A few years ago Tabitha was going through some terrible times. She would have breakdowns every day - sometimes more than one a day. I never knew when those would happen. I could make no plans because I didn't know when the school would call me to come get her and take her home (or to the hospital, if necessary). I lost a job because I was so stressed I could no longer concentrate. I was making mistakes. I couldn't do the work. My life was no longer my own.

I remember waking up one morning and thinking that I wanted Tabitha to just end her life, not because I didn't love her or because I wanted her dead, but because I had reached the end of my ability to cope. I was too tired to continue, uncertain whether she would be alive in the morning, unable to work or schedule my own life because I never knew what would happen each day. In short, I was exhausted to the point that I could no longer feel empathy for my child nor could I think logically.

That experience put a barrier between my daughter and me. Even now, while I love her with my whole soul, I'm unable to feel that love as deeply as I might otherwise. Therapist says that when we are in situations such as the one Tabitha and I lived for over a year, the effects are similar to those of abuse. It will take time to heal.

There has been a gnawing fear inside me, as I've gone through the stress of the last couple of months, that I am becoming a Tabitha in the lives of the ones who love me. That one morning they will awake and think, "I wish she would just take her life and get it over with." People can't live with constant stress without being affected by it. I know this. I'm pretty strong, but the type of stress I was enduring with Tabitha brought me to my knees. The stress I currently experience has driven me to the edge. I've shared some of that with people close to me, sometimes asking for help or support. But it worries me.

I wonder, how can the people who support me be unscathed? If they truly love me, how can they not feel the trauma? When this is over, will it have destroyed any past or future closeness? Will they feel about me the way that I feel for Tabitha? Will they love me and be happy that I'm making progress away from the place I'm currently in, but be too tired of me to want to spend more time or deepen relationships? I know that no one has stress-free interactions with the people they care about. But I've been the one who has needed help for so long. And unless I'm able to change things soon...

I don't know how to finish that sentence. I'm pretty sure there's a second half to it. I just can't make my brain figure it out.

Tolkien Boy tells me that it's a two-way street, and I help other people, too. I have difficulty seeing that. He and I had a misunderstanding recently over some chat messages. As I go back and read the conversation, there seems to be nothing there that would be upsetting to anyone. But I didn't say the things I was feeling. Things like, "The questions I'm asking you are important to me. I need some answers. And asking you is really difficult for me. It makes me feel vulnerable. The fact that I'm not being taken seriously when I've finally found the courage to ask is really hurtful. I'm frustrated. I feel angry that I asked in the first place. And now I feel afraid."

But if you read the words I said, it seems that I'm mildly put out, but not really affected by the conversation. There is humor in the few attempts I made to ask my questions. In the end, there is a large pause followed by my messy attempt to express what I felt. It was ineffective. I was upset about the whole situation for three or four days. Now I just feel stupid about it. And I feel like it was completely my fault. Tolkien Boy has never volunteered to be the person who answers my questions. It's nothing to do with him if I feel vulnerable asking. And chat is not always a good way to ask anything that makes me feel vulnerable. In short, I messed up. Again.

Josh has been wonderful about trying to contact me, and responding when I write stupid things in my blog about how bad my life is. But our timing sucks. I don't think we've had one conversation in the last four months that has lasted long enough to talk about anything. We like talking to each other. We laugh a lot. But he's had a lot on his plate lately, and I've wanted to ask about so many things. I just haven't been able to because of the timing of the conversations and because I've been distracted by myself. In short, I messed up. Again.

I attempted to contact an old friend with whom I've not spoken for a couple of years. The lack of speaking happened not because of any friendship rift, but because our communication largely happened online, and he became a bit scarce as he worked on some career and schooling things. And I wasn't in any shape to call him. I guess he felt the same way. But I texted him and set up a time to talk online. And I invited mutual friend, Tolkien Boy, to join us. And then I sat back and watched them chat. I had nothing to say. Before Tolkien Boy joined, my friend asked how I was doing. It seem inappropriate to say, "Crappy. My life sucks. I'd like to die pretty much every day. Thanks for asking." So I changed the subject instead. But I never did talk to him. In short, I messed up. Again.

AtP asked me if there are any flowers here yet. There aren't. I think, maybe, he wants me to tell him fun things, let him know that I'm okay and I'm happy. But I'm too tired to do that yet. I want him to think I'm better, though. Knowing someone you care about is not doing well is a stressful thing. And I'm the person who's older. I'm supposed to be fine. "There are no flowers. Maybe next week." And the conversation dies. Because I messed up. Again.

If I sound scared and frustrated, I am. If I don't, clearly I'm still having difficulty saying what I feel. I'm so tired of feeling this way. I'm so tired of feeling like a life-sucking, joyless person.

Yesterday I smiled at a little girl I do not know, and she told me she loved me. I'm thinking maybe I just need to smile more and talk less. It feels nice to be loved by someone who doesn't understand that I'm not really all that lovable.

Done feeling sorry for myself. I have a rehearsal in three minutes.

Easter 2016

This is usually a beautiful day for me. I love Easter.

Today, though, not so much.

I'm not better yet. As Therapist would say, "...still on the verge." Which means, essentially, that I'm functioning well, and working hard at becoming healthy again, but not yet stable.

Therapist said I should not remain quiet about what is happening with me. To do so brings more shame and stress. But he also said it's a good idea to choose carefully the people with whom I share. And it's interesting. When I've talked about it, I'm met either with complete silence or a pretense that nothing out of the ordinary has been said, for example:

Me: I've been having a difficult time. Dealing with some suicidal depression. I'm working through it, but it's hard.
Other person: How about those Dodgers?

On the other hand, there are some who completely acknowledge what I'm saying with this response:

Me: I've been having a difficult time. Dealing with some suicidal depression. I'm working through it, but it's hard.

Other person: You're one of the strongest people I know. I'm certain you'll be fine.

I suppose this is my own fault. It's what I always say. "I'll be fine. I'm always fine." But the truth is, I don't know that I'm going to be fine. I'll probably keep saying it because it makes people feel more comfortable. But it's a lie.

I've never hosted this type of depression for this long. I've never felt so incredibly alone when going through something like this. I've never felt it constantly at the edge of my mind, reminding me that things aren't right yet. I'm a little scared.

When I try to talk about it, I feel a little stonewalled. "Get help." "Have you talked to Therapist?" "Stop working so much." "Maybe you're not trying hard enough." I'm paraphrasing, of course, but do the people in my life even know me?

