I spent some time last night reading my blog, including many of the posts I've put into draft status after publishing. The truth is, until the last couple of years my blog was kind of fun. I posted snippets of life, talked about fun or funny things that have happened to me, included posts about my kids...in short, it was a fairly well-rounded look at my life and I was able to talk with many people, both regulars and those passing through, about serious and light-hearted events.
For quite awhile now, however, this blog has simply become a place to record my feelings when I'm overwhelmed or sad--a PTSD journal, I suppose. I don't like that and I'm guessing few people want to read it, either. Public blogs are meant to be read.
About eight months ago I put my blog feeds on partial so that anyone interested in seeing what I was saying would have to visit me and thereby be recorded in my stats. There are still quite a few visitors, but only a few say anything in comments or when we chat, which leads me to believe that this blog has lost most of its value both for me, and for anyone visiting. And I'm also beginning to feel that I don't wish to air my weaknesses and stupidity for silent strangers. I am no longer the anonymous exhibitionist.
I am very glad to have found this outlet when I first began therapy. And as I have stated before, I will forever be indebted to Ward Cleaver--another blogger who taught me the ropes and helped me understand how fellow bloggers can offer empathy, advice, and friendship even when they have never met. He disappeared after five short months of daily contact--and after nearly five years, I still miss him.
To those of you who have taken time to respond to my words in the past--I thank you. To those who have continued to respond and encourage me even now--I love you. You've helped more than you know. I've had days when one comment helped me manage a great deal of stress, simply because it felt like someone cared.
I suppose I'll continue to grow used to my life with it's embroidery of PTSD and other stress disorders left over from rape and abuse. I'll keep seeking ways to manage those. I'll keep trying to be the best parent, spouse, friend, and human being that I can be. And one day, if I learn how to be at peace with all that, I may visit here just to shout it out into the blogosphere. No one will be left to hear me, but I'll do it anyway.
If you visited me even once, I thank you. Picture me wiggling my nose and zapping to each of you long warm days filled with flowers, blue skies, tall glasses of lemonade, and the company of the people you love--because that's what I'm wishing for you right now.
And if you find me online--I'd love to play a game of Scrabble with you.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
No title again
I've been thinking a lot lately--reflecting on whether or not five years of therapy have done me any good. The obvious answer is yes, but the less obvious answer is that the question is moot because I had no choice--I would not be here writing this if I had not sought help.
There is such security in living in a world of one's own creation--being a person without pain or sadness in one's past. It's easy to interact with people, knowing they have no desire to become close, to learn about who I am, and understanding they just need a place to talk. Life is well-ordered, serene, and logical. The times when I recognized that I was alone were rare. And I will be completely honest: sometimes I miss my former life rather passionately.
I believe under normal circumstances I would have been able to complete all the therapeutic tasks I set for myself without the complications I now experience. I'm fairly strong and resourceful. I'm think, though, most people would not be able to cope with the stresses I've experienced and continued therapy without developing similar insecurities and having difficulty managing stress. Therapist suggested I make a list of the less than joyful things I've experienced since I began therapy in 2006:
1. Unfortunate choice of first therapist which led me to not disclose much of what needed to be discussed. Therapy sessions ultimately became a place where I felt threatened and unsafe.
2. Acceptance of Samantha who was molested and raped (not just-a-little-bit-sexually-abused) more than once as a young girl and abused by her mother.
3. Hospitalization to help with suicidal thoughts and desires, during which time I was diagnosed with PTSD.
4. Recognition of some dissociation and subsequent integration.
5. Attempts to connect socially with people other than Darrin which, while delightful and beautiful were also frightening and stressful.
6. Lunch with my rapist.
7. Conversations with my mother, during which I learned of her desire to remain disconnected from me--ultimately letting me know of her need to have a friendship with me, but nothing closer.
8. My friend's six-year-old son was killed in a tragic accident.
9. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.
10. I became pregnant and miscarried after 15 weeks.
11. Darrin lost his job.
12. My father was hospitalized with a devastating illness which became complicated and nearly killed him.
13. My mother suffered a stroke, leading doctors to discover multiple places in her brain which have become "dead spots", notably located in the places responsible for memory and logical/realistic thinking.
14. I became addicted to pain killers after developing a pinched nerve in my back--and went through serious withdrawal while weaning myself from them.
15. I became a workaholic which, previous to this time, I believed was a myth or an exaggerated term for someone very dedicated to working.
There's more--but that's long enough.
When I last talked with Therapist about this, I pointed out that my life is mostly filled with good things. He agreed, then said that most people don't experience the number of negative things I've listed within two or three years. I said I've been able to stop having flashbacks in spite of the setbacks. He said he has no idea how. I don't know either.
Therapist asked me what causes me the most stress in my life now. I said, "People."
Even now, after years of trying, I'm not sure I'm cut out to have relationships. DJ stopped by today. I miss him terribly--but I want him to enjoy being on his own and not worry about me or what's happening in our home. So I try not to spend lots of time with him. DJ told Adam later that sometimes he feels like I'm glad he moved out which was not the message I wanted to send. I'm very bad at this...whatever it is.
My siblings have accused me of becoming distant, businesslike. Lila alone, continues to communicate with me--commenting on my Facebook, sending emails and calling me on the phone. My siblings and parents are together this week. I have work commitments and couldn't join them, but I'm not sure I would if I could. It's stressful and I'm tired.
I can't quite figure out if the stress I'm feeling now is related to PTSD or if it's something different. For awhile now I've felt unable to talk about what I'm feeling to real people--only here on this blog can I say that I'm feeling overwhelmed and panic attacks are common and intense. There was a time when I would try to call people or find them online or in person. Now I just feel like I'm imposing if I even think about doing such a thing. This is my problem--no one else's.
I did try to talk with a few people in the past couple of weeks. I ended up listening instead. They have real difficulties--not imagined ones such as mine--real reasons to panic or cry--not some insane disorder which crops up when my life is slightly out of kilter. Needless to say, there wasn't really any relief to be found in those conversations.
I feel a bit lost at this point. We've had lots of clouds and rain lately. Perhaps when the sun comes out again, I'll feel better.
There is such security in living in a world of one's own creation--being a person without pain or sadness in one's past. It's easy to interact with people, knowing they have no desire to become close, to learn about who I am, and understanding they just need a place to talk. Life is well-ordered, serene, and logical. The times when I recognized that I was alone were rare. And I will be completely honest: sometimes I miss my former life rather passionately.
I believe under normal circumstances I would have been able to complete all the therapeutic tasks I set for myself without the complications I now experience. I'm fairly strong and resourceful. I'm think, though, most people would not be able to cope with the stresses I've experienced and continued therapy without developing similar insecurities and having difficulty managing stress. Therapist suggested I make a list of the less than joyful things I've experienced since I began therapy in 2006:
1. Unfortunate choice of first therapist which led me to not disclose much of what needed to be discussed. Therapy sessions ultimately became a place where I felt threatened and unsafe.
2. Acceptance of Samantha who was molested and raped (not just-a-little-bit-sexually-abused) more than once as a young girl and abused by her mother.
3. Hospitalization to help with suicidal thoughts and desires, during which time I was diagnosed with PTSD.
4. Recognition of some dissociation and subsequent integration.
5. Attempts to connect socially with people other than Darrin which, while delightful and beautiful were also frightening and stressful.
6. Lunch with my rapist.
7. Conversations with my mother, during which I learned of her desire to remain disconnected from me--ultimately letting me know of her need to have a friendship with me, but nothing closer.
8. My friend's six-year-old son was killed in a tragic accident.
9. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.
10. I became pregnant and miscarried after 15 weeks.
11. Darrin lost his job.
12. My father was hospitalized with a devastating illness which became complicated and nearly killed him.
13. My mother suffered a stroke, leading doctors to discover multiple places in her brain which have become "dead spots", notably located in the places responsible for memory and logical/realistic thinking.
14. I became addicted to pain killers after developing a pinched nerve in my back--and went through serious withdrawal while weaning myself from them.
15. I became a workaholic which, previous to this time, I believed was a myth or an exaggerated term for someone very dedicated to working.
There's more--but that's long enough.
When I last talked with Therapist about this, I pointed out that my life is mostly filled with good things. He agreed, then said that most people don't experience the number of negative things I've listed within two or three years. I said I've been able to stop having flashbacks in spite of the setbacks. He said he has no idea how. I don't know either.
Therapist asked me what causes me the most stress in my life now. I said, "People."
Even now, after years of trying, I'm not sure I'm cut out to have relationships. DJ stopped by today. I miss him terribly--but I want him to enjoy being on his own and not worry about me or what's happening in our home. So I try not to spend lots of time with him. DJ told Adam later that sometimes he feels like I'm glad he moved out which was not the message I wanted to send. I'm very bad at this...whatever it is.
My siblings have accused me of becoming distant, businesslike. Lila alone, continues to communicate with me--commenting on my Facebook, sending emails and calling me on the phone. My siblings and parents are together this week. I have work commitments and couldn't join them, but I'm not sure I would if I could. It's stressful and I'm tired.
I can't quite figure out if the stress I'm feeling now is related to PTSD or if it's something different. For awhile now I've felt unable to talk about what I'm feeling to real people--only here on this blog can I say that I'm feeling overwhelmed and panic attacks are common and intense. There was a time when I would try to call people or find them online or in person. Now I just feel like I'm imposing if I even think about doing such a thing. This is my problem--no one else's.
I did try to talk with a few people in the past couple of weeks. I ended up listening instead. They have real difficulties--not imagined ones such as mine--real reasons to panic or cry--not some insane disorder which crops up when my life is slightly out of kilter. Needless to say, there wasn't really any relief to be found in those conversations.
I feel a bit lost at this point. We've had lots of clouds and rain lately. Perhaps when the sun comes out again, I'll feel better.
Monday, May 23, 2011
"Life is full of beauty. Notice it." ~Ashley Smith
Today at the gym there was a young man in his gym shorts and t-shirt...and cowboy boots. There was also a very old lady (I'm guessing 80s) who smiled the entire time she was lifting weights. It was a little bit creepy and sort of nice, too. A nice young man asked if I'd like him to spot me. That was a little weird. When I said, "No, but thank you," the very cute young lady next to me said (after Young Man's departure), "You know that's gym code for 'I'd like to get to know you a little better,' right?" I replied, "No, I didn't know that, but if that's the case, then 'No, but thank you,' is code for 'I'm married and far too busy to get to know anyone right now.'" She laughed.
