Sharing

I shared my last post on Facebook. Sometimes I do things just to see what will happen to me if I do. The Facebook thing may have been a mistake. I might not have been ready.

Because I'm me, and I assume I'm invisible unless present, and Facebook has changed its policy so that the newsfeed things that are promoted usually have video or pictures, and my post did not--I decided that only a few people (meaning only 4) would see the Facebook post and then it would be over. I could say I did it, be really, super proud of myself, and go on with life.

So four people saw the post and liked or commented on it. And I liked the comments back.

And then more people started saying things and adding likes and I freaked out. Over a Facebook post. I am ridiculous.

No one said anything remotely unkind. Everyone was enormously supportive. But I have stupid PTSD, which means I started to feel a whole bunch of feelings at once, got really confused, didn't know HOW to feel at all, and today, when all the traffic has gone away and no one remembers my post anymore, I'm still feeling grouchy and out of sorts and panicky.

And I keep stupid crying. I hate crying.

Sorting things out:

1. Some of my nieces and nephews commented or liked the post, indicating they read it. That makes me uneasy. It's a little silly. Most of them with Facebook accounts are over twelve and should be talking about rape with their parents, if only to help them understand that there is always help and protection available--regardless of what is said by the perpetrator. But I'm still confused about what I feel when I know they've read my post.

2. Friends who grew up with me--people with whom I lost contact who later found me on Facebook--indicated that they love me. This is a good thing. But a few of them also intimated regret that they had not known about the crime when we were growing up. They would have loved and supported me, if only I had told them. They don't understand. I couldn't tell. I didn't know how. I didn't even have the words to express to myself what had happened, let alone share it with others. But I feel guilty that they wish I had told them. I feel I was a bad friend, somehow, because I didn't know how to utilize available support--or maybe they think I just didn't trust them (which is true because I trusted no one)--or maybe they cared about me more than I cared about them. Regardless, while I appreciate what they're saying, it still causes a great deal of anxiety.

3. I have Stupid-Facebook-Game friends. Please note that the "Stupid" modifies the games, not the friends. I have never met these people. I know nothing about them. I play Scrabble, or other games with them on Facebook. We enjoy playing. We're Facebook friends. That is all. But some of them also read my post. Some of them responded. And some of them share an experience similar to mine. I want to tell them that one day it will be okay--but maybe it won't, so probably I shouldn't say that. I want to thank them for taking time to read and respond kindly to a post by a complete stranger. But that means I have to talk about the post again. With strangers. Who play games with me. That's weird.

4. People responded with things like, "You're a hero..." or "I'm proud of you." I'm not a hero. I'm a survivor. I did what I had to do to get better because the alternative was intolerable. I didn't save anyone or make history or cure global warming. I'm just me. I'm insignificant and I took care of myself. Heroes are people who endanger their own lives to save others--like firefighters. Or people who rescue children from sex slavery, or abuse, or hunger. Or teachers who help kids learn to read and write. Or really great parents who don't have PTSD, who actually understand how to parent, and can raise wonderful, healthy kids. Or people who figure out how to cure global warming. I know--I already said that. And I don't understand why anyone would be proud of me for finally figuring out how to state the obvious. Admitting and accepting that one has been used by another in a traumatizing way is difficult, but it usually doesn't take a couple of decades for the person to be able to talk about it. I'm just a very slow learner, I suppose, when it comes to talking and sharing. It's nice that they're acknowledging that this was difficult for me, but I still don't understand.

5. Part of me wants to help others with similar experiences make it to the point where life feels "normal." But I'm hearing people say things that make me want to scream. Things about my experience being "meaningful" or saying that my being raped will help other people or that it's made me stronger, or more empathetic, or a better person. LET ME BE CLEAR: Being raped has not made me a better person in any way. It has brought so much chaos and anger and pain to me, that there are days I'm left gasping and curled up in a ball because I cannot process the memories without reacting that way. It has not made me more empathetic or more loving--I was already empathetic and loving and I believe I would have continued to foster those traits even if some stupid person had not hurt me sexually. In fact, I believe those traits would be easier to access because I wouldn't have to work through fear and mistrust to get to them. And I was already strong--ask anyone who knew me as a child. I was physically and mentally strong, and also very strong-willed. I was born with those traits, I did not earn them because someone repeatedly forced his penis in my child-body and hurt me beyond what I could comprehend. Rape is wrong and horrifying. It does not make people better in any way. If they recover and appear "better" it is because they had what they needed, or were able to find it through therapy and support from other people, to survive and to heal from an experience that should never have happened. Stop telling me I am a better person because I was a victim. That is untrue. If I am a better person than I was yesterday or the day before or a year ago, it is because I chose to become so.

And now I'm left feeling that I am childish because I can't seem to make myself just gracefully accept the kind words that were written on my profile.

This is PTSD. One moment I feel calm and accepting and strong enough to talk about my life in a semi-public forum. The next I feel aggrieved and misunderstood and afraid--for no reason at all. I haven't even read more than halfway down the comments. I haven't looked at the names of the people who have liked the post. While I don't necessarily want to take it back, I wish I knew how to process what's happening in my guts.

Maybe it's time to talk to Therapist again. It's been a decade of therapy. That's a really long time.

Memorial Day 2014

I would like to write something profound and patriotic to commemorate this day. However, I am neither profound, nor ardently patriotic--although I suppose, in my own way, I have a fair sense of patriotism.

However, today I have other things on my mind and in my heart--and this is my place.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm not saying this because it's news, or to garner sympathy, or because I think I'm somehow different or special because of it. It's not, I would never do that, and I'm not.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because ten years ago I couldn't even think or remember or silently acknowledge it--let alone allow the words to escape my mouth. I knew what had happened, but glossed over it as, "a small amount of sexual abuse." Today I'm not even sure that means--except it represents my inability to face the truth, and also my deeply held belief that I was somehow responsible.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because four years ago, while I could say it and write it, I felt afterwards that I might scream or throw up and my body wouldn't stop shaking. I wanted to rage and throw tantrums. I wanted to make it go away. I felt helpless because I couldn't change the fact that it happened, and I desperately wanted to be held and soothed and protected.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because I finally understand that, while I wish with all my heart that it had not happened, there is no shame on my part. I was a child. I said no. I was manipulated and abused. I did not have the means to protect myself. There is horrifying vulnerability in acknowledging that there was nothing more I could to do prevent what happened. There is also truth.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because I did not deserve to have it happen to me. I was a lovely, giggly, perpetually happy preadolescent. I had curly hair, a quirky sense of humor, and boundless energy. I loved playing hide and seek, and freeze tag, and Red Rover. I loved playing the piano and reading and writing really awful poetry. I was tiny and funny. My favorite color was orange.

I am a rape survivor.

I'm saying this because today I can. And when I say it, these are my words: "I'm a rape survivor--and it's okay. I've made it through a lot of anguish and healing. I've learned to forgive in so many ways. I understand who I am--and I like me. I live with PTSD, but I've done some really great things as I've learned to manage what PTSD adds to my life. Last summer I was able to have my first physical in 18 years, and my first mammogram ever. And I was able to tell the medical professionals involved about my past and my current needs. And it was awful, but I did it. I'll do it again this year. While I understand that this is WAY more information than you wish, ten years ago I couldn't tell you any of this and today I can. I think that's progress. I hope you do, too."

I am a rape survivor.

I still have curly hair. Sometimes I let it remain in a mess of curls, but most of the time I straighten it. I still love to play hide and seek, but I limit the time I spend playing Red Rover and freeze tag since I've not yet been cleared to run after my hip replacement. I still read avidly, write terrible poetry, and playing the piano has become my vocation. My quirky sense of humor has not changed, nor has my energy level. I'm usually happy, and if you talk to me, within the first 30 seconds, you can count on it--I will giggle.

I am a rape survivor...and so much more. It has taken me many years to understand this, and the journey was incredibly painful. To any person who still reads this blog, who walked with me in person or online, who offered support in thought, prayer, or word--I love you. Thank you for helping me learn once again, to love myself.

Let it go...

A few months ago I noticed that there were a number of things in my life that made me unhappy--and I was holding onto them with all my strength. I had good reasons for keeping those things, but there seemed no way to alter the fact that they simply did not bring me happiness. There were time consuming habits online (daily Facebook drivel, Youtube video binges, waiting for chat people) and offline (trying to sleep on weekends when I was no longer sleepy just because Darrin wasn't up yet, reading magazines that came in the mail even when I had no interested in them and didn't order them, shopping when I had nothing I needed to buy), and there were a few relationships that I'd been clinging to that needed to change in some way.

The offline habits were easy to let go. I simply chose different things. I added a new piece to my practice schedule, went to the library and borrowed new books, increased the amount of time I spent on physical therapy assignments, and as the weather improved, I added daily walks to my routine.

The online habits weren't as easy. They still aren't. I spend a great deal of time online because I work there. But I find myself feeling restless and dissatisfied as I waste time doing things online that aren't fulfilling to me in some way.

