Love Lists: Day One

Quirky Things I Love:

1. Post-it Notes. Especially ones in fun colors or shapes. But I use the large lined ones the most.

2. Pens with ink of unusual colors. Only fine point. And I hate it when they stop writing a day after purchase.

3. Movies so awful that I giggle all the way through them. Topping my list currently: Season of the Witch.

4. Salt on my grapefruit.

5. Preparing tax returns for my clients. Because if they get a refund I'm very excited that I was able to help with that, and if they owe money I'm grateful it's not me.

6. Driving in the snow. Notice I did not say driving on ice, which is another thing altogether.

7. Riding backwards on a horse. I haven't done this for years, but for whatever reason, I'd much rather see where I've been than where I'm going. And yes, I know this means that I have no control whatever over my mount. Please note how unconcerned I am.

8. Frogs and salamanders. Because they have perpetual smiles and no teeth--kind of like happy babies.

9. This online game. I'm not good at it. I keep starting over. But it makes me laugh. Also, Morcai sends me gifts and toilet papers my campsite and throws bricks at me, and I have no idea how to reciprocate or retaliate, which also makes me laugh but probably makes him think I'm ungrateful or ignoring him. And then I laugh some more because I love this stupid game which I have no idea how to play.

10. Sitting in silence with people I love. I'm listening to the sounds they make when they're not talking. I'm sorting through what I feel when I'm with them. I'm seeing beyond what they look like, understanding how they change my world, breathing them in. I'm allowing them to touch my heart and soul.

Moving On

I have difficulty with this. I get caught up in moments and pictures and feelings and people. Therapist says it has to do with dissociation. People who move forward, or "move on" in a healthy way are able to process events, feelings, and experiences, grieve when necessary, let go, and look forward to future events. My habit has been simply to cut off and leave behind when circumstances have required me to release a person or period of life.

The problem with such a habit is that I delude myself that events did not happen or a person ceases to exist. Therapist says we need memories. They help us learn. They define who we are and what we believe. They provide closure and nostalgia, both of which bring us peace. They catapult us into the next "thing" and help us feel anticipation for future events. They are a frame of reference we need in order to cope socially and emotionally.

I notice people doing that "move on" thing all the time. And if I'm honest, I don't understand it. In my muddled brain, they're losing something valuable, something that should be nourished and kept close. I have no idea what it is that constitutes the loss, nor what I think they ought to be keeping vital and fresh in their lives. I'm just talking about what my feelings communicate.

Therapist says I feel exaggerated pain in circumstances that might cause another person to feel mild discomfort. I don't possess the necessary background and coping tools most people learn in childhood. However, I'm also savvy enough to recognize that my feelings do not align with the norm, I understand that makes people feel uncomfortable, and so I mask or discard those feelings rather than honoring them and working through them.

While I understand Therapist's words, and I know they are supposed to be helpful, inside me I feel this simply confirms one more way I fail at life. That doesn't mean I'll give up, nor does it mean I'm pouting. I guess I'm just tired of trying to accommodate social norms. And sometimes I think it should be okay if I have a temper tantrum when relationships go awry, or I feel abandoned or betrayed. I try to convince myself that I don't really care if my feelings or behaviors make others uncomfortable and I fantasize that there is someone in the world who will take me as I am, not be weirded out if I love deeply, speak honestly about what I feel (even when it's completely out of whack), sometimes become insecure, wish for frequent hugs, and scream when I'm frustrated.

Conforming does not come easily to me.

And since I can't seem to resolve this issue right this moment, I'm going to say this: I don't care if you think I'm odd or maladjusted or a freak of nature. I'm pretty sure you can't play Chopin like I can.

The End.

"If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all." ~Oscar Wilde

I have an extremely bright young piano student named Annie. She's eight years old. I've been friends with her family for many years (her father graduated high school a few years before I did and his little sister and I have been wonderful friends since junior high). Annie's parents had an unexpected emergency yesterday afternoon and called to ask if they could pick her up from her lesson a little bit late. I like Annie so I had no problem with that.

When Annie was six, she arrived at her lesson one day and proudly informed me that she was reading chapter books. I keep a number of picture books in my studio because I like them and they fill time for students, especially siblings who come together, who are waiting for a lesson, or a ride, or whatever. Annie let me know that those books were much too easy for her and she would be bringing her own reading material from that day on. I told her I thought that was a very good idea.

Yesterday, however, Annie had forgotten to bring a book and I was trying to prep dinner while waiting for my next student. It was clear that Annie was bored. Adam walked into my studio carrying a picture book. He said, "I think you'll like this book." She looked at it. I could tell she wanted to read it--but it was "for little kids." I said, "Why don't you just look through it a little while I finish up."

Annie plopped down on the love seat and opened the book. Soon I heard her giggling. I looked over at her just as she looked up at me, "I LOVE this book!" she said. I answered, "It's always been one of my favorites. I loved it when I was your age--and when I was younger." 

Annie's eyes widened and she said, "This is an OLD book."

Well, I can't argue with that. Harold and the Purple Crayon was around when my parents were kids. I said, "You know, some books are favorites for years and years."

Annie asked me, "Do you still read it?" I said, "Not for awhile, probably." She answered me, "You need to read it again. I'm going to read it again right now, and then, when I get home, I'm going to ask my mom to get this book and read it to my brother and sister."

Annie's brother and sister are eighteen and sixteen years old. I nodded and very seriously agreed that that was the best idea I'd heard in a long time. Shortly afterward, Annie's father came to claim her. She wasn't quite finished with her third read-through. I told her I'd leave the book in my studio so she could see it next time. She very reluctantly put down the book and went home. 

I knew I had a student coming and dinner to prepare--and afterward, a couple of hours of work--but I sat down in Annie's place, picked up the book and read Harold one more time. I lingered over the drawings and the clever humor, and when I was finished, I read it once again. 

I left the book on the love seat in my studio and went to the kitchen to finish dinner. Later, when I went upstairs to lock up for the night, I caught Adam sitting where I had left the book, reading as Annie and I had, hours earlier. He looked up at me, grinned, and said, "I love this book."

