Bathrooms

Adam: I've seen the one at Little America. It has couches and chairs and lots of mirrors. Why? Why do the women's restrooms have things men's restrooms don't?

Tabitha: Because men's restrooms have things women's restrooms don't.

Adam: What? Condom machines?

Tabitha: No. Urinals. Women's restrooms have condom machines, too.

Adam: What would women do with urinals? They don't need them.

Tabitha: And men don't need couches in their restrooms.

Adam: Also, why do you need individual stalls? Why can't you just sit and pee together, like men stand and pee together? Why do you need privacy?

Tabitha: We don't. It's just an illusion. Behind the stall doors there are no walls. We sit and pee and chat together. That's why it takes us so long.

Adam: Tabitha. I've been in the women's restroom. I know what's in there.

Tabitha: Why were you in a women's restroom?

Adam: My friend pushed me inside during a school trip.

Tabitha: You're old enough you could get arrested for that. Voyeurism, you know.

Adam: How do you know about voyeurism?

Tabitha: How do you know about voyeurism?

Adam: Right. Let's leave that alone.

Tabitha: Good idea.

Adam: Anyway, you still have couches.

Tabitha: I'll tell you what: you bleed from your genitals for one week out of every month for the next forty years of your life, and I'll make sure every men's bathroom has a couch in it, just for you.

Long pause....

Adam: I think it's okay for girls to have couches in their bathrooms.

Tabitha: And I'm okay with guys having exclusive rights to urinals. Want to go make smoothies?

Adam: Yeah--but no spinach this time.

Tabitha: Mom's the only one who puts spinach in smoothies. I thought you liked it.

Adam: I do, but it's ugly.

Tabitha: Okay. No spinach.

"Deceiving others. That's what the world calls a romance." ~Oscar Wilde

With few exceptions, I hate chick flicks for the following reasons:

1. No romantic music ever begins playing when I make out with my husband.
2. The drama, tension, and resulting happily ever after is so unrealistic I want to puke, especially when infidelity is involved.
3. Watching people kiss sort of makes me shudder.
4. No one ever puts on a condom when they have sex in a chick flick, and they never talk about the resulting STD...the gift that keeps on giving...
5. The plots frustrate me. Honestly, I know it would make the movie only ten minutes long, but can't the people just say what's on their minds? Why is it fun to watch them misunderstanding each other, crying about it, and drinking themselves into a stupor so they can find the courage to say, "I love you"? And if that's the only time it's said, then it's sort of meaningless. And I do know what I'm talking about.
6. They kiss in the morning. Am I the only person who runs to the bathroom to brush my teeth when I wake up? I can guarantee that Darrin is not allowed to put his mouth near mine until we're both minty fresh. Ick!
7. There's always rain when the movie is sad. This seems a bit presumptuous. I happen to like rain.
8. No one ever does housework (although occasionally there is a romantic washing of dishes--I've never been able to understand why that's romantic) but the houses stay immaculate.
9. Even when the main characters work out, they always look sexy which proves they're not really working out. You should see me after I run. I am SCARY--sweat dripping off me, my hair nappy and big, I'm panting and drooping...now that's a workout stance.
10. The fights are stupid. No one has fights like the ones in the movies. Most fights are much more intelligent--like the one Darrin and I had last night:
Darrin: I'm here to help. What can I do?
me: Open the refried beans, mix them in this bowl with the other can of black beans and some cheese, and microwave them for a few minutes.
Darrin: I'm sorry, I'm sort of tired. What did you just say?
me: Open the beans, mix them with cheese in this bowl and microwave them for a few minutes.
Darrin: Do I have to use that bowl?
me: Well, it's a microwave safe bowl and it has a vented lid.
Darrin: I'm sure we have other microwave safe bowls.
me: You know what? Use whatever bowl you want. I'm going back to work. 
(Samantha does her impression of storming out of the kitchen).
See--that's a normal fight. You won't find that in a romantic chick flick. And no, we didn't kiss and make up within the 90 minute time limit. I was mad for at least two hours.

Sigh...I really need Darrin to stop watching chick flicks. My brain hurts when he watches them.

Midlife Crisis

I think I had my first one at age 17.

I know. That's not midlife; but when one is born ancient, midlife crises are allowed to happen at any age.

It was at this point when I decided that for my own well-being I needed to be somewhere other than my home. So I left.

I went to a national park near my home, applied for a job which included room and board, and never went home again. I visited occasionally, and sometimes I spent the night, but I didn't live there. My sister moved into my room the week following my departure. As I had boxed up all my belongings and placed them in the rubbish bin behind our house to be burned, the room was empty. I was glad she wanted it. Weirdly, it made me feel that I didn't contaminate all that I touched if someone was able to occupy my bed when I left home.

I now lived in a dorm situation with all the other resort employees. This translated into a very large, warehouse sized room with partial walls which allowed the illusion of privacy, but no doors. I slept on a top bunk in a long row of bunk beds.

For a few days I felt uncomfortable and displaced--even a bit lonely. Then I felt absolutely free.

As no one knew me and I was the new girl (everyone else had been there for about a month when I arrived), people began to ask me questions. I was not prepared to tell them who I was--well, I wasn't prepared to tell them anything--so I made things up. I added a couple of years to my age, which inspired this type of commentary:

Someone: Really? You look like you could still be in high school.
me: Yeah, I get that all the time.
Someone: Well, I know you can't be as young as you look because you have to be 18 to get hired here.
me: Yup.

The being 18 part was true. And I wasn't. But I knew someone who knew someone who was able to secure the job for me anyway, based on the fact that I was a high school graduate and had a semester of college on my transcript. So I figured if I was going to be older, I'd be nineteen--turning twenty in September.

Then I decided I had been an exchange student to Ireland during my Junior year of high school. It wasn't glamorous, but I didn't speak any foreign languages fluently enough to convince someone I'd done an exchange anywhere else. I actually have no idea if one can even be an exchange student in Ireland. Neither did anyone else. This allowed me to tell many fabricated stories and be the center of attention, which is usually something I studiously avoid but since I was experiencing mid-life crisis, I allowed myself to try something new.

Being the center of attention also attracted a young man, oddly enough. He was loud and smiled a lot and whistled at me whenever he saw me. One of my bunk/roommates let me know how flattered I should be. And because I was going through midlife crisis, I decided I would be. So we ate meals together for a few days while he told me he was wonderful and I was lucky. And I smiled and nodded and wondered what the heck I was doing. He was 24 and working for minimum wage in the national parks. Surely someone else noticed that seemed to be a bit under-ambitious even for an outdoor enthusiast. But if anyone did, they were too busy listening to him talk about his wonderful-ness and my lucky-ness.

I was seventeen. I was going through a midlife crisis. I was a tiny bit stupid.

When Mr. Wonderful took me to a movie and tried to hold my hand, I let him. When he took me a second time and put his arm around me, I let him do that, too. When he took me a third time and started messing with the clasp of my bra, I yelled. Loudly. Right in the middle of the movie. And then I ended up on a dark road, walking back to the resort where we worked, all by myself because Mr. Wonderful called me a mean name and left me behind.

It was twenty-two miles from the movie theater to my bunk bed.

However, I'd walked long distances before and there seemed no other alternative and it was better than fighting off Mr. Wonderful.

When I'd been walking about an hour a car passed me, made a u-turn, pulled up behind me and stopped. I kept walking. I heard the door open and someone called my name. I continued walking. The car owner jogged to catch up with me and began walking beside me. He didn't say anything. We walked about a mile, then I said, "Why are you here?"

It was a young man, about 20 years old. He was slightly built and very quiet. I don't believe he had ever spoken to me before. He said, "Mr. Wonderful is my bunk/roommate. He came home angry tonight." I laughed. "I'll bet he did. He's not very nice."

Quietly, matter-of-factly, the young man said, "He's a bastard." And I agreed.

The young man told me his name and asked if I wanted a ride home. I said no. He said that was okay, and kept walking with me. After about thirty minutes I said, "Aren't you going back to your car?"

He told me he thought he'd feel better if I wasn't walking alone in the dark, and kept walking. I sighed and said, "Fine. Let's go back to your car and drive home. BUT--please do not touch me." He said, "I wouldn't dream of it."

I don't think we said anything else that night. On the long walk back to the car and the drive to the resort where we lived, we were completely silent. I was very tired.

When we got home, I said, "Thank you," and he said, "How old are you really?" and I said, "Good night."

And with that, the midlife crisis ended. I didn't recant my stories, but I did stop dating men who were seven years older than I--and who would be guilty of statutory rape in the event of any copulation. It was for their own safety--truly.

That young man never did say a whole lot, but he spent the rest of the summer with me. We ate meals together, went camping, swam in the river, went to movies (and he didn't grope me), went shopping, and sometimes we just sat on a hillside and colored in a coloring book. He mentioned that seemed more age-appropriate for me than making out and heavy petting with a 24-year-old bastard.

And then I went to college and he went on a mission and I didn't have another midlife crisis for more than a year, at which point I celebrated the crisis by getting married but not to the quiet young man.

Sometimes I just don't want to:

1. Go to bed at night. I'm sleepy. I know it will be comfy and warm. I know Darrin is waiting for me. I still don't want to. And no matter how late I go to bed, I'm up in the morning with the sun. There is nothing I can do about this.

2. Take a shower. I don't know why. I hate not showering, so I do it anyway. But I don't want to. Maybe because I think showering is boring

3. Wear clothes. Mostly because I can't decide what to wear and it just seems easier not to get dressed at all. Eventually naked time has to end so I do wear clothes but I don't want to.