These things are not common gym occurrences. In fact, I'm usually at the gym during the Exclusive Geriatric Hour, which is kind of fun, actually. Today there were quite a few younger participants in their 20s and 30s. I think I like the EGH better. No one really looks at anyone else during that time and even if they're looking, odds are their vision is poor enough that they don't really know what they're seeing.
PTSD is back. It no longer frustrates me or causes anger. I suppose I've decided to work through it, finally. However, sometimes I'm not as good at it as others. Today was awful. There are days when the panic becomes so intense that I throw up, even if I've not eaten. This was one of those days. I haven't figured out how to derail that process yet. Still, I suppose stress vomiting and shaking (I'm sure I look like I'm having a seizure) most of the day is better than flashbacks, which continue to be absent.
I think the most difficult part of days like these is the intense feeling that everything stable, every person I count on, everything I believe, is disappearing. I don't know how to combat that.
A friend asked me to lunch today. She's on the verge of a nervous breakdown, crying constantly, and feeling depressed. She said it calms her to be with me. That's sort of crazy--call the PTSD-laden friend to help you calm down? I didn't tell her what was happening inside of me, so maybe that's not even applicable. She did notice I didn't really eat, though, so I chose something innocuous looking and pretended to enjoy it, knowing full well it was not going to stay with me. Still, it's nice to know that even when I'm feeling impossibly impaired, I can help a friend through a crisis. I'm guessing it was just having a break and someone to talk to that helped calm her, but today I really need to feel like I had something to do with it, so I'm claiming credit.
I talked with Lydia today about the classes she wants me to teach at the University. We talked about what it would take for me to get my PhD. She's not sure it's necessary. I can be a lecturer without it. While I understand this (and also how fortunate I am that she hires me to teach), I know that my job there is not as secure as it would be if I had the credentials to back it up. I have three degrees, but only one is postgraduate. She said, "Sam, you're one of the most intelligent, engaging people I know. That's why I selected you to teach these classes. They're the ones I usually reserve for myself to teach--because I care about them. But you care just as much as I do, you teach more thoroughly and with a wider perspective. I trust you to teach them because you stay current, you research, and you connect with the students in ways that I can't--ways I don't want to because it takes time and right now I'm feeling too busy. I know you only have a Masters degree. It doesn't matter. Oh, and by the way, I've always felt that way about you, even when you were my student. It's one of the reasons we're friends now."
But to me, it does matter. Lydia also said she thinks if I get my PhD, I'll go elsewhere. I haven't really thought about that. I'm pretty happy right here and I'm not young enough to try to build any sort of reputation that would land me another position. It was nice, though, to hear her say those things, and very unexpected.
Also, my broken arm has completely healed. And I haven't mentioned it before because:
1. I'm embarrasses that it even happened, and I was completely responsible for the break because I forgot to remember to feel pain, the front door was stuck, I was panicking so I sort of injured myself trying to get out and that's all I want to say about the process of breaking my arm.
2. I had a brace (yay! no cast) but I couldn't wear it because I had too many performances lined up and it's impossible to play in an arm brace and I didn't want any more people telling me I was stupid and my arm would never heal--which it did. The doctor says it probably took twice as long as necessary, and was more painful that it would have been if I'd worn the brace. Then he said that probably means nothing to me since I don't really feel pain. Then he said I need to get some help because I could really injure myself and I wouldn't understand the magnitude of the injury and I got a big long lecture on the purpose of pain which I already knew.
3. I'm still not sure how the heck I was able to break my arm--and neither is my doctor--because my bone density is ridiculous. He just rolled his eyes at me and said, "You must have hit that door pretty hard." What I didn't tell him is that I broke the door, too.
So--nicely mended arm now (it was only a hairline fracture, not serious at all), and I'm trying once again to feel pain. It's not very successful yet, but I have high hopes that it will be soon. And I didn't tell the doctor at all about the knee injury I sustained last year when I had my spectacular, head-over-heels fall, followed by four more ugly spills in the subsequent weeks. I was going to if the knee wasn't better by March. But it seemed to be getting better at that point and as of the first of May, it feels completely normal. I'm all better, finally. Yay!
So--goals to talk to Therapist about when I see him in about a month:
1. Strategies to learn to feel pain--better ones that those I've been using.
2. Ideas of how to deal with being a workaholic because it's getting worse. Last week, Darrin arranged for me to have all of Saturday to myself. I ended up at my office and worked there for six hours. Then I came home and worked two more. And it's not because I didn't want to take time off, it's because when I realized I wouldn't be working that day, I had a huge panic attack and the only way I could think of to alleviate it was to go to work. So--I need help.
3. Discuss ways to better manage my eating disorder. I know all that stuff all ready, but I'm hoping Therapist can figure out why I'm failing in this particular area of my life right now--because I can't understand why I keep reverting to that lovely coping device.
4. Help me learn how to take the adult self-esteem I've developed and apply it to the integrated parts of me that are still feeling worthless. Also, help me learn to stop being afraid of people because I hate that part of me.
And that's enough. I'm not adding anything else to the list. I only have about four or five weeks to prepare for my visit, so I need to keep my list short.
Also, yesterday there were bright yellow canaries migrating through our town. They settled for a brief time in my tree, which is just barely showing leaf buds. It was filled with flashes of yellow and noisy with birdsong. I watched it for a long time.
And now I must go to sleep. It's been a very long day.
These things are not common gym occurrences. In fact, I'm usually at the gym during the Exclusive Geriatric Hour, which is kind of fun, actually. Today there were quite a few younger participants in their 20s and 30s. I think I like the EGH better. No one really looks at anyone else during that time and even if they're looking, odds are their vision is poor enough that they don't really know what they're seeing.
PTSD is back. It no longer frustrates me or causes anger. I suppose I've decided to work through it, finally. However, sometimes I'm not as good at it as others. Today was awful. There are days when the panic becomes so intense that I throw up, even if I've not eaten. This was one of those days. I haven't figured out how to derail that process yet. Still, I suppose stress vomiting and shaking (I'm sure I look like I'm having a seizure) most of the day is better than flashbacks, which continue to be absent.
I think the most difficult part of days like these is the intense feeling that everything stable, every person I count on, everything I believe, is disappearing. I don't know how to combat that.
A friend asked me to lunch today. She's on the verge of a nervous breakdown, crying constantly, and feeling depressed. She said it calms her to be with me. That's sort of crazy--call the PTSD-laden friend to help you calm down? I didn't tell her what was happening inside of me, so maybe that's not even applicable. She did notice I didn't really eat, though, so I chose something innocuous looking and pretended to enjoy it, knowing full well it was not going to stay with me. Still, it's nice to know that even when I'm feeling impossibly impaired, I can help a friend through a crisis. I'm guessing it was just having a break and someone to talk to that helped calm her, but today I really need to feel like I had something to do with it, so I'm claiming credit.
I talked with Lydia today about the classes she wants me to teach at the University. We talked about what it would take for me to get my PhD. She's not sure it's necessary. I can be a lecturer without it. While I understand this (and also how fortunate I am that she hires me to teach), I know that my job there is not as secure as it would be if I had the credentials to back it up. I have three degrees, but only one is postgraduate. She said, "Sam, you're one of the most intelligent, engaging people I know. That's why I selected you to teach these classes. They're the ones I usually reserve for myself to teach--because I care about them. But you care just as much as I do, you teach more thoroughly and with a wider perspective. I trust you to teach them because you stay current, you research, and you connect with the students in ways that I can't--ways I don't want to because it takes time and right now I'm feeling too busy. I know you only have a Masters degree. It doesn't matter. Oh, and by the way, I've always felt that way about you, even when you were my student. It's one of the reasons we're friends now."
But to me, it does matter. Lydia also said she thinks if I get my PhD, I'll go elsewhere. I haven't really thought about that. I'm pretty happy right here and I'm not young enough to try to build any sort of reputation that would land me another position. It was nice, though, to hear her say those things, and very unexpected.
Also, my broken arm has completely healed. And I haven't mentioned it before because:
1. I'm embarrasses that it even happened, and I was completely responsible for the break because I forgot to remember to feel pain, the front door was stuck, I was panicking so I sort of injured myself trying to get out and that's all I want to say about the process of breaking my arm.
2. I had a brace (yay! no cast) but I couldn't wear it because I had too many performances lined up and it's impossible to play in an arm brace and I didn't want any more people telling me I was stupid and my arm would never heal--which it did. The doctor says it probably took twice as long as necessary, and was more painful that it would have been if I'd worn the brace. Then he said that probably means nothing to me since I don't really feel pain. Then he said I need to get some help because I could really injure myself and I wouldn't understand the magnitude of the injury and I got a big long lecture on the purpose of pain which I already knew.
3. I'm still not sure how the heck I was able to break my arm--and neither is my doctor--because my bone density is ridiculous. He just rolled his eyes at me and said, "You must have hit that door pretty hard." What I didn't tell him is that I broke the door, too.
So--nicely mended arm now (it was only a hairline fracture, not serious at all), and I'm trying once again to feel pain. It's not very successful yet, but I have high hopes that it will be soon. And I didn't tell the doctor at all about the knee injury I sustained last year when I had my spectacular, head-over-heels fall, followed by four more ugly spills in the subsequent weeks. I was going to if the knee wasn't better by March. But it seemed to be getting better at that point and as of the first of May, it feels completely normal. I'm all better, finally. Yay!
So--goals to talk to Therapist about when I see him in about a month:
1. Strategies to learn to feel pain--better ones that those I've been using.
2. Ideas of how to deal with being a workaholic because it's getting worse. Last week, Darrin arranged for me to have all of Saturday to myself. I ended up at my office and worked there for six hours. Then I came home and worked two more. And it's not because I didn't want to take time off, it's because when I realized I wouldn't be working that day, I had a huge panic attack and the only way I could think of to alleviate it was to go to work. So--I need help.
3. Discuss ways to better manage my eating disorder. I know all that stuff all ready, but I'm hoping Therapist can figure out why I'm failing in this particular area of my life right now--because I can't understand why I keep reverting to that lovely coping device.