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be--
I had a Mother who read to me.   --Strickland Gillilan

"Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, ...everything invites me to cherish it." ~Ninon de Lenclos

Last July, the morning after Tabitha attempted to take her life, I awoke at 4:00 a.m. This is not unusual for me. Everyone else was still sleeping. Tabitha was in the hospital. I was lonely and scared and more sad than I had ever been before.

My father had undergone some surgery two days previously. He had come home from the hospital the night before. I decided to visit him. 

I have a key to my parents' home. I walked to their house and went inside. My dad was asleep in his recliner. I sat in the rocker next to my father. I wanted to talk to him, to ask him to tell me Tabitha would be okay and that I wasn't some sort of horrible failure parent. I wanted him to tell me he loved me.

Instead I wept silently, watching him sleep.

I thought about how much I love my father; how much I enjoy working with him; how, when we're together, we can talk about anything and end up feeling lighter; how we love to laugh. I thought about the things he taught me and how sometimes he made mistakes. I thought about how grateful I am that he's my dad.

Then I wondered if anyone felt the same depth of feeling for me. I wondered if I was loved. I wondered if anyone in the world was grateful I was alive. I decided maybe there was someone, I just was too tired to think of who that might be. I wished with all my heart that whomever it was would tell me because in that moment I felt completely alone. I felt I had no value. I thought about waking my dad and asking for a hug but couldn't bring myself to interrupt his healing sleep.

Then I went home and wandered about my house, wondering what to do next.

I've not been able to write about this until now. Six months later I can finally talk of when I felt that every part of myself was being used up, when I was certain I would never smile again, when I was so exhausted that I was certain one morning I would be too tired to awake and I welcomed that moment.

I think there are others who have felt depleted as I was, who wish for hugs and comforting words and rest, who yearn to be told they're loved and needed and appreciated. Today I still have moments when I'm scared and sad. I still wonder if all my parenting efforts were pointless because I failed anyway. And sometimes I'm unsure how anyone can possibly love me.

If you are one who has felt as I have, or who currently experiences such feelings, you're not alone. I don't know you, but I pray for you every night. I ask that you, as well as I, will have continued strength, that we won't give up, that we'll think about each other and remember that everyone experiences sadness and hard times. I pray that those who visit my blog will remember to hug those they love, to spend time with the people who need them, and cherish moments of beauty and joy. 

Remember that I'm thinking about you and sending enormous wishes and prayers that your load will be lightened.

To those who have emailed me privately:  Sometimes I don't check my email account, especially when I'm feeling overwhelmed and stressed, so I didn't read what you sent until long after it was written. But I can't thank you enough for your words. I needed them then. I need them now. I wish I could hug each of you. 

"Getting an inch of snow is like winning ten cents in the lottery." ~Bill Watterson

With apologies to the truckers and travelers stranded in our small town because of road closures: The snowfall today is lovely; large flakes floating to the ground instead of being blown by our usual winter wind into the next community. Tomorrow when it has accumulated to the point that driving is hazardous and walking is, as well, I won't love it so much, but today I do. Instead of working as I should, I've been gazing out my window. I can't stop watching it.

I have no motivation on days like today. I want to grab an old book--one that's dog-eared with well-worn pages, a story about heroes and villains where good always triumphs and sometimes people fall in love--and sit in a warm and quiet place where no one can find me, reading until the story is finished and my body insists that I get up and move. I want to drink hot chocolate and watch old movies. I want to draw pictures and then laugh because my skills are lamentable and my drawings never look like anything at all. And sometimes, on days like today, I wish I had a cat.

I took a trip to the hospital Friday because Adam and I decided it was a good day to have flu shots. I've never had one before, but lots of people are getting sick and I don't really want to spend time on that. So I rounded up Adam and after forty-five minutes of going places where we were told they had no more vaccine, we finally found a place that still had some. Our nurse was an older lady, a veteran at giving painless shots and neither Adam nor I bled at all.

But then I had a reaction to the shot and ended up in the hospital for a day and a half, where I was poked and prodded and tested and retested and I don't think I slept more than three hours the whole time I was there. I was released Saturday night. I spent yesterday doing nothing but sleeping and resting. Seriously, the hospital crap was worse than the reaction to the shot.

So today I'm back to my regular routine (except I should be working and I'm not). Probably I won't get another flu shot in my lifetime.

I feel diminished lately. In my head there are so many things happening to me that are sad or difficult or painful. But I feel I must not speak of those things. People don't like to hear about the bad stuff and they like me better when I'm capable and happy. I am profoundly affected by the things that cause me distress. Each time I approach talking about them I hear these words going around in my brain: "You talk about yourself way too much. You assume people want to know or that they care. It would be more appropriate to keep these things to yourself, and if you must talk about them, you have a therapist whom you pay to listen. If you keep sharing the things that hurt you, pretty soon there will be no one left to talk to. Everyone you thought cared about you will disappear. They have their own loads to carry."

When I told Darrin about this a few months ago, he asked me, "Sam, what do you want?"

What do I want?

I think I'm the one who doesn't want to listen. I'm the one who wants to leave me behind. I'm the person who feels that my load is too heavy.

What do I want?

I want a day without sadness and ugliness smudging my thoughts and feelings.

I want to run--real running--outside, under the sun and sky--again.

I want to turn back time so I can protect my daughter from dangers I didn't know existed--dangers that should not have exited.

I want to be warm.

I want people to love me, knowing it's not dangerous, understanding that there's no need to worry about inappropriate reciprocation from me--that's just not who I am or how I work.

I want to be able to recover from my mistakes, to watch cartoons on Saturday morning, to eat chocolate chip cookies.

I want to excel at my occupation, to play Chopin and Scarlatti, to have new carpet.

I want to hug my kids, make love with my husband, lie on the grass next to a friend who will make cloud pictures with me as we look at the sky.

Today though, for a few minutes more, I think I'll watch the snow. One must participate in such peaceful beauty, even if it means only being a spectator.

"...it is just as important to sing about beautiful mornings as it is to talk about slums." --Oscar Hammerstein II

A couple of weeks ago I sat behind my parents in church. I saw my mother whisper something to my father. He smiled, she giggled, and I thought how glad I am to be their daughter.

