.

Tabitha: So??? That means he speaks Spanish.

Me: Tabitha, do you know what "transient" means?

Tabitha: Nope!

Me: I didn't think so.

Tabitha

Tabitha: Oh, by the way, Mom, we're having New Beginnings tomorrow night. I have a part on the program. You can come if you want to.

Me: Really? Am I invited?

Tabitha: Yeah. Parents are supposed to attend.

Me: Why haven't I heard anything about this before now?

Tabitha (looking sheepish): Ummm...I'm supposed to give you an invitation?

Me: That would be good. Where's the invitation?

Tabitha: Somewhere in my room.

Me: Okay, nevermind.

Tabitha: I'll find it!

Two hours later I am presented with a somewhat crumpled but still legible invitation. 

Tabitha: You don't have to come if you're busy.

Me: I'll come.

Tabitha: Oh, good. Sorry about the short notice.

Me: What else is in your room that you've forgotten to give me.

Tabitha: Nothing. I promise. Except, I borrowed your black shirt again. And your tank top. And your skirt.

Me: I see. Make sure they're in the laundry by 8:00 tonight?

Tabitha: Deal.

Proof that one needs more sleep

1. Newly invented words like "slusters" and "gental" make complete sense.

2. Mythical creatures appear in one's peripheral vision.

3. "Privacy Policy" looks like "Hokey Pokey". 

I gotta take a nap.

Adam...sigh...

Adam is my child most like me in temperament. There are some physical characteristics that only he and I share, as well: earlobes connected at the base, eyes that squintily disappear when we laugh (and sometimes when we smile), and hand shape (square palms). We have similar senses of humor, but I don't believe the boy shares the tiniest percent of my logic. He has an affinity for both math and language, as I do, and we both are lamentable when it comes to world geography. I'm can guess with a 10 - 15% margin of error, what he's thinking, planning, or doing, which has led Adam to believe that I have some sort of supernatural powers. Perhaps he's right.

Adam turned fifteen this month. He's old enough to obtain a driving permit. He had thought I would just take him to the DMV and allow him to take the test, and then he could start driving. He should have known better.

My children have been raised with the knowledge that privileges are earned and can be removed, should irresponsibility in the area of any specific privilege manifest itself. Adam forgot that driving is a privilege. He forgot that in order for me to trust him behind the wheel of my car, I have to be able to trust him in all areas of his regular life. And he has to show me that he is able to be responsible for himself before I'll allow him to drive--which in essence makes him responsible for the safety of himself, passengers, pedestrians, and other drivers (I know you're all wishing that you had been present for this particular imparting of information in lecture form). It is unfortunate that Adam forgot, because now he has a trial period in which he must show himself worthy of obtaining a driving permit. 

Things Adam must do before I take him to get the coveted item:

1. Get himself up in the morning--fifteen-year-olds who are responsible enough to drive, are also responsible to learn how to set an alarm and get up when it goes off. This item is also accompanied by the understanding that the early morning arousal will be timely enough to get Adam to seminary on time. When he has done this for three weeks, the prerequisite will be filled. However, if at any time after the permit has been obtained, I feel that he has stopped fulfilling this responsibility in a timely manner, the permit will be surrendered and all driving privileges suspended until I determine he has acted in such a way that would prove he is willing to take upon himself the responsibility once again.

2. Stop eating in his bedroom. We have two rooms in which it is permissible to eat: The dining room, and the family room. We eat occasionally in the family room if we watch a family movie during dinner, or if we have a snack while we play games or watch television. Once monthly, during group lessons, he is allowed to eat in my piano studio with the other students when I serve food to them. Eating in bedrooms is strictly prohibited for the following reasons:

a) My dishes start to disappear which is a source of incredible frustration.

b) Food trash goes into the bedroom waste basket and begins to decay, causing an awful smell which I cannot tolerate.

c) People identify eating with specific rooms--and when they enter those rooms, they feel an urge to eat regardless of whether or not they are hungry (if you don't believe me, walk into your kitchen right now and notice where your mind wanders--it will immediately wonder what you have to munch on in your cupboard or fridge). Eating should not be associated with bedrooms. Sleeping should be, and homework and relaxation, but not food. While this habit has nothing to do with driving, per se, it has enormous impact on my ability to trust that while he is learning to drive, Adam will not disregard my instructions. If he has difficulty obeying house rules, chances are he'll try to disobey the rules of the road--unacceptable from this instructor who will be riding in the passenger seat.

3. Maintain good grades (As and Bs only are acceptable) and plan to get a job to help offset the cost of insurance and gas consumption, vehicle maintenance and repair. My whole focus in raising my children is to help them learn independence. If they believe Mom and Dad will provide for all their needs indefinitely, that's a step in the wrong direction. If they wish to have driving privileges, they will need to shoulder driving responsibility. This includes fiscal responsibility. 

When presented with these guidelines last month, Adam enthusiastically agreed they were reasonable and well within his ability to achieve. Then the month progressed. Adam refused to get himself up for seminary, his grades overall were fine, but he persisted in getting Cs in health and teetering on the low B edge in English (because he's certain he can do everything at the last minute--bad idea). The immediate consequence for eating in his bedroom is one dishwasher loading for each utensil and dish I find in his room. He currently owes me five loads of clean dishes. 

I tightened the screws this week. I told him that at 6:30 every morning I would be doing one of the following: 

1. Driving Adam to seminary because he was ready on time (on his own steam, not because I awoke him and made him move).

2. Going for a run because I get an extra 10 minutes since Adam chose to stay in bed and not get ready.

He called my bluff this morning. At 6:25 Adam rolled out of bed. At 6:29 I called everyone for prayer. Adam blustered that he still had one minute and could definitely be ready in time. I rolled my eyes at him, said the prayer and got on my treadmill, telling Adam and Tabitha that I'd be driving kids to school at 7:30. 

At 6:40 Adam called, "See you, Mom! Have a good day!" And then he walked to seminary in a snowstorm. I've decided, since he got himself up and made it to seminary sort of on time, that I'll let him count today. After all, I have to make some concessions. I actually do want him to learn to drive.

1969 Scooby-Doo Where Are You? Intro

Today my kids and I spent four hours watching OLD cartoons and eating popcorn. I love Scooby Doo. So glad they have DVD's of cartoons that came out a million years ago.

Moments

I wonder about them. Each day seems to be defined by moments of delight, sadness, anger, fear...

I believe it's time for me to let some moments pass away. I've been clinging to them for a long time. It's difficult not to dwell on them when one is constantly reminded. But too often I have allowed myself to be governed by such memories and I have lost opportunities to enjoy current moments.

Not long ago I would stop in my tracks to take in a sunset. I have not done that for awhile. I've tried--I've even tried to share a sunrise or sunset with people I love. They don't see what I see. And how can they? They draw upon their own moments as they watch their surroundings. 

When I was young I would sit from the moment color stained the sky until it became the brilliant blue of a new day, or faded to the quietly peaceful blackness of night. In moments of despair I would fantasize that I was a part of it, intensifying in color and light until I was swallowed up by a blue or black expanse, untouchable, achingly beautiful, but only visible for a moment.

My daughter asked me once why I love blue flax flowers. I told her I loved the color, and they smelled good, which is certainly true, but my penchant for identifying with things non-human extends to that intense love for the flowers. They grow in the most unlikely, unwelcoming places. They spring up without abundant water, their flexible stems bend in high winds while five fragile petals cling to the tiny stigma. They grow in clusters of intense blue with an occasional deviant bunch of clean white. They survive hailstorms, flash floods, unseasonal snow and frost. But if plucked for a vase, within minutes the petals have fallen and the beauty is destroyed. 

I am like that. Determined to live regardless of the ugly moments. Surviving storms sent by life, enduring the coldness of random loneliness. Bending to adapt and thrive. Exhibiting the natural colors of my species while admitting to occasional deviance from the norm. But I cannot survive being plucked from my stem, moving from the roots of the convictions which sustain me.