For the last decade I've worked my butt off trying to make certain I get help when I need it, regardless of the personal, emotional, and financial cost. And Therapist keeps tabs on me. He doesn't check up on me constantly, but if I send a chat message, text, or email, he responds immediately. Yes, I've talked to Therapist. As for working so much, I've been cutting back. The truth is, I make more than enough money. Even with Darrin not working, we've been fine. I can take time off. Yesterday I did. And I went on a date with my husband. And not trying hard enough? I don't know. Maybe that one's true.

I told Therapist about this. He said all the things I knew he would. People want the best for me. Getting help is important. Talking to a therapist is important. Taking time to rest is important. Not giving up is important. When I didn't respond, he asked, "Sam, what would you like them to say or do?"

What would I like them to say or do?

Call me unexpectedly? Tell me it's okay that I"m not doing well? Remind me that they're on my side and I'm not alone? Let me cry? Give me a hug for a really long time? Tell me I'm loved? And, I suppose, remind me that they don't want me to die because they like having me around?

I don't know.

I can't say that no one has done this for me (Josh). So I don't know why I want this from more people. Clearly I'm not focusing on the "important" things.

That's how I feel on this Easter morn. I'm a little too self-absorbed to sing, "He is Risen." I just want to stop feeling like I want to be dead and I don't want to rise again. I just want to stop. Well, not all the time. Sometimes I feel okay being alive. That's progress, right? Right?

Crickets. Always. This is not a popular topic. This is why we have therapists. So I'll stop talking about it to other people and keep it behind closed doors - confidential - invisible.

Sigh.

Happy Easter.

Pilgrim Song

Therapist called me last Wednesday. I had sent him a very short email that morning, briefly letting him know about the suicidal thoughts/depression/plans that exhibited themselves the week before. He called me about an hour after I sent the email which surprised me. He's kind of busy.

Therapist asked why I hadn't contacted him earlier. I said I didn't know. He knew I was lying.

Why didn't I contact him?

I think I'm afraid he's too busy for me now. We've worked on my particular brand of weird for about a decade now. From my perspective, I've made very little progress. He says I'm wrong.

I think, no matter what I do, I'm afraid this will be my life forever. I'll work to manage PTSD symptoms. I'll feel like my life is balancing out. Then stress will come and without warning, I'll be looking for ways to die. I'm afraid Therapist will be upset that I can't seem to manage PTSD when I'm under stress - that he'll say I'm not using the tools I've been given - that he'll tell me I'm failing. Therapist says that's not going to happen and that he thinks I'm managing very well, given that I've been unable to use available medications (the warning labels at the bottom of the ads are talking about me, personally), and that I take the proper steps to get help when I'm in trouble. He says he doesn't believe this will be my life forever.

I think I'm afraid that Therapist will go away. He did once, years ago. He moved far away. And I ended up in the psyche ward of the hospital. Because I told him I was fine. Because I didn't want a referral. Because starting over made me want to vomit. So I became suicidal instead. And I went through three counselors who told me they weren't equipped to help me. And while I value their honesty, it sort of sucks that I had to find Therapist again and drive 14 hours round trip to see him again. And I'm afraid not that he'll move away again, but that he'll tell me he no longer wishes to work with me. Therapist says that's not possible. He's not going to do that. But I don't think I believe him. Except I believed him when he called me on Wednesday.

I think I was blindsided by the fact that I became suicidal in the first place. I didn't see the signs. It just happened. I woke up on Monday morning and realized an hour later that I was obsessing about which pills in my house would kill me the fastest. And on the off-chance that they didn't, I was trying to remember where my father keeps his gun. And then I cried because going to that place felt natural and right, and fighting it felt horrible and wrong. And then I was embarrassed because I thought if anyone I loved knew what I was going through, they would probably not love me back. Because who wants to love someone who wishes to be dead? But Therapist says it was right to tell Darrin, and to talk to some other people, and to take the day off work-- my first in about six weeks. He said no one will stop loving me.

So I came here tonight to try to make sense out of everything. And I saw the comments written by Josh and Jenn-Van. I sort of saw Josh's comment earlier, but I couldn't really read with any degree of comprehension at that time. My brain had exploded. But those things helped tonight, though. It's good to know that someone who knows me, and someone who does not, will take time to comment when I'm distressed and trying to figure things out on my blog. So thank you. A lot. And also, Josh, thanks for the very inopportune, spontaneous phone calls and chats. Those were helpful, too.

I took a trip last week. And I spent time with people. And there were moments when I felt valued. I just don't know how to hold onto those. I heard a song on Sunday - one I think is lovely and that has some good memories connected to it. One of the lines is "I'm going to live forever." It made me cry. Not because I'm going to live forever, but because I'm going to live. And it won't be easy. And Therapist says it's entirely possible that another day might come when I want to die. But he says to contact him if that happens, and he (and many other people, he says) will help me remember that I'm going to live.

This morning, very early, I called a suicide hotline. And then I hung up. Because what would they tell me to do? Get help. Go to a hospital. Call a friend. Talk to someone. But there's really no one around at 4 a.m. And if I get help or go to a hospital, someone has to pay for that. I'm fairly certain I won't be released from the hospital for rehearsals, nor will I be able to work online while I'm there getting help, and I don't have insurance, so I don't really know how that bill would be paid. It's sort of a stupid system, if you think about it. Probably I feel this way because I'm working lots and lots of hours so we have money to live. But it makes me want to die. But if I get help for that, I have to work lots and lots of hours to pay for it. Which sort of defeats the purpose, right?

Talk to someone.

About what? There's nothing to say. And everyone will just walk away from that conversation feeling worse. I am not really in the business of making other people's lives miserable.

So why did I call the hotline in the first place?

I'm not sure. I was in a bad place. It seemed a logical step. It felt less logical after the number was dialed. Maybe I just wanted to tell someone I'm having a hard time right now. But it's not like that can change right away anyway. And telling someone just makes me feel stupid.

So calling was a bad idea.

I got a haircut on Saturday. That was fun.

I Googled, "I'm sad" today. The result was page after page of ways to cheer up, interspersed with the odd mental health article/exam which will help you know if you're depressed or just sad.

I don't know why I did that.

Maybe it's because I feel absolutely bound right now. I am not allowed to say I'm sad to anyone. And if I do, no one knows what to do next. Sam is sad? That's not possible.

And Google wasn't really any help. I haven't been through ten years of therapy without learning ways to deal with depression and sadness. And actually, it's not that I don't want to do any of those. I just want to know that it's okay for me to be sad. Because I am.