And then I cried because I no longer feel even a tiny bit of resentment toward my mother. There is great relief when one can release resentment and anger.

I will never say that my experience with abuse has made me a better person. It hasn't. Nor has it made me a stronger person. It has complicated my life with coping mechanisms which harm me as much or more than the abuse. Abuse has crippled my ability to understand nuances within relationships, to believe that I can and should receive love and kindness, to think of myself as beautiful and delightful. Every day I work to separate what was said and done to me from what is true of me. And once I find that truth, the next task is learning to believe it. If I am a person who has goodness and strength, it is not because I am a survivor of abuse. It is because I chose to become that person.

However, I have also written of the positive things I received from my mother. For a long time I wished to disregard those, to paint her as completely evil. One day I realized that if I search for truth, I must embrace all of it. And when I looked more deeply, I recognized that my mother was not evil but someone reacting to a life she was ill-equipped to manage.

I believe it's important for me to draw this conclusion. For as long as I live, I carry a part of my mother with me. I choose to love that part of me--to believe I inherited the most beautiful parts of her.

During the past few years there has been a great deal of turmoil and stress in my life. My reactions have often been to seek sympathy and support rather than draw upon my own strength. Sometimes this was appropriate because when I became depleted emotionally, I needed help. But other times it just seemed easier when I measured that route against the effort necessary to establish equilibrium myself. I'm not proud of those moments but I have to admit to deep gratitude when I realize that even then I had people in my life who were willing to spend the time necessary to lend love and uplift me.

Recognizing that, ultimately, I am responsible for choosing joy over despair does not always make me happy.  But just as I recognize bad and good within my mother, I also recognize it within my life. I've been feeling overwhelmed by the "bad" and refusing to see anything "good". I've allowed myself moments when I felt victimized by circumstances beyond my control. I've felt that I was too sad to find happiness.

Fortunately, finding happiness isn't really an option for me. If I wait long enough it eventually catches up with me. It is unavoidable.

Today I feel that happiness approaching. It's still far off. I've been running away from it for a long time and it won't overtake me right away, but I know it's coming. There are recent moments when I'm caught off-guard when I forget to be lonely and sad and overwhelmed. I find myself giggling at things no other sane person would find funny. I'm more interested in the people around me. Sometimes I find myself anticipating an upcoming event--even if it's something as mundane as dinner with my family. All of these are signs that I'm no longer avoiding the inevitable outcome and when I'm least expecting it, happiness will find me.

I believe I'll help it along a bit. It's time for me to look around more and see the Beautiful. I need to wake with a smile, grateful for another day and so glad to be Samantha. Soon I believe I'll love more, trust more, and share more of who I am and who I want to become with those who wish to be in my life.

The Happy is coming. I can feel it.

"I first learned the concepts of non-violence in my marriage." ~Mahatma Gandhi

I hate folding laundry.

Actually, that's not really true. I don't mind folding it at all. But the genius who designed my house placed the washer and dryer in the basement bathroom which is a half-bathroom (tiny). What this means is that there is very little room in the bathroom for anything else and the dryer lint coats everything when the steam from the shower begins to fill the room (which, given the size of the room, takes about a nanosecond). It also means that I have to put the clean laundry on the bed in the adjacent bedroom or on a couch in my family room. This would not be a problem if I could plan when laundry was washed, but Darrin is a machine savant (meaning he has to run every machine possible whenever he is home) and puts random loads of laundry through the machines without consulting with me. Again, this would not be a problem if Darrin was also a fold-and-put-away savant--which he is not.

Consequently, there is a perpetual pile of laundry in my family room. Always. I am not a person who deals with piles in a positive way. I hate them. Darrin loves them.

I have a friend who believes couples have complimentary traits which bring them together. He also believes one part of a couple is usually prone to neatness, while the other is not. I disagree with this theory. Darrin is not messy. He just likes piles. I also blame traditional domestic roles in our society because, as much as he would protest that he's a modern man and does his share of the housework, this is a foolish imagining on his part.

There are certain things I have never seen Darrin do (and if I ask him to do these chores, he looks as if I've requested that he create his own planet and solar system and suddenly has a number of pressing tasks that must be done in the next hour):

1. Clean the toilet. I have no idea why this is so difficult for him. You put in the cleaner, scrub it around with a brush, wipe down the surfaces, and flush. And given that we all have good aim and the surfaces have nothing on them to cause squeamishness, I see no reason why this task bothers Darrin.

2. Dust. This one gets to me, as well, but not because I dislike doing it. Our current home has those lovely popcorn textured ceilings and they're old enough that they constantly shower down very fine particles. This means that fifteen minutes after dusting, it's time to do it again. That's frustrating. However, this is not Darrin's problem with dusting. When I ask for help with it, he looks uncomfortable and squirmy, then says, "I really don't know how to do that." This causes me to have a very slight seizure while I process what he's just said, and when I explain that there's nothing to it, you just have to take a cloth dampened with dust spray and wipe down the furniture, he then says, "I don't know what kind of cloth to use." The conversation, when we had been married fewer than five years, would then become lengthy. Now I just say, "You don't want to do it." And he says, "Yeah."

3. Mop. This is a chore I actually don't mind. You sweep the floor, fill a bucket (easily located in its special place) with hot, soapy water, and swish it around the floor with a mop (also easily found in its special place) giving special attention to any spots that might need it. When I explain this to Darrin, he looks very confused and says, "Where is the bucket, again?" By the time he has failed thrice, to find the mop (hanging on the hooks he, himself, put up for that tool), I understand that while Darrin might mop the floor that day, it's going to take him at least five hours to do so.

There are other chores (such as the aforementioned folding and putting away of laundry), but when I try to have a discussion about equal labor and how both of us work and how it's unfair of him to expect me to do the bulk of the housework, Darrin reminds me that when the toilet or sink is clogged, he is the one who goes digging for the culprit. He reminds me that he has done the past 1,000,000 oil changes and maintenance on our vehicles, he is the one who fixes the lawn mower (several times) every year, and that he tries to make certain that the snow is always shoveled from our walks in winter. He says he's the only one who trims the hedges (because I don't want them trimmed--I like them HUGE), and that he fixes whatever is broken in our house. And he reminds me that, while he might not volunteer for a few jobs, neither does he expect me to do them--which is true. He doesn't. But it is also true that his method of just leaving the jobs undone is not really acceptable.

