I don't like ice cream.

This morning I sat in a square of sunshine on my living room floor and ate salted caramel gelato for breakfast. I did this because:
1. It's not good for me.
2. I'm lactose intolerant so it's REALLY not good for me.
3. It tasted good.
4. I wanted it.
5. I'm an adult and I don't have a mom to tell me I can't eat ice cream for breakfast.

I tell people I don't like ice cream. This isn't untrue--I don't really like it. But sometimes I want it because everyone else in the world seems to love it and I feel I'm a bit of a freak because I don't. I've learned to choose wisely, however, when I try ice cream to see if I still don't like it. I choose a variety that is very expensive, high quality, and includes ingredients I like outside of the ice cream (like nuts or salted caramel), and I don't eat very much of it. I've learned to stop after my third bite.

So, to be accurate, this morning I sat in a square of sunshine on my living room floor and ate three bites of salted caramel gelato for breakfast.

Then I ate an apple. I think this is a very good breakfast. Darrin doesn't. So I made myself a lactose-free protein shake and drank half of it. Protein shakes do not taste as good as apples. Or gelato.

DJ moved in with us last year so he could save money to go back to school, and recover from his knee surgery. He went to one part-time semester of school, and also got his EMT certification. Now he just wants to be an EMT. No more school. But EMT jobs are scarce.

Adam has been telling us since he was 17 that he was moving out soon and going to college in Australia. He's been looking at apartments and going to school. But last year he began having migraines--3-5 weekly. We were alarmed. He was missing a great deal of school and felt miserable. So I took Adam to a neurologist who prescribed an epilepsy medication. From the day he took the first dose, Adam has not had a migraine. However, he did experience debilitating fatigue, fogginess in his brain, and a complete personality change. Once again, we were alarmed. Adam is now medication-free and migraine-free, and slowly returning back to normal. But his grades during the first year of college were terrible. Adam petitioned the scholarship department, explained the situation, and his scholarship was reinstated for this year, but last semester wasn't stellar. Adam now tells us that he has no plans to move away from home. He's sticking around for awhile until he can figure out how to manage money, keep a good job, and not fail at life.

Tabitha planned to live at home for a year, complete gen-eds, apply to the nursing program in the fall of 2014, and leave home to attend said nursing program at that time. She's been working and going to school full-time and last semester was pretty tense as she tried to figure out how to fit 25-30 work hours, 16 credit hours, homework, and sleep into her life. She did it, but just barely. Now I understand that the current life plan has changed. She's not leaving home in the fall, she's staying another year and completing an Associates degree in psychology.

Darrin and I have a bucket list of things we will do when our children are gone. I want to do those things.

Don't get me wrong. I love having these kiddos at home. But it's kind of like living with three roommates who haven't figured out how to be grown-ups yet. And they don't like it when I say, "You're adults. Stop asking me to intervene in disagreements. Clean up after yourselves. Don't take it personally if you have to make meals, do laundry, and pay for your upkeep. We'll help, but you need to learn to be your own person."

Nor do they like it when I remind them that the upstairs bathroom is not their exclusive property, but is also our guest bathroom so they need to keep it clean and keep toilet paper on the proper bathroom appliance.

Darrin says I'm just feeling cranky lately, and he's right. I actually love having these three amazing people living with me. But solitude has been more than just a little bit appealing in the past few weeks, and it's rare in our house. DJ keeps to himself, so I actually don't mind it when he's home. But Adam wants to talk constantly and expects me to respond, and even though Tabitha just wants to talk (no response required), that can become a little trying, as well. Adam and Tabitha find me no matter where I go, and they always have something to say. Darrin says I'll miss this when they're gone. Probably he's right.

Darrin asked me yesterday what bugs me so much about having my children at home right now. I thought for a moment, then I said, "Their rooms are scary messy and they're too old now, for me to tell them to clean them."

I really do think that's the problem. And when your kids are too old to be bossed around anymore, you just have to sit in the sun and eat three bites of gelato. . .

This will be a very odd post, which means, of course, that I've been doing therapy stuff. This particular thing has been hanging around for years. I've been kicking it back, avoiding it--probably because I know what it reveals about me and I don't like it. But not liking something doesn't mean it's not real.

I've noticed that when things in my life become stressful, I'm more inclined to look honestly at myself, which makes me more likely to finish tasks from therapy. I sometimes think I should wait until I'm feeling better, but that never happens. When I feel level and happy, I'm more likely to just accept whatever is amiss inside me. It's not bothering me, so why expend effort trying to figure out what it means? So I've been working a great deal lately, on things that Therapist and I have discussed for the past ten years.

Therapist used to tell me, "The only relationship in your life that REALLY matters is the one you have with your spouse."

In my head, this is how that translated:

People come and go. Some stay longer than others. But it doesn't really matter because in the end, the only one you're really tied to is your spouse. No matter how much you try to foster any other relationship, it will end. Your children will leave you to find spouses of their own. Your friends will leave or die. Your progeny will eventually regard you as the laughable old woman who, at dinnertime, rolls food around in her mouth because she can't chew it, then puts it back on her plate, sits in her chair, and mutters. Only your spouse remains with you and remembers who you really are.

My interpretation of that translation: Relationships are sort of pointless. Except spousal ones, of course.

Therapist says this is not what he meant at all. Therapist's translation:

Your spouse is your major source of love and support. You've made covenants with one another that you will never leave, you'll work on always building the relationship, you'll forgive and move forward, you'll be best friends and lovers, and each will always come first in the other's life. Other relationships are not built to be as close or resilient. Children leave parents to make their own lives and families--but they remain in their parents' lives, just not as present. Friendships wax and wane because they have their own families and spouses which must, of necessity, come first. But no one really forgets their friends, and when time permits, they rejoin and spend limited time together. However, your spouse is a constant and should always be given priority over any other person.

Therapist's interpretation of this: All relationships are valuable, but emphasis must always be placed on those that are spousal.

Therapist is correct. I've always known that. And I don't disagree, necessarily. But I have always had difficulty maintaining relationships--always. Therapist traces this to the breakdown of the childhood relationship I had with my parents who were largely unreliable and unavailable, emotionally, and who discouraged any closeness or intimacy I might initiate. When you're a little girl and you really need a hug, you go to your mom or dad, I think. I was too afraid of my mother. My dad would hug me briefly, then move away. My little girl impression of the act was that touching me was embarrassing to him.

Little girls form friendships quickly and deeply. Holding hands and cuddling are part of that--at least they were when I was a child. Perhaps in today's world, where homosexuality is a hypertopic and people are highly sensitive to how their acts with another person are interpreted, little girls are encouraged to touch less. I don't really know. I'm hypothesizing. I hope I'm wrong. Such touch, for me, was the only real affection I received between the ages of six through twelve.

As I grew up, I had no interest in dating boys--but they seemed interested in dating me. So I did. And I had boyfriends. And I let them cuddle and kiss because I really, really wanted that. However, it seemed to affect them more deeply than it did me, and after awhile I was finished with that. I wanted nothing more than to be held and loved. The boyfriends definitely weren't satisfied with only that.

Darrin, alone, seemed to understand my need to be touched without strings attached. Granted, he was the first person I told of the sexual and physical abuse in my life, so he understood my background, but it was clear to me that he would allow me to call the shots when it came to our physical interaction--which is one of many reasons that I married him.

And for a long time, Darrin WAS all I needed. He was my most important relationship--my only important relationship. After my children were born, I experienced new levels of relationship depth. Other people came and went. I enjoyed them but had no desire to work to make secure friendships with them. That desire has never been paramount for me. And when they left, I felt a tiny shock of loneliness, then turned immediately to Darrin to appease it.

Unhealthy?

No doubt about it. And I was lonely. I ignored the loneliness and filled my life with other things, other temporary people, other books to read or music to play. I learned new skills and got new jobs and refused to think about loneliness or friends or anything that caused me discomfort. After all, in the end, I had Darrin, and that was all that mattered.

Ten years ago I began to face the things that haunt me. I went to a therapist (or two...or three...or four...and then finally found a good fit in Therapist). I stopped running. I decided to look at the things that scare me. At the top of my list were "People". I told Therapist I was going to learn to have real relationships outside of Darrin and my kids. He looked alarmed and immediately told me that those were my most important relationships. I knew that. I just wanted to see if I could have more--other relationships with other people--relationships that could last longer than a few months or a year.

So I did. And I wrote about it in my blogs. A lot.

Maintaining longterm contact with people was difficult for me, and very stressful. There were many times when I just wanted to cut everyone loose and never see them again. Sometimes I would hide for a week while I collected myself, gathered strength, and decided to keep trying.

I don't expect anyone to understand this. I know of many people who maintain their relationships with no problem or conflict or stress. I'm not one of them. It's hard for me. I'm afraid of people.

In spite of everything, I've had quite a few friendshps that have endured nearly 8 years now. That's a very long time. And I think I can truly say that I did it--we did it. I'm not eternally damaged by abuse and rape and I can be as human as the next person. But what I've noticed in the past year is that my drive to maintain my relationships is waning. I don't love the people less. I still want them. I just don't feel that, should the relationships become less important to all parties concerned, it doesn't say anything about me or my ability to interact with people. And at this point, all of us have spouses--and our spousal relationships are supposed to be the most important.

I guess I'm just feeling that after all is said and done, as close as we've been, as important as I might be (which isn't hugely important, I admit), I'm not really irreplaceable, and should I no longer be in the picture (for whatever reason), everyone still has their spouses, and that's what matters. But Therapist says it's not a black-and-white issue, even though that's what he said at first. And he says part of the reason he feels that way is because in the last decade I've convinced him otherwise. While he still believes that spousal relationships are parmount, there are equally important relationships that serve different purposes which should be nurtured and cherished. And he says I'm really not replaceable.

I don't know that I believe him. I often feel that I'm a convenient diversion. I don't object to being that. But sometimes I would like to feel that I make people's lives better and that they seek me out because I provide something they want and need.