So I'm telling my blog. Even though it can't hug me or sit with me while I allow myself 15 minutes to be sad (seriously, if anyone ever did that, I think we'd be giggling after 5 minutes-- that's just who I am), and it can't tell me that it's okay for me to be sad, I can still say it in my blog. And there's no guilt in it. I've made no one uncomfortable. I just wrote the words.

The end.

Valentine's Day

I've had more than one friend who was single on Valentine's Day tell me that I just don't understand. I've never been in my late 20s, 30s, or older, with no romantic interest on Valentine's Day. And they're probably right. But they don't understand, either.

They don't understand that this was one day during the entire year when my mother wrote "I love you" in a card. She never said it. But it was written. And even though I hated her with the intensely pure hatred only a teenager can experience, I still wanted her to tell me she loved me. She was my mom. And on Valentine's Day, she told me. And I have saved every single card.

They don't understand that on one Valentine's Day, I recognized that because of my upbringing and mistreatment by the people who molested me, I didn't really understand what love was. I had no idea what it meant to love a person, and even more, I didn't know how to BE loved. I still struggle with that last part. Constantly.

They don't understand that I spent nearly three years reading everything I could about love. I read poetry, and psychological studies. I read tawdry novels about love and sex. I read religious writings. I asked my friends what they thought love was. In the end, I was more confused than ever.

And then one Valentine's Day, I decided to just do it - just love. I didn't really know how to go about it, so I began with NOT-people. And I made a list of NOT-people I loved:
1. The misty clouds when they scattered themselves across the mountains behind my home.
2. Baby ducks.
3. Cats.
4. My dog.
5. Turning cartwheels and climbing trees.
6. Cookies.
7. Playing the piano and singing and dancing (not all at once).
8. Long walks in the mountains. By myself.
9. Flowers. All of them. But mostly the wild roses which smelled heavenly even when you were so far away you couldn't see them anymore.
10. Butterflies. All of them. But mostly the tiny lavender blue ones that sometimes landed on me during my solitary walks in the mountains.
11. Reading. And writing. And thinking.
12. Listening to people talk. Hearing their voices. Wondering what it would be like to be those people.
13. The sky in both day and night. Watching it move through shades of blue, and staring at the blackness of night, so far away from civilization that the only lights are the moon and the stars.
14. Laughing.
15. Sitting beside a creek or river. Watching sunlight sparkle on each tiny ripple.

The list went on for a very long time. I think I covered four or five pages with NOT-people. And I realized as I wrote, that my capacity to love was not stunted in the least. So I decided to move on to people. And I made a list of people I deeply, deeply loved:
1. My grandma.

At that point I realized that I could love, but people were problematic. I thought I loved my siblings, but I really didn't trust them and I was pretty sure they didn't love me back-- and that was the key. I was ready to love people, but I was afraid of not being loved in return.

I believe I was 16 years old when I made it to this point. So my Junior year of high school, I made Valentine cards for my friends. And I told them I loved them. All of them. And I waited to see what would happen.

I think the biggest reaction came from one with whom I had been friends since we were in 4th grade. He looked at me for a few minutes. Then he said, "It's not easy to tell people you love them when you really mean it." And he was right. We said it to each other all the time, but it was a catch phrase - a way to say good-bye. I said it to fill the void inside me; the one that longed to hear it from my parents. I said it a lot. They said it back, "Bye! Love you!" It was meaningless.

My friend said, "Do you love me?" I said, "Yes." He laughed and said, "I love you, too." Then we both laughed.

And that was all. We never talked about it again.

Sometimes my friends sent each other notes. We always had. My group of friends were always passing notes, even when there was no reason to. It was fun. But now we signed them with love. I don't know if everyone was sincere in that signing, but my friend from 4th grade was. And I knew he was one person who loved me. Because he told me he did.

All of this catapulted me into a love experiment. I entered every new personal relationship with the idea that I would love that person. I looked for things that made them lovable. I noticed the things that made them less than lovable and tried to love them anyway. I gave them leeway to be whomever they were and I tried with all my heart to love that person.

The experiment was semi-successful. I knew I loved those people, but I was also very sure that they could not love me. They didn't know me. They didn't know my mother hated me so much that she was unable to have a civil conversation with me. They didn't know that when I left home at 17, she drove me to my new home and left me standing on the driveway with no idea what to do next. They didn't know that my cousin raped me and two other people sexually molested me before I was 12. They didn't know I was pretty much used up and nasty. And I didn't tell them because then they wouldn't want me to love them. I wanted to love them.

Marrying Darrin helped me allow myself to be loved. It didn't happen all at once. We had some incredibly rough spots. But he was determined to love me. I needed that.

Having children taught me brand new ways to love people. And even though they knew nothing about my past, they were determined to love me, too. Even when we fought, I knew they loved me.

So about a decade ago, I decided to try a new experiment. This time I would be honest. I would tell my story. I would let people love me at their own risk. And some people did. It felt miraculous. I sent them Valentines because once a year, at least, every person needs someone to write it down: "I love you." I didn't care if they thought it was weird. I didn't care if they didn't understand my intent. I didn't care if the words were welcome or not. I just sent them and allowed those I loved to do whatever they wished with those words. I hoped one of them would "get it". I hoped they would understand where I came from, the difficulty of telling them about my feelings, the vulnerability of being exposed and honest. I hoped maybe one of them would love me back.

For most of my life, I have claimed Valentine's Day as my personal holiday. This assumed ownership has nothing to do with romance or sex or soul mates or Cupid. It was the day when I pretended, as a child, that I was loved because I had a beautiful card telling me I was. It was the day when I decided to figure out what love was and if I could have and share it. It was the day when I learned I had a friend who loved me even though we weren't "in-love", and that was something to be enjoyed and shared. It was the day that I told the people who tried to love me even when I was very unlovable, that I loved them back and I wanted them to be a part of my life. I suppose one might say that I was sort of "saved" by Valentine's Day because rather than becoming a product of my environment, that day inspired me to investigate a human emotion that could shape me into someone productive and functional.

And so today, I write this here: I love you. Regardless of whether I know you well, or have never met you. I love you. And it's okay if you love me back because today, in a box of chocolates, I received three messages:
1. Laugh often (and I do).
2. Go on an adventure (always - even if it's just going to the store or reading a book).
3. You are lovable (I'm still not good at this, but I think maybe someday I'll know this in my soul).

Happy Valentine's Day.