I have spent the past two years reliving moments I wish to release. In the process, I have gathered moments of sweetness and sustenance from people I love, from my surroundings, from God. And yet, I talk only of the moments I do not wish to keep, without acknowledging the joy of the moments filled with laughter, embraces, gentle touches, encouragement, sympathy, and love. 

My blue flax is perennial. Some consider it a weed. Year after year it blooms. I've had a couple of barren springs. It's time to prepare to blossom once again.

Oh my goodness! The wind!!

I live in a windy place. I chose it partly because of the wind. I have chemical-induced asthma and living in valleys which trap smog and allow it to stay for days on end results in my being home bound until it finally begins to move out. When we lived in the Bay Area, there were sometimes weeks when I was unable to be outside for more than a few moments, and being indoors is depressing.

So--we chose a place which has perpetual air current, few people, no factories, little traffic...basically, a rural, windy, isolated community in which I could thrive. The result is that I've been free of an asthma attack for nearly fifteen years. My cardiovascular system has become so strong that I'm even able to visit places of poor air quality and I'm fine, usually, for a couple of days. If we stay longer I may have to use my inhaler a few times, but things are back to normal when we return home.

I love the freedom of being able to live without carrying an inhaler. I love clear lungs, uninterrupted sleep, and taking breathing for granted. However, biannually, for about three weeks, the lovely perpetual breeze becomes a howling wind. The first day is exhilarating. Everyone remarks about it and laughs. But by day four we're all out of sorts and wishing for the wind to blow itself out and leave us alone. Unfortunately, it takes longer than four days for that to happen.

Personally, I don't mind the strong winds. They don't usually pick up till around 10:00 a.m. and I've had my early morning run by that time. And they die down in the evening, so I can take a walk then if I choose. But right now the wind blows twenty-four hours, seven days a week. It disturbs our sleep, brings unusual presents into our yard, and is a general nuisance. At this point, the worst part is the noise. The incessant howling is throwing me into a generally bad temper. I've tried drowning it out with music and wearing ear plugs, but I know it's there, which is the same as  hearing it.

So I've been whining about the noise, and the cold, and all the other inconveniences of our windy weeks...and this morning at 7:30 a.m. the wind stopped. It's way too quiet. I detest white noise, and yet I find myself frantically doing laundry and running my dishwasher so the noise of the appliances will temper the silence. 

One would think I would just enjoy the relief. Perhaps tomorrow I will.

Yawn...

I am not a fanciful person. I love to read fantasy and fiction. I like to imagine things. But I'm very certain what is real and what is not. As least...I used to be.

I don't know what it's like when other people have flashbacks. I've heard some say there's a lead up--they can feel it coming. I don't have that luxury. They just happen. I've heard some people say there's a frightening, dreamlike quality to their flashbacks. Mine are not like that. When they happen, I'm there. They only last a few seconds, I'm guessing. But it feels that in those tiny moments I've just relived hours of agony. If  you're with me, you won't know. The only outward sign I give anymore, is that if I'm walking, I might pause and seem disoriented for a moment. If we're talking, I might be silent. I like the camouflage of being in a small group. It simply seems as if I'm listening, or thinking about what someone else just said. It truth, I'm regrouping, reminding myself where I am, who I'm with, telling my body the hurt isn't real, taking deep breaths, waiting for fear to subside.

But at night it's a different story. I've been lucky to have Darrin with me because I have difficulty returning to reality when the nightmares occur. In truth, they're no different from the flashbacks. Same subject matter, same after effects. But the difference is that I wake to darkness, disoriented, unable to figure out where I am  or who I'm with. I'm usually combative, but if Darrin talks to me, within about five minutes I understand that I'm in the here and now. The tremors that follow are more severe and last longer than those I get in daytime flashbacks. But I usually don't cry. It's difficult to get back to sleep, too. I don't want to have another nightmare. Sleep is not restful at that point, it's terrifying.

But now Darrin is gone. And he'll be gone for a long time. I had hoped, maybe, I'd be able to use the process I once relied on to direct my dreams--but I can't seem to. At this point I'm doubting that it ever worked at all--although I know it did, I'm just discouraged. Last night I awoke from a nightmare. It took me nearly half an hour to become cognizant of my surroundings and then I was still very afraid. I tried to call Darrin (it was about 11:00 p.m.). He was sleeping, probably, because he didn't answer his phone. I felt silly for trying to bother him, and tried to sleep again. Miraculously, I did fall asleep, only to have an encore session of the nightmare. This time, when I finally became coherent, it was 11:30 p.m. That's not very much time between scenes of terror. I should learn to space them better. 

I couldn't go back to sleep. I waited to calm down. It didn't happen. I tried to read, walked on my treadmill, folded laundry--all the while haunted by the things I see in my sleep. Finally, around 12:45 a.m. I thought I'd see if anyone was awake. I texted a couple of people in a different time zone, hoping they might still be up. No answer. Then I sat down and felt thoroughly sorry for myself because they were all getting the kind of rest I needed, but I couldn't go back to sleep. I knew what was lurking there. 

So...I worked. I'm still working now. And even though I'm very aware that nothing that presents itself in my head is real, that doesn't mean I want to look at it again. So I'm not sure that I'll sleep tonight, either. Darrin gets back on January 30th. I'm thinking I'll go to sleep then.

Sigh...

At the request of a persistent person, I've agreed to add labels. It may take me ten years.

Are you happy now?

It's not rocket science...more's the pity

This paragraph has nothing to do with my post topic:
Last night I was at a gathering with so many people I love--some of whom I haven't seen for awhile and only talked with sporadically over the past year. I've missed them--so if you were one of those with me last night, and I kept hugging you, just know that I'm making up for not being able to do it on a regular basis, and I love you. I also got to meet the parents of a friend, and they, Darrin, and I stayed up way too late talking and getting to know one another--I love doing that. Oh, and Danish Boy, I adore you, but I just have to say that picking me up off the ground when you hug me does not enhance my belief that I am Wonder Woman--in fact it makes me feel a bit less than super-heroine-ish, and it can't be good for your back. However, for one of your hugs, if that's a necessary component, I suppose I can sacrifice my all-powerful delusions for a few seconds. But I'm still worried about your back.

I was talking with Therapist a couple of months ago about some of the problems I have understanding people's motives as they interact with me. I'm suspicious when they're kind. I wonder if they're trying to hurt or deceive me in some way. These are not conscious thoughts, but feelings rumbling beneath the surface, and they usually only come into play when I don't feel in control of the relationship. I asked if I was a control freak. Therapist said no, I'm feeling the effects of PTSD, which often inhibit human interaction and relationships. He said that even though I seek out and allow intimacy in friendships and love relationships (and I do that, in his opinion, as a stubborn insistence that I will not allow myself to be controlled by a condition induced by my past), I still feel the symptoms such actions incite. That's beyond my control. And as as a result of feeling uneasy, I find myself acting in uncharacteristic ways sometimes.

I think he's probably right, but I asked him why I continue to have a core belief that I have nothing to contribute to any relationship. I've tried to rid myself of it, and all evidence points to the contrary, but it persists. Therapist believes this stems from messages I received as a child, and the sexual trauma I experienced sealed that belief in my heart. Low self-esteem and feelings of worthlessness are not uncommon in those who have experiences similar to mine. But the only place I feel those things are in interpersonal relationships. In the professional world, I feel powerful and capable. Socially, I don't worry about interacting with strangers (unless they touch me). But in times when I allow closeness with people I love, an inner battle takes place as my heart reminds my head that it's not good for them to be with me.

Obviously, I'm not listening to my heart, because I continue to seek out those I love. But I told Therapist that I don't understand why they stay. It makes sense to me that they would leave after awhile, but they don't. I recently visited a friend I had not seen nor spoken to for more than eight years. She told me she had missed me, asked why I disappeared, called me a liar when I made up an excuse, and listened to my labored explanation of what I've been through emotionally for the past decade. Then she insisted I hear of her harrowing experiences with an unfaithful husband, ugly divorce, molestation of one of her children (by a brother-in-law), and subsequent growth, blessings, and remarriage. Then she said, "Sam, don't disappear again. I needed you and you weren't there. I'll never not need you. I think, when you go through hard things, you should tell me, not stop talking." How about that. She forgave me for not being around when she needed me, then she invited me to stay in her life. Why?