I was talking with an online friend--he's a motivational speaker and does amazing things to help people learn to find happiness in their lives (also an abuse survivor at the hands of a Catholic priest--yeah, one of those kids--who has learned that the Church isn't bad, but sometimes bad people hide there--I learned the same lesson as a child). He's started a Facebook group about unplugging social media one day weekly and one weekend monthly. He wants to see if it affects how he feels about people and how his PTSD symptoms react to the experiment. The number of people asking to join the group is incredible. He wants me to participate. I've joined the group but I have difficulty with people telling me what to do--I like things to be my own idea. I can see myself subconsciously sabotaging myself or REALLY wanting to connect online on the days when I'm supposed to be unplugged. Unplugging includes cell phones. I haven't committed yet but it might be a good idea.

There are other things I've come up with to limit the amount of non-work time I spend online. Some overlap with the offline changes of habit I've implemented. But now that spring is here, I'll be planning things like planting and weeding and vacations and fall classes...I think I'll be able to master myself in regards to online time.

The relationships in which I've felt unhappy were more difficult. I had to decide why I felt that way, and if it was because of something amiss in myself. But in some cases I made my relationship counterparts aware that I wasn't feeling happy with how our relationships were evolving and asked for their input about the situation. In others, I simply began to limit the amount of time spent together (online or in person). It was different from my former cut-and-run routine, because I wanted to continue contact with those people, just in a different way.

Of those I spoke to, only one responded positively. Probably it's not fun to have someone say, "My relationship with you is making me unhappy. These are the reasons I believe this is so. What do you think?" With the exception of the one, the others blamed my PTSD, or my recent surgery, or the past four years of stressful things I've experienced. There was no give/take proposal. I was expected to take complete responsibility for being unhappy in the relationship. I'm pretty sure that's not what they intended for me to take from our conversation, but what I heard was, basically, "If you're unhappy, that belongs to you. There are many possible reasons, but probably if you just give it time, everything will resolve itself."

What they didn't take into consideration (and they should have--they've known me for quite a few years) was that I'd already given the situation a great deal of time and thought. I'd made some changes in myself, and I'd considered all the possibilities they proposed. But there were other reasons I felt unhappy that had nothing to do with my past, recent trauma, PTSD, or surgery. When I was dismissed and told to solve the problem on my own, it actually helped me decide how to manage those particular relationships. And I did. And I was happier.

There were a few relationships, however, that I knew needed to change in some way. I didn't want them to end. I wanted continued closeness. But I understood that somehow I had gotten stuck and I didn't want to allow those relationships to evolve as they should. I was clinging to past memories and feelings that had been enormously helpful to me, and while I wasn't trying to duplicate those feelings and memories, there was a huge fear that allowing the people involved to move forward and away from me would steal those moments from my life.

I don't believe, for someone who has experienced dissociation, which for me involved lost or detached memories, that this is an unreasonable feeling. As I tried to allow the relationships to evolve--and I did try--my attempts were met with an intense feeling of crisis. My reaction to that was that the relationship had become unhealthy/toxic and needed to end. My brain would rescue me, tell me to wait before acting, and I would think some more--trying to come up with solutions which wouldn't catapult me backward a decade to my inability to manage close relationships.

Integration taught me that I can claim my memories again--I MUST claim them, for they are a part of me. As I thought about that, I understood for the first time that while I remember things in an individual, unique way, my memories are often shared by another person. I'd never thought about that before. It was unsettling, upsetting, and aggravating to me. I tried to talk about it. I was unable to. I felt that my privacy had somehow been invaded. It was ridiculous but I had no means of figuring out how to manage what I was feeling.

Fortunately, Therapist, while perhaps not knowing exactly how to help me, knows how to guide me to help myself. After a few discussions and suggestions from Therapist, I tried some strategies to help me figure out the emotional mess that was causing me distress. I can't say I was completely successful, but some of the work I did moved me toward what I needed to do to deal with allowing relationships to evolve.

There is a difference between pulling back/adding distance, and letting go. When I would try to let go, allow autonomy in my relationships, I knew I was doing the right thing, but I would feel horribly sad, a little bit desperate, and completely overwhelmed with panic. And I couldn't make it happen. Even though I had no idea what "it" was, I knew nothing had changed. I was still unhappy, I still felt mistrust, and I did not feel safe in the relationship. Somehow, moving forward, I was certain, would bring me some peace.

So I wasn't letting go. I didn't have the capacity to do so. I do now.

Letting go still brings a feeling of sadness, but it's soft and quiet. It understands that some things are ending, and those things were joyful, things I have cherished. I might miss them. But it also understands that putting those things away means making room for more, and relationships are living, breathing entities that require new and different in order to thrive. Letting go also brings a feeling of acceptance--an acknowledgement that things must change. Not all of the change will be what I wish, but much of it will bring growth that will enhance past feelings and experiences.

It still makes me stressed, but now that I can do it, with practice, I think it will become easier.

Talking/writing about it still makes me feel a bit of panic, though, so I think it's time to read a book now.

Theory Class is NOT Boring

Today's theory class (remember, consisting of all Middle School aged BOYS) finished 20 minutes early. They listen--and do the work--it sort of freaks me out. So rather than move on to the next topic, I suggested swing dancing (I was kidding, yes). The next thing I knew, "Rockin' Robin" was blaring from the desktop computer in the band room, all the chairs and stands were neatly stacked against the wall, and I was dancing with a lanky ninth grader.

The others decided, since I was the only girl in the room, to put aside all homophobia and they partnered up--and I have to say, they know some pretty sweet moves (I have to say it because they told me so). Except for the one guy no one would dance with. Not even me. Because his sweet swing dance moves included back flips and round offs. He's just dangerous.

And middle school boys are actually able to giggle about things that have no sexual connotation. They couldn't stop giggling. I think they might really be girls. 

Seriously, this might be more fun than I've had in a long time.

Four months ago I signed out of my chat program and have not signed in since. I'm unsure exactly what motivated me, but I think it had something to do with how the smartphone signs people in to chat programs automatically, but they're really not there. For someone like me, this is equivalent to being ignored. It's not that I expect to be hailed all the time, but knowing that my hello will bring no response is a little bit frustrating. So I sat down, had a good talk with myself, and decided that chatting was causing me stress. And I turned it off. 

I thought I would have difficulty for awhile. I've been chatting with people daily for over a decade. But I didn't. In fact, I have no desire to go back to that. I thought my phone calls to people would increase. They didn't. I thought maybe I'd email when I wished to talk--but that wish hasn't presented itself. 

One might assume that as I removed myself from my virtual social circle, that I'd venture more into real time sociality. This, too, has not proven to be the case. Instead I have filled my time with reading and working and thinking and trying to recover from my three-month-old hip replacement. And I've been happy. Except for the fatigue and depression which follows any bout I have with general anesthesia, I've felt better. 

I've remained in contact with people who are very close to me, but even that desire seems to be waning. I encounter the same obstacle sometimes--that is, wishing to talk but not being able to connect with them. I'm talking about busy schedules colliding, but also about my ability to feel close. I can't seem to do it. And it has nothing to do with desire. It's like every barrier I tore down ten years ago has been replaced and doubled in strength. I feel a yearning to connect, followed by a violent reaction inside that warns me away, reminds me that what I want is probably not what they want, followed by Tolkien Boy's voice telling me, as he did nearly eight years ago, "You can't ask people to feel the same way you do."

I know that--I've always known it. But I sort of want to scream at Tolkien Boy because he said that to me. Having it said by someone I respect and love just reinforces in my head that what I feel is wrong, somehow. And I hear the words again and again and again--every time I wish for something loving and human from another person. 

That was not his intention. He was just talking about feelings, and people, and life. My brain simply seized on the thing that seemed most relevant to me and kept those words looping through my mind and controlling my emotional life. I did that. 

Still, I've become used to my own company now, and I feel okay about that--so maybe Tolkien Boy did me a favor. I think he would like that. Maybe someday, when I feel like talking again, I'll tell him.

Lessons Learned

1. There is not enough money in the world to compensate for helping with a middle school musical production. The kids begin squirrelly and progress to beyond squirrelly. Yesterday one of them lost his clothes. I found them on the floor backstage. I do not want to know why they were there.

2. Accompanying 45 middle school band students on their solos for festival can cause temporary deafness. Especially if they are playing saxophone or percussion. Also, some of them actually have musical sensitivity and talent. Scratch that. Two of them do. That's not a particularly compelling reason to continue accompanying them every year. However, when you and the band teacher got your undergrad degrees together, sometimes there are reasons long past that are. Sigh...I'll be doing this until I die...or go permanently deaf...

3. Flowers bloom in the spring even when the weather believes it's winter. We've had snow every day since Sunday, but also enough daytime warmth to melt the white stuff. And I have some pansies heroically blooming beside my dandelions (which I halfheartedly and unsuccessfully attempted to kill last week). My trees and bushes have continued to sprout leaves. Should the snow ever decide to leave for a few months, it will be gorgeous and green.