I think the answer is that one day you just get tired of fighting for something that's not going to happen--some process or feeling or state of being that only you notice is becoming casual and significant only because it is old. At that point, the fatigue is such that you welcome everything that comes with the new state of being. Giving up feels less like capitulation and more like an opportunity to turn to and value oneself. It's not sad. It just is.

So what is the question?

This is lovely

And one day I will have a garden again. Probably not this year, but possibly next.

Okay

Early this week I realized I felt okay. I've had no panic attacks or anxiety for a little while now. I don't feel sad constantly. I no longer feel neglected or abandoned. I'm okay.

So I've been thinking about what it means to be okay.

1. It means if people interact with me, that's fine. It's also fine if they don't.
2. It means I focus on my work. I go running. I read. I practice. I don't plan to accommodate social interactions that are not on my calendar.
3. It means I can structure my life.
4. It means if I don't answer my phone or texts, or I put off an email or chat session, that's all right.
5. It means that I've stopped worrying if I choose to do (or not do) something that makes people think less of me.
6. It means I am calm most of the time.

Those are positive things for the most part, I think. Briefly, though, I have wondered if the following are also positive, or if they are worrisome:

1. If I see someone available on my chat list, I don't engage them. Nor do I hope they will hail me. I see them and my brain says, "That person is online." The end.
2. I wonder less about my friends and family. I assume they can take care of themselves with no input from me and that, should they need me, they'll let me know.
3. I have no problem with the word "friend" in any context anymore.
4. I don't make plans with people. Two months ago, when someone would say, "We need to have lunch!" I would reply, "Yes, let's schedule that now." And we would. Yesterday someone said, "We need to have lunch!" and I said, "We do! We should do that sometime." And that felt okay.
5. I don't really dream about what might happen in my future. I used to think of places I'd like to visit, or people I longed to be with. Now I just practice. Or read. Or run. I don't really want anything.

So maybe I'm just content. Life is fine. This is how it feels when things are okay.

I am tired, though, so I'm not really sure if this is a place I should look at more carefully, or just allow myself to remain for the rest of my life. It's not a bad place. The only thing upsetting is that my nightmares have increased again. I'm used to that, though, and sleep isn't something I really care about.

I just don't know. Darrin doesn't seem worried and neither do my kids-- or really, anyone who knows me-- so probably this is what happens when things are okay. Life just levels out.

Lunch Break Post

No classes to teach this semester, only private students and accompanying. My continuing education is finished and I'm ready for the tax season. My online work continues to be plentiful. I'm set for another four months of 12- to 16-hour workdays. I would complain about the workload, but it feels normal now so there's really nothing to complain about.

My father-in-law continues to waffle about selling his home. It's a condition we placed before Darrin and I would take up housekeeping with him. We will share a home. We will not live in his home. We will share expenses.

As the only unemployed person (hoping fervently that Darrin will have a job), he will be expected to help with the housework. Not all of it. He is, after all, in his 80s and a stroke survivor. But it will not be my job. I have a job. I have many jobs. I cannot be the maid simply because I am female. Some days he remembers.

We will make sure that he has help with his needs. We will also make sure the he is allowed to be independent as long as possible. My father-in-law estimates he will live two or three more years. I believe, once he is away from the toxic environment in which he has lived for the past decade, it will be more like ten or fifteen years.

I have hit a point on non-negotiation. We set the terms. He agreed to them. It's important that he understands that once the boundaries are in place, I expect them to be honored. Otherwise there will be no Samantha in the cohabitation situation. We'll see what happens. My father-in-law returns from the Dominican Republic in a couple of weeks.

I don't feel sad anymore - or depressed - or suicidal. This is good. Except I pretty much don't feel anything anymore. Also good, I think, for now. Therapist has suggested returning to regular therapy in March. I've agreed, contingent on Darrin's procurement of a job with insurance benefits, or my ability to make enough money to cover our living expensed plus health insurance. Thus far, we have gone without for six months. That can't continue much longer. But the thought of adding more hours or another job is a little bit daunting to me. Darrin and I are currently discussing different possibilities on our present income.

And now my lunch break is done.

Camaraderie Versus Intimacy

Camaraderie: The quality of affording easy familiarity and sociability

Intimacy: 1. Close or warm friendship  2. A feeling of being intimate and belonging together

I'm fairly certain I'm the only one who looks at these things anymore. I was created without the ability to simply accept what is and what will be. Instead I've always believed I had some say in what happened in my life which is, of course, ridiculous.

Regardless, this has been on my mind.

Background Story: I was nine years old and spending the week with a friend. Our fathers went to high school together and had remained close throughout the following years, so by default their daughters had also become friends.

I was standing in the living room next to my friend's mother during that visit. She was sitting in an armchair talking with us about some activities we could do during our time together. During the conversation, my friend's mother lifted her hand and began to gently stroke my arm, then her hand slid down and took mine in hers.

For someone who had not been touched lovingly for about four years, my reaction was electric. I was startled and confused. I couldn't breathe. I wanted this mother of my friend to never stop holding my hand. More, I wanted her to pull me next to her, hold me gently and safely-- love me.

I understood at this point in my life that those were luxuries a child such as I could not have. I waited until she released my hand and at the first opportunity, moved away from my friend's mother. Then I made certain not to be next to her again during the visit. The longing to be touched, held, and loved was not something I could navigate. A child of nine simply cannot be deprived of touch for four years and then accept it without question or fear when touch is finally given.

I suppose this is one reason when I was groomed by my cousin before being raped by him, that I allowed him near me. I wanted to be touched. I needed that touch. And no one else in my life seemed interested in that kind of interaction with me.

Being married has helped this need. It never goes away. And so I have one person who touches me now. My children also touch me, but they're very aware of how difficult it is for me to allow it and they're careful to approach me with caution.

All of which makes me feel less human.

When they were small, my children were a lifeline for me. They were cuddly and adorable, and when I held them I felt human and valued. Darrin's touch has always been welcome and wonderful. But it does seem strange to only be touched by one person.

Chance brought another friend into my life. She came from a family where age did not stop siblings and parents from cuddling and giving brief kisses and verbal exchanges of love and affirmation. Which meant that when she adopted me into her social circle, I became the recipient of those things, as well.

I was concerned. I'm not, in my mind, the type of person who really needs that type of interaction with friends. She ignored my attempts to let her know that I was an untouchable.. After a few years I let her know of my attraction to women. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked. Because she and I wandered in similar circles. Mutual acquaintances knew my orientation. I didn't want her hearing it from them and wondering about my motives. "But you're not attracted to me, right?" she replied. It was an interesting question. I told her I hadn't really thought about it that much. "So," she answered,"you're not. If you were, you would definitely be thinking about it." That was a good point.