4. Answer the phone. And if I don't want to--I don't. It makes Darrin crazy but I refuse to be a slave to my phone and I'm pretty sure if I don't want to answer, whoever is calling would rather not talk to me in that moment. I'm just not lots of fun when I'm doing something I don't want to.

5. Take my vitamins. This is silly because there is no reason not to. But because I'm supposed to, I don't want to.

Darrin says I'm still a two-year-old at heart. I think he's probably right.

Sometimes things actually work.

This will be brief because I'm tired and I need to sleep; but I want to record this because it's new and I think it's important.

About three days ago I was feeling overwhelmed. There were a number of side issues contributing to that. It's not unusual for me, in this situation, to be hit with PTSD symptoms which I'm unable to manage. I end up feeling helpless and miserable and playing the waiting game while I try to figure out which of the emotions I'm feeling are real and which are artificial.

However, when the symptoms hit and the destructive thought processes began, I found myself thinking almost automatically, "This is PTSD. It's not real." And to my amazement, the symptoms began to subside. Within minutes I was no longer troubled by them. I've been able to reproduce this reaction almost every time the symptoms have been presented for three days.

I'm not sure what to think. It seems almost too easy--but then I remember I've been working toward this for nearly five years now--constantly working. I've researched and experimented and built emergency preparedness kits (translation: I've had people I love write down reasons they care for me, and they've answered specific questions about their feelings toward our friendship and interactions, and I've internalized them as well as made them accessible for reading in difficult moments) and meditated and prayed and built positive switches into my brain to be used when negative thoughts become unmanageable. To say this was easy would be incorrect. It has been one of the most difficult things I've had to learn--and I know difficult intimately.

Certainly this isn't the end. I'll have to keep practicing and no doubt there will be colossal failures in the near future. But everything aligned somehow, to make the things I've put in place suddenly begin working. The key word here is "begin." It's a place to start. I've mapped the conditions under which this took place, and I've noted what was going on in my life. I'm not sure those things are relevant, but if I want to consistently reproduce this reaction, I have to remember all the details.

The really amazing thing for me is that this happened when my life is emotionally in disarray, I'm as weak as I've ever been, I'm unsure of people and life and relationships right now--but still I was able to manage PTSD symptoms with amazing success. This is good.

And I think this blog is a key player. Having a place where I can say whatever I want is incredibly helpful. Then anything negative or scary or sad gets out and those things, when trapped inside me, seem to feed the symptoms until I can do nothing but wait until they subside. It's good to have a place to talk.

Okay--going to bed now. Good night.

"A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost." ~Marion C. Garretty

Therapist believes my problems have innumerable roots, but I told him of one experience he believes is pivotal. I've not been able to record it until now. I don't know why I'm finally able to write it, and I don't really want to delve into the why. I can--so I will.

I've spoken of my "foster" sister before. She was never officially my foster sister. I brought her home from school. I knew she was sad. I thought I could make her happy. I was eleven. Eleven-year-olds believe things like that.

Because of her home situation, S was allowed to stay with us. Her home situation: Her parents were alcoholics. S refers to them today as "pickled". Both are now deceased. S was often left alone as a toddler and preschooler while her parents went on drinking binges. A neighbor sometimes noticed she was alone and took care of her until her parents returned. When she was eleven the situation was finally reported to DFS and S came to live with her grandmother who lived in my hometown. At that point in her life, S had suffered abandonment, neglect, and numerous forms of abuse from various people. She has never shared the details of this with me. S doesn't talk about her life before she met me.

Grandma was an invalid. She could barely walk and was hardly able to care for herself, let alone an eleven-year-old granddaughter. S became the caretaker. She learned to cook and clean (to Grandma's standards), buy groceries, plan menus, care for plants, grow a garden, and care for an invalid. The life had far too much responsibility for a child, but it was immensely better and more stable than what she had previously experienced.

When S was invited to be with my family, Grandma agreed. She had been concerned that S didn't interact with other children and was consumed with caring for her grandmother. S needed a family--siblings--parents--and so she came to live with me. The two of us visited her Grandmother daily to make sure she had all she needed. Grandma was a retired school teacher. She loved my thirst for reading and sent me home with classics and poetry in which most 6th graders would have no interest. I was intrigued by the language, rhythm and stories. Always Grandma would discuss them with me--talk about literary devices and unusual words--and make certain I was comprehending what I was reading. Her home was filled with books and she was delighted to loan them to me, provided I would report back to her what I was learning. It was like having my own personal library. Heavenly.

Having S in my home changed the dynamic of our family. She was sweet and funny and helpful. My mother became calm when S was around. The screaming fits and physical abuse became nonexistent. It was as if she realized S was someone who needed nurturing and healing and any abuse would devastate an already wounded person. I watched my mother cuddle my friend and as I wondered why S was allowed the hugs I craved, I did not begrudge the fact that she received them and I did not. S desperately needed to be held by a mom and a dad.

I watched her smiles become more frequent. S was my constant companion in whatever harebrained scheme I concocted--but she was sensitive enough to let me have alone time for reading and practicing and any other activity requiring solitude. S was the perfect daughter. She allowed my mom to teach her to sew and bake and preserve food. She was immaculately clean. There was a long space in the upper level of our home which had been divided into two bedrooms. I shared one with my older sister and my two younger sisters shared the other. S moved in with my sister and I. There were three twin beds along the east-facing wall. S's bed was in the middle. The space around her "area" was flanked by the mess created by my sister and I. S never complained. She simply made her bed and straightened the part of the room that was hers every night and morning. We were often compared to her unfavorably. For some reason this never troubled me. S was a clean freak. That was just fine with me.

When my cousin raped me the first time, I cleaned myself up, cried a little bit, and wondered what to do. Not coming up with any answers and not wishing to return to the bed where I had been painfully violated, I pulled my blankets and pillows to the floor near the bed where S was sleeping. I slept there the rest of the night, rose as soon as light began, made my bed and pretended to be sleeping in it when my family awoke. I repeated this pattern each time my cousin visited me. I don't know why S was my chosen "safe place". Today though, I believe if I had ever told her what was happening, she would have stopped my cousin. She knew about abuse. She hated bullies. She loved me.

During that summer, my mother made contact with the proper agencies to try to have S placed officially in our home. She was told our home did not meet the necessary regulations to have S placed there, and we were financially unable to make the required changes to our house. The agency people told my mom S would be well cared for in the foster system and advised her to encourage S's family to place her there. My mother said no.

While S and I continued to have summer adventures and build a solid friendship and sisterhood, my mother, S's grandmother, and her parents, arranged for her to go live with an aunt who would legally adopt her and finish raising her. I was not told nor prepared for this. In August my cousin left my home. In September, my best friend left me. The two events happened within weeks of each other. The emotions raised by them in combination with the emotions experienced by me as I was raped throughout the summer, were too much for me to process. Shortly after S left, my mother returned to her abuse cycle. I wanted to die.

S wrote me letters every week--sometimes several times a week. I didn't respond once. Part of me was angry at her. I knew she had no say in the plans made for her departure, but I was still angry and I was deeply sad. I felt I had lost my soul and my cousin and S had taken it from me. Part of me wanted to write to her, but I had nothing to say to anyone. I didn't talk for a very long time.

Therapist believes conflict of this type would destroy any normal eleven-year-old's ability to understand relationships and trust and boundaries and friendship and love and families...

Years later I reconnected with S. As an adult, she is an integral part of my family. Her children consider me their aunt, my children are their cousins, my parents are their grandparents. She is my sister. Time helps heal the hurts of the past, but sometimes S will ask me why I stopped communicating with her. She tells me how hurtful that was, how lonely she was, how she felt she had lost everything she loved and her best friend in all the world would not talk to her. I feel guilt and shame in those moments, and sometimes I still feel a bit angry.

I don't tell her the ways my own world was destroyed. I don't talk about how, for a little while, before my cousin arrived, I felt happy. I don't tell her how much I adored her. I don't tell her the ways she saved my life...because later, without even meaning to, she took my life away when she left.

Therapist says one day I'll learn to sort through it all. He says I'll figure out how to feel the emotions and understand with empathy the things those adults went through as they tried to find the best life solution for an incredibly special, beautiful little girl. He says I've already begun the process as I speak of S as my sister and keep her in my life.

She'll be visiting me tomorrow. I still feel sorrow and pain when I'm with her. Therapist says one day that will pass and I will only feel joy.

I hope he's right.

It just takes practice...

My mother has anxiety disorder.

I know. Shocking.

However, compared to hers, my anxiety is Whoville in comparison to Horton. One might even say I have no disorder at all when our anxiety is seen side by side.

Interestingly, my mother's anxiety was only recently diagnosed when she had thousands of neurological tests done and spent time with a psychiatrist. My mother's psychiatrist believes that she focused her anxiety on me, became combative and aggressive because she felt no relief, which became a recipe for daily abuse in my life. It doesn't really matter to me. I'm not looking for answers anymore in this particular aspect of my life. Answers will not change what was nor will they make anything go away. There is a reason my mother abused me...and while I understand that, I don't really care.

I watched my mom have multiple panic attacks during the weekend. Then I found her Saturday afternoon, sitting in a chair looking unhappy. When I asked what was bothering her, she told me she was angry with herself because she had panic attacks. Tabitha was with me. She said, "I have them, too. So does Mom." Yes--but no one knew we had them, we could control them, we weren't destroyed by them.