I told Therapist I don't understand why people endure touch with me--especially Tolkien Boy who has had greater opportunity than others for such an experience. Therapist said if they don't draw back within sixty seconds, they're not enduring the touch, they're enjoying it. I told him I'm having difficulty understanding how people can enjoy touch from me. I even feel this in my interactions with Darrin. Any physical contact beyond holding his hand, kissing him briefly, or having his arm about me, is usually preceded by some sort of verbal "Is this okay?" from me. It's not that I feel I need permission to touch my husband, I just can't seem to make the leap into the belief that he actually wants and needs my touch and close proximity--even though my head knows he does.

I understand that I'm not explaining this well. I have difficulty verbalizing many of the dichotomous feelings and beliefs that live inside me. But Therapist knew what I was talking about, as he often does. He said, "I think you'll never understand why people want to have contact with you unless you ask them how they feel about it." I hate it when he says that. And I refused to do anything about his suggestion for nearly two months, although I made the attempt occasionally, got freaked out, and backed off sometimes to the point of not talking to anyone for a day or two.

But my need to know never goes away. And I finally got to the point where I had to know--and naturally, Tolkien Boy was my target because I talk to him often, he probably touches me as much as anyone else (excluding Darrin, of course, who should and does touch me more than any other person), and because I thought he might tell me, maybe. But I spent forever trying to ask the questions for which I wanted answers, and it was difficult. When I finally got to the point where I was coherently framing words, I believe what came out was something like this: "Why do you stay with me?" meaning, when we're physically together, why do you hold me when I'm upset or sad, or sometimes, neither, but just because we are together? He gave me the answers I knew he would...we're friends...he loves me... but I wanted more.

I said, "No. Why do you stay? What are you getting out of it?" That came out a bit more belligerently than I intended. But this was important to me. I had to know. His response was, "What are you getting out of it?" I was sure I'd told him on many occasions how I've been able to make connections, learn things about myself, and recognize that I could be empowered in intimate situations simply because he has taken the time to allow prolonged touch with me--the type that is uncolored by neediness, or sexuality, or haste. Just simple physical connection that endures longer than a brief hug. But he said I hadn't told him any benefits I gain from being with him in that way. So I began rattling off everything of importance to me that I gain in those circumstances--especially the amazing feelings of security, and being loved and valued just because I'm me. And when I was done he said simply, "And can you believe that those things you feel from me, I also feel from you?"

Therein lies the problem. I have difficulty believing that. I desperately want to, because then the relationship feels healthy and balanced. I can no longer feel that I'm not giving back, but simply taking selfishly. But as he always is, Therapist was right. Asking the question is the first step in learning to believe. And as is my tradition, I will ponder this for awhile. Tolkien Boy doesn't usually lie to me, nor I to him, unless we're classifying animals and I feel the need to giggle. So I have no reason to think he might be making something up to keep me from talking incessantly about this latest obsession. And he sounded as though he was sincere, although there's a part of me that's aggravated because he made me say all the reasons I enjoy being with him and he simply copped out by concurring. In spite of that, my head believes him. I'm still working on that obnoxious heart of mine.

Darrin is astounded that I feel even an iota of self-worthlessness. He points out that I interact with people all the time, many of whom seek me out. He wonders how such feelings can persist as I am confronted with daily evidence that I am loved and valued. 

I guess I just need to keep hearing the words. I have so many words from my past that I need to replace. Each time Sully tells me I'm important to him, every time AtP pops up with an "I love you" in my chat box, the fact that Ambrosia and others allow me to impose in their homes when I'm in traveling, my frequent interactions with Tolkien Boy and eternally long phone calls with Jason, as well as many other messages of love and acceptance are taking their toll. Someday, who knows? I might just learn how to trust all those things. And when I do, a large part of PTSD will no longer be bothersome or persistent. 

It's going to take some time, but I still plan to win. The difference today is that I'm understanding that I won't win alone. But just so you know, Therapist, even though I'm admitting once again that you're right--it still ticks me off. I really wanted to have a solo act and you've proved I not only need back-up, but I'm going to have to share the limelight with lots of people. And I suppose, in the end, I don't even get to choose who they are. It has to be a mutual decision. I believe, dear Therapist, you are a tyrant.

Dinnertime

Adam: I don't want to go to France, ever. They have those weird squirt-bottle toilet thingies.

Darrin: You mean bidets?

DJ: They have real toilets, too. You don't have to use the bidets.

Adam: Why would anyone use them anyway. You just end up with a wet butt.

Darrin: There's usually a towel hanging nearby.

Me: And everyone uses that towel? Eeewww.

Darrin: What? Their behinds are clean--they just washed them.

Silence at the table as my children and I exchange horrified looks.

Adam: Well, I'm still not using them. Besides, what if someone put molasses in them? Then your behind will be all sticky.

Darrin: That's not possible. How are you imagining someone could put molasses in a bidet?

Me: WHY are you imagining someone would put molasses in a bidet?

Tabitha: Is molasses a plant?

Adam: It could happen. Someone could put it in the bidet tank, and then it would squirt out when you uses it.

Darrin: They can't either. The tank fills up from the same water supply used for drinking water, showers, everything.

Adam: They could put it in the whole city's water system.

Me: Molasses is not a plant.

Darrin: No they can't. It's not possible. There's not that much molasses.

Adam: I think they could.

Tabitha: What is it?

DJ: It's really thick syrupy stuff.

Darrin: Why would anyone do that?

Adam: It would be a really funny trick.

Tabitha: Is it made from Maple syrup?

Me: No. It's made from sugar cane.

Tabitha: Oh. So it's not a plant, but it's made from one.

Darrin: It wouldn't be funny.

Adam: Why do we have molasses then? No one really uses them.

Me: People actually do eat molasses.

Adam: Wait--molasses is a food?

Tabitha: Made from a plant. Yes.

Me: I think I'm going to go make brownies.

Darrin: I still want to know how you think you'd get molasses into the water system.

Adam: Can you put molasses in brownies?

Me: No. But you can put it in molasses cookies.

Darrin: Adam, you didn't answer my question.

Adam: I can't. I'm helping Mom make molasses cookies.

DJ: No. I want brownies.

Tabitha: Why were we talking about France?

DJ: Because that's where Dad went on his mission.

Darrin: That's not why we were talking about it. And we weren't really. We were talking about bidets.

DJ and Adam: We have to go now. Mom needs our help in the kitchen.

Tabitha: I'll stay and we can talk about bidets.

Darrin: No. The moment is gone.

An Email: Mine--with responses in red from Therapist

Sam: My thoughts in Red below:


Therapist--
I know you're online, and I could just chat with you, but it's New Year's, so you're at home and I don't want to disturb family time. So there's no hurry to answer my questions, I just want to send them now, while I'm thinking about them.

But before my questions, some background info:

First--as you knew I would, because I'm too desperate not to try every possible venue, I allowed Tolkien Boy to stay with me on Monday while I went through the nastiness I save up after each flashback. He sat with me and held my hand while my stupid body shook and I cried and I felt like a complete idiot. By the way--notice I let him hold my hand and I didn't even throw up, or feel like I was going to which is my usual reaction when people touch my skin following a flashback. Weird. And after everything was over I was too tired to care about feeling like an idiot, so I took him home, drove to a friend's house and went to sleep.

Second--I talked with Darrin about ways he can help me in similar circumstances. He suggests that even though he'll be gone this month, I should still call him after a flashback. He can talk to me when I'm not able to talk, and at least I'll have some connection to him. So we'll try that. I think I've been very angry that he'll be gone when I need him. I don't feel as angry about that today. Darrin also suggests that if he can't talk to me when I need him, I call someone else. I said I'd think about it.