Then I told her about the abuse I'd survived and let her know I might not be the most stable, healthy person she had ever met. "That's stupid," she insisted. "You're more stable and healthy than anyone I know." And so she would visit with me, and I received spontaneous hugs and kisses, and she took every opportunity to take my arm or hold my hand or cuddle while letting me know that she believed I was amazing and talented and beautiful and that it was her privilege to be my friend.

And then she moved far away.

That was many years ago. We still meet occasionally. But that steady stream of physical contact and love has become intermittent. I'll be honest - I miss it. I miss her. I miss being told that I need to stop trying to give her reasons to cease touching me, and I will be hugged and kissed and held because that's what people do when they love each other. It's not limited to sexual partners.

There have been other people willing to hug me since my friend's departure, and even some who were willing to hold me close and tell me I was important and cherished even while I tried to tell them all the reasons I am untouchable. There have been others willing to say they loved me and sometimes even needed me. There have been others who have earned the closest thing I have to trust, which is saying a lot.

But I've been aware of the metamorphosis in our relationships as intimacy slid into camaraderie. It really has nothing to do with whether or not they wish to touch me. The waning of such has occurred simply because they have no need or desire to be touched by me anymore. That need is filled elsewhere.

Understanding this, however, and being okay with it are two completely different things. However, I'm much too tired, emotionally, to discuss or wonder about it beyond this blog post. Trite though it may be, the phrase, "It is what it is," takes precedence over any desire to rekindle past intimacy, or even replace it. And that part of me that has never been able to be overcome insists that, anyway, I don't need to be touched. It's confusing and overwhelming and I seem to always end up feeling guilty about allowing someone I love to touch the untouchable.

I'm supposed to see my old friend tomorrow. And she will yell my name when she sees me, pull me close, kiss me on the cheek, and tell me I look beautiful. She'll insist that we sit together at dinner, where we will talk constantly and she will take every opportunity to stroke my arm, take my hand, or spontaneously hug me until she must leave, at which point I will be hugged and kissed one more time as she begs me to come visit soon.

And that will be enough touch for me for another couple of years.

This is good because it makes bearable the pain of feeling my intimate relationships morphing into camaraderie. My friend's timing has always been impeccable.

"I'm allowing this to be part of my story. It's not my only story..." --Beth Stelling

This is a quote from a celebrity who was a domestic abuse victim. I'm not sure why, but when I read her story, those words felt like my own. When I look through my blogs, I realize that for many years they were about me - my past, my present, my friends and family, things I found funny or joyful. And I think I wanted anyone visiting those blogs to notice that I had many stories; abuse and rape were only a part, not the whole.

And then my life became unmanageable and I allowed PTSD to become my closest companion. My blogs became a place to vomit the symptoms and thoughts and feelings I could not control. There were no other stories to tell.

I think the people in my life, those who are a part of my daily or weekly existence, know well that PTSD is not me. I think they understand that the part of my story that is horrible and frightening is not the whole of who I am. I believe I am the one who is making it my only story.

There is a part of me that is grateful I was able to do the therapy work that moved me beyond the pain and desperation of living silently and never speaking of trauma one has experienced. But there is also a part that is embarrassed that I "allowed" the dissociation that had to be mended. I understand it was a defense mechanism required so that I could continue to live. I understand that the daily abuse put me, as a child, in a position where I could not thrive without forgetting what that child endured. I understand all that.

Still, there it that part of me that is ashamed I couldn't hold it together; a part that is embarrassed to talk of dissociation and the pain and work of integration - the part that labels me "crazy" because I did not know a better way to survive.

It's a small part of me, but one that is destroying my self-esteem and robbing me of the desire to interact with people who know about that small part. It convinces me that I am less. Other people go through difficult circumstances. Other people endure trauma. Most of them don't dissociate to the point that looking in the mirror is terrifying because they do not recognize the person looking back at them. It feels as if something is terribly wrong with me because I experienced that.

I don't experience it anymore.

That last sentence was written in a frenzied need to reassure myself and anyone who happens to read this blog that I am less crazy today than I was then. Again, I am mortified that I needed such a coping device.

I think this should not embarrass me. It does. I think I should not worry what people will think, should they find out the lengths I went to for survival and the things I had to do to become whole. I do.

The conflict surrounding this is confusing, to say the least. On the one hand, I know what it took to proceed through the integration process. I understand how difficult it was to say that the experiences that child went through were my own. The enormous amount of strength and courage required to embrace that child and make her me still leaves me breathless and exhausted.

This was a huge accomplishment. And I did it.

But there is still the lingering belief that if I was truly strong and courageous, the dissociation would never have happened at all. That belief leaves me feeling that I must protect everyone I love from me. Something is wrong with who I am. I need to limit time with them, and above all, I must not allow them to touch me. That would not be good for them.

Protect. Always the need to protect.

I purposely provoked the abuser in my life so that my younger siblings would not have to feel the emotional and physical pain, or would feel it to a lesser degree. For many years I remained silent about being raped by a cousin because I needed to protect the people I loved from feeling anything about what happened to me. Many of them had good relationships with that cousin. I feared their disbelief, but I also feared what would happen if they did believe me. It would cause them pain. I needed to protect them from that.

But mostly, throughout my life, I've been protecting people from me. From the wrong parts of me. From my responses to the things that have hurt me. I'm still doing it.

I believe this is one reason for the sadness from which I've been unable to emerge during the past year. I think I'm too tired to protect people anymore. And there is part of me that longs to stop apologizing for dissociation, for sadness, for being the person I am and having trauma as a part of my story.

Recently I've been thinking about safe people and safe places. I did not reside in a safe place as a child. When I was nine I found safety in the solitude of my backyard mountains. Prior to that, we lived in cities where that was not available to me, so I was the child who disappeared beneath my bed or inside a closet, or in the branches of a tree. I sought out places that felt safe. As a young adult, I could no longer rely on my physical safe places so, through dissociation, I left the part of me behind that needed one. When I was integrated, the need for a physical safe place reestablished itself. I have found some safe places, but none that feel impenetrably safe. It causes me distress.

I don't believe I've ever thought people were safe. Even after marrying Darrin, I wondered if he was a safe person. I think, after 20 years, I finally believe that he is. But I'm fairly certain the real reason I struggle with believing people are safe is because I don't believe I, myself, am a safe person. Because I'm unstable and crazy. Because I have PTSD. Because I was dissociated and integrated, and real people don't really do that.