Darrin says I just don't always understand how he thinks. I believe this is a catch-phrase for: I don't want to talk about this anymore and I have no plans to do things differently so may I go eat ice cream now?

I suppose there are worse things than having to do more housework than I wish, but this morning, as I sit looking at a mountain of unfolded laundry, and notice the cobwebs and accumulated dust on my shelves and electronic devices, I'm wondering how evil I would be to interrupt Darrin's sleep-in. And as I'm pondering that thought rather seriously, I'm also thinking that perhaps now would be a very good time to go to the gym. Darrin will thank me later. He's very gracious when I let him sleep.

I haven't written here for a few days because I want to write something uplifting or fun or happy. But the truth is, given my current situation, that's probably asking a little bit too much. Tonight I am too sad for sleep. I believe tomorrow will be better. Always, I believe that.

There is so much on my mind but I feel I can speak of none of it. Darrin is too close to everything and he's sorting through his own emotions. Daily I speak with Adam, trying to help him understand how to manage his anger and frustration related to Tabitha's situation. While I'm grateful he feels he can come to me, it adds to my stress because I must listen but I cannot express what I'm feeling. 

...what I'm feeling...

A couple of years ago my PTSD symptoms increased to the point that I was experiencing a severe phobia to touch. My reaction was that I would become nauseated--sometimes to the point of vomiting. It was rather horrible and there were all sorts of neurotic side-effects of the phobia which affected my relationships and how I viewed myself. Fortunately, it didn't last forever and I didn't go insane even though I thought I would.

A couple of months ago I began experiencing the opposite of the phobia. I became clingy. I constantly wanted a hand to hold or to be cuddled. I was always touching the person next to me. I became dependent to the point that only physical touch could assuage my panic and distress. This condition has not changed. I refuse, however, to be that person--the one everyone runs from because they always want to hug or they sit too close or they're always in some sort of physical contact with the person nearest them. I will not be that.

But I have to say, it makes me feel slightly monstrous. To wish so deeply for someone I love to hold me is not wrong; but I wish for it all the time. It distracts me. I visited with friends and family before Christmas and I found myself planning in advance how I would not be physically near anyone so as not to embarrass myself.  I was defiantly, obstinately certain that I would not require touch from anyone. And I worked very hard to convince myself that I don't need touch of any kind--this is simply a PTSD thing and it will pass.

After about three days of this, I found myself sitting on a bed in the guest room where I was staying, willing the intense panic attack I was experiencing to just go away. It didn't. And I was mortified when my host discovered me there, stressed out of my mind, crying and shaking, and just generally being stupid. But I didn't throw up. See--there's a silver lining to everything.

I realized last week that I'm still doing that "I don't need anyone to touch me" thing. I also realized that this state of being is as extreme as the touch phobia was. And I'm finally accepting that there's a good chance I won't ever understand how to manage the feelings I have about touch because I have never been taught what is appropriate. And my experience with touch as a teen was violent and unhealthy.

I'm trying to decide what's best. No one ever died of wishing someone would hug them. If I needed touch from a loved one and it was denied (which is completely legitimate--touch should not happen out of obligation, but because both parties wish for it), I believe I would feel hurt to the point that I would not approach anyone again.

I'm not sure what I'm saying. I only know that this problem has escalated to the point where I'm not sleeping because all I want to do is cuddle with Darrin--and that really does disturb his sleep.

This is stupid, yes?

Therapist says it would be unnatural for me not to have bad days sometimes. Today is a bad day.

Therapist says having bad days does not make me a bad person. I'm having a difficult time believing that one.

Tabitha is having a bad day in a string of bad days. The decision of whether or not to pursue any kind of action regarding my brother's molestation of Tabitha has been left to her. This is a no-win situation. If Tabitha chooses to let the matter rest, she wonders whether there are other children who have been treated as she was--whether my brother molests his own children. She wonders if she has a responsibility to take some sort of action to protect others from her uncle. And she feels unsafe still.

If she presses charges, Tabitha will deal with members of my family who are not known for being understanding or neutral. There will be a great deal of talk and probably some recruiting. She will be accused of lying. Tabitha wonders if it's worth the probable negativity. She wonders if she's strong enough to hear what will be said about her. She wonders who will love her when the dust settles.

This is not a decision a 17-year-old should have to make. And I cannot help her.

I keep thinking things will get better, and probably they already have, I'm just distracted by what is happening now. I keep thinking that someday I'll be able to laugh again, that I won't be cold all the time, that I won't feel the impulse to tell people I love to run away before whatever it is that has me trapped in sadness pulls them in, as well.

Therapist says I need to spend time with people. He says I'll feel better, less alone, more supported. I asked him, if he were experiencing what I am, if he'd be willing to seek out people and spend time with them. Therapist told me that if he had experienced what I've been through in the last 18 months, he's pretty sure he'd have been hospitalized at least once and he's not sure he would be functional anymore. I told him that's not helpful. No, he said, but it's honest. He told me I am very strong. I told him I'm so very tired of being strong.

And now I have to go to the store. We need eggs.

This afternoon I experienced my first "alone time" in three weeks. For someone like me, that's an eternity.

I've been thinking a lot. I'm tired of being beaten down. And while I'm not saying my life is more difficult than any other, I'm tired.

My brother called me tonight. I believe it's been about three years since he's spoken to me. I couldn't help feeling the irony as I gave one of my dessert recipes to the brother who molested my daughter. My life seems sick and wrong and I can't help but feel that it permeates my soul.

Is this how life is supposed to be?

I cannot remember a time in my life when I have not longed for beauty. I wanted to have it in my life and I wanted to reflect it back to every person I met. It felt as necessary to my well-being as breathing. Now I'm struggling to find it.

I would like to give up. I feel useless and unnecessary. It would be nice to stop hurting for awhile.

However, it is not in my nature to stop trying.

And so I will continue to remember moments that make me who I am...