Third--On Sunday I allowed a friend (female) to do that thing girls do constantly when they're together (except I never do)--I let her "scratch my back" during Relief Society, which in girl talk translates to just a very nice caress over the shoulders, upper, and middle back. And I wasn't afraid or threatened or nauseated by the touch. Granted, it was a very good friend who understands my silly phobias, and she asked permission first, but I would normally have said no--but I didn't. And some odd emotions manifested themselves. I felt triumphant that I was allowing normal "girl" touch and actually enjoying it in the way it should be enjoyed. I felt really sad that I've spent so much of my life not being able to participate in this part of female interaction without the sexual component getting in the way. I felt "normal."

So now the questions:
1. Is it too much to hope for to believe that some of the nastiness I've been carrying around is finally subsiding to the point where it no longer colors all my interactions with others--Nope, not too much to hope for or believe. It's actually what I expected to see happen as you started to break through some of this. especially interactions which involve casual physical touch? ESPECIALLY these interactions. Casual physical touch is something I know you have been terrified about for some time. When you start making break-throughs with it (doesn't have to be good EVERY time, but at least from time to time), then your gonna feel and experience lots that you haven't felt before. It DOES mean electively allowing some of the nastiness, but the difference is this - you will begin to feel more in control of those experiences. That's what diminishes the flashbacks and the intensity of the physical experience of them.
2. Why, after the things I've experienced this week, do I still feel crazy stressed and all mixed up? It's all about too much emotional / sensory overload. You've been all over the spectrum from pleasant physical touch (new) to the same old horrible crap (old) and a body can only handle so much of that at one time. I think you are still feeling the exhaustion of it all. I think it would be wise to find time to "take a break" - get your mind and senses off the issue for however long it takes to disengage. I know you want to get through this quick ( :-) ) but it would be wise to take breathers from it from time to time. The more you will be able to pick and choose where / when, the more control you will feel, the better it will become.
3. In addition to the above question, why do I feel absolutely peaceful about everything--especially my relationships with others? It makes sense there would be a lot of peace right now. It's headed in the right direction and I think God's tender mercies are those pleasant physical touch experiences that happen from time to time. It's a reflection about the direction things are headed. This feeling began on Monday, when I allowed Tolkien Boy to stay with me, and has increased daily from that point. Cool.

Okay--I actually have a million more questions, but I want to think about them some more before I actually ask them. Welcome to my bizarre life. :-) When you have time, please share your thoughts about the things I've discussed.

Thanks so much! and Happy New Year!! Happy New Year to you too!

~Samantha

Odd Conversation

(Note: This chat has been altered to include vowels, punctuation, and complete sentences on behalf of the chat person. It has not been altered for content. u hv bn wrnd )

Chat Person: You're not a lesbian.
me: No?
Chat Person: You're married to a guy, you have kids with him, you have sex with a guy on a regular basis. You're not a lesbian.
me: Well, I suppose if that's the definition of a not-lesbian, then I must be one.
Chat Person: I'm not being rude. Just real.
me: I'm all about honesty. Thank you.
Chat Person: You still think you're a lesbian.
me: I believe I'll keep my thoughts to myself.
Chat Person: Why do you think you're a lesbian?
me: I'm fairly certain I said I'll be keeping my thoughts to myself.
Chat Person: Why don't you want to answer my question?
me: It seems that you've already decided the answer to your question. Anything I say will be subject to debate. I finished with that long ago. I only answer questions when I know the person cares about my opinion. You don't.
Chat Person: You're pissed.
me: I rarely get mad at anyone. I'm not mad, just logical. I don't enter into a battle I have no chance of winning.
Chat Person: Okay. I was rude.
me: Yes.
Chat Person: So, I want to know why you say you're a lesbian when everything in your life says you're not.
me: Perhaps we could talk about the economy. Or...have you noticed how much snow fell in Utah last week? or...you could tell me about your family--do you have siblings?
Chat Person: No. I just want to talk about why you think you're a lesbian.
me: You're quite tenacious.
Chat Person: What's tenacious?
me: Never mind. I honestly don't want to answer your question because I don't think you can understand.
Chat Person: I'm not dumb, you know.
me: It's not about dumb. It's about seeing another person's point of view.
Chat Person: Okay. I'll try.
me: I think I need to go now.
Chat Person: You're going to block me, aren't you.
me: Probably.
Chat Person: You keep talking on your blog about how you're trying to get better from being raped. I think the real problem is you think you're gay and you're not.
me: You know best, I'm sure.
Chat Person: Most of the stuff that bugs you is because you're not honest about who you really are.
me: No doubt you are quite correct.
Chat Person: You know who you are?
me: Most of the time, yes.
Chat Person: You're like a real mormon person. You just don't want to admit it.
me: I have no idea what that means, and I really dislike being rude, but I find you overbearing and opinionated and I'm tired of you. Good night.

I honestly never thought I would have such a conversation. I don't know whether to laugh or be sad about it. However, the truth is, in about two weeks it will never enter my mind again. It's remarkable only because it's obnoxious. 

On the off-chance, though, that Chat Person decides he can actually read, here is the answer to his question:

I consider myself gay/lesbian/ssa/homosexual/whatever because if I walk into a room full of people, the only ones I'll remember are the women. As a general rule, it takes me about a year of regular interaction with a man to actually recognize that he has a face, let alone other parts. Which doesn't mean I don't have friendships with men, I simply don't view them as sexual entities. If I find myself feeling attraction to a person, without question it will be a woman. 

I have, even quite recently, had full body contact (clothed) with a man-not-Darrin. It was very nice. I'll probably do it again. It will never be more than very nice. I don't have the hormonal inclination to make it more--nor does he or any other man-not-Darrin with whom I would allow such contact.

As I am married to Darrin, I will not have full body contact with women. My hormones would very much like to make more of that situation, and I will not allow them to do so. I hug women I care about. I sit beside them. If I trust them and am not attracted to them, I allow girl-touch (although this is a fairly new development). It is all very innocent and within the boundaries acceptable to Darrin.

I have sex with my husband. Probably it's a little more complicated than that which a heterosexual couple might experience. I have to concentrate, think about the deep love I have for my husband, remind myself that this is an expression of love completely unrelated to the abuses I experiences a long time ago, remember that his body is a part of what makes him special to me, and stay entirely in the moment. The pay-off is completely worth it--and I'm not talking about orgasm. I'm talking about becoming one with a person I love with all my soul, trusting him as I trust no one else, allowing him to love me in a way only the two of us share. I'm talking about leaving behind natural impulses to be with the person I have chosen, forming a bond with him physically and emotionally, expressing my love for him in a way that will bring him pleasure and joy--because I want to.

I am not, nor have I ever been physically attracted to men in the ways I have heard described by other women. I have experienced emotional attraction and attachment which is the avenue I have used to become physically intimate with my husband. And quite honestly, should I ever choose to become intimate with another man, using that same venue, I could. I won't, obviously. It's a lot of work, and I have my chosen mate, so why would I?

If, Chat Person, in your opinion that makes me a not-lesbian, I will be the last person to argue with you. It might have something to do with the fact that I've blocked you, as you said I would. After all, in the words of my good friend Shakespeare (yes, I'm that old), "The better part of valor is discretion..."

Someday I will live in Normal, Indiana.

I had a long conversation recently in which I made the statement, "Sometimes I just want to live life like a normal person."

I've said this many times. Before I'm allowed to express what I mean, the listening person invariably makes some disparaging comment about "normal", or launches into the excruciatingly long lecture which reiterates the following points in several different ways, none of which mean anything to me:

1. No one is normal.

2. All people have things in their lives that make them feel "different".

3. One should celebrate being unique.

4. I'm no different from anyone else.

By the time the four points have been restated at least six times, I'm no longer listening and sincerely regretting my attempt to share something personal. There is only one person I will interrupt in such a situation, and that's Darrin. I usually say, "You didn't let me finish again! I'm trying to tell you something, so please be quiet and let me talk." And he apologizes, lets me explain what I mean and I feel better.

I keep hoping someday others I care about will let me tell them why this is important to me, as well, but it seems they are sincerely in love with the "No one is normal" lecture, and not particularly interested in my opinion on the matter. 