So my tentative plan is to return to therapy. Therapist has not agreed to counsel me through this next portion of my journey because he is unsure that he has the expertise to guide me. But he has agreed to meet with me, listen to my goals, help me draft a plan, and refer me, if necessary.

Almost a decade ago I was diagnosed with PTSD. At the time I insisted that this would not be a lifelong disorder. I would figure out how to manage and recover from the trauma such that PTSD would be gone, or at the very least, completely unnoticeable. My diagnosing psychiatrist said that was unrealistic and pointless. It would be better to accept the disorder and take steps to learn to cope with it the rest of my life. I knew he was wrong.

And I did gain ground as I worked to heal and to rid myself of PTSD. But then life happened and that ground was almost completely lost. But as I have read and researched during the past decade, more and more experts are agreeing with me that, not only is severe PTSD avoidable in some cases, but it is looking more and more like complete recovery from trauma and resultant PTSD can be a reality.

Armed with the information and current research, I'm believing again that I don't need to cuddle with PTSD the rest of my life. And I also think it's time to figure out how to become a safe person, unembarrassed by the survival techniques employed by me throughout my life. And one day I want to feel that it's okay that I once spoke in third person of the child and teen who was me, because I don't do it anymore. And I want to be able to recognize that the process I went through to become whole was admirable - maybe even a little bit heroic. I want to be able to speak of it without excuse or apology.

Mostly, though, I want to figure out how to believe that the people who love me most don't condemn me for my need to survive, regardless of the path I needed to take to do so. And I want to be able to believe that they're proud of me for taking the steps necessary for me to reclaim that part of me I discarded. I want to be able to believe they're really glad that I chose to live, that I'm alive today, and that I have many more stories yet to be told.

I didn't have a lot of time this semester, so rather than dealing with PTSD, I ignored it. Which means I lived on low-level anxiety and panic for about 90 days. It's a bad idea and I know it. But it's also something I've done all my life. I'm a performer.

Performers learn that we'll be in stressful situations, but if you concentrate only on the thing that must be done now, the stage fright and performance anxiety can be successfully ignored until after the performance is over. A successful performer learns to channel the anxiety into controlled energy which is consumed throughout the performance, but that doesn't always happen. So between that training and my life experiences, I'm a pro at putting off dealing with emotions and stress, regardless of whether or not that's healthy. And sometimes it's necessary.

So now that my teaching is on hiatus, I'm allowing the procrastinated stuff to manifest itself. It's worse than I anticipated. Panic attacks are strong enough to cause chest pains, shaking, and vomiting. I'm using all the breathing and calming techniques I know, but they don't seem to be helping. So I just wait. Usually after about fifteen minutes the worst is over and I can function again. Along with the panic attacks are PTSD symptoms. Because of those I alternate between suspicion, anger, numbness, and hyper-awareness when it comes to people. I seem to be unable to feel affectionate at all.

I suppose that beneath all of this I am afraid. It's difficult to see an end when you're in the middle of everything. I'm afraid I won't be strong enough to make it through the panic and distress - that at some point I'll break and I don't know what that means.

I'm afraid that Darrin won't get a job and I'll have to work 60 hour (or more) weekly for the rest of my life. Or that he will get a job, but I won't be able to stop working anyway because I don't know how.

I'm afraid that if I don't keep being pleasant and delightful, people will leave. And I don't know why I worry about that because part of me wants them to go away so that I can figure out what is happening to me without interruption.

I'm afraid that some people are already gone. And, again, confused about that fear because I'm pretty sure that if this is the case, it's the best thing for everyone involved.

I'm afraid to talk - to sleep - to rest. I'm afraid if I don't schedule every second of every day and night, I'll have to

I don't even know how to finish that sentence. I have no idea what I'm afraid of.

All the roads leading into or away from my small town are "closed indefinitely due to weather." That hasn't happened in all the time I've lived here. But it feels metaphorical and fitting.

I had a friend once who needed help with her life for a number of reasons. And I wanted to help her. So I spent time with her, and recommended a couple of therapists, and we went for walks and talked a lot. But she never got better. And she never went to either of the therapists. And eventually, it seemed that she didn't want to get better. I didn't understand.

What I understand now is that it takes energy - lots of it - to get better. It takes courage to see a therapist. It takes both to continue afterward, and I'm running on empty. Literally.  :)

I suppose this old blog is nearing the end of its existence. That's probably as it should be. I've been emotionally attached to this place. It has been the recipient of my PTSD tantrums when my feelings have exceeded that which is socially acceptable. It's good to have a place where one can scream without harming anyone else. So my blog has served me well and allowed me a place to express those things I could not otherwise.

I closed up my blog a couple of months ago. I needed privacy for a little while. I understand that's silly, since this is not really a hub of activity. Still, closing the door was helpful for me.

Today I wish to write the thoughts that have finally made it into words during that time. The ideas are not necessarily connected - just random realizations and wonderings that have yet to find answers.

Love Language:
I've always believed my dominant one was Quality of Time. I've blogged about how I don't really believe in the love language philosophy because everyone needs all those things and the level of such need increases or decreases with circumstance and individuals. But there's definitely a credible foundation for the love language idea. So I played the game and decided that my dominant love language was Quality of Time. I need to be with someone, to talk and listen, and to know that I'm important enough to have him or her make time for me.

But it is also true that this is where I hide. I connect through Quality of Time because I am often unable to use the love language the speaks most profoundly to me. There are times when I cannot receive nor give it. My true dominant love language is touch. I think I've known this for a long time, but it's a tiny bit agonizing to know that I sabotage my ability to give and receive.

Actually, that's not true. I don't sabotage. I think the truth is that when you've been abused through the love language that speaks most loudly to you, you shut down that part. It hurts too much. And you reroute to a place that feels comfortable and acceptable, even if the impact is not as great. You learn to mistrust and fear the former love language. Each time it is given, you make up reasons why it can't be real, and you remind yourself that it is not to be trusted.

So touch has become something that causes me incredible distress. There have been times when I have allowed it - because the desire and need to receive does not go away, ever - only to be followed up with intense mental and emotional anguish. The cost rarely justifies the indulgence.

In spite of all that, I have put myself in situations where touch, on some level, must be given and received. I did that last weekend when I attended breakfast with a large number of friends. We hug. That's what friends do. So I did. I don't really have more to say about that. It takes awhile to sort through all the crap that crops up when I am hugged by that many people. Especially when I love each of them.