4. Help me learn how to take the adult self-esteem I've developed and apply it to the integrated parts of me that are still feeling worthless. Also, help me learn to stop being afraid of people because I hate that part of me.
And that's enough. I'm not adding anything else to the list. I only have about four or five weeks to prepare for my visit, so I need to keep my list short.
Also, yesterday there were bright yellow canaries migrating through our town. They settled for a brief time in my tree, which is just barely showing leaf buds. It was filled with flashes of yellow and noisy with birdsong. I watched it for a long time.
And now I must go to sleep. It's been a very long day.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Wind, wind, go away...I want to run outside...without fighting you...or freezing...
If I step out my front door the air is filled with birdsong--not just a wash of sound, but distinctive, lovely notes from all the varieties of birds migrating through our small town. They pause in my yard to eat dried crab apples and rose hips still clinging to bare branches. They fascinate me.
This happens every year; the birds and the butterflies migrate in the spring and fall (and so do the wasps--which I do not love). I've seen it repeatedly but it never grows old, just as watching my flower/herb garden springing to life never seems mundane. It's a renewal of sorts, I suppose, a reminder that change is constant but some things repeat habitual patterns, and even while there is "change" within the sameness, I can count on birds visiting and plants growing each year.
There is change looming inside of me. I don't know what it means. Always, when this happens, I feel it--I'm afraid of it. I find this phenomenon affecting nearly every aspect of my life in some way. I work harder while I yearn for rest. I cycle through odd dreams (last night I dreamed of making thick steaks in a new type of microwave--I dislike steaks so very much). I find myself running more often and for longer durations--or wishing I could when I'm busy with something else. My diet deteriorates--I find myself wanting to eat only cookies--or nothing at all. I become impatient with people; they feel alternately intrusive and needy--and they are neither. I am suddenly hypercritical about odd things--like whether or not my socks match perfectly, or making sure the quilt on my bed is straight, or freaking out if a closet, cupboard, or drawer is left ajar. I don't like this state of being.
No one enjoys my company when I am like this, and I include myself in the group that dislikes being with me. I drive myself crazy.
I'm trying to stay grounded--but I'm not sure how. Everything is in flux right now. Adam and Tabitha are finishing the school year and looking for summer jobs. Adam is starting new classes at the university--applying to become a licensed EMT, trying desperately to grow up as fast as possible. I keep reminding him that it's okay to be a kid--he doesn't have to graduate early--sometimes it's okay to take life in its proscribed course. He's not listening.
Tabitha is finally in a better place, emotionally. She's learning to manage the mood dips and occasional depression. She's learning that what happens to her does not define her and she feels better about herself each day. She's been a performer since her first recital at the age of three years. That all came to an end a couple of years ago when her anxiety disorder got the best of her. This year marked a return for her--she performed a violin solo at festival, finished and performed a killer piano solo, and participated in the orchestra concerts. Her room is clean for the first time in many, many years (and she has kept it clean for more than three months--a huge record), and she's become more interested in helping me cook, doing her own laundry, and cleaning the house with me (or even doing cleaning on her own). She's healthier, happier, and very settled.
Darrin has been employed for nearly six months now. He enjoys his job. It has hours he doesn't love--he starts teaching at 7:00 a.m., which means he has to arrive at the school between 5:45 and 6:00, which means he gets up around 4:30 a.m.. Darrin is not a morning person. However, I have yet to hear him complain about the early hours. He does whine about wanting to get to bed earlier--then he putters around, preparing his clothes for the next day, playing on Facebook, watching stupid television--until 10:30 p.m., at which point he gets crabby because he didn't go to bed. But in general, he's happy. There is a great financial "catch-up" going on in our home right now (a year without a job takes a serious toll), but I'm hoping in 2012 that will ease a bit.
My performance schedule is easing. Between mid-June and mid-August I don't anticipate any rehearsals or performances. I'm looking forward to it. I have two more major concerts (one is tonight and the other is next Monday) and then most of my rehearsals and performances will be quite small and fairly effortless. I'm teaching the summer music institute at the university in a couple of weeks, which will entail a week of auditions, judging, rehearsing, teaching classes (four hours daily) and private lessons, and a major performance at the end of the session. Usually I team teach this. I was supposed to do it with Lydia this year, but her health has not been good (pneumonia recurrences for the past three months), so I may end up teaching most of it alone--which I can certainly do, it's just a great deal of work.
So--all in all, there is much that is positive in my life right now. I have no reason to feel cranky and displaced. But I feel it. I don't know why.
Darrin believes part of the "problem" is that I've not seen friends, people who have been key in my support as I've worked through past issues, for five months and I've spent a great deal less time online or talking on the phone with them. Darrin, himself, has been largely unavailable to me as he went back to work and has been adjusting to different schedules and a new job. He believes I haven't talked with anyone, really, about the emotional growth, setbacks, and frustrations I've been experiencing during that time--which is sort of true. If I encountered emotional "stuff" which involved another person I usually talked about it with them. Darrin says this doesn't count. I've been talking with Therapist nearly every month (sometimes every week) about how to manage PTSD, failures and successes within that realm, family (extended) stresses, and other small difficulties for more than five years now. Suddenly, that has stopped. Darrin says I don't discuss it with him, either. Conclusion (according to Darrin): I'm not talking anymore.
I don't know if I agree. Darrin insists he's right. He was present for a phone call I had with a friend a couple of weeks ago. He said I didn't say anything. I talked about the weather, what was happening with my jobs, and I listened and asked questions a lot. And that's true--I haven't really talked about myself a lot lately. But I'm not convinced that I need to--nor am I convinced that there exists a receptive audience listening out of interest or concern, rather than just because we're friends and that's what friends do. Darrin asked if I listen just because I feel friendship-obligated. I said he knew me better than that. I'm incapable of listening for that reason. I think it's stupid. He said probably I'm shortchanging people again.
Sigh...I don't really want to think about this. I like to believe I don't ever need to talk to people at all. I do it because I want to--and I try to talk about things I think will interest us both. Darrin says I'm avoiding things that are important.
Tabitha sat down with me a couple of weeks ago and asked me to please schedule a physical and a mammogram and a dental checkup. She said she would go with me to all of those so I wouldn't have to go by myself. I laughed. She didn't. So I committed to make those appointments in July or early August (when my schedule is much less crazy). I'm not thrilled. I know I need to do this. It's stupid to mess with my health and I don't want to go through breast cancer like my mother did a couple of years ago. But I still don't want to. And Tabitha is NOT going with me. Sometimes it's okay not to see your mom terrified out of her mind.
Also, speaking of Tabitha, my daughter emailed our landlord (who lives in Australia) and asked for an exception to the "no pets" clause in our lease agreement. She stated that she's done copious research, created an environment, and located the sugar glider of her choice, and would he please allow her to purchase and keep the animal in her room. He said yes--but she has to catch the bugs herself. Tabitha will have no problem with that--she's my daughter, after all.
So we now have a pet. It has only escaped from the cage twice, and Tabitha and DJ are the only bite recipients thus far. Darrin and Tabitha have an ongoing cage-building/remodeling project, which they are enjoying immensely and one into which I got roped last night because they were taking way too long (it was 11:00--someone gets up at 4:30 a.m.), so I helped finish one side and cleaned up their mess so they could go to bed. I suggested the next major habitat overhaul wait for the weekend.
One more thing--Blogger did some maintenance recently and some of my comments were lost (Blueyedane--yours was one of them) so if you thought you commented and you don't see it now, please blame Blogger. It wasn't me. :-)
And now I am going to go run. It's time.
This happens every year; the birds and the butterflies migrate in the spring and fall (and so do the wasps--which I do not love). I've seen it repeatedly but it never grows old, just as watching my flower/herb garden springing to life never seems mundane. It's a renewal of sorts, I suppose, a reminder that change is constant but some things repeat habitual patterns, and even while there is "change" within the sameness, I can count on birds visiting and plants growing each year.
There is change looming inside of me. I don't know what it means. Always, when this happens, I feel it--I'm afraid of it. I find this phenomenon affecting nearly every aspect of my life in some way. I work harder while I yearn for rest. I cycle through odd dreams (last night I dreamed of making thick steaks in a new type of microwave--I dislike steaks so very much). I find myself running more often and for longer durations--or wishing I could when I'm busy with something else. My diet deteriorates--I find myself wanting to eat only cookies--or nothing at all. I become impatient with people; they feel alternately intrusive and needy--and they are neither. I am suddenly hypercritical about odd things--like whether or not my socks match perfectly, or making sure the quilt on my bed is straight, or freaking out if a closet, cupboard, or drawer is left ajar. I don't like this state of being.
No one enjoys my company when I am like this, and I include myself in the group that dislikes being with me. I drive myself crazy.
I'm trying to stay grounded--but I'm not sure how. Everything is in flux right now. Adam and Tabitha are finishing the school year and looking for summer jobs. Adam is starting new classes at the university--applying to become a licensed EMT, trying desperately to grow up as fast as possible. I keep reminding him that it's okay to be a kid--he doesn't have to graduate early--sometimes it's okay to take life in its proscribed course. He's not listening.
Tabitha is finally in a better place, emotionally. She's learning to manage the mood dips and occasional depression. She's learning that what happens to her does not define her and she feels better about herself each day. She's been a performer since her first recital at the age of three years. That all came to an end a couple of years ago when her anxiety disorder got the best of her. This year marked a return for her--she performed a violin solo at festival, finished and performed a killer piano solo, and participated in the orchestra concerts. Her room is clean for the first time in many, many years (and she has kept it clean for more than three months--a huge record), and she's become more interested in helping me cook, doing her own laundry, and cleaning the house with me (or even doing cleaning on her own). She's healthier, happier, and very settled.
Darrin has been employed for nearly six months now. He enjoys his job. It has hours he doesn't love--he starts teaching at 7:00 a.m., which means he has to arrive at the school between 5:45 and 6:00, which means he gets up around 4:30 a.m.. Darrin is not a morning person. However, I have yet to hear him complain about the early hours. He does whine about wanting to get to bed earlier--then he putters around, preparing his clothes for the next day, playing on Facebook, watching stupid television--until 10:30 p.m., at which point he gets crabby because he didn't go to bed. But in general, he's happy. There is a great financial "catch-up" going on in our home right now (a year without a job takes a serious toll), but I'm hoping in 2012 that will ease a bit.
