"Touch me, remind me who I am.” ~Stanley Kunitz

I've been thinking a lot about love. Surprise!

I've been talking with Tabitha and Adam about love. I'm learning a number of things difficult to articulate, but still true. I don't know that I'll be able to explain, but I'm going to try. Words make things real to me.

Adam told me that he knows Darrin and I love him. We tell him often. He says we show him more often. When we were talking about this, I said I knew my parents loved me, too -- sort of like a person loves ice cream or going to a movie. They like having me around. Adam says that's different from what he feels from us. He says being loved by Darrin and me is something he feels all the time, in the background. And he feels that deeply. It's not something that comes and goes, it just is.

Tabitha says knowing she's loved and wanted by us gives her the courage to try new things. She can fail and still be safe. There will always be someone to hug her, help pick up the pieces, and brainstorm new ideas to try. She says one day she wants to go far away. She's not afraid to leave because she knows it won't make us love her less. She believes she'll feel loved even when we're not with her.

When I was 17, I left my parents. I had no car, so my mother drove me 200 miles to the place where I would live and work. I had never met my employer. I did not know who I would be sharing a bedroom with. My mom drove to my new workplace, helped me lift from the trunk my suitcase and a laundry basket holding some basic necessities for the independent 17-year-old, got back in the car, and said good-bye before driving away. I had no idea what to do next.

It never occurred to me that I hadn't been hugged. I was never hugged. There was no mention of calling home, no discussion about how I might return home, should I choose to do so, and no "I love you." Again, I was not surprised or disappointed. I had no expectation that any of those things would happen.

I picked up my suitcase in one hand, balanced the laundry basket on the opposite hip and made my way to the building entrance. Once inside, I lowered my belongings to the cement floor. I was in a sort of recreation room with a ping-pong table and a television. A couple of young adults were there. They said hello. I continued to stand quietly. After a couple of minutes, one of them came over and asked if I was a new employee. I said I was. She took my basket and placed it against the wall, indicating that I could leave my suitcase, as well. Then she told me to follow her. We located my new boss, I was shown to my new room, and I was given my new work schedule. It was 5:00 p.m. I would start at 7 a.m. the next day.

My guide and my boss left me in my new room. I sat on the bare mattress that was my bed and wondered what to do next. I hadn't eaten that day, but didn't really worry about it. I rarely ate. A set of neatly folded white sheets were at the food of the bed. I spread the clean sheets over my mattress and covered them with the quilt given to me by my grandmother before I left home. It was made of tiny, colorful squares and backed in bright red flannel. She was the only person who acknowledged that I was leaving. She had hugged me.

I think, had I been less misshapen by the different traumas in my life, I might have cried at that point. It didn't occur to me to cry in the moment. I had long since understood that affection was not really something I was allowed. I felt awkward when my grandma hugged me, and confused, too. Hugging didn't really make sense. Well, more to the point, hugging ME did not make sense. I understood that other people did that. It just wasn't something they did with me.

There is no doubt that I was horribly lonely in that moment. That was unremarkable. I was always lonely. I assumed that was just part of being alive. But I had decided I would like to be lonely in a new place rather than in the house where I grew up...and was raped...and was abused...

It was a good choice. That summer I gained a friend who didn't care that I believed I wasn't supposed to be hugged or cuddled or enjoyed. Her name was Karen. We were a team at work. After work, we were still a team. We went hiking and camping and shopping. We sang and giggled and wondered who we would be in ten years.

Within a couple of weeks there was a young man who showed interest in me. I had tried dating a boy in high school That was disastrous. But I liked this new person. He wanted to spend time with me, but he didn't insist on any kind of physical reward for his presence. If I didn't want to be touched, he complied. He told me he liked me. He also said I was very young and he was fine if I just wanted a really great friend. His name was Tom.

So we were really great friends. And we went on dates. Sometimes Karen came with us. I asked if it was awkward to be the third person. She said it might be if I was in love, but she knew I wasn't. And she was right. I wasn't. Not with Tom. But he had taken me home to meet his family and I was in love with them.

I was in love with the way his mother treated me like I was one of their family. She took me into the kitchen with her and had me help cook and take a turn doing dishes while she chatted with me and made me feel that I had lived there my entire life. I was in love with the way his father teased me, just as he teased all of his children, gently and mischievously, but always with a look in his eye that told me this was happening because I was one of them. I belonged.

Mostly, though, I was in love with his sister. Completely twitterpated. She was thrilled when I came home with her brother. She immediately claimed me as her best friend. I was told about her fiance, her college shenanigans, her favorite foods, and invited to wear anything in her closet that appealed to me-- and she was very excited to explore my wardrobe, as well. She was a little disappointed that I was smaller, but thought there were still some of her clothes that would look "darling" on me.

When I left my job and went to school, Tom's family wrote and called and invited me to come visit. And I did. Even when Tom left for his mission, I continued to visit his family. They said I was their youngest daughter/sister. Two years later I got married. Not to Tom.

At that point contact ceased. I lost my place in that family. I think they were upset with me.

I write this story because I believe those two years were a time when I had the closest thing in my life to a real family relationship. It wasn't real. That became clear when I got married. But I do think they loved me. They just didn't know what to do next. Neither did I.

But during that period, I came the closest to what Tabitha and Adam were expressing when they told me what it's like to be loved by parents and siblings. I think it's interesting that I would feel that way when there was no real tie to the family, and when I didn't marry their son, they disappeared. That's not really how family works. But before all that happened, I had moments when I was certain I was loved and cherished. It felt constant and sustaining. And then it went away.

I have sought that feeling of being loved and needed - an integral part of another person's life - in other people. While I understand that's not something they would welcome or encourage, I still find myself doing it. I want to know that I am loved and welcomed in the same way that I esteem my children. As my parents seem to be incapable of feeling that way toward me, I subconsciously find myself seeking to establish that type of relationship with someone else - anyone else.

Most of the time, as soon as I notice I'm doing it, I stop the process and back away. I remind myself that Darrin loves me unconditionally and forever, and what I'm doing is inane and pointless - not to mention the fact that if the other person becomes aware of what is happening, I'll be labeled a freak and a miscreant and there will be no more fun times for us anymore.

But there have been a couple of times in the last decade when, despite my efforts to make it stop, the attempts to bond went on without me. And, yes, the other person became aware of it. And I apologized. And I ended up stressed and aggravated with myself because no one wants an adult Samantha trying to create intimate, familial-type bonding with them. I know this. Knowing does not keep my subconscious from trying.

And in the midst of trying to block the needs and bonding attempts, I find myself desperately needing to hear from the other person that I'm still loved in spite of the weirdness that is me. On really awful days, I've even asked to hear the words from them. In those moments, I don't seem to care if it's appropriate or if they want to tell me I'm loved. I just want to hear it. And when the words have been said and I'm drowning in a mixed sea of mortification and relief, I wonder how I might be different - might be whole - if my mother had hugged me the day she left me behind when I was seventeen.

Sometimes I worry a little.

Minor health glitches. Last Monday I had a nosebleed. It lasted about ten minutes and stopped. Then I had another on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday.

Thinking the weather was becoming drier, I increased my fluid intake and purchased some saline spray to counteract the problems the change in the weather was causing. And there was no nosebleed on Friday or Saturday.

But also on Wednesday I was putting in my contact lenses and felt an odd sensation inside the back of my head. It felt like something was wiggling. Immediately I felt dizzy. I tried to call Darrin, but couldn't make any noise come out. Finally, after about 20 seconds I could make a sound, but it took at least 10 more seconds before I could form a word. I sat on the toilet seat to get my bearings. Darrin came to see what was wrong, but within seconds I felt fine.

Then on Sunday, I was making dinner and, out of the corner of my eye, saw something black slide across the floor. But it made no noise. And nothing was there.

Later that day, I was reading and I fell asleep. Except I rarely nap and I wasn't sleepy. I awoke feeling like an insect was crawling on my face. But it wasn't an insect. It was blood. Lots of it. Both nostrils were bleeding this time. I ran to the sink, but even with my nose pinched shut and blocked by a tissue and my head tilted forward, I was gagging on blood flowing down the back of my throat. My mouth was full of blood. And it wouldn't stop. Finally, after 45 minutes, the blood stopped coming from my nose. About five minutes later it stopped draining down my throat.

I know. Go to a doctor. And I should have gone the ER on Sunday. But I'm not insured. Darrin and I lost our insurance in June, shortly after he was laid off. I'm working up to 18 hours daily to cover our expenses and there's nothing left for an Obamacare policy. We're still paying hospital bills from when Tabitha was suicidal. We're still paying hospital bills from my gall bladder removal in March and Darrin's appendectomy in May. Go to a doctor? Out of the question.

So on a whim I took my blood pressure on Sunday. It's usually normal to low. My numbers were 151 over 109. That's a little high. Okay, for me, that's alarmingly high.

Being Samantha, I started to do research and, sure enough, nosebleeds happen when blood pressure spikes. And I've been under a little bit of pressure lately. We've known for a long time that my blood pressure goes up when I'm feeling very stressed. Which I am. Very.

So I've been doubling my water intake, and using the saline spray. I have some blood pressure medication which was prescribed when I last had surgery (I get a little nervous about surgery which usually pushes my numbers up around 140 over 90), so I'll take that. My doctor said he'd renew the prescription whenever I felt my stress level rising, so I can continue the meds for awhile.