My parents hug me now. It's awkward and I don't like it. They do it because they understood, too late, how hurt I was growing up and they DO love me, and they want to make things right, somehow. They can't--but I let them hug me anyway because it seems to make them feel better. It doesn't make me feel better, but it doesn't hurt me either. I guess that's what I don't want my relationships with other people to become--something they allow to happen because, even if they don't really like it, it doesn't hurt them and it seems to help me. That, in my mind, is not honest or healthy. I want more.

And maybe that's the entire problem expressed in three words. I want more. But maybe "more" is a figment of my imagination. Therapist says it's not, but he also says he was wrong about the importance of non-spousal relationships, and quite frankly, I don't think he knows any more than I do.

Last night I questioned a number of people who are currently present in my life about this topic. They all think I'm delving too deeply and I just need to let life happen and enjoy it. Maybe they're right--but it also illustrates how little they know me.

Okay. I'm done. Time to go to the gym.

I don't watch movies with an R rating.

Some people will suppose that this is because LDS people have been cautioned to use good judgment when choosing what they watch (and R-rated movies have been specifically mentioned as things to avoid), and I am part of that group. But anyone who knows me understands that blind obedience isn't really my style, and it's rare for me to do something simply because I've been told to (or told not to, as the case may be). Imagine having me as a child...yeah...I was a bit obstinate. So I'm not an adherent of the popular saying, "When the prophet speaks, the debate is over." I'm pretty sure I'm an Old Testament candidate for flood victim, wilderness wanderer, or pillar of salt. That's just who I am.

My choice to avoid rated R movies (and some PG-13 movies) was made when I was quite young and I encountered my first triggering violent movie. Television is not the big screen, and I found that my tolerance for violence (especially sexually related violence) went way down when it was large and in my face and I had no control over the volume. I've often said that I don't identify with movies and I'm constantly aware that an actor is playing a role--and I appreciate it when it's done well. But there are times when something triggers a memory, it could be a sight, a sound, or just a situation, and when that happens, I'm no longer watching the movie on the screen but am, instead, a victim of that triggered memory.

I recognized, after a rather unfortunate date, that if the violence in a PG-13 movie could trigger me, probably the degree allowed to be portrayed in an R-rated movie would be lengthier, or more intense, or more frequent, and because I was embarrassed that I left the theater with my date with no idea of what had happened in the movie, I decided I would not put myself in that position again. And I didn't.

My resolve to stay away from R-rated movies was further strengthened when I spent a year living with my outspoken, rather loud, mother-in-law, who declared her undying enthusiasm and enjoyment of slasher movies based on real life (I believe her favorite was Scar Face). I found her need to describe the bloody Hollywood depictions of the horrific crimes, with not a word spoken about the victims or their families, to be ghoulish at best. Mother-in-law was not accepting of my assertion that I just didn't want to watch--so the mormnorm edict became a convenient crutch for my escape when the movies were shown in the evenings, and I was grateful it existed.

It's rare for me to go to a movie theater and choose from the list of available movies. I will almost always research what I wish to see so I know what I'm up against, before deciding whether or not I'll be safe when I view it. It's just a good idea for me.

My reluctance to view films with sex and violence has been misconstrued by many people. And some believe I judge them harshly because they choose to watch movies I do not. I'm often overwhelmed with excuses or explanations of why the movie has merit, in spite of its rating. I'm told that they know we're not "supposed" to watch rated R movies. I'm prodded to just watch it with them and they'll edit out the "bad" parts.

They don't understand. I don't really care what they choose to watch. It changes nothing in my opinion about, or love for, them, any more than knowing that they eat ice cream daily would alter my feelings or opinions. But I am frustrated that they cannot accept my decision not to watch, and I feel a great deal of stress as they attempt to goad or persuade me. They don't know that I feel I am less of a person because my ability to process the types of situations I see on the screen is diminished by the violence I have experienced in my life, and that I am embarrassed and a little bit angry when I have to explain. I feel, instead, that they do not care about my feelings when my quietly spoken, "Maybe we could choose a different movie, please?" is met with resistance and little understanding.

So for future reference, should I decline a movie invitation, please go without me and enjoy yourself. Or if you wish to spend time with me, help me choose a different movie or activity we both can enjoy. Let's just forget for a moment, that there are any religious guidelines that apply to me, and just believe I'm an adult who makes good decisions for myself--because sometimes I do that.

Marriage--specifically, mixed-orientation marriage

When I began blogging, this was something that greatly interested me. I wanted to find others in MOMs who were happy, as I was--people like me, who somehow, against great odds, had found fulfillment and joy with a partner of the opposite sex. I think this was important to me because my marriage experience was greatly different from opposite sex attracted married people. Maybe I didn't want to be the "only one". I think I wanted dialogue with people who understood my situation. Regardless, the topic was on my mind and I wanted to talk about it.

Once I began speaking, there were quite a few people who entered the conversation. I learned a lot--which was also something I was seeking. To my dismay, I learned that two camps exist on the topic and both of them have strong opinions and speak very loudly. Personally, I have a strong opinion about my own marriage, but I really don't have one about any other marriage. I'll talk about mine, but probably not yours. And I strongly resist joining either of the two camps.

Camp One: Mixed orientation marriage is unnatural and should be avoided (actually, I've heard the words "should not be an option" in the place of "should be avoided" more often than I'd like, and it bothers me because it sort of dictates who one must not marry--in the same way some states' laws do). It will ultimately end in divorce, which is harmful to any offspring, and also to both spouses, emotionally, physically, and mentally. Those who are in MOMs and who attest to successful marriages are being dishonest and their words should be disregarded.

Camp Two: Gay people choose their orientation. They have an agenda (no one's really sure what this agenda is, but certainly it is EVIL and will bring about ARMAGEDDON and the world will die because of it). The only reason they can't change is because they don't want to. If gay people meet the right person of the opposite sex and get married, they'll live happily ever after and never be gay again. Just like Samantha. We use marriages like Samantha's because it proves that gay people are imaginary.

Clearly these are extreme views. I don't really have extreme views about anything. Except, maybe, chocolate. I love it. Extremely.

Over the past decade, I have been approached several times to talk about my marriage and my life in different venues. Those invitations have come from several different sources, not all extreme, and some for very good reasons--reasons I support. However, in making a video, writing a brief essay, participating in a podcast, writing a guest blog, or being interviewed, I understand that once my words become public, they can and will be misconstrued.

People from camp one will mock my marriage, question my honesty and sincerity, accuse me of attention seeking, and wait for my marriage to fail. People from camp two will harm gay family members and friends as they press them to "change" or to date members of the opposite sex, or twist my words to prove that gay people are inherently wrong or evil. I have no interest in providing fodder for either camp.

I believe the majority of people are more moderate and really don't care about me or my marriage. I'm an oddity worthy of three or four seconds of perusal, and that is all. But even without the MOM aspect, my marriage is remarkable. The average length of a first marriage is 8 years. Mine has survived more than 20 years. That's a long time. And I suppose that's what I've been thinking about.

My reasons for finding other MOMs are no longer as important to me. What I've learned is that every marriage is unique and some have greater challenges than others. Being gay has not caused me as much stress, perhaps, as it causes others in MOMs. I've been more challenged by the abuses of my past than by my sexual orientation mix-match of the past two decades.

I've also learned that sexual compatibility can be problematic for anyone, regardless of whether or not they marry a person of the same orientation. Things that seem to guarantee longevity in any relationship are linked to common interests, ability to weather changes and crises, desire to remain in the relationship, willingness to work out disagreements and find common ground, enjoyment of each other's company, and intense interest in each other. Sex is a component of that, naturally, but one that can wax and wane based on age and health. Devotion plays a large part in marriage longevity.

That last paragraph is not advisory. I don't give advice. It's simply a list of observations I've made as I've researched and studied marriages over the past decade--including my own. Darrin and I have had our ups and downs (still do). But I believe, at the core, we both want to spend our lives together--and WANTING is a huge motivator.

So I've said no to the invitations to discuss my marriage in public (with one exception--Darrin and I were once on a panel about mixed orientation marriage, and in that experience I learned that my view differs vastly from views of others who share marriages like mine, and I've not participated again). What I have decided is that it doesn't really matter what people in camp one think about me. I'm happy. I don't believe my children are maladjusted or dysfunctional. In fact, they seem to be intelligent, open-minded, devoid of gender bias, and are some of the most non-judgmental people I've met. I like them very much. I see no reason to expose my marriage to those who will mock it or expect it to fail, and who attribute many of society's woes to people like me. I understand many of them speak from experience--but that is not my experience and I do not expect it ever will be.

And I would never, ever, provide fodder for people in camp two--those who do not respect the right of their gay family members and friends to choose for themselves. That right to choose, I believe, is God-given and irrevocable. Yet the people closest to us are often those who punish or ostracize if we exercise that right to choose and our choice does not align with what they wish for us. The hurt that springs from such pressure to conform, and the damage to the soul and psyche, are often irreparable and always avoidable. I do not need my marriage to become a bludgeoning instrument for those who think they can "make" someone believe, or choose, or become. That right to believe/choose/become belongs to the individual, not to the masses.

Which leaves me at the end of this train of thought. My decision to silently live and love my spouse, for me, is the right one. It does not nullify the importance of voices like my friend, Josh, who chose to tell the world about his experience with mixed orientation marriage. I support and applaud him. I believe he did what was right for him, and helpful for many people. As can be expected, the extremists used his words, and some people were hurt by them--but this was not, and never has been, Josh's intent. I believe he has a right to speak, even if there are those who object to or misinterpret what he says. But I also have a right to remain silent, which has a reflection only on me.

The solstice was December 21st--the darkest day of the year has past.