4. I have songbirds. My dad has crows. He lives three blocks from me so I don't know why there is a difference in bird residence, but I'll take it. I'm listening to blackbirds hailing the sunrise. He's listening to crows fighting over roadkill. Bad luck, Dad!

5. Since DJ moved back home, claiming my former guest room, we have had more company than we ever did during the three years he was gone. Our new guest room is my piano studio floor equipped with a queen-sized air mattress. There is no privacy in our house and Darrin and I are up for work by (or before, in my case) 5 a.m. We try to be quiet, but I'm guessing we're not particularly successful (we = me, because Darrin actually is quiet and doesn't run into things in the morning). When we told people we had a guest room, they would make a comment about how it might be nice to visit and we ended up about two visits per year. DJ moved home about a year ago. In that year alone, our air mattress has had five residents. It's almost as if when we say, "We don't have a lot of room--couch or air mattress, only," people are challenged to show us that they're tough enough to rough it a few nights in our house-without-a-guest-room. And since I like visitors, when DJ (and Adam and Tabitha) moves out, I'm thinking about continuing the rumor that we have no guest room just so people will keep coming.

6. I hate physical therapy. And I love it. But mostly I hate it. So I need to go do the work at the gym now. But I'd rather just go run outside and listen to the birds. But I can't do that until my physical therapist says I'm ready. So I hate her, too. And I love her.

Okay. Going to the icky gym now.

Making Peace

I have never been able to resolve parts of me that I perceive as odd or problematic until I could understand why they happen in the first place. This goes beyond simply knowing the root cause, and is more centered around the "why" of today. I know what inspires the idiosyncracies, but why are they still troubling me? Why do I cling to them? Why do they pop up regardless of what I do to dispel them? What purpose do they serve NOW?

For many years this has been the case when I think about friendship. I have written about this more times than any reasonable person should. I've mocked the institution of friendship, calling it a convenience which allows people to be fickle and undependable simply on the auspices that they owe one another nothing.

I've never understood why I felt so intensely antagonistic toward that relationship, nor why I'm actually insulted when someone who is very close to me refers to me as a friend. My brain automatically thinks, No. I'm not a friend. That's someone unreliable and disposable, and if that's how you feel about me, I'm gone.

I understand now.

Trust, for me, is intermittent at best, and nonexistent at worst. But I want to trust people. I just don't seem to be able to make that happen. No matter how a person has shown me repeatedly that he or she is present, that I'm loved, that I'm important--it seems impossible for me to accept that, believe it, and feel comfortable trusting that person. I try. In fact, trying to trust causes me so much anxiety that I've been known to be sick over it. I want to trust people.

Trust allows one to let go, believing that absence means nothing more that a space of time and distance that will be bridged whenever possible. It allows one to believe that silence is insignificant and will be remedied when time permits. Trust keeps people in our lives when life throws curve balls that separate us. It's probably trust which initiates the feeling, after a long absence, that time has change nothing and that friends still feel close and intimate.

I've never experienced that. If you leave my life then reenter it later, I'll be very glad to see you but I won't feel at all close. I'll be interested but detached. And I probably won't suggest that we try to see each other more often. You see, probably when you left it caused me all sorts of emotional trauma because I didn't understand that you would come back--and what I interpreted was that I'm not important enough to you to make an effort to continue any relationship we might have been enjoying. In my mind, this was not a temporary separation. This was a termination.

When I began to recognize that I'm not able to trust in the "normal" way, I felt a little bit desperate. I don't want the people in my life to feel we have to constantly reconnect or I'll have be experiencing an emotional rift which effectively removes any close relationship we might have had and moves them to my group of acquaintances--people I enjoy when we're together, but don't really think about often. I don't want to be that person whose relationships become unhealthy because I'm so afraid to let go and I'm incapable of applying consistent trust.

I realized last week that I've been agonizing over this long enough. I am who I am. I'll probably never stop trying to figure out how to "fix" this problem in myself. I'll probably continue to hide the fact that every close, beautiful relationship in my life makes me want to throw up and causes me to panic most of the time. It's likely that the process which is natural to me, but completely unnatural to people who have not been abused, molested, or raped as children, will be a part of my life forever--but that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to circumvent, reroute, and striving to become more like healthy people.

That being said, I think it's time for me to stop being nasty about friendship. People like it. They want it. It plays an important, integral part in the lives of healthy people. They get it. I need to stop verbalizing antagonism stemming from my inability to make it work in my head and heart. My deficits do not diminish an institution that's been around for eons and will continue whether I participate or not.

So I'm making peace with myself. And I'm letting go. And if people are absent for awhile, probably my emotional self will cut off from them because it's natural to me. But that's okay. The world won't end and the absent people won't even know it happened and I'll go to work and read books and keep doing physical therapy and notice tiny details in the world around me that bring me joy--and the other person will go on with his or her life, too. My trust is not essential and my lack of trust makes no one uncomfortable except me.

Looking back on all my agonizing, I think I wanted someone to save me--to teach me how to be like everyone else. I think I wished that I would be reassured, reminded that even if someone leaves, it's temporary and I'm still loved. Clearly I'm still a child in this regard. Having suffered abandonment and neglect, I know no other way to feel secure. I needed to hear the verbal assurance that we're still "friends."

Adults don't do that with other adults. I understand that. So today I allow myself to be at peace. I'm okay, even if this trust and friendship thing is not something I can do. I still have relationships and interactions with people and those are joyful even if they also make me stressed. I'm willing to keep doing this on my terms and stop feeling inadequate because I don't have the emotional maturity necessary to be those people who can be apart for years, then come together again feeling as if no time has passed and the relationships is still thriving.

I also don't have to keep talking about it. And probably the other parties in my relationships will feel those friendship things, even if I don't, so I'll have half-friendships. And half is better than none.

Spring has sprung a leak.

Today I was asked to guest lecture in a middle school choir class. The choir is finished with performances and competitions, but there are three weeks of school left. So the teacher offered four topics to the class--each student could choose one. They'll have two lectures on the topics, one day for independent research, and then they'll write a short research paper or take a test, depending on which topic they choose. I'm lecturing on music theory.

When I was hired to do this, I assumed I would end up with between four and six students. Theory is no not a hot topic among middle schoolers. I walked into class today and found twelve boys waiting for me. That was a bit of a shock. Not only were they ready to listen and learn (seriously--I'm talking about MIDDLE SCHOOL), but they participated and did all the activities I had planned. I'm not quite sure what to think about this.

Change of subject

I've spent the past decade resolving much of what was causing me pain, emotionally and physically. I'm ready to take a break. I may always deal with anxiety and panic attacks. I'm okay with that. Most of the time I just wait them out. I know what they are, and while they're uncomfortable, they're not life threatening. Some of the panic attacks this week have caused me some difficulty as they were accompanied by nausea, but again, I know how to manage them and they will pass. I've been lucky enough to find someone to talk me through them both times. That won't always be the case. I'm okay with that, too.

I'm going to do some traveling this summer. Darrin's aunt has been asking me to come visit for a few years. I've declined because she lives in the New York City area and I've not been willing to go there until I could manage the PTSD symptoms more easily. I can do that now. I'll be spending about ten days in that neck of the woods during the first part of July. Then I'll be going with Tabitha to visit some Utah friends. I also have a week planned in a very remote part of Wyoming. I've invited my husband and children to join me there. I also invited Tolkien Boy, but it doesn't look like that will happen. Boo and family might possibly make it for a weekend, but there's room for more. Message me if you're interested in spending a day or two in a place with little phone service and dubious internet connection. We'll talk.

I may also be traveling a bit with my parents. I have a couple of nephews getting married this summer and would like to attend those weddings, but my car is becoming less roadworthy. I've put a large number of miles on it since it was purchased seven years ago. Darrin is convinced he can fix whatever ails it. Until he cries uncle, there will be no talk of a new vehicle. So we'll limp along and hope for the best. There are worse things.

Next week marks my last performance for this school year. I'll be accompanying solos at a festival Tuesday morning. We start at 8 a.m. and I'm guessing I'll be finished by noon. I've talked to the Big Guy and told him I'm expecting a pristinely gorgeous day, because I intend to celebrate by disappearing into the mountains that afternoon. He's the only one I've told (except for you, Brozy, because you read this). I'm contemplating keeping it that way. Otherwise I have offspring who will decide they need to keep me company. I'm desperately wishing for some solitude.

I began the dandelion eradication process this week in my garden. It makes me sad, but I have basil that needs to be transplanted and soon there will be tomatoes and a variety of flowers waiting for a place. The dandelions have been allowed to bloom for a couple of months, which, Darrin assures me, is long enough to ensure that they have sown enough seeds in my lawn and garden to continue propagation for the eternities. Darrin does not love my dandelions.

The songbirds that have taken up residence in my front and back yards are lovely. I might be the only one who enjoys listening to them at 4:30 a.m., but since I'm up anyway, it's nice to have the company. Tabitha says she would like them better if they would sleep a few more hours. I'll take them any time of day.