Today is Tuesday. No nosebleed today or on Monday. Still, my blood pressure hovers around 140 over 90 which, says my doctor, is too high. I'm giving this until next week. If the BP doesn't respond to the medication and/or the nosebleeds return, I'll make an appointment to see my doctor, insurance or not.

The truth is, I've never had a nosebleed as scary as the one that happened on Sunday. I'd like that to not happen again. Ever.

This morning a goldfinch stopped to visit my crabapple tree as it migrated through. The tiny bird hid easily amongst the leaves, but it's difficult to remain invisible when jumping from limb to limb is more important than remaining unnoticed.

Darrin says he is going to mow the lawn today. We'll see. I'm not sad about the soft grass we have this year and if it gets a little long because the mower refuses to start, I'm okay with that.

Tabitha wants to make some sort of apple pastry today. She's listed puff pastry, and fresh and crystallized ginger high on her list of ingredients. We'll put our heads together to see if we can come up with something edible. Darrin won't like it. He has a problem with our ginger obsession.

Darrin has been walking to work with me a couple of mornings a week. This week, in the midst of bright sunshine and blue sky dotted with tiny clouds, a rainbow stretched across the western horizon. This phenomenon appeared every morning at 7:30 and remained in place for at least 30 minutes. I didn't take a picture. I didn't think about it. Sometimes it's okay to just be in the moment and enjoy what is.

My to-do list this weekend is yuck. I have a backlog of online work that's been suffering since I began teaching three weeks ago. Also piling up are assignments waiting for me to grade them and housework that needs my attention. I'm unmotivated. I'd rather watch the goldfinch and look for rainbows and walk barefoot in the grass. Still, if I wait things will only become more stressful and yucky, so I'll take care of as much as I can before Monday.

I'm not focusing on the parts that are hurting inside. I'm making certain I'm noticing the beautiful that is outside. I'm hoping one day it will seep into me and ease whatever is causing me pain. Therapist tells me to do this. As I have no plan B, it seems prudent to follow his instructions.

I just want everyone to love me madly - is that asking too much?

Letting go has been a good thing, I think, and it really was a gift. I think there comes a time in everyone's life when they recognize that the work they put into relationships exceeds what is equitable. In really important relationships, it's not unusual for one partner to give more than the other for a time, but usually, as soon as he or she is able, the other partner steps back in and helps to strengthen the parts that have become weak. But those relationships are rare.

I think most people believe this:

And it's probably a truth. Just because I don't buy it doesn't mean it's false. And since pretty much the whole world believes this, there's more than a slight chance that I've been wrong and this is what friendship's all about. It's just that I've experienced the "pick up like they just spoke yesterday" friends, and I've experienced the ones that really seem to want to be present and have real conversations because they actually did speak with me yesterday. I prefer the latter.

However, I also understand that's impractical. And expecting that I can have that kind of a relationship with anyone except Darrin is stressful to everyone involved. Hence the letting go thing. 

It's actually more about expectation than practice. When one releases the expectations, paradigms shift dramatically. It's taken some preparation and some rehearsal time, but I think I've finally got this down. In fact, I may have shifted a bit too far. I've lowered my expectations to the point that when someone actually contacts me, it sometimes takes me a day to figure out how to respond. I'll work on that. 

But I'm noticing that if I don't wait for someone to talk or call or text or whatever, or to respond to my attempts at contact - if I just move on with my life and let the ball remain in their court, it's like there's nothing, really, left to do. I've done what I can. I might nudge the ball a bit, just to make sure there's no longer any interest, and then it's time to do something else. 

The truth is, I'm tired. Incredibly tired. And I'll admit to being depressed because Facebook keeps telling me there's no shame in that. And when you're tired and depressed, reaching out to others for support feels desperate and joyless. And exhausting. And so incredibly lame. Because I think some horribly embarrassing part of me keeps waiting for someone to notice, and how can they because I'm so busy making sure no one could possibly guess that I'm dying inside. 

But back to the letting go part. 

I don't wish to be misunderstood. I'm not giving up people or relationships or any of that "stuff." I'm just letting whatever happens happen. I'm waiting to see if one day I'm able to suddenly understand the meme above, and actually appreciate it without rancor or resentment or sadness. Hey! Maybe I'll actually grow up and be an adult about something in my life. That would be a step in the right direction, I think. In essence, I'd be saying, "We have lives. It's good we let each other live them. And it's good we have lunch every once in awhile so we can see who has more grey hair and wrinkles, who put on the most weight, and who is the oldest fart."

Okay, that's probably not without rancor. Two out of three, though. That's not bad.

A Decade has Come and Gone.

Do you feel old now? Well, you're not. Ten years is only a drop in the bucket when you consider how many years you have left, but that's not really what I'm talking about. I'm talking about communication.

Ten years ago, online chatting was the way to communicate. Texting happened, but lots of people were getting to know one another online. I was no exception. I made many friends, some of whom I met in person. It was great. It was also very out of character for me.

I'm not an extrovert.

Today people prefer texting. I do not. It might have something to do with the fact that I type more than 100 wpm, so chatting with people feels seamless and natural, in spite of the fact that one cannot always understand the nuance behind the words. Texting feels awkward and silly. It requires abbreviated messages that rarely convey what I wish to say. And I'm finding that many of the people I would text with don't answer very quickly. That doesn't lend itself well to conversation and when I want to talk with people, it's usually because I want to connect and converse, not leave a pithy message and then wonder if it will be answered.

I think, too, for someone with PTSD, texting is counterproductive. There are times when the intent behind online chat can be difficult for me to decipher. When it comes to texting, multiply that difficulty by about a million.

So in a decade I've become a dinosaur. I don't like to text. I'm the only person on this earth with a cell phone who prefers to actually use it as a phone or not at all. Don't get me wrong. I like getting texts. I like hearing from people I love in any venue. I just don't want to send tiny messages to each other, sandwiched in between everything else we have to do, until we eventually become bored or distracted by something else.

But no one really chats online anymore. And it's rare that people call each other either.

I find myself in a very similar situation to the one I was in just over 10 years ago. I rarely talk to people. I work long hours. In my spare time I run, or read, or practice the piano. And that's how it's been for most of my life. It's probably the way it should be.

So I'm left wondering what happened to me a decade ago when I suddenly began talking to complete strangers, and connecting with people I'd never met (and might never meet), and a day did not go by without my starting a conversation with someone, or some person finding me. I think maybe I just went a little crazy. I forgot who I was for ten years.

Or maybe I was possessed. I think that's probably it.

There is a tiny red bird in my tree.

I was told by a good friend once that I could be a good leader if...

Then he went on to talk about all the reasons I could never be a good leader, as if I had somehow indicated that was a thing I wished to become. I listened, bemused. Leadership is something to which I have never aspired. It ranks alongside politics, animal husbandry, chemical engineering, municipal sanitation work, and construction. My friend, however, seemed to believe I was being untrue to myself and letting down all those people just waiting for me to lead. All those people.

I don't really listen to anybody. Darrin will attest to this, as will anyone who has known me longer than a day. So hearing what my friend had to say about all the reasons I was failing my imaginary leadership role had little effect on my self-esteem. It did, however, as is often the case with me, set me thinking. Why do I shun leadership? Why does it not appeal?

I know people who like to see their names attached to many things. I'm the Facebook freak who removes tags and has to approve pictures and posts placed on my personal page. I don't care if I'm known for anything. I don't really do anything in the hopes that future generations will look to my example and be grateful that I lived. The last thing I want is to be a person others look to for advice, guidance, or leadership. I'm actually pretty happy not being noticed. Perhaps that's why I still blog.

"But you're a very strong woman," argues my friend. I believe he has confused stubborn and intractable with strength. I simply don't give in unless I want to. You could argue the color of the sky with me until doomsday, but if I've decided it's green, and I don't feel like capitulating, I'll simply walk away saying, "You can think it's whatever color you wish. But it's green." And I'll do that even if I know the sky is blue, simply to be unpleasant. That is not strength.

"Look at what you've overcome," Friend insists. But I don't want to. It makes me sad. It's not that I don't feel grateful or at peace because of the issues I've fought through and laid to rest. I fully acknowledge that what I've done in the past decade took more stamina that many people want to think about, and that there have been moments of utter exhaustion while I gathered myself so that I could go to work again. But it was all about me. Always. It was about being able to live one more day. It was about not being afraid that people would hurt me. It was about discovering who I am and who I used to be. And it was about acknowledging that I can't do everything and sometimes other people are responsible for the things that have hurt me. That's not courage or grit or anything remotely brave. That's survival. Every person alive today has experienced survival mode in some form.

"You have optimism and you don't let life get you down." Well, my friend, I'm unsure if that qualifies as a great leadership quality. What I am certain of is that you've never read my blog. Ever. Because losing faith and struggling to find it, wondering if I'll every be happy again, fighting the impulse to seek death over life-- that's what I'm really about. I have an innate ability to be happy. That, perhaps, is unusual. But it never saves me.

The day before my birthday I showed someone, for the first time in my life, the remaining scars that attest to the pain and sadness I battled as a teen. They're atypical, longitudinal marks; thin white lines along the length of my forearm. They're not the measured horizontal lines of a true cutter. I don't know why, after all these years, I allowed them to be acknowledged. The spectator said simply, "You were serious," and I replied, "Yes, I was."