I said, "Mom, there are times when I'm unable to manage panic attacks. In those moments I go home and wait. You can't do that right now. But there's nothing to be angry or ashamed or embarrassed about. You're having stress. This is how your body reacts. You're uncomfortable, but you're not inconveniencing anyone. Give yourself a moment to relax and the panic will subside at least a little bit."

So she did. And she felt better.

And then she thanked me...sort of.

She said it was difficult to have a daughter like me. Everything is easy for me. I'm very talented and smart. Many things she wished she could do, I do effortlessly. I don't even know how blessed I am. She's not smart. She's not good at things...

The words went on and on. Finally I said, "Mom, it's not true, you know. I work very hard at most of the things I do. Some things come easily, many do not. I just don't tell you when I'm not able to do something or when I'm having difficulty. And it's not just you--I don't talk about it to anyone, really. But I think it's time you stopped comparing yourself to people and started finding out who you are."

I know. Harsh.

I don't care.

The truth is, she sees me as a person who has lived a charmed life. Anything I want, she believes I get. She has no idea what I've been through--what she's contributed to. And she doesn't want to know.

There is a slight chance I'm feeling a bit bitter tonight.

Still, I'm glad she told me how she feels. I have no idea why.

This blog post has turned into a tirade about my mother. That was not my intention.

I will practice a piece of music for a year sometimes before it's ready to perform. I need all the details in place. I don't want memory lapses. I want the music to be a part of me. I have incredible patience as I work through the drudgery of learning every note, internalizing it, deciding how I wish to treat it. I do it because I know the outcome is worth it.

I'm learning...

There are many aspects of my life that still need practice; stress management and panic attacks are among those. PTSD frequently changes how it presents itself. I'm not always able to notice it before it builds into something difficult to deal with. That will take practice.

I'm not good at building and maintaining relationships. I can do it. I can initiate, foster, and nurture the relationship, but I'm not good at trusting other people, learning how to accept love, and allowing change within the relationship. I'm not good at remembering some things are temporary. Sometimes I'm not good at letting go. Just as often, I'm not good at holding on. All this will take practice.

I'm not good at becoming the person I truly am. I still cling to the belief that I'm invincible, incredibly strong and independent, and that I can do anything I wish. None of that is true; but each time I discover one more truth about myself I want to run away screaming to my bed, cover my head and sleep for the rest of my life. The truths require me to be honest about who I am. This will take practice.

And I'm not sure I want to practice this. It's not fun and I'm very tired.

It's possible I've chosen repertoire exceeding my ability.

Adam = Impossible

Our mini-vacation has been so much fun. We visited a bajillion amazing people and ate good food and slept in a tiny room--all four of us. Today Ambrosia and I went to an Asian market which is always a Bad Idea for someone like me because I'm very curious about foods I've never tasted. I ended up spending money I wasn't supposed to and we had a fun tasting party in the car which was supposed to continue at Ambrosia's house after Tabitha and Adam had their date at the movie and we ditched DJ with his high school friend and I finished with my business dinner...except...

One of the fun foods we bought was a package of candlenuts.

Adam ate one and said, "Those taste like crap!"

So naturally, Tabitha and had to try them. I put one in my mouth, chewed it, and was suddenly grateful for the stash of napkins Darrin keeps in the glove compartment. Tabitha and I dispensed of the chewed nuts and scrubbed the inside of our mouths. They taste like what I imagine the bottom of my shoe mixed with gun powder and ashes tastes like. Then we laughed and thought what a fun trick it would be if we could get used to the taste, eat one nonchalantly and offer some to a friend...well...we were thinking of AtP...don't get mad if you read this, okay? Because I know you'd think it was funny, too, if that was the end of the story, but it's not.

Adam decided he needed to get used the the foul taste and promptly choked down four more of them.

Fifteen minutes into his movie, Adam felt incredibly ill. He ran to the bathroom to be violently ill, several times. Not wanting Tabitha to miss the movie, he waited until it was finished to call me and let me know he was sick. I picked them up and we stopped at a fast food place because Tabitha was hungry and I bought Adam some Gatorade.

Then I Googled "Are candlenuts toxic?"

And they are.

So I called poison control and was told that at this point the toxin would be spreading through Adam's body. We just needed to let him keep puking, watch for mouth sores and diarrhea, and take him to the ER if he got dehydrated.

Sigh...

I love vacations with Adam.

P.S. We nixed the funny joke idea and I called Ambrosia and told her those nuts in her cupboard might be something good to throw away.

P.P.S. Adam wants to keep the nuts and ignite them later. Apparently, they actually do burn...and make good furniture polish...and you can eat them if they're not raw...I think we'll skip that last thing...

ACK!!!

Okay--I admit that my current emotional disaster is my own fault and if I'd stop working like a crazy person I would be able to regroup and live.

Yesterday's adventures:

6:00--Ran 5 miles, took a shower, made myself as beautiful as possible and drank 24 ounces of water spiked with protein mix, multivitamins, 4000 mgs of vitamin D-3, time-release iron, and joint supplement fortified with vitamin D-3.

7:30--Worked online for 2 hours.

9:30--Prepared taxes (March 15th = filing deadline for corporations).

11:00--Took a tax-prep break and taught piano lessons.

1:00--Finished tax returns I worked on during the morning, faxed a bunch of documents, went to the post office to mail stuff to the IRS and various other places.

3:00--Worked online for two hours.

5:00--Went to the store to buy yellow tomatoes and broccoli.

5:20--Went to a different store to buy jeans, a bra, and feminine supplies for Tabitha. The cashier rang up the jeans, then turned to a nearby trainee and told him he had to ring up the other items. The trainee cringed a bit and was told to "suck it up! You have to do this if you work here!" I do not like Original Cashier. This has nothing to do with the fact that one of his nostrils desperately needed a tissue to remove debris from it.

6:00--Made dinner.

6:20--Ate dinner, then worked online for 2 hours.

8:30--Practiced piano for 2 hours.

10:30--Worked online for 2 hours.

12:30 a.m.--Finished online work and went to bed.

I refuse to tally the work hours. I also think eating only dinner is not a good plan. Today I'm scheduling a yogurt-for-breakfast break.

Also, Adam loaded the dishwasher, and I'm very grateful but I think a total of 15 dishes made it inside before he deemed it "loaded", then he pushed every button (soak cycle, pre-wash, high-temp wash, sanitary rinse, hi-temp dry) and turned it on. Three hours later, the dishwasher was still trying to get through all those options. I eliminate all except the sanitary rinse and the relieved machine finished the cycle in 45 minutes.

Also, Adam's plans to move furniture were realized while I was at the office. I came home to find my treadmill in my workspace where Adam's desk used to be, and he had brought a large wooden desk downstairs from my former office and rearranged my basement to make a workspace for himself. I'm not saying anything as long as his chair does not block the walkway. I'm hoping his furniture wanderlust allows me to stay in my current bedroom. This could get ugly.

Also, and in conclusion, I will address an email received yesterday:
1. Please remember that this blog is used as an emotional dumping ground and might not present a complete picture of what is happening in my life, nor does it always adequately express my mental and emotional state of being.

2. My marriage with Darrin is wonderful and there is nothing wrong. I rarely discuss that part of my life here--well, anywhere. It's no one's business. I want my marriage and all it entails to be a private matter between Darrin and me. Should I need to discuss it I will do so with him. We've been married a very long time. We're pretty good at being married. Currently Darrin is teaching night classes which means he sleeps late in the mornings and usually comes home just in time for us to go to bed. I'm missing him, not divorcing him.

3. I'm feeling alone. This is something I believe everyone feels at times. My capacity to feel alone-ness is possibly greater than normal. I can feel alone when surrounded by people I love or when intimately engaged with one of them. It has nothing to do with my feelings for, or relationships with other people. It has to do with the fact that I spent my childhood being abused, isolated, and demeaned. It has to do with the fact that when I was raped, I felt I had nowhere to turn and I was left to clean up mysterious fluids, blood, and myself with help from no one. It has to do with the fact that I've not yet learned how to accept and remember that I'm loved--but I am still trying to learn that skill. It has to do with the fact that sometimes PTSD sends one message through my brain while reality sends another and I'm momentarily confused while I try to sort out which one is real.

4. Your words are judgmental and not helpful. I'm not answering you privately through return email because I'd rather talk about blog stuff here, on my blog. And I sort of feel that contacting me privately instead of leaving a comment (unless, of course, you want to talk about personal stuff you'd rather not have broadcast in my comment box--or if you want to say nice things--which would constitute a completely welcome and appropriate email) for everyone to see, is passive aggressive which is why I'm answering it here. Notice--I'm respectfully not reprinting your initial email--just putting the answer where it belongs.

5. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I'm overly melodramatic and maudlin. Sometimes I say things I will recant later. Nothing is black and white here. I'm an evolving creature and I reserve the right to be sad, rant and rage, cry over nothing, and change my mind frequently. Nothing you say will persuade me to do otherwise.

6. This is my blog. This is my blog. This is my blog. This is my blog.

On a more pleasant note: I made cookies last night. I'm thinking of making Nutella cheesecake and taking it with me on my trip tomorrow. Also, you can do the actions to "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" to the Macarena. You should try it.

Acceptance

I've been told by friends and therapists that this is an important step in healing. By less sensitive friends, I've been told it's an important step in "putting this all behind [me]."