My reaction to my situation has been of interest to me. Prior to my "death sentence" diagnosis, when I felt pain in my hip I would think: "This hurts, but it's going to get better. I just need to do my physical therapy exercises and keep working on flexibility. This is not forever." After the diagnosis, when I felt pain I would panic and think: "My bone is dead! There is nothing I can do about it! It has to be CUT OUT!!!" This would be followed by horrible sadness after which I would remind myself that I'm not dying and this is a condition which can be remedied (even if the remedy was not what I wanted).

The "interesting" part of all this is that my pain tolerance decreased considerably as I realized I was not going to get better. My general feeling of helplessness increased. My desire to withdraw and cease interaction with people became overwhelming.

The doctor didn't tell me to stop going to the gym. He told me continuing to build the muscles surrounding the bone would be beneficial if I could tolerate the movement of bone on bone in my hip. He made no recommendations for treatment in the interim between now and when the hip would be replaced, preferring to wait for the MRI results so he would have more information before making such recommendations.

My depression increased as my ability to manage pain became nonexistent. In only a few days, I had come to view myself as disabled and old. Random crying was part of every waking hour. Sleep was miserable.

Christmas morning was rather lovely. Around 4 a.m., I got up and did some online work while my family slept. DJ, who has never been able to sleep well on Christmas Eve, finally decided everyone had been asleep long enough and woke everyone at 8:30. We opened gifts, made breakfast, and settled into a game of Monopoly.

My mother had invited us to Christmas dinner. I was trying not to be unpleasant about another Thanksgiving-like turkey dinner--but I have my limits. As I provided most of the dinner for Thanksgiving and grocery shopping had been sparse prior to Christmas day, I chose not to volunteer food or help for Christmas dinner. I know--that was unkind--but I was feeling miserable and I didn't care.

We arrived at my parents' house around 2:00. I visited with my family (parents, brother and family, grandmother), but was feeling increasingly ill. Finally, after 30 minutes, I said I needed to go home. My father, who has experienced the pain of bone against bone movement (he has post-polio syndrome, which causes cartilage to decrease and bones to wear out), sent me home with two of the very potent, prescription pills he takes to manage pain. Legality sometimes takes a back seat to helping a loved one in distress, I suppose.

I went home and fell asleep on what we fondly call "The Napping Couch". When I awoke, I felt better, but still nauseated and in pain. I thought about taking one of my dad's pills, but opted for an OTC pain killer instead. I didn't want drug-induced sleep for the rest of Christmas day.

I read a book. I cleaned my kitchen. I watched the sun set. And I thought about a lot of things.

I decided that until I'm told I cannot, I will continue to work out as I have been. I feel better both during and afterward, so I don't believe I'm hurting myself, and I'm using and building the muscles that will help with recovery after surgery.

I decided I'm not going to feel sorry for myself anymore. It has its place, but I've allowed it enough time. At this point, it's just making me more miserable.

I decided to start researching and looking at my options, finding information about the things I'm facing, and learning about what's happening to my body so I can prepare for my future and cope with my present.

I decided I should probably talk to Therapist.

Thursday I went to the gym for the first time in nearly a week. I lifted weights, ran on the elliptical, and sat in the jacuzzi. There was some discomfort, but the benefit was worth it.

Friday I talked with Therapist. He had some good things to tell me and felt suitably sympathetic toward my situation. He thanked me for talking with him--said I'm a "bright spot" in his life. That was nice to hear. I don't feel very bright right now.

Yesterday, I filled out an application for an appointment to see a doctor who specializes in Birmingham hip resurfacing procedures, which is basically a hip replacement for runners. The procedure is about a decade old and has had fairly good results. I didn't think I would be a candidate for this, but when I went to the website and found it was recommended for "young" people--and realized I'm not even old enough to be considered a "young hip replacement candidate" (young = people in their 50s and 60s), I decided I needed to look into this. I'm really not ready to stop running.

The MRI will determine my eligibility based on the extent of bone death and condition of the remaining bone. I'm encouraged by the fact that avascular necrosis was listed with the conditions that are considered for this joint replacement. I have nothing to lose. If I'm told I can't have the joint replacement I want, I'll get the total hip replacement and plan on a few more before I die. I'll find something else to love. I'll be okay.

In the meantime, my emotions are all over the place and I don't want to be with people at all. I telephoned someone on Christmas day, because I knew the desire to isolate was becoming unmanageable, but I've not been able to talk to anyone since then. I've made attempts, but my ability to follow through is gone, so if I'm not met halfway, it's probable that the attempt will die. I just don't feel able to pursue anyone right now, to insist on attention--and doing so makes me feel unwanted and annoying. I'm not excited about placing myself in that position, so I probably won't.

But I'll keep going to the gym, and I should have MRI answers next week, and I'll see the hip specialist as soon as I can. Therapist said it's best if I keep talking to people, but if I have to chase them down, I would be better off using my energy for more pressing things--like staying sane, and managing pain and depression. I think he's right.

In the meantime, if you come visit me, I'll play you some Debussy. I learned a couple of his pieces to give away as Christmas gifts, but was unable to do so--so I've been giving them to anyone who chances by. They seem to be happy to listen for a few minutes. One sweet friend said it was "transcendent" but she adores Debussy, so that's to be expected. I won't be able to play for a few months after my hip replacement, so I'm performing as much as I can right now.

Avascular Necrosis

About a month ago I noticed that the pain in my tendon was becoming pain in my outer hip and the muscles in my thigh and backside were in spasm almost constantly. I was losing mobility in my joint. When I stepped on my right leg, or shifted my weight from side to side, there was audible popping in my hip. But most importantly, I was sleeping very little at night when the pain would intensify to the point that I could barely tolerate it.

So I made an appointment to see a sports medicine surgeon, thinking that it was time to get that tendon release and just get better--and why not see a doctor who would do the surgery and get me right back into running?

I saw him Friday. There were x-rays and a brief exam and a diagnosis. Then I went to the parking lot and cried for 20 minutes before I went home.

I'm not going to run again. I don't have tendonitis. I have avascular necrosis. Translation: the bones in my hip and upper thigh, and all the surrounding tissue and cartilage, have died.

This is a condition usually contracted by the following:
-Men between the ages of 30 and 60 years old
-People with sickle cell anemia, AIDS/HIV, lupus, diabetes, or Gaucher's disease
-People who drink alcohol excessively
-People who take steroids or osteoporosis drugs
-People who have had dialysis, or organ transplants, or who have undergone radiation therapy for cancer

As you can see from the list, I am not part of the "at risk" group. My doctor kept saying, "This is really, really bad!" and "I've never had a female patient as young as you who has contracted this!" After about the fourth repetition of those statements (with variations), I said, "Stop saying those things--you're making me really stressed!"

Then I learned that:
-There is no cure
-I no longer have any tissue between the ball and socket of my hip (bone on bone)--hence the loud popping sound, loss of movement, and intense pain
-I'm at risk for stress fractures, hip fracture, and eventual bone collapse

So I'll be having an MRI as soon as possible to determine the extent of the bone death and rule out bone cancer, and then a total hip replacement--with at least two more to look forward to in my future, as I am "so young!" Yay.

It's not the worst thing that could happen. And when I have a new hip I can still bike or swim or even play tennis. And the pain will be significantly less. But it's not the answer I wanted. And sometimes when I think about the moments when I would push through that threshold--the one where my breath comes in ragged gasps and I'm feeling like I might die if I run one more step--to the place where rhythm kicks in and I feel stronger with every breath and I'm absolutely certain I can run forever...well, it makes me sad.

Until two years ago I had run nearly every day of my life. I miss it. And sometimes, on warm spring days, the butterflies would circle and keep pace with me, and wildflowers covered the entire prairie, and in the summer I watched baby hawks learn to fly, or antelope running in front of me, or listened as breezes whispered through long prairie grass.

Everything will be fine. I'll get a new hip. I'll be free from pain. I'll still be me. But there won't be anymore running with butterflies, and part of me--right now a very large part of me--can't seem to stop feeling sad about that.

Getting It

So I wrote a post not long ago, about finally understanding how human sociality works; how it's possible to love someone deeply and wish to spend a great deal of time with him or her, but a few years later the novelty has worn off and one has moved on to another person (also deeply loved and interesting, of course). And I do understand.

I am not a stupid person, so it's likely that I always understood, I just didn't want to. I am also a stubborn person.

(I am eating a bagel with sesame seeds which keep dropping into my keyboard as I write this. While I'm not happy with the situation, I'll probably keep eating the bagel.)

My social pattern, until about eight years ago, was to charm people, enjoy their company, build a circle of those I could call or invite to lunch, but never divulge information about the person inside me. Ever. And should one of those people get close to me, I would simply become very busy, avoid contact, and wait until they lost interest. And they always did.

When I actually allowed people into my life--complete strangers, many of whom I met online--and bonded with some of them, it was dreadful. I felt exposed and afraid all the time. ALL THE TIME.

I thought it was because I knew they were just going to use me up and then leave. But there was more.

My experience has always been that when I love someone deeply (Darrin excepted), eventually they leave. And while I'd like to be the person who can shrug it off and go find someone else, that really isn't how I'm built. And so I knew from the start that any lasting relationship/friendship/companionship/whatever that I became involved in, would change. That's to be expected--even anticipated, sometimes.

However, there is a feeling I've been getting, of late. I am familiar, predictable, no longer scintillating company. There are just too many other people in the lives of people I love who are more....everything. They're funnier and warmer and more beautiful and smarter and just MORE.

Truthfully, they're not. However, they're not "old" friends. They're undiscovered territory and that's compelling and interesting. I have become the book that has been reread enough times that it's no longer good for anything but nostalgia.

In a perfect world, I would be making my own new friends so that when I become a nostalgic memory, I'll have buddies to spend time with. I don't work that way.

I rarely tire of the people I love. There is always something new and beautiful about them just waiting for my discovery. Always. So when I become hackneyed to the other person, I'm still finding out more about them, still getting to know them, still fascinated by what I'll discover next. Clearly, I'm a little slow when it comes to social development. Either that or I'm a great deal less complex than the people I know and it takes less time to discover everything about me.