I was serious about expressing pain I could not talk about. I was serious about wanting to die. But I was not strong enough, or courageous enough, and I did not know enough about human anatomy to make those cuts carry out my wish. And in all honesty, I do not remember carving those lines. Their surreal presence on my arm assures me that I did.

I was never meant to lead. I was meant to survive. I was meant to acknowledge that I am surrounded by love and pain and hardship and beauty. Few people would enjoy walking where I wander. But the true reason that I will never lead is that I have no cause. There are many from which I could choose. I listen to loved ones on both sides debate and cringe and writhe, and I feel their energy slide over me without going inside.

G. K, Chesterton once said, "If a rhinoceros were to enter this restaurant now, there is no denying he would have great power here. But I should be the first to rise and assure him that he had no authority whatever." The quote makes me giggle a bit because, no doubt, such assurance would get Mr. Chesterton killed. I have no wish to decide who or what has authority in a restaurant or anywhere else, and clearly, having survived this long I have no wish to die. But I believe my attempt at a leadership role would be tantamount to telling a rhino, well, anything at all. He's not going to listen. No one else will either.

Having said all this, and fully understanding that the following statement has nothing whatever to do with the topic of this post, I am somewhat distressed that we can have a political candidate who not only demeans women (and everyone else - let's be honest), but uses his verbal maltreatment of others to gain the fame necessary to advance his standing in the polls. I thought we, as a people, might be evolving beyond that. It seems I was wrong. I am currently seeking to purchase an inexpensive deserted island upon which to live out the remainder of my days. It need not have internet access, telephone service, or fast food. It would be nice, however, if it had a cave. With bookshelves.

Yesterday was my birthday. This marks the tenth birthday post I have made since I began blogging. They're not all here in this blog, but many are.

My birthday is interesting. I received a card and a gift from my mother-in-law. She has never once forgotten my birthday since I have known her. I love her for this.

As expected, a couple of my five sisters remembered to send me a birthday text. Another two remembered to send Facebook greetings.

Naturally, my mother remembered this morning and called to send belated greetings and apologize for forgetting. Again. I didn't answer the phone. It's my phone, after all. I get to choose who I talk to on it.

My father won't remember. If he does, he'll think it's funny that he forgot, oblivious to the fact that I have repeatedly told him I am hurt by his reticence. A child should be remembered. I have stopped telling him. My energy is better spent elsewhere.

My brothers won't remember. They were taught long ago that, while their birthdays mean going to dinner with Mom and Dad and a small gift to celebrate their entrance into the world, mine is to be forgotten. It is not important.

I have never posted my birthday on Facebook. Those who remember to send Facebook wishes are people who notice that someone else remembered or friends who know that my birthday is not always a happy day for me. They remember or are reminded by someone else who remembers. My church lists my birthday in the newsletter shared between the women in my ward. A couple of sisters from church posted birthday greetings, as did my stepfather-in-law and my sister-in-law.

One day I will no longer keep track of these things.

Today I cried a tiny bit. Not because I'm sad my father forgot. Not because I wish I was more important to my own family. Not because I didn't do anything fun for my birthday. Because I did.

Two sweet friends were, through happy coincidence, staying with us in the two days preceding my birthday. We spent time together, played games, and shared meals. I celebrated with them, with Darrin, and with my children.

I suppose I cried because it's time. I understand that nothing will change and it's time to let go. There would be less sting, I think, if birthdays in my family were just not a big deal. That was not the case. They were. All but mine. I no longer wonder why. Why doesn't really matter anymore. I no longer try to let family members know that being forgotten hurts. I've grown beyond the painful part. I believe, at this point in my life, I would be uncomfortable and stressed if they remembered at all. My mother left a, no doubt, frenzied and self-deprecating message in the voicemail I have yet to listen to. I'm tired of the reasons why I'm forgotten. I don't really care anymore.

I actually don't believe I'm all that forgettable. I'm remarkable in many ways. Perfect strangers smile at me in stores and some even take time to chat with me. A small part of me believes that I am forgotten by my family simply because they choose to do so. It's convenient. And because I no longer make a fuss about it, they believe I have no problem with being excluded.

I no longer say that my birthday is just another day. It's not. It's my day. And this year, for my birthday, I am giving a very large gift to myself. I am letting go.

I will celebrate my birth with or without those who spawned me, but I will take my gift further.

I will no longer cling to parts of my relationships with others that produce expectations other people do not wish to fulfill - or even if they wish to, are unlikely to have any kind of follow-through.

I will no longer assume that affection is anything but that. One can have affection for another person without being tied to them. I have been guilty of assuming people in my life feel more deeply for me than they do. That is unfair to them. I need to stop.

I will allow my relationships with others to relax into whatever they will be, naturally. Therapist once told me that the only relationship that really mattered, in the end, was my relationship with Darrin. Through the years, Therapist and I discussed how other relationships fit in that construct. Always I insisted that there were other relationships equally important, and their existence was vital to health and happiness. Finally, after more than a decade, I am understanding what Therapist meant when he made that statement. And I am willing to let my insistence that he was wrong relax and morph into whatever it will.

Darrin says I have poured a great deal of energy into trying to create healthy, thriving relationships with many people. He also says that, given the brutal reality of the last decade of my life, I'm understandably tired. I'm noticing that whenever I have a paradigm shift in my beliefs, someone tells me I'm tired. Little credence is given to the possibility that I might actually have thought about this for a long time and made some logical decisions based on life experiences.

Also, speaking of Therapist, last weekend I was able to finish an assignment he gave me a few years ago. He asked me to think about why I no longer have flashbacks, and if I'm ever able to articulate the reason, to share it with any pertinent people and with him. Last month I finally figured it out. On Saturday I shared with the pertinent person. Therapist will be disappointed, no doubt. I believe he was hoping my experience would be something he could use to help other clients who suffer with PTSD and flashbacks. But the bottom line is, it was pure luck.

And now I'm going to go running.

This isn't working for me anymore. At least, not right now. I used to be able to just write here and then go live my life. I can't seem to do that. Everyone close to me seems to be in distress. I don't know how to talk about me when I need to listen to them. This week a complete stranger emailed and asked if I would talk with her as she works through her history of abuse. She says she's not asking for counsel or advice, she just wants someone to walk with her. She doesn't know that she's asking the emotionally crippled to run a marathon.

I'll talk with her. There just doesn't seem to be any other thing to do. If I say no, I'll feel worse. I feel very much like I have no more life in me, though. It's okay. I'm not going to talk about that again.

Because it's true

I've known this about myself for a long time. I've tried to articulate it to people. Some have allowed me space and made it clear they wanted me, even if it had to be on my terms. Others got tired and left, and that's good because I don't believe I've ever been comfortable with any type of intimacy regardless of how I might crave it. They needed to find someone who was not me.

Nine Ways Those Who Have Been Emotionally Abused Love Differently
by Marie Cyprien

Those who have been emotionally abused understand how much it changes you. Although the outcome of that change is different for everyone, there’s no doubt that such a traumatic experience can cause us to take a different approach to relationships:

1. We’re very gentle. We’ll keep our distance, especially in the beginning of the relationship because we don’t want to seem overbearing. We like to give the ones we love space to breath because we understand suffocation all too well.
2. We have guarded hearts. Our hearts have been tattered by our abusers, so they become as hard as a shield. But keep in mind that on the inside, our hearts are so soft and heavy, which is why...
3. Opening up can be an up in the air kind of thing...because once we open our hearts, we could end up creating a flood of emotions. It’s why...
4. We like to go slow...because we don’t want to reveal too much information that could possibly chase you away. So we take it one step at a time, becoming a little more vulnerable on the way.
5. We put thought into the relationship...because we’ve been told how much we get it wrong so many different times that just this once, we want to get something right.
6. We’re secretly afraid...because we can’t believe that someone as amazing as you can love us and we’re scared that it might just be a heavenly dream.
7. We can be very affectionate. We crave that cuddling and kisses on the forehead kind of love because it sheds away the fear and insecurities.
8. We’ll point out the toxic people in your life. We know the signs all too well and we will warn you because we don’t want you to have to go through the same pain we did.
9. We’ll always be there...because at the end of the day, we wished someone could’ve been there for us.

Therapist suggested it might help me understand what I need if I could articulate what the feelings I'm sorting through are, exactly--and also, what they are not--in this case, being completely clear about each feeling, itself, and also the value judgments that might be placed on it.

Paramount is the feeling of sadness. When I explain this to others, I receive in return a smörgåsbord of reactions which only serve to confuse me more.

What it is:
1. There is definitely regret linked to this feeling. There was a possibility of childhood friendships maturing into adulthood. The cousins in my family were very good friends and enjoyed a closeness that was delightful and joyful. This might have continued indefinitely. David's treatment of Jeff and me, and his attempts to molest still more of his cousins, destroyed that possibility. That makes me sad.
2. I have never been able to comfortably see someone in distress without feeling a desire to ease their discomfort. This is an impulse that is no respecter of persons. It happens with strangers and family members. But it is simply that--an impulse--a response to a situation. And it makes me feel sad.

What it is not:
1. This is not me saying, "Hey! I forgive you for raping the crap out of Jeff and me! Let's be buddies!" Not even close. I don't want to cultivate a relationship of any kind. I'm happy with complete disconnect from David. And whether or not I've forgiven him does not enter into the feelings of sadness. They're separate.
2. This says nothing about my character. I am not "heroic," as one person told me. I'm not special. I did not choose this. It just happened. I'm not kind, or amazing, or any other adjective one might apply. I am also not a freak, nor am I sympathizing with my abuser. I'm sad. That's all.