My performance schedule is easing. Between mid-June and mid-August I don't anticipate any rehearsals or performances. I'm looking forward to it. I have two more major concerts (one is tonight and the other is next Monday) and then most of my rehearsals and performances will be quite small and fairly effortless. I'm teaching the summer music institute at the university in a couple of weeks, which will entail a week of auditions, judging, rehearsing, teaching classes (four hours daily) and private lessons, and a major performance at the end of the session. Usually I team teach this. I was supposed to do it with Lydia this year, but her health has not been good (pneumonia recurrences for the past three months), so I may end up teaching most of it alone--which I can certainly do, it's just a great deal of work.
So--all in all, there is much that is positive in my life right now. I have no reason to feel cranky and displaced. But I feel it. I don't know why.
Darrin believes part of the "problem" is that I've not seen friends, people who have been key in my support as I've worked through past issues, for five months and I've spent a great deal less time online or talking on the phone with them. Darrin, himself, has been largely unavailable to me as he went back to work and has been adjusting to different schedules and a new job. He believes I haven't talked with anyone, really, about the emotional growth, setbacks, and frustrations I've been experiencing during that time--which is sort of true. If I encountered emotional "stuff" which involved another person I usually talked about it with them. Darrin says this doesn't count. I've been talking with Therapist nearly every month (sometimes every week) about how to manage PTSD, failures and successes within that realm, family (extended) stresses, and other small difficulties for more than five years now. Suddenly, that has stopped. Darrin says I don't discuss it with him, either. Conclusion (according to Darrin): I'm not talking anymore.
I don't know if I agree. Darrin insists he's right. He was present for a phone call I had with a friend a couple of weeks ago. He said I didn't say anything. I talked about the weather, what was happening with my jobs, and I listened and asked questions a lot. And that's true--I haven't really talked about myself a lot lately. But I'm not convinced that I need to--nor am I convinced that there exists a receptive audience listening out of interest or concern, rather than just because we're friends and that's what friends do. Darrin asked if I listen just because I feel friendship-obligated. I said he knew me better than that. I'm incapable of listening for that reason. I think it's stupid. He said probably I'm shortchanging people again.
Sigh...I don't really want to think about this. I like to believe I don't ever need to talk to people at all. I do it because I want to--and I try to talk about things I think will interest us both. Darrin says I'm avoiding things that are important.
Tabitha sat down with me a couple of weeks ago and asked me to please schedule a physical and a mammogram and a dental checkup. She said she would go with me to all of those so I wouldn't have to go by myself. I laughed. She didn't. So I committed to make those appointments in July or early August (when my schedule is much less crazy). I'm not thrilled. I know I need to do this. It's stupid to mess with my health and I don't want to go through breast cancer like my mother did a couple of years ago. But I still don't want to. And Tabitha is NOT going with me. Sometimes it's okay not to see your mom terrified out of her mind.
Also, speaking of Tabitha, my daughter emailed our landlord (who lives in Australia) and asked for an exception to the "no pets" clause in our lease agreement. She stated that she's done copious research, created an environment, and located the sugar glider of her choice, and would he please allow her to purchase and keep the animal in her room. He said yes--but she has to catch the bugs herself. Tabitha will have no problem with that--she's my daughter, after all.
So we now have a pet. It has only escaped from the cage twice, and Tabitha and DJ are the only bite recipients thus far. Darrin and Tabitha have an ongoing cage-building/remodeling project, which they are enjoying immensely and one into which I got roped last night because they were taking way too long (it was 11:00--someone gets up at 4:30 a.m.), so I helped finish one side and cleaned up their mess so they could go to bed. I suggested the next major habitat overhaul wait for the weekend.
One more thing--Blogger did some maintenance recently and some of my comments were lost (Blueyedane--yours was one of them) so if you thought you commented and you don't see it now, please blame Blogger. It wasn't me. :-)
And now I am going to go run. It's time.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Okay--here's the thing--
Lately...people...sort of...really...bug me...
A lot.
I recognize that by saying this here I'll chase off any chance readers and never become blogfamous--because really, that was my goal in the beginning: Say millions of incredibly personal words, reveal things I wouldn't even admit to myself, and make it so whenever I meet people they think: "Oh, yeah, she's that freak from blogland who talks about everything real people hide from." Yup. Goal achieved.
However, since I really don't have a blogging goal--I just do it--I shall continue my tirade because THIS IS MY BLOG!!!
It's not like anyone's doing anything to aggravate me. And it's not like I'm being ignored, because if anyone inquired as to how I'm doing right now, I'd probably dodge the question anyway. I feel cranky and whiny.
And it's not like I've been mistreated or insulted. I'm just not comfortable around people right now.
Unfortunately, I'm one of them. I aggravate myself.
I think part of the problem is that I'm also feeling like crying more than usual--for no reason, of course. And I'm not going to do it. Crying for no reason is stupid unless you're pregnant or under ten years old.
I also think I'm having tremendous difficulty communicating my needs and/or feelings lately. And I've had more than one conversation where I've felt like I only exist so people can unload on me (which I usually don't mind a bit) and no one is hearing what I'm saying and it would be really nice to have a shoulder to cry on for no reason (even though I'm not going to do that). So I resort to humor. I'm hilarious. I say all sorts of witty and delightful things, but inside I feel like sludge.
So I will blame the weather and the time of year and hormones and tulips and daffodils and cute bunnies and graduating seniors and pop music and computer viruses and stupid television shows and brown carpet--because otherwise I have to take responsibility for this myself and quite frankly, I don't want to.
Still, it would be nice to stop feeling like a crankypants and actually enjoy people for awhile.
A lot.
I recognize that by saying this here I'll chase off any chance readers and never become blogfamous--because really, that was my goal in the beginning: Say millions of incredibly personal words, reveal things I wouldn't even admit to myself, and make it so whenever I meet people they think: "Oh, yeah, she's that freak from blogland who talks about everything real people hide from." Yup. Goal achieved.
However, since I really don't have a blogging goal--I just do it--I shall continue my tirade because THIS IS MY BLOG!!!
It's not like anyone's doing anything to aggravate me. And it's not like I'm being ignored, because if anyone inquired as to how I'm doing right now, I'd probably dodge the question anyway. I feel cranky and whiny.
And it's not like I've been mistreated or insulted. I'm just not comfortable around people right now.
Unfortunately, I'm one of them. I aggravate myself.
I think part of the problem is that I'm also feeling like crying more than usual--for no reason, of course. And I'm not going to do it. Crying for no reason is stupid unless you're pregnant or under ten years old.
I also think I'm having tremendous difficulty communicating my needs and/or feelings lately. And I've had more than one conversation where I've felt like I only exist so people can unload on me (which I usually don't mind a bit) and no one is hearing what I'm saying and it would be really nice to have a shoulder to cry on for no reason (even though I'm not going to do that). So I resort to humor. I'm hilarious. I say all sorts of witty and delightful things, but inside I feel like sludge.
So I will blame the weather and the time of year and hormones and tulips and daffodils and cute bunnies and graduating seniors and pop music and computer viruses and stupid television shows and brown carpet--because otherwise I have to take responsibility for this myself and quite frankly, I don't want to.
Still, it would be nice to stop feeling like a crankypants and actually enjoy people for awhile.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Why I shall never become vain:
Twelve-year-old student: So, Mrs. Stevens, do you have kids?
me: Yes; I have three.
Twelve-year-old student: How old are they?
me: Old. My oldest son has graduated from high school.
Twelve-year-old student: Really? You don't look old enough to have a son that old.
me: How old do you think I am?
Twelve-year-old student: I thought you were about the same age as my mom.
me: How old is your mom?
Twelve-year-old student: She's 49.
me: Nope. I'm not the same age as your mom.
So...to a sixth grader I look like I'm turning 50 this year, and I've not even been able to enjoy my forties yet. Time to go shopping for orthopedic shoes and price check false teeth...
me: Yes; I have three.
Twelve-year-old student: How old are they?
me: Old. My oldest son has graduated from high school.
Twelve-year-old student: Really? You don't look old enough to have a son that old.
me: How old do you think I am?
Twelve-year-old student: I thought you were about the same age as my mom.
me: How old is your mom?
Twelve-year-old student: She's 49.
me: Nope. I'm not the same age as your mom.
So...to a sixth grader I look like I'm turning 50 this year, and I've not even been able to enjoy my forties yet. Time to go shopping for orthopedic shoes and price check false teeth...
Monday, May 9, 2011
Orange
DJ started it when he brought me these for Mother's Day:
We decided to cook them on Saturday because Sunday is my only day off and I didn't plan to cook anything then, and DJ wanted us to make dinner together. For the shellfish haters (that would be Darrin--and Adam's not crazy about shellfish either) we made this:
We rounded out the dinner with caprese salad, rice, honeydew and strawberries.
Later that day, Adam brought me these:
And Darrin and Tabitha brought me these:
And on Mother's Day, not to be outdone, amid the blues and yellows already blooming, my pansies produced this:
We decided to cook them on Saturday because Sunday is my only day off and I didn't plan to cook anything then, and DJ wanted us to make dinner together. For the shellfish haters (that would be Darrin--and Adam's not crazy about shellfish either) we made this:
We rounded out the dinner with caprese salad, rice, honeydew and strawberries.
Later that day, Adam brought me these:
And Darrin and Tabitha brought me these:
And on Mother's Day, not to be outdone, amid the blues and yellows already blooming, my pansies produced this:
See...orange... :-)
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Dear Mom,
For a long time I have hated Mother's Day. It's unfair of me to hate it. It's a good tradition. Mothers are sort of essential in the human race perpetuation and some women are incredibly good mothers. You were not.
For a long time I have blamed you for many problems in my life. Some of those problems were perpetuated by you. Some of the issues I deal with daily are the result of the way you interacted with me when I lived in your home.
For a long time I have been sad because I know who I was, but you did not. You rarely saw the little girl who was bright and loving and beautiful and funny and precocious in many ways. I wish you had known her.
For a long time I have been angry because I did not deserve the treatment I received from you much of the time. I deserved to be hugged and kissed and cuddled frequently. I deserved to be respected and disciplined--not demeaned and beaten up. I deserved to be recognized as a child and treated in age appropriate ways. I deserved to be loved.