Then there is the added dimension of learning to trust a few people. They are the ones with whom I can have physical contact and sometimes it's okay (okay = I don't have PTSD symptoms caused by the touch for a couple of weeks following the contact). And then I almost feel normal. Almost. Because I know that with friends, touch becomes less frequent as familiarity increases. Except I don't want it to. I want it to continue. Feeling normal is amazing. So as time passes and touch decreases, I find myself understanding that their feelings of comfortable companionship are normal, and my feelings that I have become distasteful, annoying, or that talking with me is fine, but touching me is disgusting-- those feelings are probably not. That understanding only increases my anxiety about people and relationships, in general.

Being a Delightful Person
I'm fairly certain no one intends for me to retreat to the entertainer personality when they're with me. I also understand that they REALLY do not want to know what's going through my head when I'm socializing. I also do not believe that the person I become in that instance is artificial or fake. She's just surviving.

That makes it sound as if I dislike being with people which is untrue. It's just difficult for me to maintain what is authentically me in that circumstance. It's just safer to make sure whomever I'm with remains feeling that I'm happy to be with them and I want us both to enjoy our time together. Which is true. I am and I do. It's just complicated. Mostly because I don't trust people even though I want to. And when I look at all that, it's amazing that people who know me at all want to spend time with me, understanding that I'm stressed and confused and conflicted and I don't trust them.

But I love them. A lot.

Managing PTSD Requires Time, Courage, and Stamina
All things that I do not have right now, and have not had for awhile. Which means I've not been managing PTSD. Which means there's a lot going on inside me that makes my life feel nightmarish and frustrating. Which means my depression level has dipped into suicidal and stayed there longer than I ought to have allowed it. Which means I'm being stupid about this.

Sometimes that happens. Sometimes it's not really in my control. I know people who would tell me I always have a choice. In these moments, while I acknowledge that they are correct, I also acknowledge that they aren't living my life and they're stupid, too.

I Don't Do Passive Aggression
Unless I'm tired, feeling trapped, and losing the inherent ability I have to communicate like a sane person. I've been guilty of passive aggressive words and behaviors in the past month. I'm deeply ashamed of that. I'd like to say I don't usually do that, but I'm aware that I've done so before. It is, however, something I passionately avoid. I dislike (and usually ignore) it when people lash out at me with passive aggression. If I love you, I'll call you on it and suggest we find a more constructive way to talk about what's bothering you. If I don't love you, I'll probably walk away and pretend it didn't happen.

However, when I'm the culprit, I want to die a little bit. I know better. I understand that indulging in bad behavior to garner someone's attention usually backfires in very awful ways. I've been wondering why I do it all, and I've come up with the following reasons:
1. I'm tired and the thought of using the energy necessary to fill my needs makes me more exhausted.
2. I feel ignored when I try to fill whatever need is causing me distress.
3. I feel I have nothing more to lose - the relationship is waning or already gone.
4. I don't realize I've done it until after the fact.

That last one doesn't usually happen unless I'm overwhelmed to the point that I'm no longer thinking before acting. It's an occasional lapse, but one that has taken place more often lately, which makes me deeply uncomfortable. Regardless, when I realize that I'm speaking or acting passive aggressively, I feel like I'm not me. Then I don't want to talk with or be with anyone until I can control that ugly part. And I probably won't talk about it, even if asked. The thought that I might do it again makes me want to vomit. And I need to pull myself back together. That's best done in my own company. It's not a pretty sight.

This isn't part of the above topic.
Darrin is still unemployed. I was hopeful that I might get to rest a bit when the semester ended, but I can't yet. There are so many other complications going on, as well, that I often feel that I'm losing my mind. I'm not, though. And I'm dealing with the depression. Probably the suicidal feelings happen a few times during the day, but I think that will decrease at some point. I try not to be alone. I used to try to contact people to talk, but that's not a good idea. If I do that when I'm having a real need and the person is unavailable, I'm not always rational in my response to that. So I read, or go for a run. I'm looking forward to the time when those feelings will be, maybe, once a week. That will be a relief.

This week I will decorate for Christmas and do some baking. Thursday I have a lunch date with a friend. And today we have fresh snow and bright sunshine. It's beautiful.

Natural Selection

I am addressing the decision to adapt or face extinction. People do it everyday without even knowing it's happening. My awareness of it comes simply because I'm too tired to make the decision naturally and gracefully. It requires Herculean effort to adapt as I demolish the dams that keep me comfortably stagnant, and doing so brings me no joy or excitement.

There is, however, something to be said about grim determination. My daughter has told me that state of being has never applied to me. Even when my hip was grinding against the socket and I was insisting that I continue my nauseating trips to the gym for my morning run on the elliptical, she said I did so with energy and delight. Probably that's because she didn't witness the mid-run, pain-induced vomiting sessions.

However, I've been feeling ever more grim since August of last year. I was assigned to teach two classes during the 2014 fall semester which effectively sucked all the joy out of teaching - to the point that I was, with the utmost finality, telling people that I was finished. I would not teach again.

In addition, I was asked to make a formal report concerning being raped, and was required to repeat my story more than once. This experience brought me more anxiety than I have experienced thus far in my life, and caused me to discover that what I thought was completely healed was simply lightly scabbed, requiring only the tiniest friction for the bleeding to begin again.

I suppose that was the most jarring discovery. And in spite of my efforts to circumvent them, all sorts of unhealthy coping devices presented themselves to help me meander through the resulting mess. In May I discovered I had a tooth abscess. My dentist told me it had probably been there for at least a month and asked why I hadn't come in sooner. The answer was simple. I didn't feel it. Which brought about the appalling discovery that I wasn't feeling any pain at all. That was the final straw, I suppose. Two or three years prior, I had worked so hard to learn how to feel pain. The process had been frightening and miserable, but I did it. To understand that anxiety and stress could undo my work made me feel exhausted and defeated.

Of course, I was told by people who care about me that I could fix this. I knew how. I was strong. This wasn't permanent.

It made me want to punch them all. Perhaps more than once. I didn't understand my knee-jerk reaction to what I should have felt was supportive. I kept telling myself to be grateful for their confidence in me. Then I wanted to punch them all one more time.

About two weeks ago I finally understood where the feelings were coming from. I didn't want them to have confidence in my ability to fix myself. I didn't want to hear, "I know you can do this." I wanted to hear, "We'll do this together."