Accompanying this sadness is a great deal of distress and confusion.

What it is:
1. I'm experiencing something unexpected and uninvited. Given the circumstances, I expected to feel angry or vengeful. I didn't.
2. This is not the first time I've experienced this type of confusion. It overwhelms and sometimes immobilizes me. It affects the way I interact with and feel about the people who are closest to me. My emotions are unstable and I don't ever really know how I'll react to anyone or anything. It's a little bit exhausting and I'm experiencing a high amount of depression right now.

What it is not:
1. This is not an indication that I'm losing my mind. Once previously, I did end up in the hospital on suicide watch. Again, this is overwhelming and immobilizing. That's difficult to cope with. I don't believe anyone would welcome such a state of being. Sometimes I need help. I think it's okay that I went to a place where such help could be obtained when I needed it.
2. This is not s sign of weakness. Anyone can become confused--and I'm not looking for someone to explain how I should cope right now. That's something I need to figure out. And I will.

I suppose what I need are the following:
1. Time. I need to have time to think and cry and feel confused and sad. And I need time with people. That's a tough one. I'm working a lot of hours while Darrin searches for work, so I'm not readily available. And other people work and have limited time, as well. I might not be able to have this particular need filled, but it's important. I'm not sure how I'll deal with it. Right now I'm ignoring it.

2. Reassurance. I need people to understand that I'm doing all I can to make it through this. I need them to trust me to find my own answers. I need to be told that I'm still loved, and on days like today, and yesterday, and the day before, I need to know that I'm still important; that I have worth; that someone misses me because they love to be with me.

3. Empathy. I'm guessing most people look at what I'm going through and think I'm making a very big deal out of nothing. Yes, I had to spend my grandmother's funeral in the same room with the cousin who raped me - but I didn't have to talk to him and he never approached me. It was pretty quiet, all things considered. Yes, I had some weird feelings, but that was more than a month ago. Surely I'm over that now...except I'm not. Spending time in the same place as the person who raped me was more stressful than I thought it would be. Seeing him, hearing his voice...it was sort of awful. It could have been worse. It was bad enough. And as for the feelings, it would be nice to hear people say, "That sounds awful. I'm sorry you have to go through this. It must be really hard."

Because it IS hard. And it hurts. A lot.

4. I need a hug.

I'm not complaining. I know the stuff I'm going through right now is necessary and a means to an end. I understand that it's all part of the  package that is my life. And I like my life.

Still, I'd be lying if I said it was easy. And I'm having a hard time today. Sometimes I don't really feel strong enough to look at reality, work through emotions, and be me. That's all. I'm not feeling sorry for myself, just admitting that today is a little bit yucky.

I often worry about people I care about. I worry when they're sad or stressed or just feeling out of sorts. I worry when they have something huge inside or something overwhelming outside. I worry, I think, because I want what's best for them - whatever that may be - and I wish for them to have joy.

But every once in a while I have a day like today when I think, "I wish someone was worried about me."

Then I realize that's just silly and so am I. The day will pass. Tomorrow will be better. And I'll be fine. That's how it works. There is no reason to worry at all.

I've spent a lot of time during the past ten days thinking. During the month of June I had no days off. And there were too many days to count when I worked more than 15 hours. So Thursday night I packed my bags and left home for the weekend.

I spent time with my very large, very loud family. This does not seem like it would be restful, but I scheduled quiet time when I was alone - time for regrouping and more thinking.

As expected, the reunion with family had its ups and downs. That didn't matter.

I've realized that I've come to a place where I would like to allow friendships and even closer relationships in my life. I believe I've learned that I can trust - however, whether or not I will trust is still something I will allow only sparingly. I'm not ready for anything more. But I'm also understanding that if relationships with people become less close or transparent, I'll be okay. The need for reassurance and frequent connection has eased.

Therapist will tell me that's healthy and good. I'm sure he's right.

Therapist will remind me that frequent interaction between people who do not share a household requires a great deal of work and emotional stamina on the parts of both people involved. He'll say that sometimes one or the other won't be able to contribute what's necessary. He'll talk about being patient and forgiving and coming together again when the time is right. And I'll listen and believe him because again, he's right.

Finally, after a decade, I have figured out how to ignore the impulses and feelings that are the result of living with PTSD. The ones that tell me if someone really cares and wishes to have me in their lives, they'll work just as hard as I do to make that happen. I'm no longer heeding the voices that say I'm unnecessary or disposable. And I think I'm too tired to feel the intensity of emotion that has bound me to people but made me feel the relationship was unbalanced and that I was vulnerable.

I suppose I just feel calm. For the past few weeks I've sent texts that weren't answered and phone calls that weren't returned to a number of people with whom I have a close relationship. Therapist asked me how I felt about the silence. I surprised us both when I said it didn't matter. I further surprised myself when I explained that I knew those people had things going on in their lives and we had moved beyond the point when they could take time to be playful or responsive when I communicated with them. Therapist asked why I sent the texts and made the phone calls if I knew they would not receive answers.

It's a good question. A year ago my answer would be very different from what it is today. The truth is that while the sent messages and voice mails, no doubt, seem trivial and pointless to those who received them, I was including them in the little things. To me, that's when you really love someone - when you say whatever is on your mind whenever you want to because you want to share with them. Probably they don't understand that. Probably the messages from me are intrusive and annoying.

As I said, a year ago I would feel sad, wish things were different, try to figure out how to make changes so I could fee more comfortable and less vulnerable. Today, it doesn't matter. I cannot be anyone except the person I am. Which means I might randomly communicate with someone I consider an important part of my life regardless of whether or not they respond.

Therapist's next question: And how long will you do that without reciprocation?

Another good question, and not one I'm really going to spend time on. No doubt, at some point I'll take the hint and stop being so noisy, but I'm not going to do so until I can do it without feeling resentful or hurt. The silence on the other end has nothing to do with me and everything to do with them. Their lives are busy, or maybe I'm communicating at inconvenient times, or maybe they just don't want to play anymore. I'm okay with that. I've felt that way, myself, occasionally.

I came to this place once before, a very long time ago. I realized that my circumstances - the fact that I was largely ignored and clearly unwanted in my family relationships - were causing me to feel angry much of the time and always desperately sad. I didn't know how to obtain physical affection on a non-sexual level, so I avoided touch at all costs. My interactions with everyone were tainted by the knowledge that I could never invest in friendships or other relationships because I had no worth or desirability.

When I understood that I felt that way I was 17 years old. I looked in the mirror and said this, "There is nothing wrong with you. You're no uglier or prettier than any other person. You have a lot to offer. If the people in your life are too blind and stupid to notice, the best course of action is to find a place where, if love is not a possibility, you feel, at the very least, appreciated. But you can love people. You know how. So it's time to leave the place where you feel invisible and make a place for yourself somewhere else."

So I got a job a few hours from home, told my parents I was leaving, and I left. Within weeks I had made more than one wonderful friend, I was dating, and I never looked back. I lived at home briefly after my first year of college, but left again after two months. I needed to be where I could thrive.

I think I'm in that place again. I've become strong enough to weather whatever life throws at me. And while I'd rather do that weathering with support from people who care about me, if that doesn't happen (for whatever reason), I can do it myself. Being with my family these past few days has helped me understand, with clarity that has been missing from my life for quite awhile, that I'm resilient and I'll be okay.

So Therapist wonders if the texts and phone calls that received no answers were a test on my part-- not for the recipients, but for myself. I suppose they were. I was watching to see how I would respond. I was making sure that being ignored would not bring panic attacks or PTSD episodes. I needed to see exactly how strong I was. And now I know.

Therapist's question: Does this mean you no longer want to reach out to people or foster close relationships?

No. I've worked very long and very hard to build and foster relationships in my life. But I've also felt that I was being controlled by my need to have them and my intense fear that I might lose them. I'm absolutely willing to continue those relationships indefinitely, but I'm not afraid anymore. It's a good place to be. I'm loving the calm.

I spoke with Therapist on Tuesday. I didn't blog abut immediately because what he had to tell me wasn't necessarily what I wished to hear and I needed time to think about it. This is what Therapist said:

Sam, I've known you for nearly ten years now. Your reaction doesn't surprise me at all. In fact, it makes complete sense, given what I know about you. 

But it didn't make sense to me. And I wasn't sure I wanted my reaction, which confused and frustrated me, to be completely understandable to Therapist. I said (because I say it all the time-- it's my favorite question), "Why?"

You don't like to see people isolated or hurting. 

That's true. It's called empathy, I believe most people have it to some degree.

We talked about the sadness I've been feeling. I'm grieving, he said. because I recognize that the situation IS sad. David has no more support from his extended family. That's sad. He is in a marriage that is messy and unhappy. Also sad. He has a son who won't speak to him and a new grandchild he has never seen. Very, very sad.

But Therapist said that it's okay for me to be sad because I also recognize that this came about because of choices David made to harm people who should have been safe with him. I'm not trying to fix it. I'm just mourning what could have been. Our families could have shared a closeness and kinship that his actions destroyed. And he is facing that reality now. It hurts him and it's sad.

me: So what you're saying is that I just have to let this happen. Be sad. Grieve. Because it's sad, it affects me, and I just need to let the feelings happen.