Putting everything behind me...laying it to rest...moving on...

This is what I should want, I suppose. In a way it is what I want and I have definitely worked on acceptance.

1. I have accepted that I was a victim of rape and that I will live my life as a survivor. I did not want this. I wanted to change it. I cannot. I have accepted it.

2. I have accepted the fact that my mother will never see me as her daughter. I'm a friend, a convenience, a scapegoat, someone to ask for help--but I am not her daughter. She feels detached from me. She feels no loss when I'm unable to attend family events or when I must leave early. She acts surprised when I arrive and, as if she doesn't quite know what to do with me, alternately ignores my presence or begins giving me things to do--usually things that someone else is doing so that they can be relieved of the duty and go visit with her. I've learned to draw lines, to say no, to refuse the caretaker role. I've learned to be pleasant, funny, self-possessed when in her presence. I've learned to avoid personal conversations which become sessions for gossip. I've learned never to confide in her. I've accepted what is and learned to be happy with whatever that means.

3. I've accepted that I'm a survivor of physical and emotional abuse. I understand that many of my perceptions about myself are flawed and unkind. I understand that I sometimes perpetuate the emotional abuse toward myself because I was trained to do so and I've not yet learned how to stop. I know I have spent my life sabotaging relationships because I didn't have enough self-worth to believe I deserved love from anyone. I'm learning not to do that. It's difficult. Even in my most cherished, closest relationships I do not know how to believe that I am valued. I think I am. I don't know how to believe it. No one I love has struck me in anger or an effort to control me since I was 16 and that will never happen to me again. That part was easy. The wounds on my heart and soul are much more difficult to heal. I accept that the abuse happened. I accept that it will take time to negate its affects--but I don't know if I'll live long enough to overcome it, and I plan to live forever.

4. I've accepted that touch aversion is a by-product of abuse, and perhaps it sprang up because of the rapes, as well. I've accepted that there are ways to hide it, and I'm very good at utilizing those ways. I've accepted that no matter what I've done to overcome it, I've failed. Touch confuses me. I've been known to misinterpret it. There have been times when I desperately wanted to be held--but when that need was filled, I was left feeling guilty and miserable. I worked to overcome those feelings, and I think to some extent, I did. I no longer feel guilt. I no longer feel miserable. I also no longer feel a desire to touch or be touched by anyone. I accept that.

5. I accept that the person I am is no worse than any other person on earth. Nor am I any better. Each person's life is remarkable in its own way. I would love to have a life remarkable because I was a brilliant scientist, or an amazing mother, or a marathon runner. I would like to be remembered because I was kind to others, or because I grew beautiful flowers from seeds (not my method of gardening in which I buy all ready growing plants, dig holes in my garden plot, put them in the ground and spend the summer replacing the ones that die with newly purchased ones), or I wrote hopeful, inspiring words--even if only one person was inspired.

Instead I will be remembered as the person who thought she could make all the hurts in her life go away in three weeks, and instead spent the rest of her life fighting all the demons she had been ignoring; never winning, just keeping everything at bay. I will be the person who talked about PTSD and flashbacks. I'll be the child who was unwanted and abused, the adolescent who was raped, the suicidal teen who lived. Some people who have spent personal time with me will know I play the piano well enough to earn three music degrees. Some will know I'm a brilliant teacher of many topics. Some will know I love to giggle, and read, and sing, and dance. Some will know I love with my whole soul, even if I don't understand how to be loved in return. Some will know I joined MENSA on a dare--but I keep renewing my membership because I like to play the games on their website. Some will know that sometimes I'm funny and sometimes I cry.

I'm learning how to be me. This is not what I planned, nor what I wished for. Each admission of something I cannot change or overcome leaves me feeling helpless and beaten. With everything I accept, I feel more isolated and alone and there are times when I wonder if that is the ultimate acceptance: To accept that no matter how hard I have worked, no matter what I have done, no matter how strong or talented or capable I am, I will never know how to not be alone.

I believe I will serve fish on Friday.

PTSD Day Three.

I'm taking my kids on a mini-vacation next weekend. When I planned this a couple of months ago I was going to tuck in a visit to Therapist while we were there, but I've been feeling like I want to wait until May. I'm not sure why May has become the magic month, it just is. Yesterday though, I started thinking maybe I needed to see him now.

But I don't want to. And I keep coming back to this:
1. Why do I want to see him? Answer: Because I feel miserable.
2. What do I expect from him? Answer: I want him to tell me I'm not crazy. I want him to remind me of what I need to do to make it through the PTSD episodes. I want him to tell me all the reasons I'm still okay. I want him to make this feel better. And he will. He always does.
3. If I go see him, does that mean I'm depending on his help when I should be using all the things I've learned both from him and on my own, to get through this independently? Answer: Yes.
4. Do I care? Answer: Yes.

So--not going to see Therapist--I'm waiting until May. And while everything in my life right now feels painful and impossible and sort of sucks, I'm not dead nor dying.

I was going to get retested this morning to check my Vitamin D and Iron levels, but I had a meeting I couldn't cancel. And Tabitha needs a blood test, as well, so I think we'll do it next week. That was random. Not sure why I just wrote that, but as this is my blog and I can be random if I want to--I will.

And as long as I'm being random, I had this text war with Adam recently:

Adam text: Hey, i've got a quesrion. would an allergic reaction to my shampoo cause arash on my hands? (Obviously he didn't inherit my need for correct spelling and capitalization--which is good. This way he won't be ostracized by his like-minded peers.)
me text: Not sure. I'd have to see it.
Adam text: K i'll show you when i get home
Adam text: i just remembered i have a camera. it looks like this

me text: If it gets uncomfortable or you need to come home let me know.
Adam text: Well, it started itching yesterday, but it wasn't a bige deal til i realized that it's spreading on both my hands now.
Adam text: It's starting to burn a bit now. do you think it's an alergic reaction, or something else?
me text: I don't know.
Darrin intervention text: Adam, stop texting your mom. She's loaded down with work right now and doesn't have time for this. If you need help go see the school nurse; otherwise, stop worrying about it and get on with your day!
Adam text: K

I came home from a rehearsal around 1:00 to find Adam sitting on the couch.
me: Did you check yourself out of school?
Adam: No. I forgot
me: Adam, you can't just leave without telling anyone.

I made a phone call for my truant son, then asked what was going on.

Adam: I just think I should stay home today.
me: Why?
Adam: I'm concerned about this rash. It's all over my hands and going up my arms.

I looked at the accused rash which consisted on a couple of spots on his hand--nothing on his arms.

me: Adam, it just looks like you've been exposed to a fragrance or something in a soap or shampoo that your skin doesn't like. It happens to me when I try samples from Bath and Body Works. It itches and sometimes tiny blisters form, but it only lasts a few days then goes away.
Adam: Are you sure?
me: Yes, but we can take you to the doctor if you think it's something else.
Adam: Well, I googled it. 
me: That is always a very bad idea. What did you find?
Adam: There was this page and the pictures of the rash looked just like mine and then after about a week of the rash the bones came through the skin.
me: See what I mean about "very bad idea"?
Adam: You don't think my bones are coming out of my hand?
me: I know they're not. Whatever you found--that's not a skin rash. It's some sort of rare and dreadful disease and only three people in the history of the world have ever had it and it can only be contracted through the bite of some now-extinct animal.
Adam: You're exaggerating.
me: Yes. You don't have whatever-it-is. You have a minor skin rash. We're going to put some cortisone cream on it and it will be gone before Friday.
Adam: You're sure?
me: Yes.
Adam: Well, if it's okay with you, I think I'll stay home from school today anyway. If my bones come out of my skin, I'd kind of like you to be around. 
me: Fine. You can clean the bathroom and do laundry while you're here.

Which he did.

And his bones did not come out of his hand.

And the rash went away.

I love Google.

Wow--so incredibly sleepy right now.

Today was sort of ugly. I knew it was coming yesterday afternoon, and when bedtime hit I couldn't sleep for a long time. When I finally was able to sleep I had dreams I would rather avoid. So I wasn't surprised when I became angry for no possible reason very early this morning. By the time noon hit, anxiety was through the roof and one hour later panic attacks began.

I'm not sure anymore what I want to do with the PTSD symptoms.

Here is what I don't want:
1. I don't ever want to become dependent on someone to help me through them. I've been there. It's a beautiful place. It feels secure and safe. But it can't be permanent. While I would love to be able to call someone and say, "Talk to me, please--I'm not doing well right now," I can't always do that. I used to have a list of possible contacts. I've disposed of it. It's impractical. There may be times when I absolutely need to talk with someone, but I need to learn to take care of myself.

2. I don't want to waste time worrying about dealing with symptoms in "proper" ways. I want to be able to recognize and move through them. Sometimes just knowing they're on their way is enough to trigger them. I'm tired of that.

Okay, I was going to make a longer list but my train of thought has moved on without me, so I won't.

Tonight we took Tabitha to see Tangled for her birthday (her choice). It's a lovely movie--enjoyable and fun. But there is one part that's still in my head right now. At one point Rapunzel is about to have her lifelong dream fulfilled--and she's afraid; what if it doesn't measure up...or more stressful still, what if it does? Then what? Rapunzel's love interest tells her that if her dream is everything she had hoped--if it's fulfilled--she gets to have a new dream.

I've been there.

Not that my dream was fulfilled in any way close to what I wished, but parts of it were. I wanted to be able to be close to people, to connect with them, and to feel they reciprocated that connection. This has happened.