Today was one of those days when the weather simply could not make up its mind. It started out very cool, with temperatures in the mid-30s and progressed to light rain which turned into weird, tiny hailstones. Thunder grumbled throughout the afternoon and the wind put in an appearance for a couple of hours. Sunshine and snow occurred simultaneously and the high temperature ended up being in the 50s. I just have to say, it's difficult to know what to wear on days like this. It makes me want to stay home and read a book all day.

Getting to Know You

A few years ago I spent a great deal of time and energy integrating parts of me that I had severed during times of trauma throughout my life. When I felt that I was finished, my next assignment was to learn who I was now that I was "complete". Who is Samantha when she allows herself to claim the child, adolescent, teen, and young adult parts?

It's strange to me to remember that eight years ago I had no participatory memory of my life before I was married. I knew it existed. I understood that I lived before that. But if others spoke of shared life events, I couldn't conjure the memory from my own mind. I simply accepted that what they said was true. If I spoke of my prior life, I referred to myself in third person. It felt natural to do that. The person who lived that life felt completely disconnected from me. I felt as if I was speaking of an acquaintance or, at most, a former friend.

Now I can't even imagine talking of myself in third person. That would feel odd, even uncomfortable. I believe this is a good indication that the integration work I did was successful.

However, before I could understand who I was as an integrated person, life became unmanageable. Tabitha was suicidal and often in the hospital. I sustained a serious injury which required surgical repair. I had my appendix removed. I got pneumonia, and because I have asthma, the residual effects of that lasted a very long time. I had a serious reaction to the flu shot, which lingered for nearly nine months. It became necessary to place Tabitha in a care center. I lost a lucrative job--in short, for the past four years my life has been far too chaotic to even think about doing the necessary work to acclimate to my newly integrated self.

Tabitha is home now. My health seems to be getting better and better. My life, while still extremely busy, is much more normal when looked at on the Samantha scale.

I've been experiencing rampant panic attacks and constant anxiety for quite awhile now. It affects how I view myself and discourages me from building positive, healthy relationships with people I care about. I feel distant from loved ones and have no desire to bridge that distance.

Friday I spent some time thinking about the upsurge of my PTSD symptoms, along with all the other things that seem to be causing me distress. I can cite several plausible reasons that this is happening right now, but the truth is, I think it's time for me to figure out who I am--to get to know myself.

I need to learn to like the person I am. I need to figure out who that person is now that I'm equipped with all parts of my past. I laid the groundwork while I was doing the integration exercises. I have conversations and emails and experiences that remind me of my value both to me and to others. Some of the people who participated in those exercises have left my life, not under the best of circumstances, but when the words were written or said, they were sincere and I intend to use them, understanding that while they are no longer valid today, that does not decrease the validity of the intent when they were communicated to me.

I had planned to ask for some help from people who are present in my life right now, but people are busy. It's been difficult to talk about this when I have spoken with loved ones, for many reasons. And I've been unable to contact some that I would choose to talk with. Perhaps it's for the best. I want people to live and be involved in their own lives. My life, and this attempt to understand who I am, is probably not really pertinent to anyone else. I had planned a gradual tapering from hearing from the voices of loved ones in the beginning, and being accompanied as I attempted this, to ending with allowing myself to walk alone as I figured out what it means to be me. Perhaps, as I often do, I will simply jump to the end. Solitude is something I often crave--and now I am presented with the opportunity to enjoy it.

I see Therapist only on an as-needed basis now. My last visit with him was in August of last year. I have called him when necessary, or chatted with him online, but I believe this exercise will be completed without him. It feels like an all or nothing assignment--either I do it with people, or I do it on my own.

Darrin, with whom I have discussed this at length, is concerned that I'm choosing to work on this by myself because of my deeply ingrained belief that people are not dependable and also, completely disinterested in me. In his mind, it is a necessity to involve people I love because he believes that not doing so will place me in an emotional state where I once again feel that I don't need anyone. He believes that involving others as I work to understand myself, will cause me to understand that integrating my life with others is important, even essential, to my emotional and mental health.

I understand where Darrin is coming from. I also feel that I don't have unlimited stamina right now. I assured him that I had attempted to contact people. Also, Brozy, if you read this, you should probably know that when you visited a few weeks ago, I gathered much of what I would need from you then, and if I decide to use help from others, that will be utilized. I probably should have asked permission. Forgive me? (but probably you don't need to worry about it, as yours is the only source I've gathered, it's not looking like it will be joined by others, and I need more sample data from different sources if this is going to be helpful)

I think if I do this, much of the localized anxiety will ease. I believe the source of that anxiety is the actual daily living with the knowledge of what each dissociated part of me represents, and now that they're all part of me, I need to look at the big picture and understand what it means. This has become a circular thought process for me, so I think before I begin repeating myself in this blog post, I'll just stop talking.

Sometimes "crazy" is the only truth life has to offer.

My energy level is finally returning to normal--which means I have too much. It means I'm thinking constantly, and researching, and asking myself questions that have no answers. It means that to keep all those questions at bay, and to make sure I can't dwell on anything too long, I've taken on four new students and another online job.

Therapist will tell me I need to not take anymore students and I should ponder only having one online job, especially since the class load I'm teaching fall semester is about three times as heavy as what I normally teach. I'm not going to tell him that I also agreed to accompany four competitions and festivals in the next four weeks, which means learning music and rehearsing with more than 100 students. He'll just roll his eyes at me and ask if I really think it's a good idea, which is irrelevant. I've committed. And it will be over by mid-May.

I've been thinking about my mother for the past few months.

I've changed my mind about many things, but not about everything. I maintain that most of what was said and done to me by her should never have happened. But it did and it belongs to us both. My mom's brain is deteriorating. At this point, she makes her own past and in her mind, it's very real. Currently, according to my mother, I was a sweet, congenial little girl who rarely was in trouble. The person she has conjured as her Samantha child never existed. I was stubborn and willful and under the best parenting, I would still have spent a great deal of my young life in time out. I have never been congenial or sweet.

My mother has created a past in which I lived a charmed life, we played together, and rarely disagreed. When I first became aware that she was living in this delusion, I was angry. I'm not anymore.

I cannot imagine how she felt as an abuser. She grew up in a home where she experienced what it was like to be abused physically, and dominated completely by her father. She was not allowed to think for herself or express an opinion. Her dreams and aspirations, if spoken aloud, were demeaned and criticized. My mother knew how it felt to be a victim. It is speculated that the brain damage that now spreads dark, dead spots through her mind was caused in her childhood--a  result of the physical blows she felt from her drunken father.

My mom was the youngest of three. She wanted to have children--lots of them--and she did. But she had no idea how to be a parent. Her mother was absent, working to provide a steady income because her alcoholic husband had difficulty holding jobs. Her father was drunk most of the time. There was no real example of good parenting in my mother's childhood.

I remember, as a very small child, watching my mother, silently weeping as she sat in a rocking chair, holding one of my infant siblings. It was after an episode when I had been severely punished for using one of her potted plants as an anchor for a blanket tent. The ceramic pot had fallen and broken, spreading dirt and plant parts across our hardwood floor. I felt terrible about breaking the plant and it's holder. I wanted to apologize. I wanted my mom to stop crying.

I remember touching her shoulder and saying I was very sorry. At first she didn't acknowledge me at all. I apologized again. Still nothing. I said, "Mommy, I love you. I'm so sorry." Finally, an answer: I heard her whisper fiercely, "Go away."

So I did. I ran to my room, flung myself across my bed, and hated her with every ounce of my six-year-old self.

I used to believe she was still angry with me in that moment--the tears springing from the loss of a stupid plant. In my adulthood, I arrogantly judged her, calling her a terrible parent, vowing I would never value an object over my own children. I don't believe, anymore, that she was angry with me. I believe I have misjudged her.

I believe, now, that my mother was often overwhelmed with her own monstrousness. I think the tears shed in that moment were expressing the pain of her own childhood, coupled with her inability to control her angry impulses, culminating in her abuse of her own children. I believe she was aware that she was perpetuating a cycle that had robbed her of self-esteem and hurt her deeply, and I think that knowledge caused her incredible pain. Though I was willing to attempt making peace with her (and perhaps she wished she could meet me halfway), knowing she was acting in the abhorrent ways her father did, and without the aid of alcohol, kept her from making peace not only with me, but with herself. My expressed love could not be accepted--how could I love someone such as her?

My mother lived with untreated clinical depression. Her neurologist believes that the injury to her brain happened when she was very young and her ability to control her emotions and actions began to deteriorate when she was a teen. By the time I was six, her emotional stability was nonexistent.

I wonder, now, how much responsibility she can claim for the actions that harmed me. Her erratic behavior and extreme punishments, her inability to connect emotionally with me, and the mental and emotional abuse that were part of my everyday life--how much of that was beyond her control? My mother was cognizant that what she was doing was wrong; she has told me so. She has also said that she didn't know how to stop herself. I believe her.