Therapist: Sort of. Part of you wants to fix this. You understand that you could reach out to him and maybe ease the pain he's feeling. You've done it many times with lots of people. But you also understand that he's not a safe person and your boundaries do not allow you to be vulnerable with someone who has proven he's not safe. Part of the grief is that you recognize this is not something you can help or heal. There are a number of things that are sad for you in this situation. The grieving must take place because they are beyond your ability to change. They do not belong to you even if they affect you.

Things that affect me but do not belong to me. That's something I'm thinking about.

Also, letting grief happen which is yucky and really hurts. And I can't really talk about it because people immediately remind me that this is what happens when a person rapes kids.

Yeah. I know. But I've passed the "rapes kids" part and moved on to the "person" part. They don't understand that. I don't either. But the truth is that there's a person hurting, for whatever reason, and it's sad, and I can't help.

Why would you want to? they ask.

A very good question. Therapist says that impulse has nothing to do with my cousin and everything to so with me. It's who I am. It's an integral part of Samantha. I stayed in a home with an abusive mother and took the punishment I was afraid she would deliver to my younger siblings. Even when I had opportunity to go elsewhere, I stayed. And I didn't leave until I was certain they would be okay without me. He reminded me of the time I befriended a young girl who was abandoned by her parents and made her a part of my life-- and she calls me her sister today and tells everyone that I "saved" her. Therapist said that most of the people I love have, at one time or another, looked to me for comfort, support, or acceptance.

In my head, that's just how people interact. My story is not unique. People are. They connect with others. They help each other and fall in love. And when that process is stopped, it's sad.

Therapist says, no. He says people like me are important and that not everyone is like me and that's why I have trouble finding a listening ear. The impulse - even his own impulse - is to say, "It's about time the creep got what's coming to him." Therapist said he would not be surprised if my tears are the only ones shed because my cousin is ignored by his family and because he's sad. He said most people remember the reasons behind the current situation and are not bothered by the fact that my cousin is uncomfortable. Therapist says I am unique.

I think Therapist meant that in a kind way, but I'm left feeling that I'm a freak. Also, grieving is really hard and I don't like it.

Maybe I can talk with Therapist

When I become tired, everything is not awesome. And today I'm very tired.

I have been feeling increasingly isolated during the past month. This is no one's fault but my own. I've buried myself in work, taking on task after task, because Darrin is still unemployed and last week was his last paycheck. It also marked the end of our benefits.

When I get in this state, someone can send me every single flower in the whole world and tell me I'm amazing and loved, and I will not believe it. The feeling of being ignored persists - of being an afterthought, or only worth spending time with if someone wants something from me.

I'm doing my best to ignore all that. I know it's not true. Well, when I get through all this, I'll know it's not true then. Until then, I'm trying to remind myself that I'm tired and those feelings are not representative of, nor fair to the people who care about me.

Which just makes everything worse because I don't really want to be fair right now.

Yesterday was the day when I cry about everything from the color of grass to the fact that we sometimes eat meals.

Today I awoke feeling more empty that I've felt in a very long time. And alone. So utterly alone. Which was stupid because Darrin was right there.

So I contacted Therapist. Maybe he can help me.

We are well into the gorgeous summer days which remind me why I love it here. They're bittersweet this year as Darrin applies for jobs which will require relocation. And I'll be fine moving. In fact, I've always believed I would. Just not now.

Not now - because the timing is wrong. I'm contracted to teach next semester. Moving means Darrin will live one place and I'll stay here while I fulfill those contracts.

Not now - because in all the time I've lived here, finally, I've formed social and emotional support with people I trust. I'm sort of fragile at this point and not ready to venture into doing that again. Chances are good that I won't do it if we leave, no matter how much I want to. That sounds silly, I know, but if you have PTSD you understand completely what I just said, and if you don't, I simply sound churlish.

Not now - because I'd like my kids settled a bit more before we leave them behind. Tabitha and DJ will be fine, but Adam is still trying to regain memories of who he was before the migraine drug obliterated his persona. And he has no job right now. He can come with us, but he has a good therapist who has helped him a great deal. He's still dependent. He hates that, but it's true.

Not now - because I'm tired. I feel completely wrung out and every time I start to regain my footing, the rug is pulled from under me once again.

Things I don't need to be told because I've already said them to myself:

1. My attitude stinks. A simple change of attitude will solve all my problems.
2. This is an adventure. I like adventure. But the truth is that I like it when I choose it, not when it's forced on me.
3. A fresh start will be good for everyone.
4. Moving means I can throw away or use Darrin's collection of cardboard boxes residing in the garage where I wish I could park the car (no, I don't know why he collects them).
5. I need to have more faith. No doubt God has something planned...

But you see, I know all those things, but it's difficult to manage them when your strength is gone and your emotions are freaking out all over the place. And there are panic attacks. Let's not forget those. And nightmares.

6. I need to talk with Therapist.

It's on the agenda this week. I might actually be able to talk now. We'll see. In the meantime, the blue flax are everywhere, my roses are blooming, and my morning runs are incredibly beautiful. I hope we go somewhere with a lovely place to run.

Talking about things doesn't always make sense anymore. There was a time when it was crucial for me. Not talking led to the feeling that I was less, shameful, that if I actually spoke the things that were hurting me, I would be left alone. Talking about that helped me understand a few things:
1. I'm only one of many with similar experiences (in other words, there is nothing special about suffering silently).
2. Initially, when I am most vulnerable, there will be people who will take time to help me through the hard part. When I am stronger and need them less, they will return to the important things in their own lives.
3. Nothing that happened to me indicates shame on my part. Being defenseless is not a weakness, it's simply a part of being young and small. A person who takes advantage of one who is defenseless is shameful.
4. I am allowed to say the things that hurt. I may or may not find an audience for my words, but I am still allowed to say them.

My initial hope was that I would talk to a professional, there would be a "fix" for every problem, and all my past hurts would go away. I've spoken with people who have basically told me that was their experience. It has not been mine.

It's possible that I'm my own worst enemy. When one aspect of the trauma I experienced begins to feel better, I immediately identify and tackle the next one. Maybe I just need to stop doing that and be grateful for the progress I've made.

One of the biggest problems I have is that I function beautifully in a social situation, but I have no idea how to understand the emotional complications of close relationships. My impulse is to simply say the things that are causing me distress, or to enthusiastically crow my deep, loving feelings for anyone who is close to me. I've learned that most people don't do that, nor do they respond well to me when I do. These are the tacit rules for close relationships that I have gleaned over the past decade or two:
1. Ignore the small things. Pretend they will go away (they won't, but if you use your energy ignoring them, you can be surprised or uncomfortable when I tactlessly point them out and ask if we might do something about them).
2. You actually can tell someone you love them too many times. I'm not one of those people who becomes annoyed when it's said too often. I spent my childhood and teen years not hearing it once from my family. When I was 16 and 17, a few of my peers said it to me. Two of my teachers from church told me they loved me. That absence created a vacuum inside of me. I can never hear it enough now. Always it is welcome. Always it makes me feel beautifully happy. It is a mistake, though, to believe others will feel the same when I say it to them. They have boundaries. I'm not always good at recognizing those.
3. I should not scoff at the "Love Language" thing. It's real and it serves a purpose in close relationships. I was skeptical when it became a cool discussion item many years ago because in my head, everyone needs some form of touch, time, affirmation, service, and gifts from the people they care about. To identify a main one, in my mind, was to exclude the importance of any other needs a person might have. Shifting the focus to a main love language seemed like a bad idea. However, as I've come to understand myself better, I've realized that someone could send me a lovely gift, but if I've not spent time or talked with them recently, the gift feels meaningless. I'm just not a person who cares about "things." And unless I have time to connect frequently with someone, it's very likely that the other four love languages will have no impact, with the exception of touch which will probably freak me out and repel me.
4. I don't get to choose the way a relationship changes. Well, that's not true. Restated: I only get to choose 50% of what happens in a relationship.
5. Time and space in relationships are vital for some people. I need to respect that. I also need to understand that I probably won't know how to interact with them when they come back because I'm sort of broken. And they don't like to be told that. They want to believe that they have the freedom to come and go and nothing will change in my level of close feelings for them because that's how it works for most people. It makes people who have been close to me uncomfortable when I tell them I'm happy to see them, but I'm not really interested in frequent interaction with them anymore. I need to stop talking after the "happy to see you" part.

This is a crazy week for me emotionally. I don't know how I feel most of the time. It seems that when I decide how I feel, or what I should do next, someone surprises me. For example, on Saturday my life seemed to suddenly melt down. I couldn't stop panicking or crying or shaking. Eating was not happening. Sleep was not my friend. Life felt completely painful in every way. Therapist had told me this might happen. He suggested when it did, the I send a text to people who have been supportive of me in the past, just asking for some reassurance. Lame. I hate doing that. Saturday, though, I was sort of desperate.

So I sent the text to a few people, knowing that because it it was Saturday there would probably be no immediate response. When my phone rang a moment later I was almost too surprised to answer. I let it ring a couple of times, debating whether or not I really wanted to talk to anyone. Then I answered. And I had a really wonderful conversation with a person who allowed me to know of the things that were causing him difficulty in his life, as well as showing interest in the things that were bothering me - letting me support him as he did the same for me. That's balance. That's what is missing very much in my life right now. He gave that to me.