Tolkien Boy once told me that real relationships were worth fighting for. I think he meant that. But I'm not really a fighter when it comes to making sure someone continues to care about me. And while I've often said there should be rules about how relationships work and how people love each other, I didn't really believe it. What I believe is that in any relationship each person should be absolutely free to authentically act as they see fit. So if that means I watch as someone walks away, or wish for visits and phone calls that aren't going to come because I'm no longer a priority, that's probably exactly what I will allow to happen.

It doesn't mean I won't resent it. And sometimes I might cry a little, just because that's what you do when you miss someone. And probably I'll call or email or try to make sure the other person understands I still want them. And maybe sometimes, when I'm feeling weak, I might think it's not fair. But in the end, I don't fight. I never have. And I'll watch whatever happens--then I'll read a book, or practice, or work, or clean my house. Because that's what I do. And besides, I know the contact with that person isn't ending--it's just becoming more spaced out. They still care--just not as deeply and not as often.

It's not a tragedy. It's my personal inconvenience. I was built a little differently...not that there's anything wrong with that...

(A more pressing problem is that I think it's time to clean the sesame seeds from my keyboard and I'm not quite sure how to do that.)

It's beginning to look a little like Christmas.

Yesterday:
1. I finished grading my last final.
2. I began working on the 18 credits of continuing education the IRS requires of me if I wish to continue preparing tax returns professionally. Yes, I've had all year to work on it. Yes, it's due December 31st.
3. I called four friends. They didn't answer, but I did it, so I'm counting it.
4. I paid bills.
5. I went shopping.
6. While I was shopping my Christmas tree fell over. I'm not saying whether or not I took a long time shopping so Darrin would have to clean it up.
7. I made grilled baby Swiss and tomato pesto sandwiches for dinner. No one wanted one except me, so it was only my dinner. It was delicious.
8. I sang. All day. Out loud, in my head, and in my heart.
9. I picked the pansies that chose to bloom after 10 days of below zero weather (below zero ALL DAY LONG!) and put them in a vase because they're just going to freeze when the weather turns cold again. Besides, I think they like being with me in my warm house while I sing and Darrin cleans up the fallen Christmas tree.
10. I made Christmas treats. You should come share them with me.

Today I will decorate for Christmas.

The past four years I have been too tired to do anything except find the boxes where we store ornaments, tinsel, wrapping paper, lights, and decorations. Any actual decorating was done by Darrin and the kids. Last year Adam decided to rearrange my storage area, so finding anything was an adventure. I found the bare necessities for Christmas and left everything else hidden. I think this year I will dig through his stacks of whatever-we-are-storing-but-don't-really-need until I find all four (or six) boxes of Christmas. Perhaps it's time to rid myself of some of it, but the rest will be displayed for the month of December.

Darrin and I had a long talk yesterday. He's concerned because I am still a shell. There are emerging traits of what make me Samantha, but they come and go, and I seem jaded about everything. Darrin mentioned how I used to love talking on the phone with friends, visiting them, spending time with my kids. He talked about how I would get so excited about a sunset that I would prod and nag until he finally came upstairs to watch it with me. He remembers that I used to giggle all the time, that when I walked in a room everyone noticed because I couldn't stop smiling. He said, "Do you remember when you would go to Walmart--not because you needed anything, but just because you wanted to see how many people would smile back at you?"

Yes. I remember. I remember feeling anticipation and excitement and pure joy. But those aren't things you can just make happen. They're sort of spontaneous and unpredictable.

Darrin says I'm still tired. I've not recovered. I suppose he's right, but recuperation seems to be more work than staying tired--which makes no sense at all.

I taught my last class of the semester on Thursday. This was a lovely group of students. The majority of them worked very hard, but more than that, they were engaged and participating in class. Many of them would mention that they were learning things, that they loved my class--two students have changed their majors and will be pursuing pedagogy degrees because of the things they discovered abut themselves during my class. It's kind of a teacher's dream to be able to help a student find where he or she excels. I feel a tiny bit of delight about this--but three years ago I would have been ecstatic. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to stop talking about it. I'd be energized and happy to write the necessary recommendations as those students applied to different programs, and I'd probably follow up with them.

One student needed my help to make some recordings for her audition. I coached her, and rehearsed with her, and stayed seven hours until the recordings were complete. She had done well and she knew it. Exultantly, she turned to me and thanked me for my help. She wanted a hug. I knew this. I congratulated her, smiled my best, and walked away without hugging. I was just too tired. Hugging felt like a huge effort I was unable to make.

I played a short recital on Friday--arrangements of Christmas music I refer to as "trash with flash". But even though I disparage the music, I've always loved it--loved playing it. My millions of years of practice and training slipped into place and I performed very well. An audience member told me afterward that she loves hearing me play; that this particular recital of beloved Christmas music brought tears to her eyes. I thanked her, but I felt a bit of resentment. It's been a long time since I've felt moved by music.

And so I am doing a Christmas experiment. I don't k now if I'll be able to finish, because the time is growing short, but I am learning a piece I heard many years ago; one whose beauty left me breathless. I'm aware that what I connect with is usually not what others would find beautiful, but should the piece be finished on time, it will be my gift to some of my loved ones. I'm also aware that they would probably rather have something tangible, but this will never break, or be the wrong color, or one day be used up and discarded. It might disappear, depending on the interest and memory of the recipient, but that's up to him or her.

I am doing this because I need to value who I am and what I can do. I have begun to play by rote, because it is easy. I need to remember that I was given a gift, one I can share, and no one in the world can play as I do, because they are not me.

For Darrin, for my children, for everyone who cares about me--but mostly for me--I am going to rediscover what makes me amazing. And I'm going to share it. It's time to recover Samantha.

Relationships

I hesitate to write this post--especially after the things I said less than a month ago in this post.

However, it's important to me that I am honest, and in my blog is where I put the uncomfortable truths that many people (including myself) do not wish to hear me speak. So I am writing this with the caveat that at any time I might rescind the words.

I understand.

I know why relationships wax/wane/disappear.

I don't have a lot to say about this, except it doesn't make me want to scream anymore. I think the most important thing is that I'm okay with the system and it's all right if people maintain shoestring relationships, meet intermittently, and feel happy about their interaction. People weren't meant to be integral parts of the lives of lots of people. Children grow up and leave, friends find other friends, sometimes married people choose to divorce and marry other people. That's just life.

I think I believed there was something about people not staying that said something about me--I wasn't good enough, or entertaining enough, or loving enough, or maybe, just not enough at all. It doesn't, though. The process of moving through people doesn't really say anything about me at all, except that maybe I'm human, too.

There are still people I want to have in my life. I would choose them daily. But I'm no longer terrified that I'll watch them move away from me and wonder why. And if they do, I'm pretty sure I'll be okay with letting them decide how frequently they contact me.

My stress about this came, I believe, because I allowed myself to have close relationships with people other than Darrin. I had never done that before. I told people things about me; I shared my loves and peeves and joys and sorrows. And then I became afraid that I had shared a part of me that would be discarded or mocked, or that I assumed someone would care when really they were just mildly curious. Yes, this is a reflection of my childhood.

But I think what has happened is that I'm recognizing that what I have to give has value, if only to me. It's up to the recipient what happens next. And if what I've given is disregarded or belittled, that's not my problem. I chose unwisely and I can learn from my mistakes.

I think there are lots of people who love other people in varying degrees. Their interest in those people has longevity based on the depth and reciprocation of that love. People are complicated. Lives can be complicated. Sometimes things like stress, or family problems, or physical/mental illness cause rifts that can't be bridged. It's a loss we mourn and then move forward. It seems to be the only healthy way to interact with people because no one wants to stay in a relationship because they feel threatened or compelled to do so. They want to be there because the person makes their lives feel better in many different ways.

That's all, I guess. I understand. Finally.

But just so you know, I still don't like it. I also understand that because of my nature and background, it's probable that I will always be the one who watches the other person walk away. That's not a fun realization. But it's reality. I can live with reality.

"I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder." ~Gilbert Keith Chesterton

I bowed to my Inner Selfish yesterday.

Thanksgiving brings a host of mixed feelings for me. I have good childhood memories of Thanksgiving. Each year was spent with my favorite cousin, Jeff, and his family. I felt, at those times, that I had an ally, a friend, someone a little bit like me who understood my whims and ideas and feelings. For three days I had a haven with a person I loved who loved me back--and no abuse from my mother. She was even kind on those days. Jeff and I avoided our mothers (and all adults), and it was nice to be able to relax with someone.

On the other hand, I hate Thanksgiving dinner. I always have. I'm not fond of meat, in general, so a meal dominated by a huge bird does not appeal to me. Jeff, who loves turkey, used to insist that I liked it, too, sliding extra helpings on my plate and covering the meat with cranberry sauce and giblet gravy. I hate giblets. I would eat a little of the potatoes (not a huge fan of those, either), search in vain for salad not made with Jello or some sort of whipped topping, and leave the table as soon as I was able, spurning the pies of a dozen flavors (I also am not fond of pie), and seek out an orange or apple that was bound to be in the kitchen somewhere. I still hate Thanksgiving dinner.

Jeff and I were of one heart when it came to large crowds. Thanksgiving always brought large crowds. Jeff would find a hiding place for us, and we would stay there playing video games, reading comic books, or playing Uno. Sometimes, if we were feeling sociable, we would join our older siblings in a game of Monopoly. I still have difficulty with large crowds.

So this year, Darrin volunteered to help with a community Thanksgiving event, and DJ had to do a stint on the ambulance for his EMT class, and Adam was working in the morning, and Tabitha had the stomach flu the night before and was finally sleeping--so I went to a place where I could be alone, and I spent time with me. An evening Thanksgiving dinner was scheduled with my parents. I stayed alone for about seven hours. I read, played stupid Facebook games, practiced a piece I've been memorizing, sang songs I love, went for a walk, and stared out my window for an hour. I didn't make the traditional Thanksgiving phone calls to Darrin's family or my sisters--nor did I answer phone calls. I ignored texts (except for the one from Blueyedane, because I love him and he doesn't make me feel like I'm invisible) and I sent none.