And so I allow her the luxury of making up a new past; one in which there was no abuse and I was obedient and sweet, and she was loving and firmly kind. For a long time, I made a fantasy life of my own, and I completely understand the need to do that. It's a coping device that allows us to keep living. The difference is that I have recovered from my past and I no longer need the fantasy, but my mom will continue to build her fabricated past for the rest of her life. It will become her reality and I will not contradict nor compel her to face the truth.

I suppose I believe that she has suffered long enough. We both have. It's time for me to touch her shoulder and ask for forgiveness once again. Because while it is true that she bears the burden of causing me pain, I have borne anger and resentment toward her for actions I no longer believe were within her power to control or suppress. My mother has a good heart. She wanted more for me than that which she received in her childhood home.

So in my attempt to reconcile the real past with her new one, I will acknowledge that there was good in my life because of my mother. She believed I could do anything--and so did I. She made certain I received musical training when we could ill-afford the cost--and that training has led me to my vocation. She read to me, sang with me, taught me to clean and cook and sew and take care of myself. In short, my life, in spite of the abuse, was better than hers, and that was what she wanted.

So I will say to her once again, "I love you, Mom. Please forgive me," and she will, even though she'll have no idea why. And though she may never ask again (for she has asked me repeatedly in the past decade), I will forgive her, too. Because I understand that her tears were not for a broken potted plant, but for herself--broken in spirit and mind--for her inability to love naturally and her uncontrollable impulses that brought violence and fear instead.

Therapist once told me that I would know that I had made it "through to the other side" of my resentment and anger when I could feel empathy for my mother. I didn't believe him when he said it, but I think I'm finally there. It's a good place to be.

One is the Loneliest Number

Yesterday was the four-week mark since my surgery. I am miles behind at work. I have another four weeks before the final tax deadline, and last Saturday marked the corporate one. I told my clients I would not be at my best and I might have to file extensions for them. Saturday I filed two. I'm sort of terrified I'll be filing more next month. I don't know why my clients came to me when I gave them referrals--knowing I might be late. I had hoped to be able to do lots of work this week, but physical therapy took a turn for the worse when we began working the muscles surrounding the place where the titanium post was pounded into my thigh bone. I could barely walk for a day and I'm still sore today.

Then I got the stomach flu. Insult to injury?

Today I'm feeling slightly more human. I'll go to work in a little while. I'm supposed to go to the gym and ride the stationary bike and do my PT exercises (which I have not done since my last session--and given the stomach flu and pain level, I'm not sure I could). I'm pondering if that's going to happen or not. Right now, tax clients seem more pressing.

I had lunch with a friend on Saturday. She's my age. Our oldest children are near the same ages, but she has two more that are younger than mine. One of those younger ones is a baby she had five months ago. He's very cute. My friend and I talked about our lives. I kept looking at that baby. He makes me feel exhausted. Tabitha pointed out that it's probably because I'm already exhausted. I think it's because parenting is not something that was easy for me. I love my kids. I think they're amazing. But I don't want any more. I don't know how my friend does it.

In my last post I talked about how I feel my siblings avoid me. So I called them. I asked why they don't try to visit--why they rarely contact me. I was told that they feel I have no interest in them. I've spent the past four years going back and forth to Utah, where most of them live, and not telling them I was there, not visiting with them. I've stayed with friends instead. I tried to explain; what I was going through personally, felt too difficult to talk about--and they wanted to talk about it. Tabitha's issues involved abuse by one of my brothers--and my other siblings met me with disbelief and attempted to tell me why Tabitha was lying. But the bottom line is that, regardless of what is true, Tabitha believes she was molested by my brother and I have to support my daughter. Talking about it with my siblings solves nothing. I don't want to do it.

But my siblings are correct about my avoidance issues when it came to visiting them. And I can't really blame them for thinking I didn't want to see them when they came to visit my parents, either. I don't really know how to change the status quo. I just told them I was sorry--that sometimes things happen and I didn't expect understanding, but I hoped we could try again. I received a lukewarm response, which is more than I expected.

Loneliness is odd. I feel it keenly today. It really has nothing to do with being loved or spending time with others. I think it's more about knowing how you fit in the world. Right now, in this moment, I'm not sure how I fit anywhere. I think when I'm lonely, the greatest help to me is the reassurance that, even if I can't feel it, I have a place in someone's life or heart, that I'm needed and wanted, and that this moment of feeling lonely won't last forever.

And then I go do something.

So right now I'm going to go to work. And then I'll do my prescribed physical therapy and get stronger. And I think I'll eat a cookie, too.

And you should watch this video of old guys singing with a live orchestra--no auto-tuning here, and these guys were popular long before I was around: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22QYriWAF-U

Stomping My Foot and Having a Tantrum

I am recognizing as I write this that there are a few things I need to remember:
1. It has been only three weeks since surgery and I'm still feeling tired and over-emotional--and even, perhaps, a bit depressed.
2. I'm not yet able to expend a great deal of physical energy which has been a large contributor to PTSD management throughout my life.
3. I'm tired and frustrated most of the time.
4. There have been some unusual significantly difficult emotional obstacles that have presented themselves in the past four weeks including the death of a very young family friend, some mishmash crap with my mother, and an attempted suicide of another young friend who has been like a part of our family for nearly 12 years.

Given such circumstances, while I feel a great need to write this post, I may also, in a matter of days, also find the need to disappear it as I reevaluate. Then again, I might not.

It's no secret that, while I have always felt self-sufficient and capable of caring for myself, I've also always wondered about people who have close friends and family--people integrated into their daily lives; ones who live near or who communicate frequently; the dear ones who fly out to take care of a sick friend or family member, or who care for the kids when Mom and Dad are struggling, or friends,couples, or families who want to spend vacation times together. They mystify me. I know people like that. I believe there have been times in my life when I wanted to be those people.

But I'm not.

I live three blocks from my parents. My siblings have been known to stop to visit my parents for a weekend without notifying me that they were there. Sometimes, (because I feel obstinate and I believe that because we're related, they owe me an hour or two of their time every couple of years), if I am inadvertently alerted that they're visiting, I've dropped by unannounced. They always seem happy to see me. They're happy to visit with me. I'm the one who cuts the visit short when I've had enough of being with people. This confuses me. If they like me--like visiting with me--why do they come and not tell me. They know I'm not one who monopolizes, nor do I like crowds, so it's likely my time with them will be lovely, but brief. So...why?

There have been a few times when I've bought into the "close friends so we should live by each other" thing. I had a roommate in college who became a very close friend. After we were both married, we planned a couple of vacations with our spouses, and later, with their children (Darrin and I didn't have any yet). The vacations were fun and filled with laughter. We talked about how wonderful it would be if we could live near one another. It didn't happen. We tried to find jobs in the same area, but our vocational interests were different and in the end, perhaps it was all for the best. We rarely talk anymore. I've not seen them in about four years. They've made no effort to contact us, and I've been too overwhelmed with my life to contact them. And I don't really miss them.

When I realized how much I enjoyed spending time with some of my online friends, I made certain that when I was near where they lived, I visited. I wasn't really invited--I just did it. I let them know I was in the area and I'd like to see them and if they agreed, we'd go to lunch or I'd visit in their homes. Edgy was the only one, really, who was insistent that we have a standing lunch date every time I went to Utah--I loved that. I don't go anymore, though, and I miss him. There's something extremely validating in knowing someone not only makes time for you, but they expect you to do the same for them. It feels concrete and safe.

While I know I wasn't unwelcome, I always felt I sort of forced myself on AtP, Ambrosia, Boo, and Tolkien Boy. I remember telling TB, when we'd spent about two months getting to know one another, that any time he was in Utah, I would arrange my schedule to see him. He didn't ask me to--and I didn't ask if he wanted me to. I just wanted to see him. It was the same with AtP, Ambrosia, and Boo. I've also been known to let them know that, not only was I visiting, I was spending the night. Yes. I invited myself. And they weren't the only recipients of my assumed welcome.

I admit that with Josh and Tolkien Boy and AtP, I've always sort of wished we lived closer. I've wished that with lots of people, but always with the knowledge that they would probably be unhappy living by me, and I"m in no financial or emotional position to relocate any time soon, and I would never want the people I love to live in a place that made them feel unhappy.

 Josh, though, seemed as if he and his family weren't quite settled. I thought they might like one of the nearby cities and opportunity seemed endless. Then I realized the climate would never be a good fit for his wife and the pipe dream was probably best left being just that.

AtP toyed with the idea of attending a nearby nursing school. He was serious enough to come for a tour and stay a couple of days with me. In the end, though, leaving Utah wasn't for him. He met his husband. They now have a family. Someday, when I'm better, I'll go visit again and insist they have dinner with me. Utah will have to be near enough.