So now I'm sorting through stuff and trying to make sense of what's going on inside of me. I'm still too overwhelmed to really address anything, and if I'm asked questions I probably won't be able to really express the things that are painful and confusing. I tried talking with Darrin about it. Darrin is not stellar about listening without fixing or personalizing. It did not go well. So right now I feel a little bit isolated and misunderstood. When I'm done being self-centered and stupid, I'll probably stop feeling that way. Mostly, though, I need this week to be over, I need Darrin to get a job, and I need to go for a run. Right now.

"History...is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake." -- James Joyce

Last time I spoke with Therapist we talked about my nightmares. He asked me what happened in those. I said I didn't know. I didn't want to know. This was my lecture from Therapist:

"We've talked about this before, Sam. There are lots of reasons nightmares occur. Sometimes there's an external cause like being too hot or too cold or eating something that causes stomach pain or distress. But most often it's because there's something we're ignoring - something our brains want us to know or do or discover. As long as you ignore the nightmares, they'll probably continue. And that means you're not sleeping well, which means you're not going to recover and gain the strength necessary to deal with your insanely complicated life. I've been honest with you - I could not go through the stress and physical things you've had in the past few years without completely losing it. I don't think most people could. I don't know how you've managed to maintain your strength and sanity though all of it.

"However, you've been telling me now for about two years that the fatigue is getting to you and that you're very tired. This means you're vulnerable, and even if you are a little bit superhuman when it comes to enduring crap, at some point you're going to reach your breaking point, and my guess is that will happen when nothing is really going on - when things have slowed down and there are no suicidally depressed children, Darrin has a job again, and no one is broken or needs surgery. That's when you'll lose it. And it will be a simple matter of not getting enough sleep, or recuperative sleep, for a very long time.

"A lot of people who deal with nightmares keep a notebook by their bedsides. They simply jot down a few sentences about the nightmares when they awake. Then, after a few days (or even longer), they look at the things they've written and piece together what it is that their subconscious is trying to tell them. I think you should try that. And I think this might be a really good thing to focus on. I'm worried about the fact that these nightmares have been bothering you for more than a year now, pretty much without breaks. That's a long time, Sam."

So last night I didn't do the thing that I haven't been telling Therapist about where I actually CHOOSE not to remember my nightmares. I know the content. I always know. But who, in their right mind, wants to look at the details of the things that caused PTSD in the first place? I think most people want to forget, and to have different facets of it paraded through their dreams every night is miserable. Choosing to forget seemed a good course of action. I've gotten so good at it that even when I awake, drenched in cold sweat (or just before that happens so I can leap out of bed and spare the sheets), I have no idea what the nightmarish details are.

But I trust Therapist most of the time. So last night I shut off the forgetting mechanism and let the nightmare be acknowledged. I awoke early this morning, nauseated and upset. I didn't jot it down on a notebook. I don't need to. I also have no idea why it's relevant or what my subconscious is trying to tell me.

I spent the night with an older version of my rapist cousin. We were in a room with other family members and some of my friends. He sat alone and seemed to be trying to come to a decision about something. Then my dream slipped through a moment of time, as dreams often do, and he was sitting on the arm of my chair, talking to me. I was filled with the love and delight that I felt as a child whenever I was with my cousins. We were friends. We played and laughed together. I had no real reason to be afraid of David. Those feelings were mixed with the loathing and anger toward the man (and he appeared as a man in my dream) who raped me, who was sitting next to me and chatting as if we were old friends.

I moved to a couch with three other people. The dream slipped again and David had squeezed in next to me. Everyone on the couch made room for him. I felt panicky. He wouldn't leave me alone. But I said nothing.

When the dream slipped again I was in an empty house. No furniture and bare light fixtures exposed torn spots in old wallpaper. I knew David was there somewhere. I was upstairs. I couldn't hear him.

It would seem I'm still afraid of that man. But really, I'm not. The truth is, I don't believe he will ever approach me again. And should he decide to, I'm very good at telling people not to bother me. I would have no qualms letting him know that I have no desire to spend time with him at all. And should he press the issue, I don't believe I would have a problem defending myself.

I think the nightmares I've been having aren't about David at all, really. I think they're more PTSD related. As I contemplate the dreams, the feelings I have about him are annoying, confusing, and upsetting, but I think the really upsetting part is that I feel abandoned. My family is present in the dream, as are my closest friends. No one says anything when David approaches and follows me. They make room for him as he invades my space on the couch, and in the end I am alone in an empty, abandoned house, with my rapist cousin.

Do I really need people to protect me still? Does it bother me that I feel I fight this alone? Why can't I own this? I don't need anyone to help me. I've done the physical work necessary to keep me safe. I've done the mental and emotional work to move beyond the state I was in 10 years ago in regards to this. I've come to terms with the fact that I am not really a priority in anyone's life but my own. I understand all this and I'm okay with it.

So why am I still having nightmares? And maybe I'm misinterpreting all of it. Maybe there's something I'm missing?

I know. I need to talk to Therapist. But I want to wait until I can talk like a person. It's sort of ridiculous to go to someone for help if you can't tell them what's wrong.

There's something wrong inside of me. What has happened to my cousin-- being ostracized, ignored, even shunned-- this has happened because of his choice to harm and prey upon those smaller and unprotected. He raped me. He raped Jeff. He stalked my little sisters and tried to groom Jeff to join him as I was raped at night. We're not talking about someone who just made an unfortunate choice. David's acts were premeditated and ruthless. Not once did he think about the ways he was destroying his victim.

And I can't stop being sad that he's alone. He's a middle aged man no one wants. He came to the funeral without his wife. I don't even know if he's still married to her. David's sons want nothing to do with him. He has no access to his new granddaughter. My parents and siblings, Jeff's parents and siblings-- no one would even look at David or acknowledge his presence. These people are his family.

I know. He is reaping the reward of his actions. I know.

And still I feel sad that he is alone.

I'm messed up.

Girl Interrupted

Before I could begin with my grand intentions to finish what I began so long ago, my grandmother passed  away. She would be 98 next month. It was not unexpected. I wasn't traumatized by her death. It was peaceful and blessed and she is free from pain now. I am and always will be grateful to be her granddaughter.

However, her funeral meant that I would be spending an undefined period of time with the cousin who raped me. I've not seen him since I went to lunch with him about 8 years ago. At that time, I made no accusations. We did not discuss what he did to me. I simply wished to see him and stop being afraid of him. Last October, Jeff and I made a police report and David was contacted and interviewed by the authorities. As far as I know, that's as far as anything will ever go. But this meant that the funeral would be the first time I've been with David when he is aware that both Jeff and I have accused him, and I did not know what to expect.

I called Jeff and asked him to please be sure to join me at the funeral. He said he would. I called Therapist and asked for a pep talk and some reassurance. He did his best. I tried to make contact with a few people who would respond if I needed help. That was semi-successful. AtP checked in with me, but I was unable to talk because phone reception was spotty, at best. But it helped to know he was thinking of me.

Jeff was a mess when he got to the funeral. I suppose I was, too, but I suppress emotions. The messiness has yet to be expressed. I don't know how long it will take. Seeing David was distressing and upsetting. He did not approach Jeff or me. Smart man.

We spend a great deal of time with my extended family and with Jeff and his extended family. Under different circumstances, the visit would have been lovely. My sister, Lila, stole me away for a few minutes to ask some questions about how I was doing. I could only answer at the time, "I'm okay."

I'm okay.

But not really.

I find myself not knowing how to feel again. I'm angry again at David. I'm angry that he stole our childhoods and made trophies of us when naming his own children. I'm angry that he attempted to molest my younger siblings and who knows how many other children who are now adults without the words or strength to talk about what was done to them. I'm angry that he came to my grandmother's funeral and had the honor of being a pallbearer. I'm angry.

And I feel sad for David. He was clearly uncomfortable. Darrin suggested mean ways to make him even more uncomfortable. I stopped him. I reminded Darrin that I don't work that way. I'm not a bully. David appeared at the funeral in a new suit. I know it was new because he hadn't removed the tailoring in the vents at the bottom of the suit coat. So he stood in his new suit, looking for friends. He ended up staying only with his brother and parents, while Jeff and I were surrounded by people who love us and despise David. And I felt compassion for the person who raped me but cannot hurt me ever again.

I thought maybe I should talk with David. As I approached him, I felt such a wave of nausea and faintness that I turned quickly away. I didn't attempt approaching him again.

I don't know why I feel sad for my cousin. I don't know why I wished to ease his discomfort. I don't understand any of what I'm feeling. And all this serves to intensify the belief that there is something wrong with me. That I am somehow unbalanced. And I feel isolated and alone. How can I be loved and accepted when I have bizarre feelings like this? I can't talk to anyone about it because no one will understand. I don't understand.

I can't cry because I miss my grandma. I'm too busy crying because I'm so confused about my reaction to seeing David. And I don't have time for this. I have a huge work week beginning tomorrow. Darrin has two more paychecks and then no more. At the end of this month, our health benefits cease. I'm trying to work overtime to put some money aside, just in case no job has materialized at that point.

So I still intend to follow through on my goal to finish. I've just had a setback. It makes me feel stupid because I can't figure it out and move on. And it makes me feel sort of like I'm tainted again. It's an interruption. I need to not be interrupted like this.

Grand Re-Opening

I'm back. I'm not back because I miss this place and can't do without it, but because I'm finishing what I started a decade ago. I've realized that much of what I need to process and write needs to be placed here where it won't be accidentally found by people in my life who won't understand or might feel hurt by what I write.