-singing "The Wheels on the Bus" with my two-year-old nephew
-shopping for blueberries with my niece
-giggling with Tabitha
-walking in the sunshine filled air, laden with sparkling crystals--as if I live in a recently shaken snow globe
-smiling at strangers
-waiting for friends to interrupt my work so we can chat online
-beginning each morning and ending each day with family prayer
-making music
-laughing at nothing just because I want to laugh
-remembering treasured moments with people I love
-being startled by my ringtone because even though I love hearing Cookie Monster sing his song, when it comes out of nowhere and I'm alone, it's a little bit scary
-watching each sunrise and sunset and wishing I could package the moment and send it to someone who would love to share it with me
-dancing in my kitchen
-singing random songs
-watching very old movies
-smelling the roses in the floral department
-dreaming of spring
-lying in a patch of sunshine on my living room floor
-reading a very good book
-wishing for hugs from people I love
-searching for my Wonder Woman boots...

For now, this is enough.

"Our choices in life are made according to our sense of our own worth." Kaylan Pickford

Tabitha gave me a new bathrobe for Christmas. She's been telling me for years that my former one was "so big you can swim in it, Mom, and not soft enough for someone like you." I'm not sure what the last part means, but she's right--my former robe was one I stole from Darrin years ago when he left for the summer to work in New York. It smelled like him and made me miss him less. I've been balking at replacement because:
1. I rarely wear my bathrobe.
2. I like the association with Darrin.
3. I didn't feel a need for a new one.

However, my new robe is soft and very warm, and since it was made for someone my size I don't have to keep tightening the belt to keep it from falling off. The old bathrobe was made of heavy terry cloth. The sleeves were cavernous and I could wrap the robe around me twice. Most annoying was the tag at the back of the neck which chafed. I would fold down the neckline so the tag faced outward to avoid the rough tag, which made the robe even more ungainly.

When Tabitha would say, "Mom, you need a new bathrobe," I would remind her that I have a bathrobe, and I was unhappy with spending fifty dollars for something I wear about 15 minutes daily. Her reply was that I could shop around, find one on sale, spend less, and find something more comfortable that wasn't enormous on me and was less ugly. I'd mumble something about replacing the robe when it wore out. She'd counter with the fact that something as hideous and huge as my bathrobe would never wear out. She's probably right.  And when I finally wore the new robe for the first time I felt completely silly for waiting so long to find something that fit and felt better.

I have a number of uncomfortable habits and coping devices I've been holding onto for many years. I keep them around because change requires investment of time and sometimes money--and I don't know if the result will be any better than what I currently have. For a time, those habits brought me comfort when I had no other options. In my head, I hear Tabitha saying, "Mom, you need new ways to deal with things--some that will fit better and feel better in the long run."

And she's right. It's time for me to make some changes. My fear is that when I do, I'll end up more stressed and less able to cope with life, and ultimately more lonely and sad. But the truth is that the end result will probably be more like this lovely new bathrobe--softer, more comfortable, warmer, and tailored to fit who I really am.

I realized as I discarded the old robe that it's incredibly heavy. I would wear it only briefly because of the discomfort it gave me, and it ceased reminding me of Darrin long ago--which is good because Darrin is here with me now and I don't really need a reminder of him. There is nothing I miss about that old raggedy thing I've clung to for so many years.

Once again, I feel silly.

So I will begin with just one change for the better. I made a list of habits and disorders that need work when I last visited with Therapist, and we came up with some healthy strategies to loosen their hold on me a little at a time. When I got home I felt overwhelmed with trying to stick to the list we made, so I'm releasing the list and choosing one thing only. When I'm able to successfully do that one thing, I'll add the next item and I'll keep doing this until I've made it successfully to the end of our list because I'm tired of wearing the old, heavy, worn-out habits. It's time for something new--something better. And Tabitha would remind me, as so many other loved ones have, that I'm worth the cost because I'm someone wonderful.

And now I will shed this lovely new bathrobe so I can go to the gym and work up a sweat. Lounging time is over.

"...comfort was allowed to come to them...rare, welcome, unsought; a gift like joy." ~Ursula LeGuin

I am spending limited time online for the next little while. I'll be working online, of course, and checking email periodically. And I can't allow Scrabble games to lapse. :)

I am overwhelmed. I spent a very lovely Christmas yesterday with my family. It should have been idyllic. Instead, for me, it was a bit nightmarish. I spent the day fighting panic attacks, unexpected bouts of tears, and trying to manage pain. As a result, I put myself to bed for "naps" throughout the day. I wasn't actually sleeping, but trying to gather myself so that I could go back and be with my family. It was frustrating. My daughter is here for the first time in four months and I'm falling apart because I'm not managing any part of my life successfully.

Except for this one, I've closed all my blogs for a short time. It's not helpful right now to write about the things that are troubling me. It's not helpful to do anything, actually. I just want to get through the holiday, allow Tabitha to enjoy her time at home, and move on.

My father is fatalistic. He takes no position on whether or not my brother abused my daughter. Instead he says he loves them both. He's supportive of Tabitha and concerned that she receive help and healing. He is, as I am, waiting to see what my brother's reaction will be when DFS contacts him in a week. Above all, my father wants to wait as long as possible (forever, would be his choice) before my mother is told. He believes that with her now non-existent social boundaries, coupled with the emotional stress the information will bring, she will talk about the situation on Facebook, with strangers, nonstop in her home, in email and chat messages--in short, there will be no privacy for either Tabitha or my brother.

I have talked about the situation with a few trusted people, some of whom have access to Tabitha when we visit her. I have spoken to no family members other than my father. This does not include my sons. Adam is having a terrible time dealing with the information. He has always looked up to my brother and people have sometimes told Adam he is like his uncle. For the record--he is not. Regardless, I'm watching my sweet son struggle with a great deal of stress. He adores his sister, but he wants to disbelieve her which makes him feel disloyal. I wish I knew how to help him.

In the meantime, I'm not sleeping again even with medication. I received a cryptic message from my cousin, Jeff, in response to my "Merry Christmas" text. It made no sense and contained the words, "I'm so very sorry. Good-bye."

I texted back a question, "What does that mean? I'm not sure what you're telling me." Then I ignored it. He sent no reply.