But as this is my blog, no one can interrupt or lecture me here. So, I will now explain why I say,  "Sometimes I just want to live life like a normal person." (except my return key keeps sticking and I have to keep backing up when I hit it--very annoying)

1. I would like to enter a restroom without feeling panicky, trying to finish as quickly as possible, having to stop and breathe slowly--thus thwarting the hurrying part, and feeling compelled to wash my hands fifty times and use an entire bottle of hand sanitizer.

2. I would like to never feel afraid of my teenage sons who love me and would never hurt me. 

3. I would like to go to a physical exam without having flashbacks, shaking, and spending the next three hours crying.

4. I would like to not bleed when I have sex with my husband--which occurs frequently enough to remind me that my body doesn't always recognize the difference between loving physical expression and being raped.

5. I would like to allow friends (male or female) to have their arm draped across the back of my chair in a church meeting, and enjoy that closeness, not worry about whether or not I'll be able to get away quickly should the arm come into contact with my shoulders.

6. I would like to ride elevators with more than one other person without feeling I might throw up.

7. I would like cry because I'm sad or happy--not simply because I'm tired and/or need a stress release.

8. I would like to be able to chat online with people who love me for longer than fifteen minutes before I start wondering how that person would like to harm me in some way. 

9. I would like to be able to look at the naked male form without feeling attacked, nauseous, afraid beyond reason, and immeasurably sad. I would like to be able to use Tolkien Boy's words, "It's just a body," and mean them.

10. I would like to stop feeling the need to find safe places and recognize that I am always safe and have been for many years.

11. I would like to shake hands and feel casual about it. 

12. I would like to touch someones skin and feel it a pleasure and a privilege, not shrink from it and feel afraid.

While I recognize that there are some who will identify with the things I've listed, these are the items I view as "normal", by which I mean the majority of people don't really think about doing them, nor do they attach any sort of major importance to them.

I understand that each person has things that make them unique. I'm not trying to be like everyone else. I just wish to enjoy certain healthy human interactions and everyday occurrences without attaching unnecessary significance to them. I don't think that's asking too much, nor do I think that will change the qualities which make me singularly Samantha.

I sat by Boo in Relief Society on Sunday. She asked me if I minded if she scratched my back, which in girl language means a very nice caress across the shoulders, and middle and upper back. Some interesting things happened in that moment:

1. I said it was okay. I never say that. I'm not sure why I did--but probably because it was Boo, and I trust her. 

2. My feelings went haywire, because I was amazed at myself for allowing a person other than Darrin or my kids to touch me in that way, I was happy that I wasn't afraid or panicking, I was incredibly sad that I've spent so much of my life missing out on that part of human connection--and touch is extremely important to girls. They do it all the time--except--I don't.

3. I felt almost normal.

So now you know. And should I ever mention the wanting-to-be-normal thing to you, don't worry about making certain I understand no one is really normal--I do understand that. And please withhold the lecture, because even though no one loves the sound of your voice more than I do, I'd rather hear you talk about the things that make you sad or bring you joy, or maybe we can just discuss the process of photosynthesis, or name the stars, or talk about how much we like chocolate.

You know, things normal people do...

Protection

I had an interesting therapy session on Monday. As often happens, I don't recall with clarity much of what we discussed. When I am talking about things which upset me, I often check out mentally--usually, unfortunately, while Therapist is imparting great pearls of wisdom. I try without success during the subsequent weeks to recall what he's said. Aggravating.

I believe my entire conversation with him consisted of three sentences:

1. "This makes me so MAD!!"

2. "This makes me so MAD!!"

3. "This makes me so MAD!!"

Although there might have been an occasional screaming of "THIS SUCKS!!!!!"

Yeah. I was eloquent. And even though Therapist was in awe of my command of the English language, and had to pause occasionally to look up the more difficult words in a dictionary, somehow I still managed to figure something out during the session. Probably I figured it out because Therapist said it, but I took it and decided I learned it all on my own, but that's beside the point.

I have been protecting people forever. Usually from things from which they had no need to be protected, but it's what I do anyway. I've been trying to figure out when it began and I think it actually started when I was very young. I remember saying and doing things to purposely direct my mother's anger away from my siblings and toward me. It wasn't altruistic--it was self-preservation. It hurt more to watch a small person being abused by a larger person, one who should be loving and protecting the small person, than it did to endure the abuse personally. 

That impulse has never served me well. In fact, it's a stupid impulse and one for which I will probably pay as long as I live. I still do it. I can't stand it when someone innocent is hurt by another person--especially when the person inflicting the hurt believes there is a rational, excusable reason for hurting another. I usually say something which gets me in trouble. And the person I perceive as the "victim" is angry with me, as well. As I said, a stupid impulse.

I have spent my life protecting people I love from me. I still do it. Even in this blog, where I am supposed to be able to express anything I wish, I protect those who read from knowing the things I believe will somehow harm them--which is why I had to create my stupid super secret blog. The thoughts/memories/feelings still needed expression, but in my mind, if I allowed others to know them I would be inflicting abuse on people who read my words.

I protect Darrin from feeling anger about my past experiences. I say I don't tell him everything because I can't deal with his feelings when I'm dealing with my own, and there is a modicum of truth to that. But mostly, I just don't want him to feel negative emotions to anything connected to me. I don't want him to see me weak, victimized, scared, sad. I don't want to acknowledge that he, of all people, completely understands that I am human and he loves me in any circumstance. I want to be strong and capable and beautiful in his eyes. It's all very silly because he, more than anyone, sees me at my worst, knows my weaknesses, and comforts me when I'm wretched. He will watch me grow old and lose each vestige of youthful beauty. He will buy me a recliner when I can no longer run, place his matching one beside it and hold my hand as we watch "The Price is Right." I have no idea why I'm trying to protect him from me.

For a long time I believed that if I shared with anyone the truth of what was done to me as a child, they would stop loving me. They would feel sorry for me, certainly, and then they would go away because it was too much--too horrible--I was used up and they had no more need for me. I was wrong, of course, but I think I might be excused for lacking faith in human nature. My experiences haven't always built faith, obviously. But even beyond that feeling was the belief that if I told anyone, somehow they would be hurt by what I said. That by giving them such knowledge I would be responsible for harming them. I would rather be abandoned by someone I love than bear the guilt of hurting them. 

When I actually said the words to someone, it was a person newly met--one I had never met in person. I spoke the words in a "hypothetical" setting. A "so if I tell you this, are you going to say you still want to be my friend?" type of conversation. And even though he said he did, I completely expected to be added to his "blocked friends" list before nightfall. In truth, I ended up calling him within an hour of telling him, simply to thank him for letting me say the words. I wanted to hear his voice. And I wanted to make sure I hadn't somehow damaged him with my story. 

Naturally, in time, I allowed others to know, which was largely a positive experience. But part of me still believes that I must not share certain things about myself with others. Especially the things that hurt me regularly. For the past eight months my flashbacks have become irregular and unpredictable. I've learned how to let them happen without showing any outward sign. I wait until I'm alone, then I allow the stress buildup to manifest itself. I usually have body tremors and physical pain. I hear myself whimper and feel aggravated that I'm weak. I cry--not because I'm sad or hurting, but simply as an after-effect of too much emotional overload. It feels similar to the random crying I experienced when I was pregnant--linked to nothing in particular, not accompanied by any feelings, simply a stress outlet. Depending on what I experience during the flashback, I'm usually finished with the after effects within an hour.

Therapist said I'm not going to be able to learn to manage the flashbacks if I continue to do this in isolation. He said I need to involve other people. I'm certain he gave me reasons for this, because I always ask him to explain himself--especially if I disagree with him. But every part of me rebelled against his premise and I wasn't listening to the explanation. I was dealing with the revulsion I felt at the thought of sharing this part of me with another person. So probably there's a completely logical reason to do so, but I missed it.

I am Samantha. I like to win. I am very strong. I'm bright and talented. I make people smile. It is not natural for me to tell others when I feel sad, angry, or lonely. It is rare for me to be with anyone else when I am weak or vulnerable. 

As a result of the stress I felt Monday, I had three rather intense flashbacks. When the last one was finished, my body required me to brush my teeth with such dedication that I missed saying good-bye to a friend at the airport--which still makes me so angry I want to scream.