There's something about knowing someone will walk with you and hold you up as you work through something that requires all your concentration and effort just to move forward an inch. But Therapist was telling me I didn't need him anymore. He was a sounding board, he said, but I was doing all the work myself. I'm certain that what he meant was, "Sam, you're amazing. Look how far you've come and look at what you're doing now! Congratulations!" What I heard was, "You're on your own. Best of luck to you. Let me know how things turn out. If you remember."

I was hearing similar messages from people, including Darrin, who had previously lent me the confidence to feel I could attempt anything because if I failed, they would be there to help me pick up the pieces. Now it felt like I would disintegrate and rather than having someone giving aid as I put myself together, I would have a distant cheering section applauding as I lay helpless, urging me to get up and do something while I bled to death.

That was what I heard. There is no doubt that the intention behind their words was something completely different. And the result is that my sense of loneliness and isolation increased to the point that I felt completely immobile and incapable of changing anything about my situation.

Well-meaning people inquired as to whether I was doing better. At first I tried to express what was happening, but I didn't have the words and I was already anticipating the negative response I might receive. Eventually, I just said things were going really well. As they had promised I could feel pain again (yay), and I was rallying, blah, blah, blah. Lies, of course.

One can only do that for so long before the truth makes itself known. Two weeks ago my husband pointed out a raised bruise as large as my fist just above my knee and asked what happened. I didn't know. About the same time, Tabitha watched me remove a sheet of cookies from the oven without potholders. Alarmed, she asked if I was okay. I had no idea what she was talking about until she turned on the cold water and pulled my blistering hands beneath the stream. Then I remembered I'm supposed to use pot holders when I do that.

So today I'm admitting that the work I've done since May has been ineffectual. I remain feeling isolated. And I'm still very, very tired. My stress level has increased to the point that my blood pressure is unmanageable even with my medication, I have no health insurance to get an evaluation and change the medication, and given that we're living on one salary (mine) right now, it is not in the budget to pay for such a visit.

On top of this, I am battling untrue beliefs that feel thoroughly real. I should know that Therapist would help me at any time, but the untrue belief that I'm buying into says that he doesn't really want to work with me anymore. It's been more than a decade. Any sane person would be fixed by now. He's tired of me, of my relapses, of my inability to get better. He wants me to go away.

Similar feelings permeate all my current relationships, sapping me of the strength to work on and build those relationships, and robbing me of the joy I used to feel within those. The result, of course, is that my ability to respond with appropriate emotion, to bond, to express deep feeling - all those have become muted to the point that I'm uncertain they're even whispering anymore.

So what is left is grim determination. It allows me to continue to interact with people when my brain says I should - to answer appropriately when they speak or text or email - to "Like" or respond to a Facebook post, or post a link, article or video on someone else's timeline. I'm listening to my brain because my heart is telling me to get the hell out of Dodge.

And I'm laughing as I write this: At this juncture, I really need you to love me for my brain. It's pretty much all I have left.

“Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.” ~Jane Austin

A couple of years ago I noticed that my support base was shrinking. This was not unexpected. Indeed, I saw it coming even before the support base was established. It was one reason I hesitated to accept help from people in the beginning. But then I thought maybe it would be good for me to learn to trust people. Therapist helped me by assigning projects that would cause me to bond with them. I never did learn to trust all the way, but there were days when I felt certain I could trust some of the people in my life. That feeling didn't ever stay, but it was nice when it was there.

When those closest to me became more intricately involved in their own lives, it became necessary for them to stop being with me as often. This was part of the plan. I fully expected that as I continued with therapy my need for support would decrease. The timing of that would, of course, coincide with my support base's need to move their attention away from me. But life rarely follows my plans.

What I didn't know was that I would have a number of hurdles that would impede my therapeutic processes. I didn't know that while I would, indeed, grow stronger, my life would become more unmanageable and stressful. So as expected, the support people grew away from me, but I needed them even more. This is no one's fault. It's just what happened.

I spoke to Therapist about this a year ago. I was feeling desperately alone and there seemed to be no one left to turn to. There was a great deal of silence when I reached out to people. Therapist asked, "Does the silence feel like abandonment?" I thought about it for a moment. "No," I said, "It feels punitive." Therapist said, "Do you think that's the intent of your support people?"

Of course it's not. Certainly, if I asked about it, everyone in my life would simply let me know they got busy or were just not able to talk to me when asked - for many different reasons. And it would all be logical and true. Which does not change the fact that it feels like I'm being punished and I don't know what I did wrong.

In my head I hear people reminding me that I'm allowed to contact them if I need to talk. I weigh that against the silence. Silence speaks louder.

Therapist asked me what my support people might say if I told them the lack of response feels punitive. I waited a moment, pretending to think. I knew what I was supposed to say. Finally, I said it, "No doubt they would feel badly that our timing didn't match. They'd try to make time for me later. They would be reassuring about caring for me."

That was kind of the end of it.

Except not really. Because I don't believe anything I said in that last part. I mean, I believe it would happen, but I also believe that the reassurance would stem from feeling awkward because I asked the forbidden question. You're not supposed to ask why people disappear. You're just supposed to accept that it's happening, stop feeling sorry for yourself, buck up and ignore the PTSD. It's not nice to be intrusive. It's not allowed to ask people where they have gone. Because if they've become scarce, there is a very good reason for it. They'll tell you all the good reasons if you overstep the bounds of propriety and actually ask.

What I hear, though, is this, "Sam, you used to be important to me (or entertaining or somewhat interesting). So we pretended to be close. You told me things about your life, and I shared things about mine. But now my life is changing and I really don't want to share with you anymore. So I'm busy. Really busy. And sometimes I think about you, but then I get busy again. You understand, right?"

I do, yes.

And it feels punitive, I suppose, because somewhere along the line I did something wrong. That's how it worked when I was growing up. If you're "good," the people in charge will be nice and care about you a little bit. And if you're not, probably they don't have time for you anymore. They're busy.

Therapist would tell me the support people in my life are not "in charge." He would say they really aren't in the business of emotional blackmail, and probably the last thing they intend is for me to feel that they're punishing me. But this is a sticking point for me. It's why I've never before cultivated close relationships. I understand that I'm broken. I know that I'm wrong. I also do not know how to stop feeling the way that I do about this situation.

And the weirdest thing is that there is a very large part of me that is really happy that they're busy being in love, and having families, and working, and living their lives. I want that for them. I support that with all my energy. But somewhere in the background is a tiny bit of Samantha who wonders why she's in time out, while at the same time understanding that she's completely wrong about that.

I'm sort of tired of being wrong. I'm really tired of feeling anything. And I have a great deal of work to do before Monday. It's good to be busy.

Sometimes there are just really bad days.

"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.