And I chose no one to receive my annual Thanksgiving email. Each year since I've had access to email, I've chosen someone I care about deeply and I've sent them a note on Thanksgiving. I've told them why they make my life better and expressed my love and gratitude for them. I love this part of Thanksgiving.

This year I just didn't want to. Maybe I'm ungrateful? Maybe I no longer love as deeply? Maybe I care more about the Thanksgiving email than the recipient does? Because I'm pretty certain that no one really wonders if I love them or am grateful for them, so it might come as a nice surprise, but there is no way anyone feels as profoundly about receiving that email as I have felt about writing it. Except this year I didn't feel anything.

At 3:00 I checked the turkey and started peeling potatoes. Adam insisted we do all fifteen pounds which turned out to be about ten pounds too many. Then I made candied sweet potatoes (and some plain ones for Grandma and me). I chopped onions and celery for stuffing and had Adam deliver them to my mom's house. At 4:30, my mom called to tell me she had rescheduled dinner for 6:00. I looked at the almost cooked turkey and told her it was a mistake, at which point she confessed that she hadn't even begun making rolls or stuffing and she was still making pies. I reminded her that we were only cooking for nine people. She ignored me.

So the turkey was dry and nasty, the stuffing underdone, the rolls were sort of horrid, the marshmallows had sunk to the bottom of the candied yams, and we had way too many mashed potatoes. Darrin said dinner was marvelous. Adam and DJ thought it was fine. The other guests took large quantities of leftovers home with them. Darrin says I am Thanksgiving Scrooge. He's right.

This morning, as I watched the sun rise, I realized that if I had to do my day over again, I would do the same thing. There is something about my alone time that I crave deeply right now. But I sort of regret not writing my Thanksgiving email. So today, I'm writing one--to me.

Dear Sam,

You're pretty hard on yourself a lot of the time. You always believe you can handle the stress and sadness that creep into your life with more grace and dignity. You wish you were better at friendship and parenting and playing music and cooking and keeping house and loving people. You want to live life with more joy and see more that is beautiful, but sometimes the ugly and sad are overwhelming and you're not as good at life as you want to be.

But today, the day after Thanksgiving, I'm choosing you as the recipient of my gratitude email. Because I think sometimes you should be thanked for the things you do--things no one notices and sometimes you only notice after a long time has passed and you finally recognize what you've done.

Thank you for not giving up. There have been so many times when you've wanted to and life has been really painful. But you continued, not always very gracefully, but with as much determination as you could muster, and you're here today--and that's a good thing because if you weren't you would have missed the sunrise this morning and it was breathtaking.

Thank you for trying to learn about people and relationships. It's really hard--probably for everyone in the world. You've had some wonderful moments and made beautiful memories as you've worked on allowing people to know more about you and spend time in your life.

Thank you for giving stupid gifts to people. You learned a great deal about yourself, and some of those giving times were really helpful as you worked on integration. I'm guessing the recipients wondered why you were giving them things, but it's not really important. They can work on dealing with their feelings about it on their own time. You needed to do it, and it wasn't easy because some of those gifts exposed you to vulnerability and allowed others to gain knowledge about who you are and the things you love. For you, that takes a great deal of courage. But what you gained in the process was invaluable and probably indescribable. Thank you for doing it even though it was difficult.

Thank you for forgiving the people who have harmed you. The angry times were important. The sad times were more important. The lonely times were horrible, but probably also important. Now that the rancor and bitterness have passed, you will always understand that what was done to you was wrong and should never have happened, but you have chosen to be someone who will find joy and beauty. I'm happy that you chose that. Your life will be better and you will eventually replace the ugliness of your experiences with the beauty of your choices.

Thank you for getting help when you needed it. Not everyone can do that. It takes strength and a willingness to look at what is hurting when one wishes to heal. The healing is still happening and seems to be taking an eternity. But part of that is because you're still deciding who you are. One day you'll know--and I think you'll like her...no...I think you'll love her.

Thank you for taking time to care for your physical needs--for getting a mammogram and a physical even though those things are really horrifying to you and trigger memories you'd like to forget. But you did it because you understand you are at risk for breast cancer and you need to take care of yourself. That's a really good thing and I'm glad you did it.

Thank you for getting up every morning and smiling because you're happy. Thank you for recognizing you're happy even when life is really hard.

Thank you for being me.

Love,
Sam

Happy Thanksgiving

I thank Thee, dear Lord, for the blue of the skies,

For the green of the woods and fields,

For the river that ripples and sparkles by,

For the harvest the brown earth yields,

For the birds that sing

and the flowers that bloom,

For the breath of the cooling breeze.

Thou hast made them all so beautiful,

I thank Thee, Dear Lord, for these.

The huge bout of PTSD symptoms has gone. As is normal, I feel rather drained and exhausted emotionally. Therapist believes that one of the reasons the occurrences lately are more intense and enduring, is because I'm learning to manage the symptoms--I'm allowing them to happen so I can learn to cope better. I have no idea if he's right, but a similar thing happened before the flashbacks stopped a few years ago.

When the PTSD symptoms leave I feel spent. I have no desire to talk with or spend time with people. Practicing several hours daily, working out at the gym, and working online are endlessly appealing. Then I panic because I have a terrifying memory of my uncle, floating off the coast of Florida in a tiny boat because that's where he could be completely alone. He would tell no one he was leaving or where he was going and we would only learn that he was "boating" when he arrived back home. I don't want to be my uncle. He is now almost completely anti-social, paranoid, and alone.

When the emptiness hits and the desire for complete solitude overwhelms me, I find myself ignoring the phone, emails...sometimes I chat with people but only if they hail me first. Then I wonder how long will they will continue seeking me out if I don't reciprocate, so I hastily return emails and phone calls and try to reach out to people on Facebook or online--but it's a rather huge effort, and so I remain emotionally exhausted and trying to remember why I'm doing those things.

Therapist says to just keep doing them. I often wonder if it feels easy for him to say that to me when he, himself, has never experienced the things I talk about, but I trust him, warranted or not, because I do not want to become my uncle, or my sister's friend who committed suicide, or the people I chat with at night in the PTSD chat rooms--people who live alone because it's too stressful to have a spouse or children, but they miss those people like crazy. I don't want that.

We've been having typically fluctuating weather. It's not unusual for November to have a snowstorm and below zero weather one day, and be in the forties or fifties the next. Our birds are silent in the cold. I've been missing them, as the past few days have been frigid. Yesterday it warmed a bit. Today is gorgeous and the winter birds are talking outside my window. It's lovely.

The warmer weather helps me, as well as the abundance of sunshine. I'm less likely to hibernate in my house and ignore all humanity on days like today. Still, when I talk to people, I don't always know what to say and I don't always want to talk. It has nothing to do with the person, who is wonderful, and everything to do with not being able to understand why they're in my life in the first place. I used to believe this feeling came from lack of self-worth, but that's not the case. It truly is completely baffling to me. I'm a workaholic. I love obscure poetry and literature. I take calculus classes when I think no one is looking. I'm a little obsessed with making food that is colorful and tastes amazing. I think almost everything in the world (including spiders and snakes) is beautiful in its own way. I'm a complete music nerd. If allowed, I would talk about music history and piano pedagogy nonstop--probably for days. I'm not particularly fascinating or beautiful or young, so I often wonder why people are interested in me at all. I seem, to me, humdrum at best and completely odd at worst.

Therapist says that phrase describes most everyone in the world. Perhaps we're all birds of a feather?

If you can make sense of this post, I have a gold star you can wear on your forehead.

I know two women who were friends for nearly 25 years. They lived near each other and spent a great deal of time together for the first eight of those years, then one moved far away. After the move, they called each other a few times weekly and spent time talking while they cleaned or prepared dinner, sharing minute details of their daily lives and missing each other. Sometimes one would fly to the other's home so they could be together for a week or two. They came away from those visits rejuvenated and happy.

Then one day the relationship stopped. I don't know the details. I just know the phone calls ceased and the visits ended and nearly a decade has passed without the two friends sharing a word or a moment. They simply are not part of each other's lives anymore.

I don't know how this happens. I don't understand how people can move from closeness and intimacy to nonexistence. Probably that sounds weird, coming from me, because I've been known to disappear from people's lives fairly regularly, but the difference is, I never allowed myself to feel closeness. There may have been close moments, or briefly shared intimacy, but I would not allow those things to become more than just tiny moments, nor would I allow those moments to deepen or form lasting relationships.

I've done that now. I have more than one relationship I feel has depth and longevity--relationships in which I invest love and time, and I not only allow the closeness to happen, I often seek it. And now that I've experienced what that feels like, I don't understand how close relationships wane or end. At all.

I actually believed that when I allowed myself to experience relationships, I would then understand the fleeting nature of human sociality. I thought I'd know how it happens that people allow life moments to replace interaction with loved ones. I thought I'd get it. But I don't. The longer my close relationships last, the more I am baffled by the account of the two women which began this blog post. If this was just one account, I'd simply believe they were unusual, or the relationship became unhealthy, but I know of several such stories. People who were close for a very long time, and then they weren't.

I'm thinking about this today because for the past three years I've felt very large changes happening to my emotional self. I'm allowing myself some leeway because I've been asked to endure unusual emotional trauma during that time, but as I heal, as I regain my stamina, I find myself changed.

I don't yearn for closeness as I once did. In fact, I feel a great deal of antagonism when others seek closeness from me, and when I feel a tug toward any other person, that antagonism boomerangs back and I feel it toward myself. Tolkien Boy has more than once told me that my emotional self is maturing, insinuating that it was stunted in my childhood and youth because I was not allowed to express emotions and love words from me were mocked or ignored. I can't discount this opinion, partly because Tolkien Boy knows me fairly well, and partly because it's a logical conclusion based on my weird, rather horrifying past.