I wanted to be able to touch someone without being nauseatingly afraid. I wanted to allow myself to hug people--not because I was avoiding shaking hands, which would involve touching their skin, but because I truly wished to be held by them, and I wanted to hug them back. This has happened.

I wanted to be able to touch someone's hand without panicking. I wanted to be able to do it spontaneously, naturally, to reach out and shake hands with people like everyone else does. I wanted to allow my skin to be touched without wanting to run away, without shuddering, without feeling that I might scream or cry if the touch didn't immediately cease. This sort of happened. There are only a few people with whom I can accomplish this--but a few is more than only one (Darrin), so I'm counting it.

I wanted to be able to talk. I wished to be heard. I needed to tell my story over and over again until I could say it calmly, unworried that whomever was listening would never speak with me again. This has happened.

I could list more, but the bottom line is: I think it's time for me to have a new dream.

It's going to have to wait awhile before I can figure out what it is. Right now I'm a little tired. And today has been more than a little difficult. But I'm pretty sure it's time to switch gears. The truth is, my old dream was about capturing new moments, using them to help me heal, filling needs I've had for a very long time. But moments pass away, and once healed one must become strong again, and most needs change with time--or they should. Mine will, too, no doubt. Life remains in motion and nothing can stay. All dreams eventually fade and are replaced.

Tomorrow I will regroup. I'll remember what is real and what is fabricated by PTSD symptoms. I'll run again and meditate and pray and do all I can to replace destructive thoughts with more authentic, positive ones. I'll take deep breaths and concentrate on managing stress and panic. And I'll keep working. Hopefully by Thursday I'll stop feeling numb, I'll try connecting emotionally with people I care about, and the urge to isolate myself and abandon every part of my current life will have waned.

Okay, I need to stop writing because I feel an overwhelming desire to feel sorry for myself right now--and that feeling is spreading to a need to apologize for being alive which I refuse to buy into. I'm going to go sleep. If I spoke with you today, though, I will apologize for that. I was having difficulty focusing, I didn't really want to talk to anyone, and I probably don't remember much of what we discussed. My memory of a couple of conversations is that they were strained and difficult, but I'm thinking that might have been just my perception. Conversation was a chore today--as was any kind of social activity.

Ack! Stopping talking right now. Good night!

I feel compelled to keep talking about this:

Okay--that last post was very subdued in comparison to how I feel about what I wrote...the part about talking about the things that have happened to me.

I told Darrin this morning, and then I hugged him and cried.

Four years ago telling the nurse practitioner those particular personal facts would have had the following effects:
1. I would have started shaking--no telling when that would stop.
2. I would have left the appointment certain that I was some sort of ugly, filthy monstrosity and Nurse Practitioner would be very glad I was gone.
3. I would have gone home and hidden for at least three days while I tried to gather enough common sense to recognize my responses and thoughts were exaggerated and probably incorrectly assuming things about how others feel about me.
4. It's very likely I would have thrown up even though I would studiously have avoided food for at least two days.
5. I have been known to have a minor car accident(s) while panicking about sharing personal information.
6. I would be certain that when people look at me they were wondering why I ever allowed myself to be raped and abused--didn't I know better than that?
7. I would experience feelings of revulsion when my skin was touched by anyone.
8. I would feel panicky and faint for as long as a month.

And none of those things happened. Not one.

Did you hear me??? Not even one!!!

I want to alternately weep for days and stand on my roof while I scream to anyone who will listen: "I'M BETTER!! I'M OKAY!! YOU DON'T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT BUT I DID SOMETHING AMAZING AND I THINK YOU SHOULD BE COMPLETELY STUNNED AND BESIDE YOURSELF WITH HAPPY FEELINGS ALL FOR MMMMEEEEEEEE!!!!"

I won't. But I want to. And I want to tell everyone I meet: "Hi. I'm Sam. I have PTSD, but I did something I've never done before yesterday. What? You gave birth to healthy, full-term sextuplets today? Seriously, compared to what I just overcame--that's very nice, but doesn't quite bear the magnitude... I mean, you popped those babies out after nine measly months. I've been working on this for years--for YEARS, I say."

Okay, I admit it's not quite as amazing as full-term, healthy sextuplets (especially considering the fact that I've never been able to make even one of my babies stay inside for more than 35 weeks--not full-term), but for me it's fairly magnificent.

Today I feel real. For the first time in my life I don't feel that I have to apologize for being alive. I'm not less than anyone else. I'm not filthy or contagious.

I
am
acceptable.

That's right. Perfectly, beautifully, completely acceptable.

And if you happen to run into me today, don't be surprised if I tell you so. There is something wonderful about finally being about to say it...to feel it...

On second thought, I just might go up on my roof today. There are some things that must be shared.

"...sometimes, when you fall, you fly..." ~Neil Gaiman

Tabitha's anxiety disorder has expanded into depression. It's not debilitating. It's not constant. But she feels the depression more often than is optimal. So at the suggestion of our pediatrician, I made an appointment with a pediatric nurse practitioner who also has a bajillion other degrees and specializations, one of which includes knowing which psychiatric medications work best for teens.

I've actually been trying to get an appointment with this person for two months. Not easy.

However, I was pleasantly surprised. She spent about an hour with us, asking questions and taking Tabitha's history. She asked me to briefly give my background, as well--trying to determine if Tabitha's anxiety and depression were genetic. And she spent about ten minutes alone with Tabitha, during which time she asked about drug and alcohol use, sexual activity, and any other situations Tabitha might not be comfortable discussing with me present. Tabitha answered her questions and said, "You didn't have to send my mom out. She knows pretty much everything that's going on with me. I tell her," at which point the nurse practitioner invited me back in.

The NP asked me how I was able to get Tabitha to talk to me so much. I've never really thought about it, so I couldn't answer the question. Tabitha said she talks to me because I listen--and I make sure we're in a place where we won't be interrupted (on a walk, driving in the car, in her bedroom...). Also, she said she's not afraid to talk about anything because I don't get angry or act shocked or disappointed (which isn't completely true--I do, Tabitha just doesn't notice). And, Tabitha said, she knows I love her no matter what, and I let her make her own decisions most of the time.

Interesting. I didn't know Tabitha felt that way about her relationship with me.

So that was a positive experience I had not expected.

Also positive:

1. When asked to talk about my past, I revealed that I'm a rape survivor. I used those words. I didn't flinch. My voice remained steady. And inside, I didn't feel that I was dying and somehow freakish and ugly. I'm a rape survivor. It happened to me. It is not who I am.

2. I told her I was a survivor of emotional and physical abuse until I left home at 17. During Tabitha's private interview with the NP, she adamantly stated that she has never been abused by me in any way and that I've never even spanked her (not true--I've swatted her behind once or twice when she was a toddler, to get her attention--it was never enough to cause pain or make her cry). NP told me that's unusual. Many adults who were abused as children will perpetuate the cycle--even if it's to a lesser degree. She said it's common for most adults to resort to how they were treated as children when it comes to parenting. I said I'd chosen to parent differently and I had to do research and take classes and read and pray...and I still do. She said she was impressed with my efforts and pleased that I had the foresight to get help when I needed it.

She doesn't understand--there was no other option for me. I cannot cause harm to people I love. It hurts me in ways I can neither describe nor endure. This means I will initiate difficult conversations to find solutions which will help my relationships thrive, I'll forgive almost anything, and I'll try constantly to make certain healthy boundaries and mutual respect are in place and continuously fostered. However, even though I couldn't explain to her that, yes, it was a conscious choice to stop the cycle of abuse when it came to parenting my children, it was also the only possibility for me.

3. I talked about flashbacks and PTSD and my own anxiety, and answered all her questions without feeling attacked or less human because I have all those things. I told her I've had no flashbacks since August 2nd, I'm still learning to manage PTSD, I have difficulty sleeping when nightmares come, I have panic attacks which sometimes last a couple of days. I told her I'm unmedicated. NP said it sounded like there was no link between what I experience and Tabitha's symptoms. She feels, as I do, that my symptoms are situational not genetic and the fact that I'm able to function well without medication supports that supposition. But I talked about those things--and I was okay.

I know there are many people who have endured greater challenges and tragedies than I have. But for me, the things that have happened were daunting and traumatic. There have been many times in my life when I felt I could not live one more day knowing the things that have been done to me, understanding how helpless and aching I was left, recognizing there was no way to change that. In those moments I simply chose to not have those experiences anymore. I was not a rape victim. My mother did not mistreat me. I lived a boring, normal life, just like every other person on the planet.

Today I can say what happened. I can talk about it as needed. It no longer eats my soul. I am Samantha--entirely whole. I can be sad about the sad parts, but also feel joy as I recognize the depth and beauty I experience each day.

One day, a long time ago, I asked Tolkien Boy if he believed a person could be hurt beyond the ability to heal. I don't remember exactly what he told me but today I can answer that question. For me, the answer is that if indeed, people can be hurt to that extent, I am not one of those people.

I was raped and abused. I was hospitalized because I wished to die. I stopped eating in the hopes that I could discard the body which I believed had betrayed me somehow. And then, one day, I decided to live.

I don't know that I'll ever be completely free of the memories and aftermath of those experiences. Perhaps it's good that I remember. But remembering does not keep me from becoming lost in a sunrise or singing or writing terrible poetry or laughing just because I'm happy. It doesn't hamper my determination to grow and learn and overcome phobias and try new things. It doesn't isolate me from people I love or make me stop trying to learn about relationships.