When Tolkien Boy was single, I confess to wishing a few times that we lived closer. I told him that I wished it. I knew the wish was not reciprocated. It didn't matter. Wishes don't just go away. For awhile, even after he was no longer single, TB talked about leaving Seattle, living closer to family, being in a place with more sun. When I suggested living near me, he didn't swipe the idea away. I understand now that it was because he understood better than I, that moving from Seattle was his pipe dream. He didn't have to discuss the possibility of living near me because it was probable that moving was simply not going to happen.

I feel a bit nonplussed that I ever entertained the idea that a family member (yes, there were a few of those that I wished for) or friend would live nearby and be a part of my social and emotional life. It's not like I've not survived a life without that. Nor is it likely that I'd even be able to manage such a thing successfully. I'd probably hate it.

I had a recent conversation with TB, in which he was supposed to be expressing his opinion but was asking me questions instead, in which he said, "It sounds as if you feel you don't want to need people anymore?"

I sort of wanted to punch him for saying that.

The answer is obvious. Of course I don't want to need people! They're unreliable and misleading. They say they love you, and they do, but being a priority (and yes, there are times when I wish I was a priority) is not an option. They're interested in you as long as they don't have more pressing matters demanding their attention. A marriage contract is the only thing one can call upon to say, "Hey! We chose each other. Sometimes I need you and I need you to need me. And it might not be convenient or comfortable, but that's the way it is and as long as we're married, that's how it will be."

You can't say that to a friend--to "people". Not ever. But sometimes you wish you could. Sometimes life overwhelms both you and your spouse and you need someone else to step in and hold you just for a while. But you can't ask. There's no contract or commitment or promise.

So, yes, TB, I do not want to need people. I'm happy to be a part of their lives. I'm happy to give every shred of love and support I can when they're in need. I'd even be delighted if some of those people I love lived near me, and would come have dinner with me whenever they wanted. And maybe, every once in awhile, someone whimsical would build a blanket fort and sit inside with me while we read books and ate cookies. But I don't want to need it. Not ever. And I'm frustrated, embarrassed, and a little bit angry that I have needed people in the past few years. I've been through some awful things--things I would wish on no one.

I've been blessed that there were incredible people who responded to my needs. They collectively fed me, housed me, visited me, talked to me, prayed for me--I needed those things so very desperately. And I sort of hate myself for being so needy. I gave nothing in return. I was emotionally and very nearly financially depleted. And I was in more pain than I ever want to think about again.

My hip surgeon is a competitive body builder. He has trophies. And he's big. He understands pain and endurance. After my surgery, he said to Darrin, "She waited far too long to have this done. Her cartilage has been gone for at least nine months, so she's been working with bone against bone every time she moved, and one of those bones, at the time of surgery, was in eminent danger of collapse. I have no idea how she was walking--let alone going to the gym daily to lift weights, swim, or run on the elliptical. That's pain I can't even comprehend."

Darrin said to me, later, "You told me it felt better to go to the gym."

I wasn't lying. It did feel better. I felt less helpless. Going to the gym brought emotional relief. But I won't lie--I was always glad there was a bathroom near the elliptical I was riding, because the physical pain really did make me worried that I was going to vomit at any moment. In the month before surgery, I could only tolerate a 30 minute workout on the elliptical and there was one day when I lost consciousness while I was cleaning the machine. There was a "Call 911!" flurry, but I was only out for a few seconds and I assured everyone I was fine--I just forgot to eat before I worked out that day--and as I seemed to be just fine as I headed for the locker room, everyone put their phones away. That was the Saturday before surgery. I thought it would be prudent not to go back until after my hip was replaced.

So yes, it hurt, but it also made me feel better. I can't really explain it.

I feel a little angry right now. I feel angry that I ever wanted people in the first place. It's silly, because those who care about me have done nothing to warrant that anger. They've loved and supported me and cared for me whenever possible. I think I'm angry though, because they're not mine. They're not my parents or siblings. They get to leave whenever they need to--not that my family has ever been there for me, but they're supposed to be. And I'm angry that I needed them, too. I want to take care of myself. I can never leave me. I will always be there when something happens and I will always be responsible for finding a solution. It's in my contract with myself.

In the meantime, I have to admit that I'm really bad at giving myself hugs, and sometimes I'm not the best conversationalist, and just forget harmonization when I sing. It doesn't happen. So maybe I can't do everything for myself. That makes me mad, too.

What's Good for the Goose is Good for the Gander

I've often stated that I hate make-up and rarely wear it. That doesn't mean I don't own it. Every once in awhile I think, "I'm a woman and maybe I should try some of that creamy stuff that will make me look ravishing and irresistible and everyone will smile at me and think I'm beautiful. After all, it has all those ingredients in it that are supposed to make your skin healthier and smoother and  younger--and I'm not getting any younger. Besides, it's supposed to help cover up zits and even though I never get those, you never know--someday I might get one and I'll need this stuff because apparently a zit is a social disgrace and I wouldn't want to be one of those."

So I buy some. And I use it once or twice and see no visible difference. Besides, it takes time and I hate wasting time trying to look like something I'm not. My skin is my skin. End of story.

I do wear sunscreen, however. Religiously. My family has a history of skin cancer and I'd rather not have that. It's painful and can be malignant, so I'm trying to take care of my skin. Naturally, this means lecturing my children to the point of watching them pretend to gag as I go on and on and on...

They've listened to me, though. I have a tube of very nice, expensive Neutrogena sunscreen for faces on the table near the door, and I watch as they apply a bit to their faces and the backs of their hands when they leave the house, so clearly the nagging has gotten through a bit (or maybe it was the fact that their grandfather just had to have a large portion of the skin by his ear and cheek removed and the stitches and swelling look painful).

Adam came to me a couple of days ago and said, "I like the sunscreen in your bathroom better than the stuff you put by the door. I've been using it for a couple of weeks and my skin looks better and I really like the way it feels."

I wracked my brains for a minute or two, trying to figure out if I'd left some other brand of sunscreen in my bathroom. Unable to come up with an answer, I asked, "Why do you like it better?" He answered, "I'm not sure. I put it on and it smells like grapefruit and my skin looks really smooth and nice. I really like it."

I thought some more, and then the light bulb went on. I said, "Are you sure the bottle said it was sunscreen?"

"I think so," he answered, "I didn't really look that hard."

"What color was it?

"Sort of tannish--it matches my skin exactly."

I waited a moment, trying to figure out how to let my son know that he had been using a vitamin C infused foundation I'd bought on a whim a few months ago. Finally I decided just to be blunt.

"Adam--that's not sunscreen. It's make-up."

Adam thought for a minute, then said, "Huh! No wonder girls like to use it. It's nice."

This was not the answer I expected--nor was what came next: "Is it okay if I keep using it. I really like the way it smells."

Why not? I thought. I'm not using it. So I gave my permission and Adam went away feeling very happy.

So if you happen to pass a very nice looking young man with flawless skin, be sure to say hello. It's probably Adam. And at some point I have to let him know that his make-up doesn't actually have any sunscreen in it and he'll have to use both. I'm thinking this is not really going to bother him.

Saying Good-Bye to Annie

Annie and DJ were born on the same day. DJ is older by four hours. They met for the first time in my piano studio when they were nine years old and hated each other on sight. Annie was loud and constantly vying for attention. DJ was quiet and loved group lessons where we played games and learned about music history and performed music. They would sit at opposite ends of the studio and glare at one another.

About a year after Annie began studying with me, I had need to reduce my studio. Darrin had gone back to school and I had taken a job teaching general music in one of the local elementary schools. Annie was one of the students I referred to a different teacher, mainly because I thought it would help reduce DJ's stress when she was present. I actually enjoyed teaching Annie. She was incredibly talented, though undisciplined, but she had a lovely enthusiasm for life, and she always had a song she wanted to sing for me. She was a joyful person.

As often happens, Annie and DJ continued to cross paths. Both being talented musicians, they performed in the same groups; being the same age, they shared classes; and their pool of friends were basically the same, so around their thirteenth year, they called a truce and decided to be friends. The friendship flourished. They began a tradition of celebrating their shared birthday together--going to lunch or exchanging silly gifts or just spending time with their friends.

By the time they graduated, DJ and Annie were fast friends. When an opening at the cut-rate theater where Annie worked became available, she made certain that DJ was hired--not because he needed the job, but just because it would be fun to work together. There was never a spark of romance, but always a closeness of knowing they somehow were bound together and that life was better because of that.

Last year Annie began acting strangely. She forgot important events (like work schedules and the DJ/Annie birthday celebration). DJ was frustrated. She wouldn't talk to him, and denied that anything was different. Then one day Annie's sister called the theater. Annie would not be coming into work. She had seen some doctors that day and was diagnosed with stage four brain cancer. People don't often survive stage four brain cancer

I didn't know how to talk about this with DJ. I asked how he was feeling. He hugged me in his huge bear hug and said, "It's okay, Mom. I've fasted and prayed about this. Annie is going to be all right. I know it."