You've told me of ways I made you uncomfortable from the day I was born. As an infant I did not sleep like other babies. You would feed me, expecting that I would return to sleep--instead I lay in your arms, three days old, watching you with eyes so dark you could not discern the pupils. It made you uncomfortable. I didn't look like your child. I didn't act like a normal infant. I think, maybe, you were afraid of me.
I gave you no rest as a toddler. At three years old, I learned to read before my older sister and I wanted to learn constantly. You bought me activity books with dot-to-dots and mazes. They lasted one day and I wanted more. You took me to the library and filled my life with books. You tried to give me things to fill my mind and stop my wheedling, but you had a new baby and another child--and you were very, very sad.
I was always busy, moving, twirling in circles, climbing trees (or anything else in sight), running. I brought rocks, and bugs, and dandelions into the house. I was not always respectful, or obedient, or truthful. I didn't like the cat--it scratched me--I put it down the laundry chute. I was not an easy child to raise.
Today I am no longer angry. When I grew up, I decided to learn all I could about you, to try to understand why you acted as you did toward me. The first thing I learned was that you suffered from terrible, untreated chronic depression throughout your entire life. I think that would be devastating. I learned you were abused by your own father but that experience is such that you cannot address or even acknowledge it. I wish it could have been different. You did not deserve that.
For a long time I have blamed you for many problems in my life. Some of those problems were perpetuated by you. Some of the issues I deal with daily are the result of the way you interacted with me when I lived in your home.
For a long time I have been sad because I know who I was, but you did not. You rarely saw the little girl who was bright and loving and beautiful and funny and precocious in many ways. I wish you had known her.
For a long time I have been angry because I did not deserve the treatment I received from you much of the time. I deserved to be hugged and kissed and cuddled frequently. I deserved to be respected and disciplined--not demeaned and beaten up. I deserved to be recognized as a child and treated in age appropriate ways. I deserved to be loved.
You've told me of ways I made you uncomfortable from the day I was born. As an infant I did not sleep like other babies. You would feed me, expecting that I would return to sleep--instead I lay in your arms, three days old, watching you with eyes so dark you could not discern the pupils. It made you uncomfortable. I didn't look like your child. I didn't act like a normal infant. I think, maybe, you were afraid of me.
I gave you no rest as a toddler. At three years old, I learned to read before my older sister and I wanted to learn constantly. You bought me activity books with dot-to-dots and mazes. They lasted one day and I wanted more. You took me to the library and filled my life with books. You tried to give me things to fill my mind and stop my wheedling, but you had a new baby and another child--and you were very, very sad.
I was always busy, moving, twirling in circles, climbing trees (or anything else in sight), running. I brought rocks, and bugs, and dandelions into the house. I was not always respectful, or obedient, or truthful. I didn't like the cat--it scratched me--I put it down the laundry chute. I was not an easy child to raise.
Today I am no longer angry. When I grew up, I decided to learn all I could about you, to try to understand why you acted as you did toward me. The first thing I learned was that you suffered from terrible, untreated chronic depression throughout your entire life. I think that would be devastating. I learned you were abused by your own father but that experience is such that you cannot address or even acknowledge it. I wish it could have been different. You did not deserve that.
I see in you still, the little girl who wished to dance and play music and write poetry and giggle and play with friends--but who stilled those delightful desires to please a parent who could not be pleased. Sometimes, you and I laugh together. Sometimes we talk and you share with me the things you have written. Sometimes you sing with me. I am no longer angry.
I am sometimes still sad, because I wish that you had received treatment for your depression so that you and I could have had a better relationship when I was a child. I wish that you had not felt detached and overwhelmed and angry all the time. You have expressed horror at some of the things you did during those times and begged my forgiveness. You have it. You're my mom. Life is not perfect. We're working to heal together. But sometimes I'm still a little sad.
I'm learning to place blame where it belongs. You are responsible for much of what I deal with today--but not all. And responsibility is simply a place to understand why--not a place to punish or retaliate. I did not deserve the mistreatment I received, but responding to that with vengeance simply perpetuates the mistreatment. Responding with love, with information, with kindness, stops the incorrect actions and allows us both to make the most of the time we now share. And I become more than I would otherwise be--and so do you.
Today I honor you on Mother's Day. You have given me many unspeakable gifts. You fostered my love of reading and encouraged me always to write. You recognized my talents and made certain, in spite of the fact that we rarely had enough money, that I had the best music teachers you could find. You noticed my love of beauty and helped me recreate it in many ways. You gave me opportunities to speak and perform and teach. You made certain I had all I needed to excel intellectually. You told me I would attend and graduate from a university--it was an expectation, not a choice. You provided me with spiritual guidance, moral guidelines, and ideals which could shape me into a person of integrity and beauty. And even though you didn't say it, and I never felt it, I believe you cared for me deeply. I know you do now.
Through you I have learned that people make mistakes--some of those mistakes are devastating to innocent people. I have learned that forgiveness can be given, changes made, and future relationships salvaged. I have learned that it's okay for me to feel angry and sad and frustrated, but still understand how very much I love you and how important you are in my life. I have learned to accept your boundaries even when I wished for more, because I respect your right to choose what is best for you. I have learned to see you as a whole person with flaws and abilities and beauty.
I cannot have what I would have chosen in my childhood, but I will accept what you and I have built together now.
I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day.
Love,
Samantha
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Dear Spring,
I love you. Thank you for making outside warm enough for me to go running there, and for holding off the wind until I got home today. You make the most beautiful blue skies and I'm loving the tiny wildflowers all over the prairie right now. I waited for you a very long time--and you were definitely worth the wait.
See you tomorrow!
Love,
Sam
See you tomorrow!
Love,
Sam
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Today's phone call
Gas Man: Hi. We need to come change out your meter.
me: Yes. You arranged to do that last month.
Gas Man: Oh! So it's been done? The paper work says it still needs to be changed.
me: No. You didn't show up.
Gas Man: Well, sorry about that. So it still needs to be changed out?
me: Yes, you made another appointment to do it on Tuesday this week.
Gas Man: So it WAS changed.
me: No. You didn't show up.
Gas Man: Ooohh...that's twice, sorry. How about we come take care of that today?
me: I don't think so. I'm having a recital in my home tonight.
Gas Man: What time?
me: Why? Did you want to come listen?
Gas Man: Uhh...not really...we just want to get in to turn off your gas so we can change the meter.
me: How long will it take?
Gas Man: Well, that depends. Sometimes it takes longer than others.
me: Well, I'm leaving in thirty minutes to go to a rehearsal. I'll be home around 2:00, and then I'll be moving furniture to make room for my guests. You're sure you don't want to come?
Gas Man: Yeah--maybe we should come a different day?
me: I think that would be best, yes.
Gas Man: How about tomorrow?
me: Fine. I should be home around 1:00 and I'll be there the rest of the afternoon.
Gas Man: Great! I'll put you down for tomorrow.
me: Don't stand me up again.
Gas Man: Huh?
me: I said, "Don't stand me up again."
Gas Man: Oh, hehehe, yeah, sorry about that. Third time's the charm, you know.
me: Well, you should know that if the first time was "the charm", rather than the third, your customer service and consumer satisfaction ratings would go way up. Perhaps you should try it.
Gas Man: Yeah, really, really sorry about that.
me: Me, too. How about, if by some amazingly remote chance you have to cancel tomorrow, you call and let me know so I don't wait for you all afternoon.
Gas Man: I'll do that.
me: Thanks! See you tomorrow.
Gas Man: Unless I decide to come to your recital tonight.
me: Don't push it. Besides, I might take a page from your book and not show up.
(long pause)
Gas Man: How many times am I gonna need to apologize for that?
me: Well, the third time's the charm--and you've definitely apologized three times, so I suppose I'll have to let it go and accept your offer to take 10% off my gas bill.
Gas Man: Uhhh...ma'am...we can't really do that...
me (laughing): I think it's justifiable. However, as long as you don't stand me up tomorrow, I won't ask for another discount.
Gas Man: Okay.
me: Bye!
Gas Man: Bye.
me: Yes. You arranged to do that last month.
Gas Man: Oh! So it's been done? The paper work says it still needs to be changed.
me: No. You didn't show up.
Gas Man: Well, sorry about that. So it still needs to be changed out?
me: Yes, you made another appointment to do it on Tuesday this week.
Gas Man: So it WAS changed.
me: No. You didn't show up.
Gas Man: Ooohh...that's twice, sorry. How about we come take care of that today?
me: I don't think so. I'm having a recital in my home tonight.
Gas Man: What time?
me: Why? Did you want to come listen?
Gas Man: Uhh...not really...we just want to get in to turn off your gas so we can change the meter.
me: How long will it take?
Gas Man: Well, that depends. Sometimes it takes longer than others.
me: Well, I'm leaving in thirty minutes to go to a rehearsal. I'll be home around 2:00, and then I'll be moving furniture to make room for my guests. You're sure you don't want to come?
Gas Man: Yeah--maybe we should come a different day?
me: I think that would be best, yes.
Gas Man: How about tomorrow?
me: Fine. I should be home around 1:00 and I'll be there the rest of the afternoon.
Gas Man: Great! I'll put you down for tomorrow.
me: Don't stand me up again.
Gas Man: Huh?
me: I said, "Don't stand me up again."
Gas Man: Oh, hehehe, yeah, sorry about that. Third time's the charm, you know.
me: Well, you should know that if the first time was "the charm", rather than the third, your customer service and consumer satisfaction ratings would go way up. Perhaps you should try it.
Gas Man: Yeah, really, really sorry about that.
me: Me, too. How about, if by some amazingly remote chance you have to cancel tomorrow, you call and let me know so I don't wait for you all afternoon.
Gas Man: I'll do that.
me: Thanks! See you tomorrow.
Gas Man: Unless I decide to come to your recital tonight.
me: Don't push it. Besides, I might take a page from your book and not show up.
(long pause)
Gas Man: How many times am I gonna need to apologize for that?
me: Well, the third time's the charm--and you've definitely apologized three times, so I suppose I'll have to let it go and accept your offer to take 10% off my gas bill.
Gas Man: Uhhh...ma'am...we can't really do that...
me (laughing): I think it's justifiable. However, as long as you don't stand me up tomorrow, I won't ask for another discount.