I can't play games with him. If he needs help, I'm here. But communication such as his last one causes me a great deal of stress and I don't have energy to decode or guess what he needs. It's all I can do to figure out what I need.

Today I will finish work. Adam and Tabitha (and maybe even Darrin) will join me for an hour at the gym. Then I am going to clean up the Christmas joy spread all over my living room and kitchen, make something fun to eat with Tabitha, read some of the new book I received for Christmas, and work my tail off to get out of this funk I'm in.

It's really difficult, and I'll be honest: All I really want to do is lay in my bed and cry because I don't know how to manage all the scary, awful, things in my head. I won't--but I want to.

In the meantime, if you're someone who reads this blog, regularly or occasionally, send me good thoughts. I'll get through this, of course, because that's what I do, but I can use all the help sent my way. And feel free to let me know if I can do the same for you. I don't have a great deal to give, but I'd love to send a smile and a prayer your way.

"With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in..." --Abraham Lincoln

Tabitha is home for about a week. I'm so glad. I cannot imagine spending Christmas without her. Today she'll help me go through her clothing to give away the things she has outgrown or no longer wishes to wear. We'll decorate the tree and make dinner. And we'll play games with Darrin and Adam and DJ. All this will happen to the tune of carols we've listened to year after year.

In just over two weeks I will become a guinea pig as my doctor tries to decide if my tendon and leg can be salvaged and mended. I'm anxious to get on with it. I want an answer. I'll participate in an experimental study and I'm very hopeful that by May I'll be running again.

Darrin and I are planning mega travel in June. If all goes well, we'll be seeing family and friends and we've even reserved a romantic night in San Francisco for just the two of us. This was our Christmas gift from Adam and DJ. I love my sons.

I passed my IRS exam yesterday. It was two hours of boring questions about tax preparation, deductions, investments, IRA and other retirement plan distributions, and ethics. I've been studying for about four weeks--which is the amount of time that's passed since I decided maybe I wouldn't retire my tax preparer shingle. I'll admit, I was worried I wouldn't pass. I've had difficulty concentrating, and watching my performance at my last job decline to the point that my contract was not renewed was not good for my self-confidence. But I'm doing better, and clearly I know what I'm doing in the tax prep industry. This is a good thing.

Tabitha gave us an unexpected early Christmas gift a couple of days ago. She admitted that she was a victim of sexual molestation. She believes it happened between the ages of 6-8 years. This information explains so many things pertaining to her behavior over the past decade. It also contributes to her anxiety disorder and helps explain why the bullying at school affected her so drastically. We're grateful that she'll be able to work on a core issue and perhaps heal from many of the other things that have been bothering her.

The down side: the perpetrator named is my brother.

Some day, I would like to spend a day resting--really resting. And I would love to have a whole day when my guts can relax and I can smile with my whole being.

This post will be ambiguous, maybe. If it seems that way, it's probably because the things I'm discussing are still a bit unclear to me, or I haven't yet made up my mind how I feel about them. So this might be a post to be skipped--it's not really fun and the purpose is to help me understand some things, to resolve some feelings, and to lay some parts of my life to rest.

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, life turns you upside down. Lately it seems that just when I've righted myself, Life tips me over again. Perhaps the solution is to stay overturned. Then when Life drops the bomb on you, you end up right side up because you were previously upside down. Not sure how all that would work, but I would really like to stop getting hit when I least expect it.

Sometimes a person shares sweetly vulnerable, intense feelings with another trusted individual--not because they wish for the logical conclusion of that sharing (which could be love, life experiences, or other intimacies)--but because there is in that moment, no other place to share those insistent emotions begging for a safe place. And when the time is appropriate (or the appropriate person makes an appearance), those feelings are transferred. It constitutes a gain and a loss simultaneously. The person who gains continues, unaware that the transfer has occurred. The person who experiences loss, if they truly love the other, walks away from the experience, not painlessly, but with a greater appreciation of the trust granted to them, the beauty of being momentarily important to another, and honoring--perhaps even cherishing--the experience as they allow the evolution, or possibly dissolution, of the former relationship.

Sometimes there are no words to describe a heartache.

Sometimes life defies explanation.

Sometimes there is no room for even one more emotion.

Sometimes you cry, not because you feel pain or joy, but because in one brilliant, breathtaking moment you suddenly understand a concept you've been working at for a very long time. And the answer doesn't bring peace or catharsis; it doesn't answer questions or help all the different pieces fall into place--but instead, with intense clarity, you understand all the nuances and layers of truth that have been nagging your brain, sometimes for many years.

Sometimes sleep is elusive.

Sometimes you wish you hadn't eaten a brownie at 11:30 p.m.

Sometimes your feet are warm but your shoulders are still cold.

Sometimes you push forward even when you wish to run away. You allow relationships to continue even when they lose emotional intimacy or vibrancy. You push to the end of a run when you want to collapse on the ground. You eat because it's an important thing to do (and you hope it will help you get warm). You get better because that is the only acceptable option.

Sometimes mint ganache tastes exactly right.

Sometimes you have to use the bathroom before the blog post is finished--so you stop writing and publish it right now.

Yesterday a few people tried to talk with me about the outrageously tragic shooting in a Connecticut elementary school. My responses, in general, consisted of three word or fewer. This is not because I'm not touched by the event, nor because I'm callous. What it means is that for someone with my background, discussing the tragedy before I've had time to process it privately translates into panic attacks and horrible distress.

Some might say those are appropriate responses given the level of loss. Some might say that I need to allow myself those feelings because to shy away from them is unhealthy. Some might say that if I talk through what I'm feeling with someone safe, I'll be able to process everything more quickly and with fewer residual results.

I say: You do not know what you are talking about. You are not me. You do not have my experiences, my years of therapy, my knowledge of self. And regardless of your training and background, you still are not me.

I have had one day to think on what has happened. I haven't yet delved into the investigative reports and when I choose to, I don't know how deeply I will do so. I have not yet wept for the loss of life and grieving parents, families, and friends. I will wait until I know I can cry without being overwhelmed. And some day I will talk about this outside my blog--but not today.