Remembering helps me know I'm real. Knowing I'm real allows me to seek out people to love who will love me back. Giving and receiving love helps me remember that I am more than that which was done to me.

I am more.

Celebrating!

Today I danced in my kitchen. And before you laugh at me, take a moment and admit that you've done the same thing--if not in the kitchen, then in some other room. I had a reason for my happy dance.

I've mentioned a few times that I hurt my knee last year during a rather disastrous fall while I was distracted by nearby wildflowers. The road curved and went steeply downward and I did a head-over-heels demonstration, ending up with gravel embedded in my knees and elbows and stomach. I finished my run (two more miles), ignoring the fact that my legs were covered in blood, because I was in the middle of nowhere and I never bring my cell phone with me (just imagine the Darrin lecture I got when I arrived at home). I noticed at the time that my knee wasn't working quite right. 

It's possible that everything would have healed up in a few weeks, but I fell again. And then again. And just for good measure--one more time. Yeah...I have some issues with blood sugar. The first fall was sheer idiocy on my part. The subsequent ones were the result of poor nutrition. Sigh...

So by the end of July it was clear that I'd done some damage. I researched all sorts of medical articles, trying to determine if this was something I could deal with on my own or if I'd really hurt myself badly enough to need a surgeon's help. And I pondered this for a good long time--about six months, during which I dealt with swelling and a great deal of pain. But since I couldn't decide whether or not I needed a doctor, I didn't go to one. 

Finally, last month I began feeling relief from the pain and three weeks ago I felt the knee start functioning as it should; no more pain or stiffness climbing stairs, no wishing I was dead after running, no more swelling. I think it's better!

Hence, the happy dance. And I'm not going to tell you that during my dance I slipped and fell. Nope, not talking about that part at all. Just glad the knee's all better. Yup.

Oh my goodness! I need to fold laundry!

Therapist once told me when I got to the point when I stopped "collecting" people, and allowed them to stay in my life as long as they chose then pass through and leave while I wished for their happiness, I would know the dependency I was so afraid of was gone. I let his words remain unanswered because I was unwilling to discuss the topic at the time. But here is what he doesn't know:

1. With possibly one exception, the only person on whom I have ever been emotionally dependent is Darrin. I have worked through that, I'm in a much better place and I don't believe it will ever happen again. I'm just not the type of person to feel comfortable depending on anyone except myself. I'm not saying it won't happen, just that circumstances would have to be unusual and I would have to be considerably weak in order for that to take place, therefore--unlikely, leaning toward impossible.

2. I've never asked any person to stay--ever. I may have said I wished they would, or I loved having them in my life, but I have never coerced them in any way. Emotional blackmail is not my thing. I much prefer telling people what I think or feel, and letting them know what's happening in my life to avoid misunderstandings and avoid regrettable situations. Not everyone I love reciprocates these things for me, but people deal with life in their own ways. In fact, I would have to say that when any person has indicated our friendship (or other "-ship") has become uncomfortable, I have suggested it might be time to do something different. The last thing I wish is for someone to remain in my life out of social habit, a misplaced sense of obligation, or pity. We both deserve better.

3. If I "collect" people, it's by choice not compulsion. People fascinate me. I like them. I like to find out what makes them happy or sad, what they're interests are, what foods they like or dislike, what they see when we're both looking at the same thing...I don't just find someone because I need an emotional sponge or I'm dying for a new audience to tell all my secrets. Most people would say they don't really know that much about me unless we've been friends for at least a year (or more). There was once a person with whom I spoke sporadically--I considered him my friend. But fairly recently he was having some difficulty and I was trying to help. I mentioned my love and support for him. He baldly stated that he didn't even know me. Good point. The fact that I love him is obviously suspect. Not everyone understands that I love haphazardly and I rarely consider that other people actually like to have some sort of relationship before they love someone. Point taken. I don't tell him I love him anymore--in fact, I don't think I tell him anything anymore.

4. I always want happiness for the people I love. And I allow them to define what happiness means to them without input from me. And if they find it, I will be the first person to be happy for their happy. As for letting go, I practice it all the time. I prepare for it. I try to discuss it, but I find most people are unwilling to talk about it--which I do not understand. It's a fact of life. If we could talk about it, think about it, get ready for the time when we're no longer as important to each other, it wouldn't hurt so much when it happens. Unfortunately, logic does not seem to penetrate emotional situations. Most people think I'm trying to encourage them to leave (I'm not), or they're insulted that I even suggested it might happen (ridiculous--it always happens--even in marriages there are times of closeness and distance, children are born with the idea that one day they'll leave, friends...well...anyone who talks to me knows how I feel about the staying power of friendship, or rather, the non-existence of such a phenomenon).

So why am I afraid of dependence? This is the last thing I haven't told Therapist: I'm not afraid of it. I am afraid I'll depend on the wrong person. Co-dependence is highly unlikely to ever be a problem in my life. Misplaced dependence is definitely something I fear. I indulged in it once and ended up getting raped more times than I can count. I think I can be forgiven of that--I wasn't yet twelve, and adolescents don't always have enough knowledge to make good choices. But I'm not twelve now. And I don't believe I'll ever be in a situation where I'll be that vulnerable again. But I still wonder about dependence. Part of me is dependent on Darrin--he's my husband--that's appropriate. But someday we'll be separated by death, and I have a feeling I'll be the one left behind. What to do with that dependence then? I have no idea.

Perhaps I'll put this on my list of topics to discuss with Therapist in May. Then again, perhaps by that time I'll no longer care. Good thing my list is written in pencil.

Yeah...random title. I have a knack for choosing words which have nothing to do with the topic at hand.

Tomorrow will be Friday

It's been a tough week. As my work week is six days long, we're now on the downside and I have only two more days before I can rest. What made it difficult:

Monday:  For whatever reason, my dad decided I needed to spend the day working in his office. I had scheduled two hours. I saw a bunch of clients, finished tax returns, did some bookkeeping and listened as my father discussed the value of buying toilet paper in bulk. Then my mother decided to let me know just how difficult it is to tie shoes while one arm/hand is in a cast--which made no sense whatever because my mother rarely wears shoes with laces. She also found a number of Christmas gifts she had hidden away three years ago and offered me mine, which I opened and thanked her for. It was a pair of pajamas...size 1X. She mentioned they might be a little large because she was unsure of my size and wanted to be sure not to get them too small. For any reader who is unaware of the sizing of women's clothing, they start at size 0 and go in even increments to size 22 or 24, I believe, at which point they start "big" sizes at 1X. I believe those sizes end at 3X, but I don't know for sure. I wear a size 4. Do the math. She bought me pajamas eleven sizes larger than I wear. Eleven. I'm still blinking in disbelief. I'm thinking I'll make quilt blocks out of them.

Tuesday: One of my work sites was down for most of the day. I made up for it by working extra hours at another job. One of my rehearsals was a complete waste of time. I'm pretty sure at least one person was sight-reading her part (inexcusable--we've had the music for two weeks). I left half-way through and told them it was unfair to charge them for a complete rehearsal when they hadn't adequately practiced. Tabitha swore her homework was finished, had a friend stay for dinner and a movie, then informed me that she completely forgot an assignment--which she worked on for 90 minutes, then lost because her computer froze and she hadn't activated the autosave in her Word program.

Wednesday: My office is in our garden level basement. I was trying to work, but a cat kept hurling itself at my window. I shooed it away, but it came back and began launching itself once again. I don't know about anyone else but for me, hearing a cat body thump against my window at regular intervals is a little bit stressful. I finally left and went for a walk and it was gone when I came home. Tabitha and Adam got home, relaxed for about fifteen minutes, then began screaming at each other. This never happens. I blame the cat. I decided to go for another walk, instructing them not to draw blood and to be hugging each other when I got home. They weren't, but Tabitha was doing homework and Adam was making dinner when I returned which is a step in the right direction.

Thursday: I went to bed early last night but woke feeling exhausted. The thought of work makes me want to throw up so I'm blogging instead (however, I was up at 5:30, so I've gotten in three hours all ready). In forty-five minutes I'll meet my rehearsal buddies who have let me know they've repented and practiced and are ready to pay me (which is good since they perform next week). Darrin said I look exhausted and made me breakfast. When he wasn't looking I ate cookies instead. I was supposed to work at my dad's office yesterday, but got derailed by the cat and my kids--two long walks ate up my finance work time, so I'll try to get some of that in today. If I can't, I'll do it tomorrow and Saturday. So I sort of feel drained and weepy today. Maybe I'm tired.

The problem, possibly, is that I haven't really spent time with anyone or anything except work for awhile. I know I talked to Tolkien Boy on the phone sometime last week (I think it was last week--possibly the week before), and Brozy has caught me online several times lately (Thank you so much!), but I've had no time for conversation with Darrin or any other responsible adult (I don't consider the toilet paper conversation with my dad or the pajama fiasco with my mother responsible adult conversation). The funny thing is, five years ago I didn't care. I'd just immerse myself in a book or take another walk. Now I sort of feel like something's missing. Does this only happen to me? I wish I understood why things are different now.

On the bright side, tonight I'm experimenting with sweet potatoes, plantains, hot peppers, coconut milk, and red curry. I might add some chicken (feeling a protein deficit today). Should be fun...want to join me for dinner? It will only cost you 25 minutes of conversation interspersed with insane giggling. And I might ask you to stir something.

Apparently only woman lives by bread alone.