My mother, for instance. Much of my healing requires me to look honestly at the things she did to me when I was in her care. I may have to express how I feel about that time and about her actions. I've come a very long way, and she, too, has made major changes in her treatment of me. But I still have to process what happened. It was damaging and harmful and it's time for me to finish working through the residue of those experiences. However, my mother has dementia. She remembers the things she did, but does not know how to deal with criticism. She berates herself endlessly and feels deep guilt. My purpose is not to cause her pain, but to ease my own in healthy ways. Because I need a place to write freely without concern about who will read my words, I have come here.

As I do this work, I'll not only be processing emotions from my past, but also trying to work through some of the relationship difficulties I've encountered as I've tried to form healthy connections with people throughout the past decade. I'll be acknowledging things I don't understand, and talking about failed attempts to learn the type of trust that allows those relationships to feel comfortable and comforting rather than stressful and frightening. Admitting those failures does not mean I'll stop trying. Probably I'll go to my grave still trying to figure out how to love someone and not be afraid. That's better, I think, than not loving.

Probably I'll be analyzing the quality of my love for others. Someday I would like people to feel that it's a gift-- something wonderful and worthwhile. That's how it feels to me when others love me. I need to figure out what it is about my love that makes it less important and unnecessary, and then I need to decide if I can make changes so that being loved by me is a more positive, building experience. Also, lest I am misunderstood, I am talking about Philia, not Eros. All of this, of course, has it's roots in attachment issues I've carried with me for most of my life and is deeply affected by whatever PTSD symptoms are occurring at any given time.

Finally, I'll be working through those PTSD symptoms. I am no longer able to function while just allowing the symptoms to happen and waiting until they are gone. Last October I found myself in a very dark place for a number of reasons.

1. My hip injury of three years ago and its subsequent surgeries and replacement had hampered my ability to use physical exercise as part of my PTSD management program. While I was still exercising and remaining active, that, of itself, was causing me more pain than I can think about. By October of last year, I was retraining, learning to run again, and enjoying freedom from pain. But the three years leading to that had taken their toll. It would take more than just running again to remove me from the dark place I was in.

2. My cousin, Jeff, had asked me in September to go with him to make a report to authorities about what our cousin, David, had done to us. This required a series of interviews during which I was required to talk about the experiences with David that led, ultimately, to his raping of me. I thought I was ready for that. I think, in some ways, I was. I think it was a positive step. But the timing of that step came when I was already in a great deal of stress over my teaching job (two classes: one with 150 students and one with 40, as well as a number of Murphy's Law occurrences in conjunction with those classes), still recovering from hip surgery, and dealing with reality that Darrin's job security had become unstable as news that the company he worked for had finally been charged by a couple of Federal agencies for tax fraud and other dishonest/illegal business practices.

3. My stress level had increased to the point that it was unmanageable. I was having panic attacks throughout the day-- some that immobilized me and left me feeling ill. Nightmares kept me from sleeping well. The classes I was teaching continued to be fraught with problems. The stress at Darrin's job escalated as the college he where he worked was sold, and uncertainty about his job increased as student enrollment decreased.

By November I was feeling mildly suicidal. This has happened before. I know the drill. I contacted a few of the people who had agreed to be support for me when those moments happened. Within a week, I realized that they had made that agreement with me years ago. Since then all their lives had changed drastically. They needed to concentrate on spouses, jobs, children, pregnancy, paying bills-- in short, they needed to be support people for themselves. It was unfair of me to ask additional support when their emotional resources were already stretched beyond what was reasonable.

That dark place became darker by January. I had hoped, with the end of the semester, that I would bounce back. Instead, I found myself feeling ill all the time. Eating caused me distress. Sleep was still problematic. I found myself waking each morning and wondering if it was all right to die that day. I spent some time with Therapist, allowing him to remind me of the things that I needed to do to return to a healthy mental and emotional state. The problem was, I was too ill and too tired to do them.

In February it was determined that my gall bladder was contributing to the feelings of illness I was having constantly. In March it was removed. I began feeling better in April, but still couldn't shake the death desire that seemed to haunt me daily. Then there were surgery complications from my gall bladder removal. My body decided it hated the dissolvable stitches residing in my abdomen. I was in so much pain that I ended up in the emergency room for treatment. My doctor told me that anything they did to try to alleviate the situation would actually make it worse - it's not like they could remove the stitches. That would require more surgery and longer healing. I was given strong pain medication and assured things would get better in a couple of weeks.

Two days later one of my incisions opened, and I began leaking fluid and blood. The upside of this was that my pain became significantly less. The downside was that, again, the only thing to do was to wait for my body to heal itself and watch for signs of infection. For three weeks I lived with that. What the surgeon didn't tell me was that the effort expended by my body to heal the wound would leave me completely exhausted. Also, Darrin was laid off. The mornings I arose wishing for death that day went from a few times weekly, to every single morning. I was distressed because of the physical problems I was experiencing, worried about Darrin finding new employment, and suicidal. On top of that, new PTSD symptoms which left me exhausted and feeling defenseless were manifesting themselves. I was in trouble.

Two weeks ago the incision healed. I was no longer leaking. Within two days my energy level had returned to nearly normal. On Friday I had my first run in years where it felt effortless and beautiful. And last week I realized I have finally regained some emotional stamina. No doubt it was gathering while I was concentrating on healing physically. Throughout the week I made some life decisions that had been put on hold.
1. I am going to finish what I started therapeutically.
2. I am going to learn some new strategies to manage my PTSD symptoms and implement them.
3. I am going to find ways to diminish or eliminate those symptoms entirely.
4. I am going to figure out how to lift myself out of the desire for death.
5. I am going to learn how to manage the emotional distress surrounding my relationships with others.
6. I am going to go back to school.

I'm expecting all those things will take another decade or two to finish. At that point, I'll just be old and no one will care anymore, but at least I know what I'll be doing for the rest of my life. :)

So this will become my therapy blog. I'll be logging my research, my strategies, and the results of my attempts to get better.

I'm also writing all this here because I need to track the suicidal feelings. I haven't established a live accountability network yet. I don't really know how to do that. Darrin's a little bit overwhelmed by trying to find a job, and I'm not excited about making new friends and then saying, "Oh, by the way, I have thoughts about needing to die, and some days I really want that to happen. So would you mind checking in with me every few days just to make sure I'm okay?" Yeah, that's not happening. But I'll work on it.

I'm putting this here because this is where it belongs.

Let's talk about Josh Duggar. And while we're at it, let's say a little bit about pedophiles, sexual abuse, and other topical delights.

First: While I do not in any way condone what Josh Duggar did, let's be real--it's not uncommon. It happens all the time. The only time we seem to care is when there seems to be a scapegoat we dislike who is the culprit. At that point all hell breaks loose, the media has a heyday, and everyone who feels slighted by the person takes potshots on social media. I've done it myself, no doubt, even if I don't remember when.

Second: I know this will sound weird, but I don't believe all sexual crimes are the same. I think there's a big difference between being fondled inappropriately by someone and being raped. Having been a victim of both, I'm only speaking from my own experience, but given that experience, I have to say there was a vast difference between the two actions and also my reaction to and the longlasting effects of both.

I've seen Mr. Duggar called a bigot and a hypocrite. Given his beliefs and some statements he has made about the LGBT community, those could be an accurate assessment of his words and actions. I don't necessarily disagree with them. Anyone who insinuates that someone from the LGBT community is a danger to children simply because they have a different sexual orientation or are transgender loses all credibility in my opinion. That's just a stupid assumption about a lot of people. Saying those types of things publicly is damaging and inaccurate.

I've also seen Mr. Duggar called a pedophile.

Let's talk about pedophiles. Years ago, for a therapy assignment, I did a great deal of research on the topic--more, probably, than Therapist wanted me to. And it was good for me. I learned that there are many men and women in this world who are sexually attracted to children. That was news. I also learned that some of those people do not wish to harm children by acting out sexually with them, that their lives are lonely and a bit tortured, that they feel incredible shame and depression about who they are. They see no possibility for a "normal" life, nor do they believe they will ever find a spouse or have a family. Having a family means having children which could be problematic for them.

On the other hand, there are pedophiles who believe that having sex with children is healthy; that parents should entrust their children to the pedophiles who will have loving physical relationships with them because that's the way it should be. If you guess that I disagree with this, you would be correct.

Those are just two representations of the pedophile community. There are, no doubt, just as in any segment of people, many different degrees and various levels of feelings of pedophilia. Of course, some will act on the feelings while others may not. But the point I'm trying to make is this: there is not a box that will fit every person in that community.

Moving to Mr. Duggar: I don't know that he IS a pedophile. From what I've read, the feelings of attraction to children do not go away. From my research I would have to say that pedophiles who act on the feelings end up escalating-- continuing to molest children, and they don't do it one time and stop. If, in fact, this was a one-time event in Mr. Duggar's life, I would have to say he doesn't qualify as a pedophile, but instead joins that group of children who are born into large, ultra-conservative families where sex is a bad word.

When families don't normalize discussion of all body parts, including genitalia and breasts, and questions about sexuality and sexual relationships are not welcomed, a weirdness about bodies and sex begins to develop. Children who cannot comfortably discuss such things with their parents and each other are more likely to yield to the desire to experiment, and they'll use the most vulnerable, accessible subjects to satisfy their curiosity. I target large families because many times younger children are left in the care of older ones, thus providing opportunity. Will all curious children take advantage of this situation? No, of course not, but some will. Usually this experimentation takes place between the ages of 9 and 14, and involves fondling the body parts of the younger child. It rarely goes beyond that. If it escalates further, then something more than curiosity is involved.