Gas Man: Okay.
me: Bye!
Gas Man: Bye.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Wow
Apparently I have the type of face that appeals to Junior High boys. A couple of years ago this almost brought Adam to blows with his friends and left our relationship strained and uncomfortable. He doesn't care anymore and I'm the only one left uncomfortable when, during a lag at a regional festival (I was accompanying choirs), one young man said to his friend, "Dude! I think I took piano lessons from her!" (someone needs to let Jr. High boys know that their whispers are not inaudible).
The young man and his friend walked up to me and the friend said, "Uh...do you teach piano lessons?" I said yes, at which point the young man began grinning and the two rushed off laughing--thinking, I guess, that piano teachers are deaf, because the friend said, "Yep! You took lessons from her! Dude! Your piano teacher is hot!" to which the young man answered, "I know!"
Sigh...Jr. High boys are attracted to Jr. High girls...have you seen the kids in Jr. High? In our family we referred to it as the chrysalis stage. To be blunt, they're bodies are squatty or gangly, their faces suffer from acne and often look like they can't decide if they're children or adults, they're odd looking to say the least...
The only conclusion I can draw from these experiences is that my looks resemble the odd mishmash of a Jr. High student.
Still...if you're a guy between the ages of 12 and 14...I'm pretty hot...
The young man and his friend walked up to me and the friend said, "Uh...do you teach piano lessons?" I said yes, at which point the young man began grinning and the two rushed off laughing--thinking, I guess, that piano teachers are deaf, because the friend said, "Yep! You took lessons from her! Dude! Your piano teacher is hot!" to which the young man answered, "I know!"
Sigh...Jr. High boys are attracted to Jr. High girls...have you seen the kids in Jr. High? In our family we referred to it as the chrysalis stage. To be blunt, they're bodies are squatty or gangly, their faces suffer from acne and often look like they can't decide if they're children or adults, they're odd looking to say the least...
The only conclusion I can draw from these experiences is that my looks resemble the odd mishmash of a Jr. High student.
Still...if you're a guy between the ages of 12 and 14...I'm pretty hot...
Monday, May 2, 2011
"If a clod be washed away by the sea..."
I want to be very careful in what I say here. I do not wish my words to be misconstrued nor taken out of context. I also feel a great need to express some of what I feel about the events revealed to our country last night.
Osama Bin Laden is dead. He was a leader of people who wished death upon those who share citizenship with me in our country. Ours is not the only nation on which the death sentence was pronounced.
We suffered an unexpectedly savage attack during which unsuspecting men, women, and children were killed and for a moment, our nation was brought to its knees. Other attacks in different countries followed. There is no question that the terrorism inspired by Osama was cowardly and evil.
But Osama was simply the leader. He did not carry out the plans nor the attacks. He was the head of an organization--and no doubt, not the only one capable of taking charge and inspiring such devotion that those who followed him were willing to suffer certain death, that they might cause the deaths of many "enemies." I will not be surprised to see another take Osama's place--perhaps one more extreme, more unscrupulous, more dangerous.
That being said, in my mind Osama's death serves an important purpose. For many U.S. citizens, the country no longer seems impotent. There is a feeling that we can protect and defend ourselves from an unseen enemy. The victim mentality can be released.
I do not celebrate Osama's death. Part of me feels relief that a 10-year quest is over. Part feels gratitude that his invisibility no longer protects him and allows him to plan and assign followers to carry out senseless acts of terror. But another part feels shame that any citizen of our country feels exultant over the death of one man--for that is what he was. One can make whatever judgments one chooses about the kind of man he was--but he was still just a man. I watch the celebration and wonder what, exactly, are we celebrating?
I cannot speak to whether or not the death of Osama was necessary. It was the choice our country made--to hunt him and kill or capture him--and I am a citizen of this country and share the responsibility of that choice. I neither defend nor justify it. I simply claim it.
Still, we in the U.S. are no better than those of any other country, and there is a feeling of superiority in the mass rejoicing. As a country we are blessed with greater wealth and material possessions than those in many other nations--this does not make us better, just more indulgent. We have access to more education, higher paying jobs, comfortable homes and abundant food--this does not make us better, just incredibly blessed and probably equally ungrateful for those blessed circumstances. We are superior to no one--and yet there is a feeling that we were competing in some horribly twisted game, and with Osama's death we've somehow become the "winners."
We haven't. Terrorism is alive and well. No doubt we'll see more of it--and very soon.
Some are questioning whether or not Osama "deserves" the quiet burial allowed him. I say, yes. And to do anything but allow the dignity of laying him to rest in the manner of his beliefs would simply justify those who believe we are nothing but a nation of self-indulgent people who regard with importance only their own lives. The man is dead. He will feel no further punishment, but anything done to defile or disgrace his remains will serve only to inflame those who have followed Osama's leadership.
And so on this day of triumph, part of me weeps that such a day is necessary--that it is viewed as right and proper and normal, leaving me recognizing that "Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind." All mankind. Even the ones who wish me dead simply because I was born in the U.S.A.
Osama Bin Laden is dead. He was a leader of people who wished death upon those who share citizenship with me in our country. Ours is not the only nation on which the death sentence was pronounced.
We suffered an unexpectedly savage attack during which unsuspecting men, women, and children were killed and for a moment, our nation was brought to its knees. Other attacks in different countries followed. There is no question that the terrorism inspired by Osama was cowardly and evil.
But Osama was simply the leader. He did not carry out the plans nor the attacks. He was the head of an organization--and no doubt, not the only one capable of taking charge and inspiring such devotion that those who followed him were willing to suffer certain death, that they might cause the deaths of many "enemies." I will not be surprised to see another take Osama's place--perhaps one more extreme, more unscrupulous, more dangerous.
That being said, in my mind Osama's death serves an important purpose. For many U.S. citizens, the country no longer seems impotent. There is a feeling that we can protect and defend ourselves from an unseen enemy. The victim mentality can be released.
I do not celebrate Osama's death. Part of me feels relief that a 10-year quest is over. Part feels gratitude that his invisibility no longer protects him and allows him to plan and assign followers to carry out senseless acts of terror. But another part feels shame that any citizen of our country feels exultant over the death of one man--for that is what he was. One can make whatever judgments one chooses about the kind of man he was--but he was still just a man. I watch the celebration and wonder what, exactly, are we celebrating?
I cannot speak to whether or not the death of Osama was necessary. It was the choice our country made--to hunt him and kill or capture him--and I am a citizen of this country and share the responsibility of that choice. I neither defend nor justify it. I simply claim it.
Still, we in the U.S. are no better than those of any other country, and there is a feeling of superiority in the mass rejoicing. As a country we are blessed with greater wealth and material possessions than those in many other nations--this does not make us better, just more indulgent. We have access to more education, higher paying jobs, comfortable homes and abundant food--this does not make us better, just incredibly blessed and probably equally ungrateful for those blessed circumstances. We are superior to no one--and yet there is a feeling that we were competing in some horribly twisted game, and with Osama's death we've somehow become the "winners."
We haven't. Terrorism is alive and well. No doubt we'll see more of it--and very soon.
Some are questioning whether or not Osama "deserves" the quiet burial allowed him. I say, yes. And to do anything but allow the dignity of laying him to rest in the manner of his beliefs would simply justify those who believe we are nothing but a nation of self-indulgent people who regard with importance only their own lives. The man is dead. He will feel no further punishment, but anything done to defile or disgrace his remains will serve only to inflame those who have followed Osama's leadership.
And so on this day of triumph, part of me weeps that such a day is necessary--that it is viewed as right and proper and normal, leaving me recognizing that "Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind." All mankind. Even the ones who wish me dead simply because I was born in the U.S.A.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Just because I'm amazing like that.
Yesterday as I was leaving a rehearsal, I looked up and noticed a number of hawks soaring above the lot where I had parked my car. I continued to watch them as I approached my parking spot--looping and diving and twirling in the air. They're beautiful.
And then, in broad daylight, I saw an explosion of stars.
I'm thinking I need to sue the person who placed a parking meter right where I would run into it while watching hawks.
And then, in broad daylight, I saw an explosion of stars.
I'm thinking I need to sue the person who placed a parking meter right where I would run into it while watching hawks.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Sick
No. I'm not. Darrin is.
There are different types of sick people:
Sick Person One: This person feels awful, goes to bed, asks not to be disturbed and no one really knows they're around. They take care of themselves and get better. If a doctor needs to be called, they do it. If they need help, they request it politely and return to bed. They try to be cheerful and will sometimes smile even when they feel miserable. Often, the degree of illness is misunderstood by those nearby because the sick person doesn't project that they don't feel well.
Sick Person Two: This person is a whiner. They like company--but only because they want to be coddled and comforted. They need to be waited on and will ask for things in a submissive, aggravating, wheedle that makes everyone around them want to run away. This is the the sick person who is often asked, "Don't you think you'd be more comfortable in your nice, warm bed, in your quiet, peaceful bedroom--WITH THE DOOR CLOSED????"
Sick Person Three: This is the person who is palpably able to broadcast how they feel. When they're angry, the room seems to change color. When they're happy, it's contagious. When they're sad, the whole world seems to weep. This person is undemanding, but their very presence, when they're sick, seems to aggravate everyone in the room. They don't ask for things--but the not asking seems to be a demand in and of itself. They don't DO anything except lie quietly and hack loudly. But simply being with this person when they're ill, will suck the life out of every person in the room.
Darrin is sick person number three. And he has been sick for four days now.
Four days.
Add to this the fact that nights are no better than days. I don't sleep because he's broadcasting how miserable he is even when he's unconscious.
I work at home. Normally this is a peaceful place. I enjoy it.
Currently I take the kids to seminary in the morning, then I return home and sit in my driveway contemplating whether or not I have the stamina to face the cesspool of misery in my house all because a tiny virus has entered my husband's body and turned him into a joy-sucking black hole.
If' you've met me, you'll know that it's almost impossible to depress me. Most of the time I'm energetic and more giggly than I should be. I smile. A lot. "...smiling's my favorite!"
However, if I do not get out of my house today, I'm not sure I'll remember how to smile anymore. I adore my husband--but I cannot be around him when he's sick. He effectively makes me believe that the apocalypse is just around the corner, that life is filled with phlegm and mucous, and that tomorrow will be worse than today.