There are times when I like to pretend I don't have low blood sugar...as in, I like to pretend this every moment of every day. So last night I decided it would be okay to go work out at seven and eat dinner when I got home. I have no idea why I made dinner so late. It's not like me to do that. When 5:00 rolls around, we're busy making food, but that didn't happen last night. I blame President's Day.

So Tabitha and I were being buff and lifting tons of weight and working our abs and arms and legs and behinds and trying not to whine that it hurts and makes us a little bit cranky, while at the same time feeling powerful and not noticing how the large man in front of us is whining less while lifting three times the weight (except in the leg press--I did just as much weight as he did because my thighs are freakishly strong which only makes the rest of me feel wimpy), and after about an hour my blood sugar dived.

If I'm at home reading or working at my computer when this happens, it's an easy thing to just go get a snack and ignore the fact that I feel simultaneously faint and nauseated. But at the gym, lifting stupid weights, feeling cranky and whiny, if my blood sugar dives--well, let's just say a quick exit is preferable to trying to explain how I can possibly lose consciousness while working out, and with my luck I'd somehow end up hurting a vital part of me while crashing to the floor.

So Tabitha and I opted out of our usual run which we do during the second hour of our workout, and got water and Gatorade and drove home to eat. And Adam laughed at us because he doesn't have low blood sugar and I don't love him right now but I will tonight when he comes home from school.

Sigh...

We'll try this again tomorrow night, but for now, I have a date with some running time. Bye!

"I too have known joy and sadness, and, on the whole, I prefer joy." ~Ashleigh Brilliant

There is still sadness but it's not new. Periodically I feel it pushing at my soul, reminding me that there have been inexcusable abuses--but it's old. Oddly, I can feel that these are not emotions from the present. They reek of loneliness only a small child can feel, or intense, consuming anger conjured by a teen, or confusion and loss felt by a terrified, aching adolescent. I was sad. I'm not sad now.

Still, the tears come. It doesn't seem to matter that I'm all right now, or that I'm safe, or that life has become joyful. I must still weep for those long past feelings and experiences. I must feel the emotions too large for me to endure when the experiences occurred.

Long ago I believed someone would save me. Bitterness and cynicism became my best friends when no savior came. I have laid them to rest. Bitterness hurts my heart, and I have had enough pain. Cynicism cankers my soul, eats away all that is beautiful about Samantha. The losses, if allowed, will devour my future joy and bring me nothing, continuing the cycle of destruction and pain which grew monstrous in my youth. But I am an adult now. No matter how great the required effort, I will choose to contain the monster; I will choose my life; I will choose joy.

Therapist says the sad feelings are important. Eventually, I will understand and embrace them for they are my personal responses to the painful, unacceptable situations in my life. He believes the sadness might return periodically throughout my lifetime, but I will recognize it, allow it, and move on without becoming overwhelmed by it. He says to feel nothing, to ignore the abuses, allows them continued power. As I weep for my losses, for the hurting child and subsequent aftermath throughout my teen and adult life, I allow those things to heal without disregarding their importance, without denying the existence of events which intensely harmed me, and with that acknowledgement I take control of protecting myself in healthy ways. I begin to understand where the guilt and blame lies--and it does not lie with a vulnerable child, ever. And someday I will be able to say, "This happened. It makes me sad--it should sadden any person who knows of it because any time a child is abused or molested, humanity suffers. But while it happened to me, it is not who I am. It has harmed but not consumed me. It affects but does not control me."

Therapist believes that while I might feel pain in varying degrees caused by my past, throughout the rest of my life, he also believes that learning to share that pain with people I love does not harm my loved ones, but rather, helps them to bear my burden and increases the love and caring they feel for me. I don't understand this yet. It seems that a person who is repeatedly bringing the same problem into conversations, or who can't seem to overcome her past, would be someone to run from. People like to help, but only when they can see that their aid is effective. If a person keeps saying, "Hey--remember last month when I was sad and I asked if I could tell you about it? You know, like I did the month before, and two weeks before that, and every day the previous week...well...is it okay if we do all that again for the millionth time, because I'm sad again?", it just seems prudent to avoid that person and allow them to wallow in their chosen pain alone.

Did I choose this?

That's the question Therapist keeps asking. Then he reminds me that I don't really wallow. The past doesn't change but I do. I keep searching for new ways to manage the aftermath of a horrendous situation. And he says that I might keep talking about the same things, but my sole focus is not to find pity but support as I seek for ways to grow and find happiness. That, he says, is much different from someone who just wants a complaint audience. He also reminds me that I do similar things for the people I love and I don't resent it nor do I wish to run from them. He says I need to give people credit and allow them to love me--believe they are capable of loving me--just as I love them.

Sometimes Therapist lectures. Usually what he says is right. Always, I bristle and argue and feel misunderstood. And in the end I believe him--which doesn't mean I can magically do what is difficult but helpful, but does mean I will try.

Still, it's nice to know I'm on the right track. And I'm grateful that finally I can encounter the ancient sadness without wanting to lie in a corner and bleed to death. In fact, I'm at the point where, when it comes I think: This is sad. I wish it hadn't happened. I wish I could change things--but--I'm still here, and I'm happy. I haven't stopped loving life or people or me. So I think I'll just take a moment and cry a little bit, and then if friend is online or nearby I'll talk to them for a little while because that helps me remember I'm loved. And if no one's around, maybe I'll take a walk or sing or dance or turn a cartwheel--because I can. I'm not destroyed, I'm very much alive, and this feeling won't last forever.

It's a long thought process and someday I think it will reduce itself to a simple acknowledgement. I'll notice the sadness fleetingly, remember its importance, and continue whatever it is I'm doing. But for now I need a little time. I think that's okay.

I have zero time because I'm supposed to be at a family gathering...

I've been thinking a lot about DJ.

I know it's good that he's independent, living on his own, and happy. Adam says DJ inherited my naturally happy genes. I'm not sure that's genetic. I love that I'm feeling the happy again. It's wonderful.

But I miss DJ. It's not like I don't see him--he comes over for dinner a few days weekly and he'll be going on a mini-vacation with me next month. It's just that he's not here anymore. I can't kiss him good-night, or make sure he's not eating junk food, or help him with his laundry, or listen when he needs to talk.

And I miss that.

I miss him.

I'm very good at letting people live their lives without me. I'm very bad at not missing them.

Good night

There is an incredible lightness inside of me. I've not felt like this for nearly two years.

No flashbacks for nearly seven months. No more depression. My Wonder Woman boots are alive and well.

We had a pink moon in the evening sky a couple of nights ago. It was beautiful.

For a long time I yearned to share what I saw with someone else who understood. Now I think it's okay if no one ever understands me. I know who I am again.

If I have leaned on you, metaphorically or otherwise, during the past couple of years--thank you for allowing it.

The Plumber, revisited

I posted the video clip in my previous post because we actually were visited by a plumber Thursday. He arrived in the morning around nine and stayed until 2:30 p.m. He replaced our kitchen faucet and fixed leaks in the sink and shower in our master bathroom. The kitchen repair went quickly and smoothly. The bathroom repair did not. Shortly after noon Plumber's pager began making noise which continued periodically for about ninety minutes, at which point he left and came back with reinforcements. Between the three of them the drippy sink and shower were finished in an hour.

So now I have a new kitchen faucet and formerly drippy bathroom near my bedroom is no longer keeping me awake. I should be completely happy--and I am--except...

THEY CHANGED THE DIRECTIONS THE FAUCETS TURN!!

And don't tell me this is not a big deal because it is. All three sets of faucets now turn on and off differently from how they did previously. And it's not consistent. It's not like Plumber just reversed everything. That would be logical and I'd get used to it in a day. But no--he had to go and be creative. Every set of faucets is directionally unique and it's frustrating!

Darrin says I'll get used to it.

Darrin says it's not a problem--you're just turning the water on and off.

Darrin says he could probably change it back to the way it was, but maybe that's the only way Plumber and Friends were able to stop the leaks in the bathroom and then we'd be right back where we started from.

Darrin says, if I'd like him to, he'll quit his job so he cans stay home and be the person who turns the water on and off for me when ever I need it. That way I can stop shrieking and cursing poor Plumber.

Sometimes Darrin is a bit beastly.

Sigh...

When Adam was very young we recognized that he was a creature of habit. He became agitated if things were not in a certain order or if something that was normally in one place was moved to another. When he was about two years old his collection of Duplos had grown enough that it needed a larger container, so I switched the Duplos into a container more accommodating to their number and placed it on the toy shelf.

Later that day, Adam decided to build something. I heard a whimper come from his bedroom and went to investigate. He was standing in front of the toy shelf looking unhappy. The whimper increased to a howl, at which point he sat on the floor and wept. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. I asked Adam what was bothering him. He ignored me. I placed toy after toy in front of him, hoping for distraction. When I picked up the Duplo bucket Adam's weeping became a full-blown tantrum. Adam never had tantrums.

Not knowing what to do, I cleared a space for Adam and left the room, thinking the tantrum would wear itself out eventually, which it did. About five minutes later Adam appeared at my side, glaring at me. I asked if he wanted a snack. Sullenly, he continued to glare. He mutely followed me through the house. I was cleaning, but I figured if he was quiet, I'd keep going. We went to the kitchen and I began to empty the trash can. As I pulled the overflowing liner from the can, Adam made a very odd noise, ran to me and attempted to pull the bag away from me.