However, I would not classify my feelings for Darrin and my children as immature and while certain aspects of my feelings for others might be, I don't know that that stems from a need for growth, but rather, I believe it to be a side effect of learning to live with people while dealing with PTSD--not an easy task and one which many people who experience PTSD avoid. Allowing people to remain in my life while dealing with the symptoms of PTSD is one of the most difficult things I've ever done. It remains difficult. I keep doing it. For whatever reason, my heart and soul believe it to be important, regardless of the effort it requires.

I try to make certain that my struggle in this area doesn't scare people away. I spoke to Tolkien Boy on the phone about 10 days ago. The day had been awful. I think I cried through most of it. I was overwhelmed and angry and sad and nauseated. I felt like a complete failure and sort of hated myself. I finally let Tolkien Boy know I was having a difficult day and asked if I could call (because that's what Therapist says I should do). When we spoke, he said, "You don't sound like you're falling apart. You sound like you're doing well." I believe I made some comment about that being my tragedy--I always sound like everything's okay. It's practiced. It's what I was taught. Never let anyone know you're dying inside. That's not allowed. Forget that you're hurting and make sure you send the other person away with a smile and a laugh. Supposedly that will make you both live happily ever after.

I know it doesn't work. I leave conversations feeling glad that I brightened someone's day, and wishing I knew what to do to lighten my own load. I know all that stuff about doing service for others when you're feeling low and supposedly that will make your day wonderful, but thus far, in my life, that has not been the case. I feel grateful and blessed when I serve others. I feel glad if I can make their day happier, but I still struggle with panic and anxiety and often, depression.

It's my attitude, right?

Anyone who really knows me, knows that I work very hard to remain positive even while being realistic. I don't wallow often. I try to do good things. It's not like I'm seeking to be overwhelmed by symptoms of PTSD or loneliness or sadness. And I try not to spread it around. I really do want the people I love to feel valued and joyful when they're with me.

I'm not sure, really, what I'm trying to say here. Maybe that I'm feeling the changes happening inside me and I'm getting tired of always trying. I'm feeling stressed when it seems the only time people want to be with me is when they need my help or reassurance. Sometimes I want to be sought out because I'm Samantha and I'm missed. Sometimes I want people to enjoy my company just because I'm delightful. Sometimes I want to be the person thought of first when something funny or happy or newsworthy or mundane or odd just needs to be shared.

I don't know that I'm "maturing", as Tolkien Boy has expressed. I think I'm just getting fed up with PTSD and probably with relationships and people, as well. That sort of sounds the opposite of mature--and it definitely feels anything BUT mature.

Darrin says I feel this way because I don't allow people to fill my needs. I interrupt them and try to fill theirs instead. He says I'm afraid if I accept nurturing or love, I'll "owe" something. Maybe he's right?

All I know is this: the antagonism rears its ugly head at the most inopportune times, and has me questioning the worth of every relationship in my life right now. And that's unfair to my counterparts in those relationships. And I don't know what to do about it.

PTSD sucks.

That's all.

Stressed, Tired, and Stumped

Last Saturday I attended the funeral of a friend. This required me to return to the place where I grew up and to meet with people of my childhood. While at the funeral, I was told some things about myself that are causing me some stress because until now I have had no memory of them. After we talked, my memories have been triggered and now I can't stop remembering. I sort of hate this part of me--this ability to suppress memory until it no longer exists for me, only to be haunted by its return.

So I'm not myself once again. Small things cause me panic; things I've done daily for years. Being online makes me feel completely unsafe. Chatting with people I know and love causes fear that is overwhelming. Being in rehearsal, teaching classes and private students, working online--all the things that make up my day--are giving me panic attacks that are difficult to manage.

I know what I'm supposed to do. Therapist and I have worked on this for years. I'm just not good at it yet.

Discovering memories, the existence of which I had completely forgotten, adds one more "thing" I have to process. I was the person in those memories. I did those things. I was in that place. I knew those people. So why did I forget? Why was I not strong enough to just cope with the moment and move on, allowing the event to be written in my history and continuing to live my life? Why did I feel that particular part of me needed to be erased?

For me this is is distressing to the point that I've not slept for a few days, and I've only been able to talk about it with one person--and now I feel guilty for talking about it with him. He is facing a number of large changes in the next couple of months that will completely remodel his current life. He doesn't need to hear about my trivia. Sometimes I forget that my life just isn't that amazing and I don't need to talk about it.

Still, when 4 a.m. rolled around this morning and I realized I hadn't slept--again--I started wondering how long I can go without sleep. I've had about three hours total in te past four nights and I'm starting to feel ill and paranoid. And I know, on the scale of Really Bad Problems, this is pretty trivial, but I don't really know what to do next. I could talk to Therapist, but I'm pretty sure he'll tell me to live in the moment, make cookies, talk to a friend, do something soothing...all very good suggestions, each of which is highly likely to send me into a panic attack from which I'm pretty sure I won't recover. Did I mention I was feeling paranoid?

Okay--I'm going to grade assignments. It has to be done, right?

A very short post

I went out of town for a few days. I wrote a post while I was gone--away from online access, for the most part--little telephone access--but I don't feel like publishing it right now.

Today my heart is crying a little bit for many reasons, most of which have to do with things I cannot change but wish were different.

That's all.

Crying "Uncle" is not an option.

I am running once again. Real running.

My amazing fall down a steep, rocky hill, which managed to bloody nearly every part of my body and tear the cartilage from my hip, happened about three years ago. Following surgery and physical therapy, I attempted running again. Three months later I had tendonitis in my iliopsoas tendon. If you're not familiar with that anatomical part, it's the tendon that stretches through the abdomen and into the groin. It's used when the leg is lifted and turned sideways and when one walks or does any other movement. In short--it hurts like crazy most of the time.

This was complicated by my muscles going into severe spasms which would put stress on the inflamed tendon and on my knee. Translation: "hurts like crazy" became indescribable pain. Because I also have systemic hypermobility (which means my joints are more flexible than normal and it's not unusual for me to have a partial dislocation at the most inopportune times), my hips began to tilt, the ball moved out of the socket, and it was typical for me to be walking normally, only to start limping or even be unable to move with no warning. Needless to say, running was out of the question.

I continued elliptical training to maintain my cardiovascular fitness, but there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. Sitting was painful. Standing was painful. Walking was painful. Sleeping was painful. I began to forget what it felt like to not be in pain. I still cannot remember because I'm still in pain much of the time.

Pain is an interesting phenomenon. Chronic pain is something one cannot understand without experiencing it. It gnaws and nags and wears one down until it seems to be the focus of every part of life. For me, it brings depression and robs me of my ability to successfully manage PTSD. I forget who I am. I can't remember how to interact with people and, more importantly, why I'm doing so in the first place. When the pain becomes unmanageable, I find myself emotionless and disinterested in anyone or anything.

A month ago I ceased all physical activity. Within three days my tendon was less inflamed. I felt a very low level of pain and was walking normally. This lasted a week. Then the tendon began to tighten. The strain on my knee became nauseating. My muscles began to knot and spasm again. My hip began popping and cracking whenever I tried to move or support any weight with it. Finally, last week, I made the decision to return to a workout regime and stick with it until it crippled me or until I regained the strength necessary to deal with the tendonitis.

So I'm currently in that process. I start with fifteen minutes of weight-lifting and strengthening exercises, then I move the a stationary bike for another 15-20 minutes, followed by a 10 minute run (yes, I'm seriously curtailing my desire to run more), and a 10 minute swim. I am NOT a good swimmer, but I'm starting to not hate it. I follow this with a soak in a jacuzzi where I try to work out knots and do some stretching.

I'm feeling the strength returning this week. Last week was horrible. I was exhausted and hurting and miserable. We'll see what next week brings.

This is my last-ditch effort to try to help my body work again. It's coupled with enormous amounts of water and anything with potassium. I have a potassium deficiency which is why my muscle spasms are sort of out of control. I take a supplement and drink coconut water and eat potassium rich foods which seems to make the spasms less severe. If this works, I'll be running as I used to by March 2014. If it doesn't, there is another surgery waiting for me. We might have to see how I weather a tendon release. I hope not, but I'm keeping it on my list of options, just in case.

In the meantime, if I seem moody or cranky or just plain obnoxious, I would ask you to reach into your groin, locate the large tendon that resides there, grab it and twist it for about five minutes--then monitor your behavior following that experience. It might help you understand where I'm coming from.

But the main point of this post is that I'm running. It's not easy, it doesn't feel great, but I'm doing it.

Today I Made Crabapple Jelly

This isn't really a big deal because crabapples are everywhere and the jelly is easy to make, but it also provides me with quiet time to think. And this is what I thought about:

My brother has denied Tabitha's claims that he molested her. I have two sisters who have stated they believe him and assume Tabitha is lying. One of those sisters has taken it no further. She continues to show love to Tabitha and invite our family to visit. The other sister has ceased all communication with me and my family. Ironically, the sister who will no longer acknowledge our existence used to be my best friend. When she was in trouble, I bailed her out. When she needed a babysitter, I watched her children. When she divorced, I cried with her.

When it became clear that she was no longer talking to us (and it was pretty obvious at my parents 50th anniversary when, while seated in the same room, I asked her a question about her children and she looked at me for about a minute, then turned away and started a conversation with someone else--and I think she put more effort into avoiding me than she put into helping make the anniversary reception a success), I thought I should feel hurt or angry. Instead I just felt tired. And when one feels as tired as I do, it's difficult to care much when someone tries to snub you.

I thought I might feel more when the tiredness subsided, but either that hasn't happened or my body has just decided not to expend energy on this particular development. I'm thinking it's the latter. It was nice, though, that my sister's new husband treated me nicely--even warmly. Clearly he's not willing to take sides in a matter that doesn't concern him. Smart man.