So I'm leaving. I'm going for a run, taking a shower, packing my computer and going to my dad's office to work the rest of today.
But just so you know:
1. I bought him soup and grape juice and pain killer and throat lozenges.
2. I'll make sure he's still breathing when I leave.
3. I'll kiss him good-bye and check in on him every couple of hours.
See--I really do love him. I just have to go somewhere and find myself again.
There are different types of sick people:
Sick Person One: This person feels awful, goes to bed, asks not to be disturbed and no one really knows they're around. They take care of themselves and get better. If a doctor needs to be called, they do it. If they need help, they request it politely and return to bed. They try to be cheerful and will sometimes smile even when they feel miserable. Often, the degree of illness is misunderstood by those nearby because the sick person doesn't project that they don't feel well.
Sick Person Two: This person is a whiner. They like company--but only because they want to be coddled and comforted. They need to be waited on and will ask for things in a submissive, aggravating, wheedle that makes everyone around them want to run away. This is the the sick person who is often asked, "Don't you think you'd be more comfortable in your nice, warm bed, in your quiet, peaceful bedroom--WITH THE DOOR CLOSED????"
Sick Person Three: This is the person who is palpably able to broadcast how they feel. When they're angry, the room seems to change color. When they're happy, it's contagious. When they're sad, the whole world seems to weep. This person is undemanding, but their very presence, when they're sick, seems to aggravate everyone in the room. They don't ask for things--but the not asking seems to be a demand in and of itself. They don't DO anything except lie quietly and hack loudly. But simply being with this person when they're ill, will suck the life out of every person in the room.
Darrin is sick person number three. And he has been sick for four days now.
Four days.
Add to this the fact that nights are no better than days. I don't sleep because he's broadcasting how miserable he is even when he's unconscious.
I work at home. Normally this is a peaceful place. I enjoy it.
Currently I take the kids to seminary in the morning, then I return home and sit in my driveway contemplating whether or not I have the stamina to face the cesspool of misery in my house all because a tiny virus has entered my husband's body and turned him into a joy-sucking black hole.
If' you've met me, you'll know that it's almost impossible to depress me. Most of the time I'm energetic and more giggly than I should be. I smile. A lot. "...smiling's my favorite!"
However, if I do not get out of my house today, I'm not sure I'll remember how to smile anymore. I adore my husband--but I cannot be around him when he's sick. He effectively makes me believe that the apocalypse is just around the corner, that life is filled with phlegm and mucous, and that tomorrow will be worse than today.
So I'm leaving. I'm going for a run, taking a shower, packing my computer and going to my dad's office to work the rest of today.
But just so you know:
1. I bought him soup and grape juice and pain killer and throat lozenges.
2. I'll make sure he's still breathing when I leave.
3. I'll kiss him good-bye and check in on him every couple of hours.
See--I really do love him. I just have to go somewhere and find myself again.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sorta Creepy
Today was a music festival (one down--two to go). I had to travel about an hour to reach it and I left a little before seven o'clock this morning. Following the festival I searched for a ladies room, found it full of young ladies between the ages of 14 and 18 and opted to stop at a rest area rather than brave the sea of incessantly talking feminine teens.
So I did.
I stopped at the rest area, locked my car, and began to walk inside. I found myself accompanied by a man who looked as though he'd been living at the rest area for a few days. He was very happy I stopped. Apparently, I'm great company for homeless men.
I indicated my need to go to the restroom. He continued chatting and escorted me to the door--and proceeded to follow me inside. I saw him enter, turned around, brushed past him and headed back to my car. I ran to it, got inside and locked the doors just in time to see him exit the ladies room, look at the door, point at the sign and begin to laugh.
I drove to the first McDonald's I could find and relieved myself there.
Then I threw up.
Clearly I am still haunted by being molested in the restroom. It happened a million years ago. It didn't happen today. Probably the very friendly man didn't even plan to harm me.
Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified.
And I've made a new rule: Scary, homeless-looking men, regardless of friendliness, should not follow me into the bathroom. Ever.
I know that's a lot to ask, but I think it's reasonable to want people--all people--to not be creepy scary.
The end.
So I did.
I stopped at the rest area, locked my car, and began to walk inside. I found myself accompanied by a man who looked as though he'd been living at the rest area for a few days. He was very happy I stopped. Apparently, I'm great company for homeless men.
I indicated my need to go to the restroom. He continued chatting and escorted me to the door--and proceeded to follow me inside. I saw him enter, turned around, brushed past him and headed back to my car. I ran to it, got inside and locked the doors just in time to see him exit the ladies room, look at the door, point at the sign and begin to laugh.
I drove to the first McDonald's I could find and relieved myself there.
Then I threw up.
Clearly I am still haunted by being molested in the restroom. It happened a million years ago. It didn't happen today. Probably the very friendly man didn't even plan to harm me.
Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified.
And I've made a new rule: Scary, homeless-looking men, regardless of friendliness, should not follow me into the bathroom. Ever.
I know that's a lot to ask, but I think it's reasonable to want people--all people--to not be creepy scary.
The end.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Questions of the Heart
A little more than a week ago a one-man play was performed. Mr. Fob got to see it. I did not.
The play was of interest to me because the actor, Ben Abbott, who conceived it is straight, but the play is about homosexual men and women who have current or previous membership in the LDS church. The purpose was simply to represent the variety of individuals in this subgroup, not to talk about right or wrong or to make any sort of statement. From the reviews I've read, and from speaking with people who were present during the performances, I believe Ben achieved what he set out to do. I haven't spoken with Ben since the play, but I probably will in the next little while.
I contacted Ben when I heard about his project because I believed I knew a number of people who could help him. I have ties to SSA people who are currently active in the church, some who have left but feel no antagonism toward the church, and some who are adamantly opposed to it--and to religion, in general. I was intensely interested in the success of this venture because it's something I've wished for in any genre, something I wished I, myself, could do--but I recognized that because of who I am, I would be unable to achieve my goal. I am not detached enough, nor (as much as I would like to think I am) am I unbiased. This undertaking needed someone who could look at the topic, meet and interview new people, and write with clarity undisturbed by a shared past of any kind. Ben could do this.
However, in contacting Ben, I did not intend to add myself to the mix. I simply wished to help him find people whose stories would be of value to him. I did allow an interview, during which I told Ben that my story is more about recovering and learning to thrive after rape and abuse, and homosexuality is only a facet of who I am. I consider that part of my life unremarkable. Yes, I feel sexual attraction to women. Yes, my preferred mate would not be hairy, her voice would be higher, and there would definitely be breasts and no penis. However, I chose long ago to marry, instead, a person I felt I could not live without. He added to my life a depth of joy and delight I had never before found. He is definitely not feminine.
Consequently, I don't really have much to say about being homosexual. It's part of who I am. I recognize the moments when I feel drawn to someone romantically, but quite honestly, I think I would feel those feelings even if I were married to the woman of my dreams. One does not stop feeling attracted to people simply because she has fallen in love. Those feelings are continuous and are sometimes directed toward people other than our mates. It happens. We deal with it. Often, because we reject the new feelings and repeatedly return to the person we chose to spend our lives with, the bonds to our spouses become stronger and mutual trust increases.
Mr. Fob sent this email following his attendance at Ben's production:
My dear friends,
The play was of interest to me because the actor, Ben Abbott, who conceived it is straight, but the play is about homosexual men and women who have current or previous membership in the LDS church. The purpose was simply to represent the variety of individuals in this subgroup, not to talk about right or wrong or to make any sort of statement. From the reviews I've read, and from speaking with people who were present during the performances, I believe Ben achieved what he set out to do. I haven't spoken with Ben since the play, but I probably will in the next little while.
I contacted Ben when I heard about his project because I believed I knew a number of people who could help him. I have ties to SSA people who are currently active in the church, some who have left but feel no antagonism toward the church, and some who are adamantly opposed to it--and to religion, in general. I was intensely interested in the success of this venture because it's something I've wished for in any genre, something I wished I, myself, could do--but I recognized that because of who I am, I would be unable to achieve my goal. I am not detached enough, nor (as much as I would like to think I am) am I unbiased. This undertaking needed someone who could look at the topic, meet and interview new people, and write with clarity undisturbed by a shared past of any kind. Ben could do this.
However, in contacting Ben, I did not intend to add myself to the mix. I simply wished to help him find people whose stories would be of value to him. I did allow an interview, during which I told Ben that my story is more about recovering and learning to thrive after rape and abuse, and homosexuality is only a facet of who I am. I consider that part of my life unremarkable. Yes, I feel sexual attraction to women. Yes, my preferred mate would not be hairy, her voice would be higher, and there would definitely be breasts and no penis. However, I chose long ago to marry, instead, a person I felt I could not live without. He added to my life a depth of joy and delight I had never before found. He is definitely not feminine.
Consequently, I don't really have much to say about being homosexual. It's part of who I am. I recognize the moments when I feel drawn to someone romantically, but quite honestly, I think I would feel those feelings even if I were married to the woman of my dreams. One does not stop feeling attracted to people simply because she has fallen in love. Those feelings are continuous and are sometimes directed toward people other than our mates. It happens. We deal with it. Often, because we reject the new feelings and repeatedly return to the person we chose to spend our lives with, the bonds to our spouses become stronger and mutual trust increases.
Mr. Fob sent this email following his attendance at Ben's production:
My dear friends,
It was so great to see you all this weekend. What a coincidence that the four of us would not only be in Berkeley on the same weekend, but that we would all be there within the same body!
Ben Abbott did a fabulous job of portraying you all. He didn't attempt to recreate your voices or mannerisms--since he doesn't know you, he just made up voices and mannerisms to distinguish each of the characters--but the essence of each of you was there in your words. It was a little surreal, actually, to see an overly effeminate man telling Tolkien Boy's stories about the Remedial Basketball League in his erudite diction; an overly masculine man in a baseball cap telling Jason's stories about losing the limp wrist and experimenting sexually (but in a PG-rated Mormon way) with his then-girlfriend, delivered via Jason's ADD-influenced going-three-ways-at-once storytelling style; and the same six-foot-plus man portraying a prim and proper woman with her head held high, boldly declaring Samantha's I-am-who-I-am-and-I-don't-
Take a look at the attached program and see if you can figure out which pseudonym belongs to you (it's not difficult), then admire the cool graphic design of the poster. And here's hoping that next time Ben puts on the show, you can be there in body as well as in spirit.