Adam was not a naughty child. He was often in trouble because he climbed and ate everything in sight and believed that Tabitha was his personal belonging, but he didn't make messes and he was generally very compliant. I was at a loss, watching him mutinously pulling at the trash bag I was holding. I decided if he wanted to look at our garbage before I took it out of the house it wasn't really a problem, so I put the bag on the floor and opened it towards him.

He reached inside and dug a tiny bit while I cringed and longed for him to finish so I could wash his hands, then emerged, grinning, holding the former Duplo container. I said, "Is that all you wanted? Let's go wash it and you can play with it." I washed his hands and let him stand next to me on a stool as I washed and dried the container. I handed it to him and he disappeared happily into his bedroom where I could hear him playing with toys and jabbering to himself. I waited about fifteen minutes, then went to check on him.

The new Duplo container sat empty in the corner of the room. The old one, now over flowing with Duplos, was back on the toy shelf. Adam was happy.

He hasn't changed. Now a teen, Adam still has methods and rituals and a certain order in which things must progress. When family members leave for more than a day, Adam becomes stressed. If they're gone more than three days, he he begins calling them every couple of hours to make certain they're okay. His daily routine rarely varies. Each of his shirts has its own day on which it is worn. Piano practice always follows a specific order. The route traveled to and from school each morning never varies.

Darrin blames me. He says he has no similar habits and my neuroticism over the change in faucet direction supports the fact that Adam's quirks are learned or inherited from me. I'm not arguing. I definitely have certain habits that are similar to Adam's. And I'm allowing Darrin his delusion. I'm not pointing out that he has to have his tools stored in a certain order, or that he has to brush his teeth before he can wash his face before bed, or that he sits at the table before every meal and moves his fork from one side of the plate to the other, or that he cannot pass a pot on the stove without stopping to stir it, or that when he's dressing he has to put on his socks before he'll put on his underwear...

Poor Adam. There's no hope for him.

Plumber

Some amazing person who has actually read both my "Samantha" blogs for the past five years sent me this today. My phone number is nearly identical to that of a local plumbing company, so I often get wrong number calls asking me to help with some plumbing problem. I'm thinking of changing my occupation, as I already seem to have clientele.

This clip, however, got me started watching other clips from the Electric Company series. I think the writers were on drugs, but I also think I want to keep watching the show. I sort of wish it was still being made.

Here's one more for your viewing delight. I think I'm in love with Electric Company:

"For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my fate with kings." ~Shakespeare

Today is Valentine's Day. Much has happened in the past week.

Darrin has his blood tested every three months. I do it annually, partly because I think it's good to have an idea of what's happening inside me and for a baseline comparison should anything go awry, healthwise, and partly to keep Darrin company. We went to have our blood drawn two weeks ago. On a whim, because I had heard there is a link between low levels of Vitamin D and depression, I had them take an extra vial of blood to check my levels. I also noticed my blood was not the dark purplish color it normally is, but rather a lovely shade of bright red.

My tests came back, showing me to be one of the healthiest people on this planet--except for a couple of things:
1. I'm anemic.
2. My Vitamin D levels are alarmingly low.

And so I have been prescribed a daily dose of Vitamin D which I'm certain is toxic. I was told I should feel a difference in a number of odd symptoms I've been experiencing within a couple of days. I felt a difference in a couple of hours.

For the past five days I've had such a drastic decrease in depression that today it has become difficult to remember how it felt. I've been experiencing muscle cramps for nearly a month which have now become non-existent. I'm finding it easier to focus and concentrate. Today I'll begin taking ugly iron doses which will leave me feeling nauseated and sort of miserable, but if I continue them consistently and alter my diet to include more foods with Vitamin D and iron, in a month I should be completely healthy.

Which reminds me...

That eating food part is problematic. I haven't been doing that very well lately. In fact, I would have to say the weight loss experiment was a complete failure. Two days after posting about it I was no longer able to manage the stupid anorexia on top of the PTSD and depression. All the weight was gone within a week, plus a bit more (my target date for completing the weight loss was tomorrow). Sigh... Maybe I'll try again next year.

However, I feel better--so much better! Panic symptoms are still alive and well, but those are annoyingly familiar and I know how to manage them.

And so today I just have to say a few things about love:

About three years ago one of my friends accused me of being insensitive to people who are single on Valentine's Day. He said that randomly sending wishes for a Happy Valentine's Day only magnifies the fact that they have no one special with whom to celebrate. I have always loved Valentine's Day. I loved the mushy decorations, the cookies and candy, the grins and the blushing. I loved making elementary school Valentine boxes and signing cards to put into them. I loved the class parties. I loved giving silly cards gifts to my high school friends. But mostly I loved this holiday because it was one day out of the year when my mom selected a card and wrote me a note saying she loved me.

I knew the card was hand selected just for me. She always chose one with a cute brown-eyed girl and a poem about a daughter. And I have kept every one. For just one day I would pretend I was loved by my mom--that the words in the card were absolutely true--and that tomorrow when the abuse began once again, I would have a tangible reminder that just for a moment my mother loved me.

When I became a teen, naturally the cards seemed like hypocrisy and became one more reason for me to hate my mother. But a part of me buried deeply inside, clung to the hope that she really did love me even if it was only one day out of the year, and I still kept each Valentine signed with love from her.

Every year for my entire life my mother has made special cookies for Valentine's Day. They're like a sugar cookie, but the dough is extremely fragile and flavored with butter and rum and vanilla. It has to be refrigerated and kept cold while rolling and cutting with a special heart-shaped cutter. The cookies can only be baked four minutes or they're overdone. Then an amazing pink frosting is sandwiched between two of them, they're frosted on the tops and sides and rolled in coconut (sometimes tinted pink, sometimes left white), and allowed to sit for a day, during which the cookies soften and meld with the frosting. My mom calls them "Valentine Cookie Cakes" which is apt, if not imaginative.

I love these cookies.

When Darrin and I were engaged my parents wanted us to get married as quickly as possible. I think they were afraid we'd have sex before marriage or something. Obviously they didn't know me at all. Sex before marriage was the last thing I was likely to engage in with a man--fiance or not. However, to humor them, we said we would choose the first three-day weekend during our spring semester of college. It fell on President's Day in February, which also happened to be Valentine's Day. And so as luck or coincidence or fate would have it, I ended up getting married on my favorite holiday (no, not President's Day--that was just a matter of convenience).

I asked for those cookie-cakes to be served at my wedding, and I've made them every year since. I deliver them to nearby friends. I also give some to my mom. She always laughs and reminds me she's made dozens all ready, then hands me a plate for my family. I don't care. I make them for her anyway.

Valentine's Day for me, has never been about boyfriends, or lovers, or romance. It's a day of love. One day throughout my life when I believed I was loved, when I received tokens of love and friendship. One day when I feel free to share that love with everyone who owns a piece of my heart. One very special day...

So if you're offended by my wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day, remember, I'm not being insensitive--I just love you. And if that's a problem for you, you're going to have to discuss it with my heart. It has its own ideas; I just go along for the ride.

I hope your day is filled with love, and if  you know me, know also that I love you.

It's cold today.

I'm thinking of taking a break--from blogging, but also from everything else. More than one reason exists for this pondering, but the largest one is that for the first time in my life I'm battling debilitating depression. There. I said it.

Apparently it's not normal to cry all the time, nor is it normal to wake up sad and spend entire days waiting for a moment when you won't be sad--except that moment doesn't happen so you go to bed sad hoping to wake up less sad--only you don't, so you spend another day waiting for the sad to go away...and another day...and another...

There are times during the day when I can't decide whether to cry again or just throw up, which adds variety. That's something.

Ambrosia, Tolkien Boy, and AtP chatted with me briefly yesterday, which was helpful. The distraction of having someone talk with seems to buoy me up when I'm feeling like I'm drowning. Honestly, I'm not really trying to be so melodramatic--that's just how it feels.

I've been trying to channel my energy into positive things. I spent a couple of hours at the gym with Tabitha last night. We lifted weights for about an hour, then ran for an hour. I was hopeful this would be a healthy fix which would leave me feeling better emotionally. It didn't, but Tabitha had a wonderful time. She was still feeling happy about our time together when she got up this morning. I love that girl.

Last night my Therapist-prescribed bedtime hit and I just couldn't go. Darrin was working late and I didn't want to be alone. I checked my chat list. Thankfully, Jason was there. Sometimes I hail him at inopportune times. I'm really glad last night wasn't one of those times. Lonely and Sad is a more unpalatable combination than just plain sad. We had this conversation:

Jason: So, I saw you've been having panic attacks.

  That's no fun at all.

 me: They're stupid. They make me very cranky.

 Jason: With good reason!

 me: I told a friend I was experiencing panic attacks. She said, "I never would have guessed--you're so normal!" I don't even know what that means.

 Jason: It means you're fun and delightful and say clever things and smile a lot ;-)

Except, I'm not fun anymore, I rarely say clever things--I rarely say anything--anymore, and I don't smile anymore.

I could come up with hundreds of logical, valid reasons why I'm feeling depressed right now. It is unhelpful to know whether or not depression is reasonable. Reasonable does not make depression go away.

So I'm thinking it might be time for me to just spend some time away from everything; concentrate on work, maybe, and do some reading in my down time; just have some alone time to see if I can get on top of things again.

I don't know. There doesn't seem to be a correct answer. Maybe there isn't an answer. After all, I don't remember asking a question in the first place.

Anyway, I'll be back when I feel better. Talk to you later.