You see, for someone like me, an event such as this has the effect of convincing me that people are inherently harmful; that no matter how we strive to protect ourselves and those we love, there is someone who wants to cause harm--even, in this case, death. And when I go to this place it affects the level of trust I have in others, it transforms all my relationships into platforms of fear, and I find myself fighting the impulse to cut off all communication and just hide.

I know--extreme and unreasonable. Welcome to my world.

So yesterday I chose to read the Facebook responses of grieving and angry friends. I chose to briefly scan the news reports. And then I chose to let everything lie. After all, one needs to be able to sleep at night or processing all of this can become impossible.

Today I am accepting that something horrible happened to innocent children and the people who wanted to protect them. I'm not just talking about those who were present at the shooting, but people everywhere who would keep children safe, but who could not help those who were killed yesterday. And in that acceptance I want to make the following statements:

1. There are moments which make life seem ugly and monstrous--when we realize that one person can spread violence and evil within a matter of minutes. But there are also moments within those moments when we watch people reach out to one another because grieving alone feels ugly and monstrous, as well.

2. I love Mr. Rogers's mother who told him, "Look for the helpers." All of us will need helpers to make our way through this tragedy. Those who have suffered devastating losses will need help most of all. They'll need monetary help to provide for the days when they must leave work to go home and cry, or to provide therapeutic intervention for themselves and their loved ones. Or maybe they're already stretched beyond their ability to cope, financially, and don't have the means to provide for their loved ones' burials. Regardless, my hope is that those who can, will share with those in need by donating to reputable sources. And for those who cannot, I hope they will share prayers, hugs, time...any appropriate resource with the victims and with those who mourn with them.

3. Today I will have hope. Hope is often an elusive entity in my life, but I want to believe that, regardless of how it seems that incidents similar to the one that occurred yesterday are escalating, this is an isolated, unusual thing and that the majority of humankind is caring and supportive of one another. I wish to remember that in this world of uncertainty, I am safe because I have many in my life who love me. I choose to have hope that while we never, ever forget those who have been lost to the senseless violence chosen by a few, we will also continue to believe that life is good and beautiful and worth living every single day. And for those who died yesterday, I have hope that they are no longer hurting and afraid--that in whatever place they are now found, they are embraced and comforted and filled with love and peace.

And to every person touched by yesterday's tragedy--I wish you the same.

'Tis the Season

I am drowning in rehearsals. This is a good thing. I have a huge concert Saturday evening and another on Sunday afternoon, at which point I believe my performances are finished until January. Maybe. Usually there are spur of the moment Christmas things that crop up between now and next month, but they're small and don't take a great deal of rehearsal time. And I like them.

Our Christmas tree and home remain undecorated. We decided to wait until Tabitha comes home to do this. It's not that decorating is her thing, its just that we want her here when we do it--sort of difficult to explain our motivation, but given my spare time level, I'm glad to put it off.

My new job is interesting and I like it, but available work is unpredictable and sporadic. I'm giving the job a couple of weeks, but I'm not able to get more time in I'll be looking for something else.

Yesterday at the gym I encountered a middle-aged man (older, even, than I am) running stairs. He was wearing obnoxiously bright patterned running shorts (which is fine, I don't really care what people wear), and no shirt. This is the first time I've encountered a shirtless person at the gym and I'm left feeling very strongly that people need to wear shirts. Please, please, please, wear shirts. I don't want to see your abundant, sweaty chest hair and bouncing pecs--ever--and all the other parts that wobble on your torso really, really want to be covered. I know this.

Yes. I know I'm being unreasonable. I don't care. I want that man to put his shirt on.

I would like to say I'm not traumatized by this, but I usually go to the gym between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m. It is now 10:30 and I've not yet left. I'm ridiculous.

Maybe I'll nix my workout today and play Scrabble instead.

"All that we are arises with our thoughts." ~ Buddha

I've been sitting at my desk most of the morning staring at laundry I need to fold and thinking of my kitchen floor. It really wants me to clean it. But the sun is streaming through my window and I can hear winter birds on the other side, and I want to just play Scrabble.

I have a new job.

Also, I need to order carpet for my living and family rooms. I don't have any idea how to shop for carpet.

Two weeks ago I cut the tip off my thumb. It was very odd because while it didn't hurt at all, it bled forever. At one point I had five bandaids on it because the nurse at the emergency room told me not to take off the initial bandage but to layer on top of it until the bleeding stopped--which it finally did. Later that same night I noticed my small toe was wet. When I looked down I saw enormous amounts of blood coming from it. Somehow I managed to take off the tip of that toe, as well (note: "tip" does not include bone or sinew, just a lot of skin from the top of the digit). Weird.

I finished reading Wilkie Collins's The Moonstone. I can't remember when a book has delighted me quite so much. I'm unsure why I love it but I recommend it to anyone who enjoys a good story told in a unique way. I'm still smiling about it.

This year, because of the loss of jobs and hospital bills and other such nonsense, I've been scrambling for Christmas gift ideas. I'm thinking of giving kisses beneath the mistletoe and calling it good. So if you're on my gift list and that does not appeal to you, avoid me when you see me because I'm not kidding about this.

DJ made me cookies yesterday. Sigh....it is possible that those were the only things I ate. But I drank milk with them so probably that's okay--except I'm lactose intolerant, so maybe not.

Darrin and my father went into the mountains to chop down Christmas trees this morning. I'm fairly certain, given the states of their health, they will both die of heart attacks while searching for the perfect tree. Hopefully, I'm wrong, but I'm still waiting to hear from them. They were supposed to call about an hour ago to let me know they were still alive. I'm pretending they're just not in a place where they have phone service. It's more likely, however, that they're talking so much that they forgot.

Today I am singing Christmas carols as loudly as possible. If you have a favorite, let me know--I'll sing it for you. Adam told me my rendition of "Santa, Baby" is slutty, which is, in my mind, an appropriate interpretation of the song so I consider that a very high compliment. Never mind the fact that I forgot the words in the middle and just danced around my kitchen until the music got to a point where I could join in with lyrics. Adam also said he believes that if I ban "Grandma got run over by a reindeer" because I think it's tasteless and misogynistic, I should do the same for "Santa, Baby," for similar reasons. My answer was to sing "Santa, Baby" one more time. Adam has put on his headphones and is refusing to talk with me for at least five minutes.