As I thought about this, I realized I no longer bend over backwards to maintain or build relationships with my family members. I used to do that. I wanted those relationships--I think I needed them. But I don't anymore. Well, I want them, but I'm unwilling to exhaust myself in one-sided relationships.

More than that, maybe, I"m understanding that my worth will be discovered by other people, regardless of whether or not my siblings and parents choose to acknowledge it. I believe my mother continues to try. It's difficult to tell, given her deteriorating mental capacity. I know my father cares for me deeply and as often as he's able, he tries to build and strengthen out relationship. My youngest brother tries intermittently to maintain a friendship, but his life is fraught with problems of his own making. I'm content to allow our relationship to remain less close for now. My sisters can't seem to decide what they want. I've decided that's a dilemma that belongs to them. I've made it clear that they're welcome in my life and in my home. I'm not going to shout to be heard. If they don't know that by now, perhaps it's time for them to figure it out on their own.

I'm not abandoning my family. I'm just moving my efforts to a place where I feel more fulfilled and less stressed. I think, for awhile, I strongly needed those relationships. Now, after unsuccessfully trying to build them, I'm understanding that one-sided relationships are not what I'm looking for and I'm willing to stop trying for awhile. As I stated, they're welcome, but I'm too tired to go looking for them when they would never do the same for me.

I've learned a lot about relationships in the past seven years.

I used to believe that the only relationships that last are those bound by blood or marriage. I don't believe that anymore. I have friends who have remained closely in my life for more than seven years. Closely, to me, means they check in with me regularly, or they let me know they read my blog, or they invite me to visit or spend time with them. It means I can call if I have a problem, or a question, or for no reason at all, and that call will not be an intrusion. It means they make time for me because they enjoy spending time together as much as I do.

I've been related to people in my family for much longer than seven years. I don't believe I can think of a seven-year span when even one of my siblings has stayed in touch with me. When I went to college my parents and siblings didn't contact me for an entire year. The same was true when I moved to California. I believe things are better now. I usually hear from my parents (who live three blocks from me) at least once monthly, and some of my siblings will usually contact me a couple of times during the year. I try to call or visit them at least monthly, as well.

But here's the difference: it's very clear when I call my sisters that they have other things to do. Our phone calls last about 10 minutes. I spend time with my dad because we own a business, but much of the time he's gone. I can only tolerate my mom for a couple of hours--not because I don't love her, but because she has become less lucid in the past year and talking to her takes a great deal of effort. Sometimes she forgets I'm there so I just go home.

When I spend time with the people who have chosen to stay in my life for the past seven years, however, it feels different. It's clear we're together because we enjoy it, not because we're relatives who are supposed to stay in touch occasionally. There is a mutual effort to remain close, I'm not doing all or much of the work, and I know they love me because they know who I am, not because I"m related to them. They ask real questions about my life--about me. I don't know when I last heard a question from a sibling that wasn't about my kids. My siblings have no idea what I do for work or what I enjoy doing in my spare time. I'm guessing most of my friends could make an educated guess and if it wasn't correct, it would be pretty close.

I understand there's nothing keeping my friends tied to me and that at any time they could leave. I hope they won't--but they could. But Tolkien Boy told me he's not going anywhere and if I disappear, he plans to find me so he can tell me how upset he is that I would do that to him. And it's highly likely that I would react the same way if he disappeared. And really, why stay in someone's life for seven years if you plan to abandon that person later? That makes no sense. Which doesn't mean it won't happen, just that it doesn't make sense if it does.

And at this point, my jelly was finished. I have lots of lovely, light red jelly-filled jars sitting on my cupboard. Now I have to figure out where to put them away. Since DJ and Tabitha moved home, I'm finding I have no more spare shelf space. It's a problem.

Confession: I don't know right from left.

Last night a friend chatted with me. This is how it went:

Friend: So...depressed much?
me: A little, yes.
Friend: I would never have guessed based on your blog posts...Haha.
me: You don't have to read them.
Friend: Yeah, I do. They show up in my reader.
me: Probably I've been excessive talking about it.
Friend: A little, yes.

My friend has a point even if I believe it's invalid. I need a place to write down the mess inside me. I've never said this would be a funny blog--or even an interesting one.

However, given that the last billion posts I've written have noted how depressed I am, my friend is right. It's a bit excessive.

And when you're right, you're right.

Or maybe left. As noted in the title, I really don't know the difference.

So I will stop posting about my depression--but I have to say, anyone who has experienced severe depression knows that's about the only thing one can think about when it happens. Sometimes thoughts stray to related things...like wishing for death...or feeling helpless...or believing one is unfit for human company...or being sad...

Regardless, Friend is right, and I just proved it by almost making this blog post about depression. I will now change that.

Here is a funny cat:

"Hunger is insolent, and will be fed." ~Homer

On yesterday's long drive home, I pulled off the freeway to use the facilities at one of the many truck stops lining I-80's stretch across Wyoming's south border. As I reached the bottom of the exit ramp, I saw a young man, probably in his mid-20s, and his dog. The man held a sign: "Stranded. Broke. Hungry. Please help."

Even as I passed him, I noticed both he and the dog were terribly thin. Some men are like that naturally, and maybe he was one of those, but I couldn't stop thinking about him. So I grabbed a couple of hot dogs, a bottle of water, two bananas, a Reeses, and a packet of dog food. As I checked out, using the last of the cash budgeted for my trip, the change came exactly to five dollars. Disregarding my mother's voice from long ago ("Don't give money to pan-handlers. They'll just use it to buy drugs or alcohol."), I slid the bill into the hot dog box, helped the attendant bag everything, and went to my car.

A minute later the bag was delivered and I was on my way with his whispered, "God bless," ringing in my ears.

And then I cried.

I cried because I wanted to put him in my car and take him somewhere safe.
I cried because I wished the food had been more nutritious, but I opted for calories over healthy, not knowing when that young man might eat again.
I cried because I knew other people would help, because that's what people do.
I cried because we have very little money right now, but he has less.
I cried because the cash I gave might buy a tiny bit of drugs or a drink of alcohol, but maybe it would buy some breakfast in the morning--either way, it belonged to him.

Mostly I cried because I was tired, I'd been through a difficult weekend filled with many people, I hadn't had time to do the lesson planning I'd hoped, and depression had nothing to do with my tears--nope.

Darrin said I couldn't ask the young man if we could give him a ride. About 20 miles down the freeway, a flashing sign announced an escaped prisoner and a warning not to pick up hitchhikers. I don't believe the hungry young man was that prisoner--they usually don't have dogs, right? But it reminded me that I didn't know him and probably it was a good idea to let him manage as he saw fit.

Still, I'd like to stop crying all the time. It makes my eyes itch. And I can't stop wondering about that man and his dog. I hope they eat today.

"Love is...finding one who is willing to hold your hand no matter how unfit it might be." ~Nishan Panwar

Depression continues strongly. I'm now in the place where I no longer care about anything for a moment, then I wallow in self-pity--wishing someone cared, and follow everything up by at least one very large panic attack.

Do I know the self-pity feelings are silly and false? Yes.
Does that make them less real? No.

It won't last. Therapist promised me it won't last.

Still, the worst part often seems to be what happens as the depression cycle approaches an ending. I'm tired now. I'm not good at redirecting myself. I vacillate between feeling like I might die inside if someone doesn't check in with me--see if I'm okay--tell me I'm loved--and telling myself to stop being an idiot and contact someone myself. In the end I don't do anything. It takes too much effort and I'm pretty sure if I'm the one contacting someone else, I'll spend the next five days castigating myself for bothering someone.

It's a problem.

I keep reminding myself that anything causing me pain is temporary and fictional.

I think, though, of people I know who have depression regularly; the ones who feel little excitement for life, who cannot enjoy beauty, who ache beyond crying. As I enter the landscape they frequent, I can't decide if the numbness is a relief. It might be--but that's irrelevant as there is little I can do about it.

I have a calendar. It has reminders of my schedule for the next month. I will be told where to go and what to do--and I will do it. And at some point, my system will stop being messed up by a drug that mended my reaction to a flu shot.

Therapist will check in with me tomorrow. He will ask me how I'm feeling and listen to my reply. He will remind me of the things I need to do to make it through this, and remind Darrin of danger signs to watch for. He will tell me I can do this and he believes it will not be much longer, then remind me it's okay if I have to get help from others.

And Therapist will check in with me the day after tomorrow...and the next day...and the next...

What would I do without Therapist? Does he check in because I pay him to do so? I'm not sure how I feel about that: I have to pay someone to care about me?

Okay.

I'm not thinking about that. I accept what IS right now. The fact that I have to pay someone to check on me does not negate the fact that he DOES it. And I need to be checked on. So everything is great.

See? That would be a self-pity wallow. Hold on tight; the panic is about to set in.

"Depression is the most unpleasant thing I have ever experienced..." ~J.K. Rowling

At the risk of perpetuating the rumor that my blog is whiny, I need to write this post.

I am experiencing overwhelming, immobilising depression.

I know. Go get help. Take medicine. Fix it.

Except my body doesn't respond to antidepressants as it should. They serve to make me more deeply depressed and suicidal.

And I've been trying to get help. Therapist knows and I'll be seeing him this weekend. And I told another person because that's what you're supposed to do, right? And he'll check in with me periodically.

Time will fix it. I'm not clinically depressed, and I'm fairly certain this is the end result of taking a drug designed to make my blood pressure stop bouncing around, but which also had unfortunate side-effects for me.

In the meantime, I'm embarrassed that I feel sad for no reason, that doing anything requires incredible effort, and that I told anyone in the first place. I mean--this is just something I have to wait out. When my body has worked through it, I'll be back to normal. But I told people because right now waiting seems impossible and there are tiny moments when I feel I would do anything to make the sadness stop. That's a danger sign, I'm told, and I want to be responsible.