I didn't tell DJ that sometimes "all right" still means people die. I just hugged him back and said to be sure to visit her often and help her stay encouraged and strong. And for a year, DJ did just that.

Six weeks ago it became obvious that Annie was dying. I watched as DJ struggled through anger and frustration, and sorrow. Annie passed away the day I came home from my surgery. I had no opportunity to visit prior to her death, but probably that's okay. She was overwhelmed with pain and had little knowledge of who was with her or what was happening.

I told DJ it was okay to feel whatever came--no matter what that feeling was. And I told him to find the places he felt safe and be sure to cry for his friend. He said he would.

DJ was asked to give the eulogy at Annie's wake. He wrote a beautiful tribute to his friend listing all the things he learned from her during her short lifetime. But he was worried about being understood as he spoke, knowing it would be difficult not to cry as he delivered the eulogy and he wanted his words to be heard.

The day before Annie's wake, a neighbor brought dinner for our family. She included a bag of miscellaneous "stuff". She said, "Probably you don't need these things, but they're kind of fun and I just felt like giving them to your family." There was a terracotta garlic keeper, a mortar and pestle, a whisk, and a tiny green wind chime shaped like an owl. As she had said, they were kind of fun.

DJ walked in as I was going through the bag. I saw his hand reach out and take the wind chime. His eyes were larger than normal, and he said, "Mom, can I have this?" I laughed. DJ has always collected odd things. I said, yes, and asked why he wanted it.

His answer: "Annie collected owls. We usually exchanged them on our birthdays. This can be my present from her this year."

So DJ delivered his eulogy the next day, his hand curled around a tiny green owl given to us by a neighbor who had never met Annie and had no idea the impact her miscellaneous gifts would have.

I don't know what other people believe about God or no god or kismet or the universe or coincidence, but in my heart, I'm really glad that someone or something knows the beauty of my Dj's heart and they're looking out for him. Who knows? Perhaps it's Annie.

I am ridiculous

I'm going to get a new hip.

This is a good thing. I've been in incredible pain for the past two years as the cartilage in my hip has disintegrated and the bones have deteriorated. The pain has increased until walking is an Olympic event for me and lying in bed at night brings nothing but misery. Bone scrapes on bone as tiny cysts form and burst, bringing their own form of exquisite sensation.

This is a good thing. The pain will be relieved and there's a good chance I'll be able to walk without limping for the first time in a few years.

I've been told not to run. Running will decrease the lifetime of my hip replacement and increase my chances of dislocation.

My doctors say it's not a big deal. I can ride a bicycle or swim--infinitely superior forms of exercise anyway.

My doctors have never survived rape. They don't live daily with PTSD. They don't understand the psychological significance running has for me. I've mentioned it to a few people, but I've never written it here--because it's silly:

When I run, I feel powerful and in control. No one can hurt me. I'll just run away from them. I'm not particularly fast, but I can run for a long, long time. Eventually, whomever wants to hurt me will get tired and stop chasing me. Running will keep me safe.

Do I know that's untrue? Yes. Do I understand that if I was truly a target for someone who wished to hurt me, chances are, running wouldn't really help? Yes. I completely understand that. But still, in my heart, I believe running will keep me safe. And somehow, when I think in my head, "I'll just jump on my bike and get away, should someone try to harm me," or "I'll just find a pool and swim really, really fast and the person who wants to hurt me will stay away because...he doesn't want to get wet...yeah...that's it..." Those thoughts just don't have the same protective impact as the running away thought does.

My surgeon says I'll feel better when I have my new hip. He says things will go well and he's happy I'm healthy, young, strong--unusual for him when it comes to hip replacement patients. He also says I get to choose how long I keep this particular hip. It will have to be replaced again, as the life of it is between 20 and 30 years for a sedentary person, and about 15 years for a moderately active person. Surgeon judges me to be more than moderately active, and suggests we shoot for at least 7-10 years on this particular hip. He says can't recommend running, but he knows some people do run on a hip replacement. He says I need to choose what activities will keep my quality of life optimal--but also says that if I choose to run, I shouldn't tell him about it.

I like my surgeon.

Getting my hip replaced is a good thing.

Tomorrow morning at 5 a.m., I will get in my car, drive three hours to the hospital, and by the afternoon, the procedure will be finished.

But today I keep crying about it. I'm the world's worst coward. I should be thinking of all the ways my life will be better--instead I'm thinking about how I really like my poor old hip and I'm sad that the surgeon is going to cut out my bones and take them away from me. I should be looking forward to less pain--but I'm thinking about the difficulty of physical therapy and remembering that I'm already tired and I don't want to do therapy again. I should be thinking about how, in a few weeks, I'll be able to sleep for more than an hour at a time at night--instead I'm worried about missing work because I'll be away from home for three days.

And did I mention that I'm kind of terrified about all this?

I need to stop being ridiculous.

"We experience moments absolutely free from worry. These brief respites are called panic." ~Cullen Hightower

I'm an early riser. This doesn't mean I'm a morning person--just that I get up early. I can also stay up late with no problem. I've been known to stay up all night, grab a 2-3 hour nap in the morning, and have no problem with my sleep needs. I'm what's known as a "short sleeper". I have a genetic anomaly which actually causes me a great deal of misery if I get too much sleep. A sleep-in, for me, means my day will be pretty awful.

What this amounts to is a lot of alone time, something I usually enjoy. This morning, however, I awoke to continuous panic. A friend told me last night that I could call today--and I almost did. Then I remembered it was 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and there's also a one hour time difference which would make his time only 4 a.m. I decided no one loves me enough to field a panicked phone call at that time of day and put my phone away.

Panic makes me feel like screaming--and running. Especially when I don't know the source of it. I did neither. I worked steadily for about three hours, then I went to the gym. Usually this alleviates most of the panic, but today it hasn't put a dent in it. Darrin says it's understandable. I'm having hard, crunchy parts of my body cut out in three days. No one would feel especially relaxed about that. It was nice to have him sympathize. It would be nicer if he had stayed awake to talk me down. To his credit, he tried. But at this moment, he is snoring on the couch and has been in that position for an hour now.

Darrin took me to lunch yesterday for our anniversary/Valentine's Day. After years of coming home, exhausted by crowds and wishing we'd just stayed in and cuddled, we've learned to celebrate lightly on the day of, and do something romantic on a different evening when most couples are not vying for the same restaurant table, or theater tickets, that we want.

Valentine's Day, however, has always been a day I've loved. I've never ascribed it to romance, but rather, a special day to let people I care about know that they're important to me. I think this is because, growing up, Valentine's Day was the only day of the year my parents (mostly my mom) acknowledged that they loved me. I got a lovely card and sometimes a treat, and my mom made special once-a-year Valentine cookies. I loved them so much I had them served at my wedding. I suppose, for one day annually, I felt like I was loved--wanted--by my family.

So I made sure that others in my life knew of my love for them on Valentine's Day. I know many people despise the holiday. I understand why. I can't allow their negative experiences to change my feelings about a day of love for other people. I've always sent cards and chocolate (and sometimes those favorite cookies) to various people. One year my kids helped me make the cookies and we took them to several people in our neighborhood. No one understands the importance of the holiday to me--but I do, and I never want anyone in my life to doubt that I love them. I use the holiday to make sure they know.

Except this year I didn't. I've had so many consultations with doctors and surgeons and medical test people. And I've been trying to put in extra hours at work because I'll miss some time while I'm recovering from surgery. I'm scared, too. Probably that's stupid, but I am anyway.

I wish I'd been able to celebrate Valentine's Day as I wanted to.

I also think I want one of those chicken enchilada Subway sandwiches.

And I'd like to stop panicking. That would be good.

Good-byes

A long time ago I was chatting with Tolkien Boy. I was telling him something--I don't remember what--but he stopped me and said, "It sounds like you're saying good-bye." This was an old theme. I was always threatening to go away, not from a place of emotional manipulation, but because staying in any close relationship made me feel stressed and frustrated. So it was not unusual for me to take breaks, or disappear for a few days, or discuss the possibility of not being a permanent person. Honestly, I'm still a little puzzled as to why TB is still around at all.

But I've come to a number of realizations since that time and I think I'll share here, a tiny bit of what I learned.

I was saying good-bye. Not in the way TB meant, but definitely bidding a farewell of sorts.

You see, many times I have ideas and wishes which involve another person. Those are deeply felt and, I believe, sweet and good. However, they belong to me, and not to us. In truth, there really is no "us". When reality would hit and I would look at one of those things in my head or heart, and recognize that the wish was not shared by the other person involved, it was difficult for me.

I assume this type of thing takes place in adolescence and teenhood, when most people learn about feelings and reality. I did some of that as a teen, but I was also very separate from the effect of feelings. When a friendship or romance went badly, it was easy for me to look at it logically, briefly feel sad, and move on--effectively circumventing the natural process of grieving.

What I'm talking about now is different, of course, but I don't believe it's abnormal to wish to spend time with loved ones, regardless of whether or not those loved ones are platonic or romantic. And I don't believe it's unusual to have expectations or wishes within those same relationships that are not shared by both participants.