Okay. I'm still not ready to talk about this. 

But I will just say, even though being with someone made me want to throw up, I wasn't alone in the aftermath. I let someone stay with me. Because Therapist said I can't do it alone, and at this point, I'll do just about anything to learn how to predict and manage the flashbacks. They're painful and exhausting. 

But sometime very soon I have to remember why Therapist said it was important to let others help me. 

Christmas Eve

I'll admit I've hit a wall. I've "discovered" something which alternately makes me weep with frustration and seethe with anger. I've felt immobile and mute for nearly a month now.

Today was extremely busy. I traded phone calls with visits, shopping, and very late Christmas mailings. In one of the many conversations, someone told me I made him feel joy when we talk. I don't know if that's unique to him, but there are few things I would like more than to bring joy to the people I love--and even to perfect strangers.

I don't know how to resolve the current "problem" that haunts me. I don't know how to stop feeling bitter, even hateful. But it's nice to know that in the midst of hurting over this, I'm still able to bring joy to the life of at least one friend.

Darrin held me last night as I chatted well past one o'clock a.m. I keep wondering when he'll say he's had enough--that I'm too much trouble with all my baggage and emotional crap and stupid past experiences. He doesn't say it, though. He just holds me and tells me he loves me.

The truth is that I'm very angry at God right now. I'm not sure why I've chosen that target, but I think it has something to do with the fact that he allows me to tell him how angry I am, but he doesn't go away. When I rage and cry, I feel his love piercing through me, letting me know it's okay for me to feel these things--that probably I should have felt them long ago when I was too young to understand why people who should have shown me love, protection, and respect, were hurting me repeatedly.

I wonder how long this will last.

Tonight, though, I realized that I celebrate Christmas each year because it brings me hope. I hope my Savior will love me when I feel unworthy of love. I hope he will guide me when I can no longer see my own path. I hope he will teach me to care for my brothers and sisters. And in the end, when I have done all that I can to resolve my hurts and transgressions, I hope he will heal me and make me whole.

Perhaps I am naive to place my hope in a person I cannot see or touch. Perhaps I am superstitious to believe in a miraculous conception and birth. Perhaps I am foolish to base my life decisions around that which I believe he would have me do.

But I've tried to walk alone. It's miserable. I much prefer the company of the one who loves me unconditionally. And tonight, I'm very happy to celebrate hope.

Gender Issues

DJ (sitting next to me at the computer--very grumpy): I am the WORST wrapper in the whole world!

Me: I don't think so. Have you ever heard me rap? I'm pretty awful at it.

Long pause....

Me: You're supposed to laugh. I made a funny.

DJ: I know. I'm ignoring it.

Me: Why?

DJ: It ticks me off that my presents are ugly!

Me: The paper is just going to be ripped off. Really, this is not a problem.

DJ: I just want to be able to make pretty-looking presents!!

Me: Huh. I've never really cared about that.

Long pause again...

Me: Are you sure you're a guy?

DJ: Are you sure you're a girl?

AtP

I just have to say one thing about him:

He always makes time for me. 

With other people, I sometimes feel I'm an afterthought, or that they'd like to see me if it fits in with everything else going on in their busy lives. AtP makes me feel that a visit from me is special--no matter how often it happens, even if we do nothing but drive around in my car and listen to me talk crazy.

Sometimes I really want to see people I love but I feel I have to chase them down, that my appearance is an inconvenience--this has been the case with some of my family members and I've experienced it occasionally with friends. Not often, of course, because I'm not likely to repeat a visit when I feel unwelcome. 

I've never experienced this with AtP. He's even arranged his work schedule around the times when I'm visiting. He's come with me to therapy sessions and waited for me in the waiting room. He's chauffeured me wherever I needed to go following those sessions since I'm usually too upset and distracted to drive. 

I guess, for a defective friend, I think he's pretty amazing. 

And AtP, if you happen to read this, I love you.

That's all.

The 12 Gays of Christmas

Thanks, Zannah!

Just a brief notice

A couple of very sweet people have sent emails, and some other friends have left sympathetic comments relating to my last few personal posts. I appreciate your love and concern. I have, however, entered a new phase of existence that is ugly and nasty--and I'm finding myself reacting to it by being ugly and nasty to people who are dear to me. Therefore, until further notice, I will not be posting anything of a personal nature here until said phase goes away. 

And I hope it goes away very, very soon. I'm tired of it already.

Still Laughing

I do not hate cats

but this makes me laugh:

Bitterness

I've avoided it for a very long time. But no matter how I run from it, I can see the blackness dogging my heels. It comes only as close as I allow.

I'm afraid if I look at it I'll be consumed; the beautiful parts of Samantha will become bruised and broken, and finally evaporate. I'm afraid the bitterness is the largest part of who I really am, always there regardless of how I ignore it.

This acrimony colors my sense of humor, grants me self-disparagement, and currently binds my tongue. I know what I want. I want to rage and scream--but not just that--I want someone to hear my ranting; I want to direct most of it at whomever listens. I want to kick and cry and beat someone's chest with my fists. And when I am finished I want that same person to hold me, forgive me, tell me everything will be all right. And the irony is, I am no respecter of persons. I simply want someone human to see the monster devouring me, allow me to express, and stay.

All my life I have refused to allow myself to admit I felt this. I thought, in time, the resentment would dissipate and eventually disappear. It didn't.

And now...what?

I told a young friend last week that a physician cannot care for a wound at which he or she is afraid to look. I challenged him to look--not to qualify in any way--simply to look at the things he has been avoiding. And I, in my hypocrisy, cannot seem to take my own challenge. As I try to look, my nights are consumed with terrible memories and dreams. I cannot sleep. My days pause for a flashback from which I spend hours recovering. My subconscious punishes me as I allow myself to feel the rancor I can no longer ignore.

...'Tis the season to be jolly...God help me...

The Best Laid Plans (and I'm going to use this title, even though I'm not a man, nor a mouse--don't argue with me!)

I really hate it when I schedule things and something upsets the plan. Admittedly, this is because I load my schedule with so many things that even one glitch can mess everything up for days. But it still aggravates me. However, as my life rarely goes according to my schedule, I've become adept at improvising. But I don't like it. Even when the improvisation emerges as a better plan than the original, I'm out of sorts because I like my life to be structured and predictable--and it never is.

In October I made a plan for therapy. I was going to meet with Therapist in October, November, and December. In those meetings we were going to track my amazing progress as I learned to manage every symptom of PTSD--the end result being that by January my symptoms would be negligible and I would be on the road to having a real life again.

In October, Darrin threw a wrench into my plan--wretched man! He informed me that his training for the next six months would all be done at once, meaning he would be gone for an entire month, and this would happen in February. 

I am not an unreasonable person. Those who work with me would call me patient and tenacious to the point of aggravation. I'm logical in most every part of my life. However, when Darrin dropped his bombshell, I lost all those lovely qualities and regressed chronologically to the ripe old age of thirteen.

me: You're not going in February.

Darrin: I don't really have a choice. I have to go when I'm scheduled.

me: No. Not February. That's our anniversary. You can't be gone then.

Now, while Darrin and I definitely celebrate the day we were married, it's not a huge celebration. We go out together, occasionally exchange small gifts (usually some sort of really wonderful chocolate), sometimes we see a movie. Once or twice we've gone away for the night which has been my favorite celebration because I get Darrin all to myself for more than just a few hours. The reality, though, is that we rarely celebrate on the exact day unless it falls on a weekend. We schedule our time together on the Friday or Saturday nearest the anniversary date. So... we very easily could have spent time together in honor of our anniversary before Darrin left or after he returned. I was simply being obstinate. And I continued to be so.

me: I'm serious. Not February. Either you call your boss and talk to her about changing the month, or I will.

Darrin said nothing. He looked at me very carefully and left the kitchen. I finished making dinner, feeling alternately angry and foolish. Then next day Darrin let me know he had been reassigned to leave in January. That's next month. I thanked him. Then the panic set in.