Still, I can't stop feeling that I should be able to DO something. How long have I been in therapy? Have I learned nothing? Why can't I make this stop?

Except, it's not really something you can just turn off. And what I really want to do is cry for a long time.

Instead, I've been cleaning, and working, and smiling, and pretending--because honestly, most people don't really want to deal with someone who is depressed, can't take standard meds for it, and has to just wait it out. Let's face it--that's depressing.

I find myself hiding from people, planning things we can do AFTER, when the depression is gone and I don't have to feel mortified by the fact that I might start crying at any moment.

But the truth is: I'm okay. I have moments when I don't feel okay, when my thoughts feel desperate and scary, but I'm not at the mercy of my thoughts. Right now I'm choosing to ignore them. I think that's what will continue to happen until my system is back to normal.

Still, I really want this depression to go away. I have things to do, and it's really bugging me .

School starts (for me) tomorrow. No. I have not yet written my syllabus.

In all honesty, I'm still tweaking the projects my students will be doing. I have yet to make the Power Point presentations that will walk them through the process, and I don't really know what I'm doing when it comes to Power Point because even though I've used many, it always seems like I don't know what I'm doing when I set them up. I don't know why. It's a problem, no doubt linked to the fact that our university's music department is sort of prehistoric when it comes to technology.

Still, I'm excited about my new class format. I love the fact that we're going completely free of all hard copies (except for music examples, of course--paper copies are still the best option for practicing), that my students' portfolios will be online ready, should they choose to put them on the internet, and all their teaching resources will be found there, as well.

I didn't sleep last night, so when the sky began to lighten I went upstairs to watch the sun rise. The colors were gorgeous. There is something incredibly peaceful about watching the day begin--at least before I remember my enormous to-do list and panic sets in.

I'm already beginning to feel overwhelmed and I haven't yet begun. This is not a good sign. However, I also know I'm capable of whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing, even if sometimes I'm unsure of what that might be.

I think the trick right now is to take lots of breaks and keep breathing. I can do this.

At some point, however, I need to stop overloading myself. It's stupid.

For a few months I have been feeling disconnected from Darrin. When I berate myself for allowing this to happen, I remember that I've been through some emotionally trying times, and that it takes two to make a relationship feel connected and vibrant. Since June, I've tried several times to get Darrin to spend alone time with me. Always I was told that he was too busy, couldn't arrange time off, or that he was too tired. Four years ago I would have said, "Too tired? You're kidding! Pack your bag and get in the car. You can sleep while I drive, but we're going." And Darrin would have laughed, packed his bag, gotten in the car and we would have spent a lovely day or two reconnecting.

Presently, however, I've become so emotionally unsure of myself, that Darrin's resistance has felt like rejection. And quite honestly, I've been feeling rejection in a number of relationships over the past couple of years. I've run the gamut from hurt and vulnerability to frustration and loneliness, and I've arrived at a place where I don't really care anymore. It takes two. If I'm the only one trying to connect, there's really no point to what I'm doing. It's time to stop.

Darrin is the exception, though. I chose him many years ago because I wanted him in my life forever. He gets infinity second chances. So I said, "Your birthday is coming. I'd like to throw you a party. Who would you like to invite?" He said, as I knew he would, "I don't really want to spend time with people. You're the only one I'd invite." So I said, "Good. We're going to Denver. I've reserved a hotel for two nights. If you can get Friday off, we'll leave early and go play."

I waited for his excuses. They didn't come.

Friday everything possible went wrong. Darrin found out he had three hours of grading due that day, instead of Monday, as he had assumed. Tabitha had monumental meltdowns as she contemplated work, college, and being an adult. Adam and DJ were being beastly at one another. Our washer flooded the bathroom. Clients were calling me. My dad asked me to come in to work.

I very calmly suggested Darrin work on grading while I nipped the other crises in the bud. I sat down with my children, explained that they were adults capable of taking care of themselves and letting them know that we, their parents, would be leaving soon and they were responsible to deal with their differences equitably. I let Tabitha cry, then asked her to find things to do while we were gone and we could tackle the paperwork for her job on Monday. I cleaned up the flood, told my father I would be coming to work on Monday, and ignored all further phone calls.

Darrin was in a foul mood. I didn't care. I packed the car and waited for him to finish grading.

As we drove to Denver it was clear that Darrin wanted to be grumpy and disagreeable. I refused to argue. He asked if I wanted to check into the hotel or eat dinner first. As I hadn't eaten that day, I suggested dinner first. Darrin immediately gave me five reasons why we should check into our hotel first. I agreed and said we could certainly do that, at which point he gave me five more reasons why we should have dinner first. I calmly said, "I'll tell you what. You're driving. You decide where you'd like to go first. I'm happy with whatever you decide."

So we went to dinner. The restaurant was one we'd never visited before. Other than the hotel, most of the trip had been arranged by Darrin and the kids, so I had no idea where we were going. This particular restaurant was chosen by DJ and looked sort of scary inside and out. However, the food was incredible. It was clearly made fresh on the spot--not like the chains that have premade entrees filled with sodium and preservatives. And the food was Italian, so Darrin was very happy. I had a slice of vegetarian pizza that filled my fourteen-inch plate (I made it through about 1/4 of it before being defeated), and Darrin ordered lasagna.

And we spent a long time at dinner. Talking.

Then we order one of everything from the Italian bakery, took it with us, checked out a very bad movie from Redbox (because I love bad movies), and checked into our hotel. We ate pastries in bed while watching our very bad movie, then got ready for bed, did that thing that people in love do when they're alone in a hotel, and went to sleep.

Darrin had made a long list of things he wanted to do on Saturday. I've not slept for about a week (insomnia sucks), but Friday night everything clicked and I slept from about 2 a.m.-8 a.m. Six hours is a very good night's sleep for me. When I woke, Darrin had canceled all his plans. He climbed into bed and while we cuddled he said he had decided we should just relax and enjoy the day--not be busy.

We left the hotel around noon and Darrin took me to an English tea house for lunch. It was lovely. Darrin was the only man in the restaurant--and he didn't care. We walked to a nearby farmer's market after lunch, bought nothing, then drove through several older neighborhoods looking at century-old homes that had been restored. Darrin decided he wanted to see a movie. He was fairly certain he knew where a movie theater was.

He didn't.

One hour (of giggling and backtracking and exploring) later, we stopped at a Subway where Darrin gallantly allowed me to ask a very helpful young man for directions. We finally made it to the theater around 4:00, enjoyed a not-very-bad movie, took pictures in a photo booth, and walked the square as we window shopped and thought about dinner. We went to Whole Foods, bought olives, and dolmas, and chocolate, and caramel cookie bars (because dessert is very important), then stopped at Ruby Tuesday's for dinner. I will simply say, dinner was not a highlight of the evening. After the fabulous food we'd enjoyed previously, RT felt overpriced, bland, and low quality.

We got lost on our way back to the hotel, saw an enormous fireworks display, then finally found our hotel again. We ate olives, dolmas, chocolate, and caramel cookie bars, chatted about life, and got ready for bed. Before we did that thing that people in love do when they're alone in a hotel, Darrin said, "Thank you. We've needed to do this for awhile and I've been a grouch about it. I've had a wonderful time."

I lay awake for awhile last night. I realized that one of the reasons I feel so negative about relationships is because they feel like work--all of them. And much of the time, I feel that I'm the only one who wants those relationships to continue. Therapist would warn me not to read too much into this. He would say everyone who shares relationships with other people, feels at some point that they're doing most of the work and the other person involved doesn't care or doesn't want to put forth any effort toward maintaining or nurturing the relationship. But that's not necessarily true, he would say. And he would remind me that what I feel is sometimes exaggerated, especially when the feelings are negative.

It's probable that Therapist is correct. But I also know that I'm still tired. I worked very hard to get Darrin to go away with me, and I'm okay with that. He's my husband and I know that he loves me and wants to be with me. And I'm also very aware that even if he doesn't do grand things for me, he's constantly doing small things to make sure I have what I need (changing the oil in my car, doing laundry, taking out the trash, helping with dinner, telling me he loves me...). But I'm seeing Therapist next week and I think I need to talk with him about finding more relationships that build me.

I have to admit that the disconnect I was feeling with Darrin has permeated all my current relationships. I don't have the stamina to work on those other relationships as I did with Darrin--and I have no guarantee that they'll say, as Darrin did, that the work is appreciated and necessary. So I think I need Therapist's advice. I'm going into another semester of crazy-busy work. I'm teaching an advanced pedagogy class for the first time. I have private students starting the semester tomorrow. I accompany two choirs. I have some clients with complicated tax issues that need to be resolved in the next three months. I'm working online and helping my father with his financial planning business.

In short--I no longer have time to allow myself to become drained by relationships that are demanding, or to expend effort on relationships with people I love but who have become disinterested in me, for whatever reason. I need people in my life who will take time to check in with me, who will tell me about their lives while showing interest in mine. I need people who aren't inconvenienced when I need reassurance and who will turn to me when they, too, need someone to help them feel that life is okay--and so are they. I need to be able to express love and hear it expressed in return.

And quite honestly, I'm so very tired that if I have relationships hanging around with people who don't feel that my above list fits their description of how we should interact, I'm perfectly willing to give those people some time away from "us." Therapist would say I should try to talk about it first if I care about the person. Sometimes Therapist overestimates the amount of time I'm willing to spend being vulnerable with other people.

I'm not crabby. I had a lovely weekend with my favorite man. I'm looking forward to the good that comes with my busy semester. I'm just a little thrashed when it comes to social interaction. I guess, maybe, it's time for me to let other people take control/initiative/whatever in our relationships, while I spend a bit of time regenerating my need for company. So if I seem a bit scarce, I'm hoping I'll still hear from people (phone calls, FB messages, email, chatting when I'm online)--I WANT to hear from them, I just can't always be the one making contact. And if I don't hear...well...with a schedule like my current one, I will hardly have time to lament.

Good night.