There was never anything profound about the things I wanted. Those wishes were small, insignificant, and to mention them would be silly. But in my heart, they had deep meaning, connections only I could understand, and were deeply rooted in the desperate needs I developed a long time ago.

So I was saying good-bye. Not to Tolkien Boy or anyone else. Not to my relationships or chat times or hopes for continued sociality. I was saying good-bye to those tiny little things I wanted; things that would make me whole but which I had no right to ask. I was understanding that who I have become will always be broken in some ways and I cannot ask well-meaning, kind friends to help me mend.

It's a difficult process--coming to such an understanding and letting go of the desperate hope that has always existed, but has never been acknowledged. I still do it. I have piles of such wishes and dreams inside of me. Slowly, very slowly, I have let them go and accepted the hole left behind. It's okay to be broken. One can still love and be loved. Life continues, relentlessly passing, and I can choose to hide behind the piles of all the wished-for things, or I can grieve the loss and take life as it comes.

I'm getting better at recognizing what's happening when one of those tiny needs and wishes dies; when I recognize that I have no right to ask anything of anyone when it benefits only me; when I assume there is an "us" when there is not. I'm getting better at not expressing the good-bye because it only serves to confuse whomever might be with me in the moment. I'm getting better at moving on.

But the cost seems to be that I am less hopeful, less brilliant, more willing to accept that life cannot become better and other people cannot help. I am saying good-bye but I'm not going away. I need to think about this a little bit more, because I don't really know how I feel about it.

Why I Don't Take Pain Killers, and other stories

Actually, there probably won't be any other stories.

I'm not talking about OTC pain relief. Sometimes I take those--except for ibuprofen, because I'm allergic to it. I'm talking about prescription pain drugs. I try not to take those.

But my current surgeon/doctor has asked me to take Percocet (oxycodone) during the night until my surgery so that I can sleep better. He believes I'll heal faster and be able to manage PTSD more productively if I'm not sleep deprived. I tried to tell him it's difficult for me to become sleep deprived. He said he wouldn't insist, but he wanted me to take the pills at night if I could.

So I have been. For about 10 days now.

Here's what happens when I take oxycodone:

1. It makes me sleepy, but doesn't necessarily make me sleep. It's possible for me to wake myself up and stay awake, even if I seem a little woozy.

2. It doesn't really affect my pain level, but the pain seems inconsequential. It's still there, I just don't care about it.

3. The pills do affect my emotional state. They remove all the built up stress and panic and I feel very relaxed and a great deal of relief. And that's the problem.

Anyone who has experienced problems with chronic stress/panic understands that when those things are gone, however briefly, the feeling of relief is overwhelming. For me, that relaxation of tension in my guts is the best feeling in the world. I want it badly. In fact, I want it so much that when I identify a source of that release, I've been known to do just about anything I can to get my "fix" as often as possible. Physical contact from certain people in my life gives me that relief. With those unfortunate individuals I become a cuddle whore. I have to monitor my actions when I'm with them so they don't feel smothered or aggravated by my need for touch, which in turn causes me so much stress that I find myself wishing they were far away so I could stop wanting to be next to them. Catch-22.

So when I find the source of my "fix" in the form of a pill--something that can't be aggravated or annoyed by my need to ingest it--well, that creates a new problem.

As mentioned above, I've been taking oxycodone for about 10 days. At this point, my entire day is spent waiting for the time when I can take a couple of pills and go to bed. Yup. That's all I want. I don't want to talk to people, or work, or practice the piano, or read--I just want to take a pill.

Once I take the pills, I sleep off the initial drowsiness (about an hour), then I wake myself up and enjoy the sensation of not having a panic attack. I usually do this for 3-4 hours (so much for getting a good night's sleep). When the pills start wearing off, I'll allow myself to sleep for 2-3 hours. Then I get up--because that means it's day and when night comes again, I get to take more "medicine."

It's plenty embarrassing to admit that I have a propensity for addiction. I'm willing to shoulder the embarrassment and be honest about what's happening to me. I told Darrin this morning. I'll probably talk with Therapist before Friday. Oversight is good.

The thought of discontinuing the pain meds makes me weep a little. When you spend most of your life so stressed that it feels normal, to find relief from that is heavenly. But I'm not stupid. While spending the rest of my life popping pain killers actually sounds like a really great idea right now, I know it's not.

Okay. Complete honesty: The thought of going without the oxycodone is completely overwhelming and it has nothing to do with pain management. Probably it's time to stop.

There are times when I really hate the fact that I have PTSD and all it's accompanying delights. It sucks.

Retiring My Wonder Woman Status

I have always been strong. Often it got me into trouble.

Age six: I live in Ogden, UT. We have a very large tree in our front yard, with a thick branch extending straight out from the middle. My father, because safety has never really been something he thinks about regularly (yes, it's a miracle I'm still alive), rigs a long rope with a 10-inch dowel attached at the bottom (so we could sit or hang from it) from a much higher branch, and we stand on the lateral branch and leap off.

I loved the swing. I don't believe I ever sat on it, but I learned all sorts of rope tricks during gym time at school. I could climb the rope and ring the bell. I could straighten my body upwards while hanging upside-down, I could wrap the rope several times around my thigh and hang from the rope, no-handed, upside-down (no, this was not sanctioned by the gym teacher). And the beautiful thing was that those last two tricks translated well on our homemade swing. There was nothing more amazing than hanging upside-down and swinging.

My older sister wasn't as flexible or daring as I was, but she could climb. So one day she climbed the tree as high as she felt safe--then dared me to climb higher. So I did (one does not think these things through at six years of age). And I got really, really high. It was amazing. And then I tried to climb down. Turns out up is easier than down.

I couldn't do it. My mother tried to have my older sister climb up and show me where the footholds were to get down. She couldn't quite get high enough, and every time she would get close, I would scream at her to get away. Yeah, I'm cooperative. My mom said I'd have to stay up there forever. I pondered. At the moment, it didn't seem a bad plan. I was comfortable. There was a fork in the branches where I could straddle the branches and sleep (nope, didn't think about falling out while I was asleep--remember--six years old). My mom said they'd have to tie my meals to the swing and toss them up to me. I thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever heard.

My mom gave up and called the fire department. In a minute or two, a hook-and-ladder truck was in front of my house and a fireman was helping me out of the tree. Once I was off the branch, I was ready to see how fast I could go down the ladder and I was very put out at the fireman who insisted on descending before me and showing me how to put my feet carefully on the next rung. I said, "I know how to go down a ladder." He said, "I'm sure you do. Now, carefully lower your foot to the next rung and don't move your hands until both feet are on the same rung." It took forever.

So one could analyze this story and say I was reckless--but I was six. I'm cutting myself some slack. However, that same driven, recklessness has been a part of who I am for all my life. And the physical strength I enjoyed as a six-year-old, has been present, as well. I'm small but compact. I spent a good part of my life hauling hay, driving tractors, feeding livestock, moving hand irrigation, fixing fence, and doing whatever heavy, dirty job needed to be done.

I've also dealt with some pretty hefty emotional crap, and I think, given my age and the circumstances, I was fairly strong then, too.

My kids have always jokingly referred to me as "Wonder Woman". I've always assumed it was because I spend my day in a glittery bustier/blue underwear combo, complete with awesome high-heeled boots, but they say it's because I've always been able to do whatever I wanted, physically, emotionally, and mentally. They don't actually know if this is true, because I haven't told them when I failed miserably (or I took some time and flew away in my invisible plane until I could put on a happy face about everything). It also could have something to do with the fact that I always knew when they were lying--they believe my lasso of truth was cluing me in. I've told them that's just a mom thing. They don't believe me.

I'm not strong anymore.

The past four years, dealing with a suicidal daughter, learning of her abuse by my own brother, having to place her in a treatment facility--these things have robbed me of my emotional resilience.

The physical problems I've had in the past four years--four surgeries for various reasons, deterioration of bone and cartilage in my hip, increasingly intense pain--these things have gradually robbed me of my physical strength.

The past four years of declining ability to use physical activity to deal with stress and manage PTSD, being emotionally overwhelmed, feeling panicked all the time--these things have robbed me of my mental stamina.

Tabitha is home now and doing well. I've put a plan in place for when my family is unsupportive or unbelieving about the abuse she has suffered--and I've stuck with the plan for nearly a year now. I'm getting surgery which won't restore me to my original state, but will relieve pain and allow me movement again. I'm doing things to put my brain back together, learning new ways to manage PTSD, and learning how to find small bits of hope for the future.

But for now, I'm hanging up my Wonder Woman title. While I'll miss the ultra-comfy clothing and footgear, I need to stop trying to be something I'm not. At this point in my life, loading the dishwasher, making my bed, and vacuuming are challenging for me. I'm just not up to making the world a better place.

I'll be renting out my lasso and invisible plane. You're free to take them for a test drive. If you can see them.

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. . .