My plans for becoming a PTSD supermanager did not come to fruition. My November therapy visit dealt with the new issue of me becoming an utter idiot in nearly every aspect of my life because of obvious control issues. My feelings were uncomfortable and overwhelming. And I hated pretty much every person alive.

Therapist had several theories as to why my life was falling apart. I'm sure he was probably correct, but I was in no mood to look at any of them. I was seeing a side of myself I despise, and it was manifesting itself more and more often. 

In the meantime, my ability to express what is happening inside of me has taken a prolonged vacation. I've tried to tell Darrin with dismal success. I tried to talk about it with Jason--failure again, but I have to say, I'm not the most expressive between midnight and one in the morning, and I have a feeling that Jason's cognition went to bed at 10:30 that night, so probably all he heard from me was gibberish. I tried to tell Sully and AtP. Their concern for me has increased exponentially since that day--not because of what I expressed, but because they're both certain I've lost my mind. I tried to tell Tolkien Boy last night. I realized that nothing I was saying was exactly what I meant and every word I said made me feel more like a freak. I'm beginning to understand on a very personal level why silence is golden.

And my beautiful schedule is gone, gone, gone. My plan was to see Therapist this month, then spend the next three months working on all the delightful assignments we concocted together in order to become the best PTSD micromanager EVER!!! I'm just praying I can talk during my next session, that Therapist will work some magic to help me pull myself together, and that I actually can float through the next three months without becoming bald from the stress. And it would be really nice to be able to talk about the mess inside me someday. 

When my kids were toddlers and preschoolers, we had a chart on our fridge. It had small pictures of faces expressing different emotions. I think there were fifteen different faces. When they couldn't find the words to say how they felt, my kids would go to the fridge, find the face that looked the closest to how they felt, and point it out to me. Naturally, I had all the faces labeled with the corresponding emotion so I could look at the picture and understand what was going on inside their little bodies. I think I need one of those charts for me. I'll carry it in my pocket and when someone asks me why I can't talk, I'll just pull it out and point. And they'll say, "Ah, I see, you feel sad today. Would you like a hug?"

I know. Probably this is not as enormous as it feels...as I'm making it. Blowing things out of proportion isn't really my style, but I seem to be doing many things that are out of character lately.

I need to go run. Speaking of running and superheroes (which I wasn't, but I am now), have you ever noticed that no one really knows what Batman wears on his feet? He just has amorphous black somethings there. But Wonder Woman has to run in those ridiculous high heeled boots. I've been known to run in high heels when I have to, but I much prefer the proper athletic shoes. So Mr. Fob (just in case you stop by), if I ever do fit into my superhero bustier, I'll probably not wear the boots. But I'll put red, white, and blue glitter on my running shoes. I'm sure you'll still recognize me.

The World Has Gone Crazy

It all started with Lydia. She announced at our last lunch date that she's decided to date men. I've known her for more than fifteen years. In that time I believe I've seen her in five "committed" relationships, and she's also fallen in love with a straight girl whom she attempted to help "switch teams." It didn't work, obviously, or Lydia would now be in committed relationship number six.

I stared at her. "Okay."

"No really. I've started already." Lydia seemed very smug.

"Why?" I asked. 

"I want to have sex again," she answered. "And I've heard that most guys want to have sex. I figure, eventually, if I date enough of them, I'll find the one who wants to take me to bed."

"Are you listening to yourself? This is nuts!"

"No. It makes perfect sense. I want to have sex. I don't want a relationship. I don't fall in love with men--I fall in love with women, so having sex with a man is the right solution."

"Lydia, I'm not even going to begin to tell you how unhealthy this is. Just be careful."

"Good." Lydia leaned toward me, "Now, Straight Girl Who is Married, tell me what I'm supposed to do when the date is over and we're sitting in my driveway. Am I supposed to ask him in?"

"What would you do if he was a woman?"

"Kiss her."

"I'd suggest you try that first."

I'm a little uncomfortable in the "Straight Girl Who is Married" role. But, really, it's best if that's how Lydia sees me, especially since she's acting like a cat in heat. Altogether, this was a pretty disconcerting conversation. I'm not happy that Lydia's decided to be promiscuous with both genders. This puts her at risk for a number of physical things, but also will wreak havoc on her emotional health. However, she's older than I am, so I rarely say more than my characteristic, "Be careful."

The enormity of her asking me for advice is enough--but watching her go from trying to "convert" her latest straight girl, to running after men, has left me more than a little confused. 

As of now, I'm sort of avoiding her. I think that's the best plan until I can get my bearings. Besides, hearing about Lydia's sex life ("I fall in love with women, but I want to have sex with men") is a little beyond my comprehension.

And honestly, it shouldn't be...right? Who better to talk to her than me, since I'm sort of living her dream (not really, but sort of)? But I still say the world has gone crazy and it's all her fault

Tolkien Boy

My first conversation with Tolkien Boy took place because I misread something he posted on his blog. I thought my misunderstanding rather hilarious, brought it to his attention in a chatbox embedded on his blog, and went on my merry way believing he and I would never interact in real time again. 

But I was blessedly wrong.

My own personal superhero, The Great -L-, coerced me into talking with Tolkien Boy the day after my birthday a couple of years ago, and I believe there have been few days since when I haven't had the honor of hailing, or being hailed by him online, on the phone, or in person. 

Tolkien Boy, because of his willingness to be present often in my life, and to hear me say ugly things, has had some dubious privileges in our friendship that few others have "enjoyed." He is probably the first person I told the nasty truth about my cousin's treatment of me. In a few of our first conversations I allowed him to ask questions about my relationship with Darrin--and I actually answered them--not something I usually do. He was a necessary partner when I worked on learning how to direct my dreams away from the chronic nightmares I often have, and with his help I was able to manage that part of my life better. And he has had the singular experience of eating lunch with the man who raped me. 

I remember a time (although I'm not sure when it happened, exactly), when I began to feel that TB was becoming far too important to me, that he knew too much about me, and those two things were unacceptable. So, as was my custom, I spoke to him and suggested that perhaps it was time to stop being friends. I've done this before with grand success. I thank the person for the ways they've helped me, tell them I appreciate their friendship, then let them know I'm really busy, and honestly, I feel we need a break from each other... Without exception, the response has been one of general agreement--the person to whom I'm speaking is busy, too. They understand the need for space and time. And I always get the feeling they're glad I'm addressing this, because they really do want to get away from me. 

Tolkien Boy, however, was not amenable to my request. In fact, I believe he was rather insulted that I would assume I could just say when and where we would stop being friends. Some of the things he said made me recognize how ludicrous my request was, how arrogant my assumption--and by the time our conversation was over, I thought maybe this was a real friendship, not just an association to be briefly enjoyed and then terminated. He had me believing I wanted to be friends with him forever. That's NEVER happened before.

I understand that in writing this I'm admitting my defectiveness as a friend. This is no secret. In fact, AtP and I created a Facebook Group called "Defective Friends." To our immense surprise, it has not been a popular group. Only one other person has joined (thanks Uncle Arthur), and I believe he did so because he felt sorry for us. Surprisingly, AtP and I are the only people in the entire Facebook universe who are defective friends. However, I believe in freely admitting the weaknesses of life on my blog...and this is certainly one of my greatest. But I digress...

Since that fateful conversation with Tolkien Boy, I've been trying to figure out how to be a better friend, not just with him, but with many others. I don't think I've made a conscious effort to ditch even one friendship simply because I felt too exposed and afraid. As is often the case, something he said made a lasting impression on me. I believe it went something like this:

me (unbelieving): You want me to stay?

TB: Yes.

Up to that point, I'm pretty sure, other than Darrin, no one's ever told me that. Since that time, multiple people have let me know I have a place in their lives, but the truth is, I wouldn't have believed them if TB hadn't insisted I consider the possibility that friendship should be lasting and beautiful. Because I am who I am, I had actually mapped out the general time frame when people I loved (like Sully and a few others) would grow tired of me and leave, unless I beat them to the punch and suggested it first. 

Does this sound crazy to anyone but me? You have to admit, I've come a very long way, even if the progress has been fairly sporadic and slow.

Where is all this leading (because I always have a point, it just takes me ages to reach it)?