Cheers!
--Mr. Fob
I didn't attach the program here, and I haven't responded to the email because I have mixed feelings about being included in the final product. I know that's weird--I interviewed, I gave permission, quite frankly, I'm not hiding any of my story because it's right here and in a now dead but still public blog. I told my story simply because I was tired of being silent, and thought of that story being of interest to anyone is a foreign one. I don't champion causes, or fight for rights, or become politically involved in anything. I have no agenda. My role is to be the faded wallpaper behind those who have something controversial or interesting to say.
This is related, I suppose, to the feeling I have that when I am not present, I am never thought of. When I leave someone, I cease to exist for that person until they happen onto my green chat dot, or my blog post shows up in their reader, or I happen to email or call them. Then they say, "Oh! Yes! That's Sam. Sometimes she's around and we talk."
Now that the waterworks inside me have been released, I cry about pretty much everything, so naturally I've been crying about this particular nonsense since Mr. Fob sent his email. And it's stupid because I don't know why I'm crying. I don't know what to feel. I'm very confused about who I am and how I fit in the lives of other people. This inclusion in Ben's play compounded those feelings.
I see myself as an escapee, I suppose. I had horrific experiences--but I got away. And I learned to survive by running (literally and figuratively). And people became alluring but scary entities. I needed them, but I could not trust them--not even the ones I fell in love with, which is saying a lot because I fall in love with people all the time. And now there are people in my life who care about me, who tell me they think of me sometimes, who wish to spend time with me occasionally...and I don't know how to process this.
For a long time I blamed this emotional disarray on PTSD. I know now that it's not even connected. This is all me. I don't know how to be anything but incidental. I understand being left behind. I understand being forgotten. I understand being hurt and abused. Those things make complete sense to me. These understandings are not conscious, but lurk quietly, gently reminding me of my "role" in human interaction, which is to be delightful and warm and then go away and not bother people.
But that's not how it's supposed to be, maybe. Possibly people think about me in the same way I think of them? And now I'm weeping again because my guts are all confused. I think I have emotional brain damage.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
I have interesting phone calls.
Today the phone rang and I had this conversation:
me: Hello?
Phone Person: Hi. Um...I'm your mailman, (gives name which I can't remember).
me: Okay?
Phone Person: Yeah. I know you have a son who works for our credit union, and I know this is weird, but his boss is my neighbor and her dogs are out and her front door is wide open. I'm trying to catch the dogs (mastiffs), but does your son have any way to contact his boss and let her know what's happening?
me: I don't know, I'll ask him.
So I called DJ, and DJ called his boss and said, "Hi. My parents' mailman is your neighbor and he called them to see if I could contact you to let you know your front door is open and the dogs are out."
Then he drove out to her house to see if he could help, and they caught the dogs and everyone lived happily ever after.
I'm guessing this isn't something that happens a lot in larger communities.
me: Hello?
Phone Person: Hi. Um...I'm your mailman, (gives name which I can't remember).
me: Okay?
Phone Person: Yeah. I know you have a son who works for our credit union, and I know this is weird, but his boss is my neighbor and her dogs are out and her front door is wide open. I'm trying to catch the dogs (mastiffs), but does your son have any way to contact his boss and let her know what's happening?
me: I don't know, I'll ask him.
So I called DJ, and DJ called his boss and said, "Hi. My parents' mailman is your neighbor and he called them to see if I could contact you to let you know your front door is open and the dogs are out."
Then he drove out to her house to see if he could help, and they caught the dogs and everyone lived happily ever after.
I'm guessing this isn't something that happens a lot in larger communities.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
When the Moon Shines Over the Cow Shed...
Currently, clarity of expression is not my forte. This is a normal occurrence during the months of April-June. I'm feeling stressed to get taxes finished for my clients (and myself), I'm usually accompanying numerous soloists and music groups for festivals and competitions, as well as for juries, recitals, and concerts, and I usually have a recital of my own in May. Often I adjudicate for festivals and/or present workshops, as well. I get caught up in work and tucking in a bazillion practices and rehearsals and ultimately lose the power of speech. I'm not sure why this happens, but I think my brain says, "Hey! Enough! I can't juggle everything! Don't you dare add one more thing or I'm not speaking to you anymore!" Naturally, I don't listen--I never do--one more thing is added and my brain goes on communication hiatus. Fortunately it's a forgiving body part. We're usually back on speaking terms by July.
Earlier this week I witnessed an accident involving a car and a prairie dog. I don't think the car knows about it yet, and it made me giggle (please--do not judge--everyone knows the line between tragedy and comedy is so fine as to be nearly nonexistent). It happened this way:
Two young prairie dogs were out playing near the side of the road even though their mother had told them millions of times not to do so. Mother was busy with the other twenty-two siblings and can be forgiven for not noticing the errant two who were disregarding her repeated warnings. One delinquent prairie dog said to the the other, "We run pretty fast. I'll bet we can get to the other side of the road before those fast wheelie things come back." The other DPD said, "Well, of course we can, don't be ridiculous," and immediately propelled himself onto the pavement. The DPD sibling, not to be outdone, ran to catch up and nearly did so--just in time to see the first DPD pop 18 inches into the air after being flattened by one of those fast wheelie things. The still-alive DPD stopped short, paused for a nanosecond, then turned and ran back to the roadside thinking, "Hmmm...maybe we're not as fast as we thought we were."
Alternate ending 1: The still-alive DPD stopped short, paused for a nanosecond, then turned and ran back to the roadside thinking, "One down, twenty-two to go!"
Alternate ending 2: The still-alive DPD stopped short, paused for a nanosecond, then turned and ran back to the roadside thinking, "I'm going to need my superhero cape for this."
See...this is simply a case of live (or not) and learn.
My garden is a riot of bright yellow dandelions interspersed with gorgeous deep purple pansies. Darrin keeps threatening to kill it. I've put up signs that say, "Please do not kill the pretty yellow noxious weeds." He doesn't think it's funny. Neither do his allergies, which means I shall have to concede so Darrin can breathe again. But I think if I ever have to get married again (because Darrin will die of allergy), I'm marrying someone who can enjoy dandelions without getting stuffed up and looking like a martyr all day. Also, I want new-and-improved-spouse to be able to go running with me and not snore loudly at night and not have high cholesterol and blood pressure, poor liver and kidney function, and thyroid problems. I don't think this is too much to ask. I don't have those things, I don't snore, and I don't have allergies.
Sigh...I suppose a better solution would be to get rid of the dandelions and keep the Darrin. He's a lot more fun and actually smells better (dandelions do not smell nice).
Adam keeps trying to sleep in the entry way of our house, which sort of grosses me out because this is not an area that gets mopped often enough. The first time I found him there I thought it was odd, but Adam is growing and sleeps all the time now, so I figured maybe he was going outside but decided he was too tired and took a nap instead. But last night he went to sleep there again and this time he brought his alarm clock. Obviously this was a planned adventure. I'm going to have to talk to him to find out why he's acting like a weirdo when he has a perfectly good bed in his room (and floor, if that's what he prefers). I am seriously considering selling the boy.
And now I must go play with the ledger of one of my clients--such fun!!
Oh! And ten points to anyone who can tell me where the title of this post comes from.
Bye!
Earlier this week I witnessed an accident involving a car and a prairie dog. I don't think the car knows about it yet, and it made me giggle (please--do not judge--everyone knows the line between tragedy and comedy is so fine as to be nearly nonexistent). It happened this way:
Two young prairie dogs were out playing near the side of the road even though their mother had told them millions of times not to do so. Mother was busy with the other twenty-two siblings and can be forgiven for not noticing the errant two who were disregarding her repeated warnings. One delinquent prairie dog said to the the other, "We run pretty fast. I'll bet we can get to the other side of the road before those fast wheelie things come back." The other DPD said, "Well, of course we can, don't be ridiculous," and immediately propelled himself onto the pavement. The DPD sibling, not to be outdone, ran to catch up and nearly did so--just in time to see the first DPD pop 18 inches into the air after being flattened by one of those fast wheelie things. The still-alive DPD stopped short, paused for a nanosecond, then turned and ran back to the roadside thinking, "Hmmm...maybe we're not as fast as we thought we were."
Alternate ending 1: The still-alive DPD stopped short, paused for a nanosecond, then turned and ran back to the roadside thinking, "One down, twenty-two to go!"
Alternate ending 2: The still-alive DPD stopped short, paused for a nanosecond, then turned and ran back to the roadside thinking, "I'm going to need my superhero cape for this."
See...this is simply a case of live (or not) and learn.
My garden is a riot of bright yellow dandelions interspersed with gorgeous deep purple pansies. Darrin keeps threatening to kill it. I've put up signs that say, "Please do not kill the pretty yellow noxious weeds." He doesn't think it's funny. Neither do his allergies, which means I shall have to concede so Darrin can breathe again. But I think if I ever have to get married again (because Darrin will die of allergy), I'm marrying someone who can enjoy dandelions without getting stuffed up and looking like a martyr all day. Also, I want new-and-improved-spouse to be able to go running with me and not snore loudly at night and not have high cholesterol and blood pressure, poor liver and kidney function, and thyroid problems. I don't think this is too much to ask. I don't have those things, I don't snore, and I don't have allergies.
Sigh...I suppose a better solution would be to get rid of the dandelions and keep the Darrin. He's a lot more fun and actually smells better (dandelions do not smell nice).
Adam keeps trying to sleep in the entry way of our house, which sort of grosses me out because this is not an area that gets mopped often enough. The first time I found him there I thought it was odd, but Adam is growing and sleeps all the time now, so I figured maybe he was going outside but decided he was too tired and took a nap instead. But last night he went to sleep there again and this time he brought his alarm clock. Obviously this was a planned adventure. I'm going to have to talk to him to find out why he's acting like a weirdo when he has a perfectly good bed in his room (and floor, if that's what he prefers). I am seriously considering selling the boy.
And now I must go play with the ledger of one of my clients--such fun!!
Oh! And ten points to anyone who can tell me where the title of this post comes from.
Bye!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
"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.
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.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, April 4, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
"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.
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.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, March 18, 2011
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...
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...
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