Josh Duggar's incidents reportedly occurred when he was 14-15 years old. That's somewhat older than is usual in reference to the above paragraph, but he also lived in unusual circumstances. I'm not an avid fan of his family's reality show, and I don't know him personally, but I'm guessing that frank discussions about sex didn't really happen in the family, regardless of the parents' obvious desire for copulation. Sex talk doesn't seem to be a topic in the series. It's possible that he repressed his impulses as long as he could and then hormones kicked in and he sort of exploded in a need to touch breasts and genitalia. But unless the behavior continued and is still going on today (and I have no idea one way or another), it's probably unfair to name Josh Duggar as a pedophile. And until more is known about his current sexual activities, it's probably unfair to call him a sexual deviant.

What am I saying? I'm saying that it might be a good idea to change the way we talk to our kids about sex. It's a good idea to talk about ALL their body parts from the time that they are learning to speak. Let them be as excited about having body parts that are protected and kept covered as they are about having hands and eyes and knees. I'm not suggesting that we change the words of "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes," but rather, that we address the fact that those parts exist and teach our kids how to keep those parts healthy, clean, and protected.

When it comes to talking about sexual interaction, instead of teaching the DON'T DOs, how about we just talk about it with no moral or religious agenda prompting our words? And not just about the physical act of making a baby, but about the feelings of attraction--why they happen, how they're helpful and appropriate, and what to do if you feel that way about someone and they don't feel it back. Kids have crushes on each other as early as Kindergarten. If they're not taught how to navigate their emotions, or what to call them, or why they have them, those can develop into feelings of shame or guilt which can cause them to later yield to an impulse that will hurt another child.

The society of fear that exists in largely conservative environments-- the one that says that if we give our kids information they'll want to experiment with it, is pointless. Clearly, they wish to experiment anyway. Lack of information just assures that those experiments will be conducted on those who have no means of protection or defense against them. Providing information means we can also teach our children to protect other kids. We can talk about when it's appropriate to approach another person sexually and when it's not. And if they need to see body parts, we can choose to show them realistic representations of the human anatomy, or they can wait until we're not looking and seek out the things that online pornography will teach them. The choice is ours.

What's to be done about Mr. Duggar? That's not up to me. But I think I'll not be throwing any stones. He's part of a huge group of adults who made similar mistakes when they were adolescents and teens. I know some people with past mistakes that haunt them, and I love those people. I wish things were different for them. But I also believe that Mr. Duggar will be better now that everyone knows. No more hiding and hoping the truth won't be revealed. Maybe he'll get become wiser. Maybe he'll educate himself about sex and real life and LGBT people who are everywhere and who make his life better even if he doesn't know it. Maybe he'll stop being afraid and talk to his own kids so they won't feel a need to repeat his actions on their own siblings and friends. Maybe.

We live in a weird world.

Mother's Day

This blog is finished.

But every once in awhile I need to write something that can't go in the blog I now use-- the one under my real name.

I used to hate Mother's Day. I think that's a common sentiment for many mothers. But my reasons for hating it were not because I felt guilt for not being the perfect mom. I've always known I wouldn't be-- I'm okay with that. My kids are alive and reasonably healthy. They think for themselves. They're creative and interesting. I don't need to be a perfect mother for them to learn to thrive as adults. I don't hate the day because my family has never pampered me or showered me with gifts. That's just silly. There have definitely been Mother's Days when I've guilted someone into loading the dishwasher. I think it's okay to play the Mother's Day card occasionally. Sometimes it's someone else's turn to do the dishes.

I can definitely do without the sentimental church sermons about saintly mothers who sacrificed everything for their kids. In my opinion, saintly mothers are unhealthy, and they pass along a message to their daughters that women come last. Parent couples who make sacrifices for their kids are fine. That happens. Sometimes a growing child needs pants that reach their ankles more than a grown-up needs a new shirt. However, a woman who ignores her own needs constantly is going to end up emotionally messy. I don't need that.

I don't hate the group gifts given in church-- the nasty chocolate or the flower that dies before it makes it home. The gesture is sweet and appreciated-- but also unnecessary. I'm uncertain why there needs to be a gift for moms taken from the ward budget, unless it's to apologize for the impromptu men's choir singing the same hymn as the opening song. That definitely needs recompense-- and no-- contrary to the remarks of the first counselor following that hymn, the Tabernacle Choir is not feeling anything close to competition with you.

I hated Mother's Day because all my life I hated feeling compelled to do something for my mother, who spurned every heartfelt offering I gave before I was old enough to hate her. Once I learned that hatred, Mother's Day cards and gifts became something I gave because it was socially acceptable, but heartfelt did not enter into it. I was resentful as I signed the card to the person who not only inspired my eating disorder, but who cheered me on as I starved myself. I wanted to vomit as I selected flowers for the person who screamed demeaning, hateful words at me daily until I left home at 17 years of age. I felt trapped as I made dinner to honor the person I deemed the worst mother in the world...

And then one day I stopped. I told my parents and siblings I wanted Mother's Day at home with my own family. I would no longer be making the dinner for the family Mother's Day celebration. I didn't buy a gift. Instead, I limited myself to finding the most generic card at Walmart, and I gave myself a budget of $3 or less. And sometimes I waited until Monday to deliver the card. I was done honoring the person who messed up my life.

Three years ago, I noticed the resentment waning. I think it was good for me to take a break, to admit that I was angry and hurt. I think it was healthy for me to stop channeling energy into doing what I thought I was supposed to do, and instead do only what I felt I could. That gave me time to heal, to think, and to observe.

My mom has been caring for her mother for nearly a decade now. My grandmother is a shell of the person she used to be. Two weeks ago she suffered a minor heart attack. I watched my mom as she sorted through distress, panic, and despair. I sat with her at the hospital and brought her dinner when she didn't feel able to leave my grandmother. I talked with her when she was desperate for conversation. I understood that while caring for my grandma has been a tremendous burden for my mom, it's also been the center of her life for 10 years. Some might view my grandmother's death as a blessed release not only for her, but also for my mom. My mother, however, sees it as a drastic change for which she is not prepared. And her brain has deteriorated to the point that it seems she might never be prepared.

Grandma came home from the hospital on Thursday. My parents wheeled her into church today in her chair, and I made room for her to sit next to me. I listened as she sang the opening and sacrament hymns in her old lady voice. And then I laughed silently and delightedly as she added her voice to the men's impromptu hymn, making that less-than-beautiful musical number absolutely amazing. When will I ever again hear my grandma sing "Love at Home," backed up by a men's choir of 75+ members?

After church I told my mom I would be bringing her dinner. My dad objected, reminding me that my body is still trying to heal a wound in my stomach. I ignored him. He objected more insistently. I said, "We'll be making dinner today, Dad. We're making a bit extra and we're bringing it to your house to eat it. You can join us if you'd like." My mom thanked me and added, "I'm really tired. I appreciate this."

Mom and Grandma loved dinner. And they loved their cards. Mom hugged and kissed all of us (weird-- that's not her norm, but her brain is going and we never know what she'll  do anymore).

Tonight I feel compelled to write this. My mother made some really, really awful parenting mistakes. Two of her daughters nearly took their own lives because of those mistakes. I will never say she was a great mom-- she wasn't. In spite of that, she did some good things, too. I think my mom wanted to be better than she was. She was hampered by a horribly abusive, alcoholic father who delivered the blows that now cause her brain to slowly die. She lived daily with depression and felt shamed and guilty because she had no help as she waded through the darkness of each day.

But as I watch her care for my grandma, I remember that my mother took care of me when I was sick. She fought for me to be promoted to grade 8 when my own depression caused my attendance and grades to drop drastically in my first year of junior high. She came to every performance I played in-- and there were many. I am a musician, after all. In her own way, perhaps in the only way she knew, she did what she could in spite of her own mental and emotional distress.

There are days when I become caught up in the misery of my childhood. I feel sorry for myself. I wish better things for the child who was me. But I can no longer do so without wishing for a sweeter, less violent, more loving childhood for the little girl who was my mother. I cannot weep for myself without adding tears for her. And as I watch the tenderness she gives to my grandma, and I see my mother's need for tenderness, as well, I believe that I have the power to stop blaming-- to stop withholding love-- to allow the past to be what it is and create a present and future free of resentment and anger.

Every person's story is three-dimensional, and as my life intertwines with my mother's, who is to say where one victim ends and the other begins? At some point I must admit that we have both done our best in the life circumstances we were dealt. Sometimes our best was pretty awful. That's inevitable. But I believe my childhood was better than my mom's, and my children's were better than mine. Progress takes time.

It IS progress, though. I know this because this year Mother's Day brought no angst or frustration. I enjoyed the flowers and fun gifts from my husband and kids. I felt no need to incite guilt in the other adult residents of my home as I spent the morning loading the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen. And for the first time in many years, I spent time with my mom because I wanted to. I provided service because she needed it and I love her, which proves that even the oldest, most stubborn dogs really can learn new tricks.

And now, once again, I'm hanging the "Closed" sign on this blog. Feel free to visit me at my other one where I don't talk about this kind of stuff, but I still talk about the things of life that alternately delight and frustrate me. Or don't. I've heard that blogging is dead. :)