Well, because of his amazing tenacity, endless patience, and determined reminders that not only does he love me, but someday I must learn to love myself, I have invited Tolkien Boy to attend my next counseling session with me. So--he'll get to meet Therapist and see me at my worst as I talk about crap that bugs me, and feel sorry for myself, and rage at life, and argue with the person who is right 99.9% of the time. I'm not sure why TB actually wants this privilege, but I think it's because I've made Therapist into quite an icon, and TB needs to see for himself that Therapist is, indeed, a simple human being (but he's not--I swear to you, if I didn't already have my own personal superhero, and if Therapist wore tights and a cape, I might let him have the honor).

So, we were sort of talking about the upcoming therapy visit this afternoon and without warning, the conversation took an unexpected turn and I found myself saying perhaps the most peculiar thing I've ever said.

Tolkien Boy:  When's your appointment?

me: 11:00

Tolkien Boy: Okay. I think Ginsberg’s leaving early.

me: That's what he told me. So--after he leaves I will snatch you away and take you to a mental health utopia.   And no doubt you will find Therapist charming, elderly, and sort of cute, which is good since everything we talk about will probably be a rerun of Tolkien Boy/Sam conversations.

Tolkien Boy: Elderly?

me: He's my age.

Tolkien Boy: Oh, yes. Doddering.

me: We compare walkers and discuss which company manufactures the best canes. Occasionally we swap dentures--just for fun.

Tolkien Boy: Please don't do that when I'm around.

me: What??  I look stunning in Therapist's teeth.

And there it is. I'm not sure I'll ever top that one. Probably, I don't want to. But that is the beauty of talking with Tolkien Boy. Wherever the conversation takes you, there you are. And unless he tells me I'm wrong, I expect to be going places with him, conversationally and otherwise, for a very long time.

Sully

I haven't talked a lot about Sully in the past year. Part of that is to allow him privacy as he learns and grows. Part of it is because I've been a little obsessed with myself. It happens to the best of us. 

Sully left for school last year. I still saw him almost monthly because every time I went to see Therapist, I also scheduled time with Sully. Then he came home for the summer and it wasn't unusual for me to call him (or vice versa) so we could take a walk, talk, or make dinner together. 

Sully decided to attend the university here this year. I saw him in September and then life made us both busier than expected, and I haven't really seen him since then. And I've missed him.

I called Sully last night to remind him of Messiah. He played cello with us for four years, so it seemed necessary for him to be there, even if he was sitting in the audience. I hadn't spoken with him for a couple of months. It felt good to talk to him again. And it was wonderful to see him, as well.

I realized during the performance that this was day three of not eating. Not good. Somehow, when I'm with Sully, I always manage to eat. Probably because we make the meal together and it seems easier to eat something I've made with friends. So after the concert I said, "Do you have big plans tonight? I'd like to invite you to come home with us if you have time." He said, "Actually, I have made plans. I'm supposed to spend time tonight with my beautiful friend, Samantha." And naturally, I'm a sucker for flattery, and I was laughing before he finished the sentence. 

I took us all home. Adam and DJ changed clothes (they sang in the choir), and Tabitha put on pajamas. Sully and I ditched them while they changed and went to the store to buy food to make dinner. And we talked. And talked. And talked. (Seriously, if they gave prizes for people who never run out of things to say to each other, I think Sully and I would win. If we ran out of real stuff to talk about, I think we'd just make things up. However, that being said, I have several friends and family members with whom I feel I could never want to stop talking, so--maybe not.)

Then we went home and made this:

Toast a lot of slivered almonds. Slice an apple (honeycrisp) and a pear (anjou) very thinly and soak the slices in balsamic vinegar (the good stuff). Caramelize a thinly sliced onion. Take the edible part out of a pomegranate. Mend two sheets of puff pastry together on a cookie sheet. In the middle third layer onions, apples/pears, almonds, and pomegranate seeds. Dot the top with a pound of brie cheese, cubed (if it's very soft, spoon it on in small bits). Cut the outer thirds in horizontal strips about 1.5 inches in width, and lace across the top after folding in the end portions. Bake at 450 degrees for about 20 minutes. 

(Thanks to Ambrosia for altering the original recipe with me until we made it taste better. We're a great team!)

Then Sully, DJ, Tabitha, Adam and I sat on the living room floor (after attempting clap-push-ups, which I cannot do, but DJ, Sully, and Adam can--and Tabitha comes very close), and talked and laughed until 11:45, at which time I said it was time to take Sully home.

When we got to his house, we talked a bit more. I told Sully some of what had been happening to me. I'm not sure why--probably because I don't want him to think I've been absent because I'm trying to avoid him. I told him how upsetting it was for me to talk about this kind of thing. I don't like looking weak or vulnerable. I told him I don't like telling people I'm sad. It makes me feel I'm asking for something from them--but I don't know what--and I don't want to need things from people, or be a burden in their lives. 

Sully reminded me of a time three years ago when he was in need. He reminded me of the many times he apologized to me for taking my time, and for being a burden. Then he reminded me of what I said. I told him then that he was not a burden, but a joy. 

I've been thinking about that. There were many times when we spent hours together talking about the things that made him sad. I had told him he could talk to me about anything--so he did. Sometimes, when he left I was tired, but not tired of him. The things we were discussing were sometimes overwhelming, but I always wanted to have him come talk with me. I wanted him in my life because I was telling the truth when I said he brought me joy.

Sully asked me if there was any way I could believe that others felt joy being with me, just as I had felt when I was with him. I don't know how to believe that. I've never really allowed myself to be the one who needed to talk. And if I did, I've always tried to "repay" somehow. 

I've never believed that someone could love being with me in the way I love being with other people. It has nothing to do with their capacity to love or enjoy people, but rather, my perception of how I fit in the lives of others. I've always seen myself as the temporarily useful, but easily forgettable friend. Sully said, "I think about you a lot." I'm not a fascinating person, so I wonder why he would do that. He said, "I've missed you." We've known each other a long time. I suppose I just assumed the boredom factor would set in and I don't really feel like a "missable" person. 

But underneath everything I'm feeling, under all the messages that don't make sense to me, I think I believe Sully loves me. And I want to believe that when we're together, even when we talk about things that might be frustrating, or gut wrenching, or sad, he still feels the same soul-to-soul joy that I feel when I'm with people I love. I want to believe that I bring joy to the lives of others. 

AtP, Tolkien Boy, Jason, Sully...and many others have been sending me the message for more than two years now that I'm not a burden, that talking with me--being with me--is a good thing. I'm trying to hear what they're saying. I want to believe them. 

I talked to Tolkien Boy about this today (although I'm not sure he understood me because I was not coherent and I kept stuttering--lack of sleep mixed with discussing a stressful topic), and he said I need to write on a piece of paper what Sully told me and put it where I can see it. I'm not ready for that yet, but I'm writing it here. And someday, I think I will believe it. 

A long time ago, when Sully was 16, I knew in my heart that I would be involved in his life. The Spirit told me I must talk to him. He was in distress, and I could help. I said no. I didn't want to. I knew it would open doors I had long since closed. I didn't want to become involved with a cutter, given my own background. I had no training. I didn't want him to know I was gay (and I knew that would be something I would tell him). So I kept saying no. And the Spirit continued to prod me. And one day, when I had said out loud, "Stop bugging me. I'm not going to do it," I realized that I loved Sully. As I thought about that, I was overwhelmed by a love that was not my own. And I knew that our Heavenly Father loved Sully more than I could comprehend. And He was watching a beloved son in pain. He knew I could help and He was asking me to do so. 

For the first time in many years I cried. I was afraid. I didn't want to love him. I didn't want to help him. But I did love Sully, and finally I said, "Okay. I'll do it." And at that moment the thought came to me that not only would I help Sully, but he would help me, as well. It was a rather ludicrous thought. I was a bit scornful of it.

And now, as I think of last night's conversation, I'm remembering all the times that Sully has helped me--probably more than I've been of help to him. And I'm grateful. Because as much as it pains me to say it, I need him. More than that, I love him. And after four long, wonderful years, Sully still brings me joy.