The title/quote of this post has nothing to do with the content. I put it there because when I first read it I thought it said, "All that we anuses with our thoughts." And while I know that makes no sense, it still made me laugh--for about five minutes--because that's just how sophisticated my sense of humor is today. Also, it reminded me that my first experience speaking with Tolkien Boy happened because I similarly misread something he had written (he wrote "ennui", I read "eunuch"--it could happen to anyone), and he had a chat box on the sidebar of his blog where I shared my optical typo, not knowing he was there at the time, and he responded to my gleeful revelation with his belief that being a eunuch would not appeal to him. He took all the wind from my sails because I was planning to hit-and-run, but then felt it would be rude not to talk to him. So we had our fateful conversation and then never spoke again for almost three months, at which point we began an online conversation that has lasted nearly seven years.

Next week is filled with rehearsals and performances. The following week will be filled with baking and more Christmas carols. The next week I retrieve Tabitha from the managed care facility and we get to have her home for Christmas and New Year's Eve and Day.

December is a good month.

Playing "Therapist Says" once again (also, this is a whiny rant--you have been warned)

I think it's normal to feel disconnected from people sometimes. We become overwhelmed with the struggles in our lives or very busy or we feel drained in a number of ways and emotional connection with loved ones becomes difficult rather than joyful. I've been in this spot for awhile now.

Several people in my life have told me it will pass, and no doubt, they're correct. There is a difficulty to this prediction, however: When the lack of connection has lasted for quite awhile, I become accustomed to it. The feelings of loneliness and longing subside. Eventually I find my desire to connect with anyone has diminished to the point where I find it bothersome to even make the attempt. I'm irritable when emotional intimacy is initiated by anyone in my life and I just want to be left alone.

I'm managed to circumvent this process several times over the past few years because I understand it's not healthy nor does it help me as I work toward managing PTSD on a regular basis, and as I try to understand how to have lasting, rewarding, joyful relationships with members of my family and other loved ones to whom I might not be related. It is important for me to avoid the "please do not ask me to feel anything for you because I don't want to" place inside of me because while arriving at that point takes little effort, leaving it behind is enormously difficult for me.

That being said, I'm there again. I've been approaching this place for at least a couple of weeks, and in my defense, I've tried to avoid it. I've tried to talk with people and spend time with them. I've made time for meditation and relaxation. I've tried to incorporate moments of closeness in my personal interactions and invited the same from others. So I've tried. I just haven't been successful.

Naturally, there are a million reasons for my arrival in this spot. I've been a bit stressed about people and relationships and other such things lately. I think, too, I've been feeling a bit like I'm not needed by anyone (yes, I know that's not true--still the feeling persists), that I'm a casual convenience for some (yes, I know I'm not cheap entertainment created solely to alleviate another's boredom--again, I'm talking of feelings, not reality), and that no one really feels anything about me other than passing interest followed by nothing at all.

I told Therapist that it's clear I'm just feeling sorry for myself. He asked me why I thought that. I didn't have an answer--because I don't know.

Therapist says I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I'm just not having my needs met by the people I love. This is completely unhelpful and I don't really agree with him. I don't think I really have that many needs to meet. People talk to me and they treat me nicely. I'm unsure what other needs he believes I have.

Therapist says that above paragraph is me being defensive--in essence, I'm saying this, "I don't know how to meet my needs through interaction with other people, therefore I refuse to acknowledge those needs so I cannot be disappointed or hurt."

He's probably correct. At this point, though, I'm not sure I care. Where is the good in telling people, "Hey! I need this from you!" and then they give it to me, but not because they want to. Maybe they do it because they feel sorry for me, or because I'm more annoying than I suspect and I'll go away if I don't need things from them anymore, or because they're just really nice or non-confrontational...

And anyway, isn't that a form of emotional blackmail? Find people just because they can fill needs? Isn't that using people? And why would I do that to someone I care about?

Therapist says those questions are defensive, once again. He says I'm processing the fact that I rarely had my needs met as a child and I found ways to fill the voids those unmet needs created in my life. I became unhealthily self-reliant. While it's good to be self-reliant (says Therapist), to never acknowledge the fact that I need people to spend time with me, touch me, express love to me, is an extreme form of defensive self-reliance. In essence, I convince myself that I am the only person I really need, which forms the initial disconnection with loved ones, which escalates into isolation, blah...blah...blah...

I find it fascinating that Therapist says all those things, but never seems to offer any suggestions of how to remove myself from my current state. It feels like I'm being accused, tried, and sentenced because I'm a lost cause--there's not really a way for me to bail myself out and express to people I love the things I need from them.

Therapist says that's not true. He says I'm not listening yet, so talking about helpful strategies right now is probably not going to have good results. Then he says he cares about me and he's sure I'll get to a point soon where we can deal with the current difficulty and continue to make progress toward managing the stress in my life.

I feel a great deal of antagonism toward that man right now, and part of me wants to scream that he doesn't care about me and I want him to stop saying that because it hurts.

But there is another part of me that desperately wants to hear that from him--from anyone.

I think it would be prudent for me to go to bed now.

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage." ~Lao Tzu

About a month ago, when I was least expecting it and definitely not strong enough to receive it, Therapist sent me an email letting me know his job was changing. He was being transferred to a place where he would be working with a select group of clients and his supervisor expected him to transfer his current clients to whomever would replace him at his current job.

In 2006, when I first began seeing Therapist he worked as a satellite therapist. He traveled to various areas in our region to serve clients who didn't have access to mental health providers as they might in larger communities. A year later, Therapist was offered the opportunity to transfer to Utah for a more stable job--and he took it.

When Therapist told me of the upcoming transfer, he asked if I would like him to recommend me to a different therapist in the area or if I'd like to seek one out on my own. I thought for a moment, mentally reviewed the amount of progress I'd experienced in the last couple of years, and decided it was enough. Therapist had been incredibly helpful and the level of emotional healing he'd helped me achieve was enormous. I smiled, wished him well, and thanked him for his help.

Three weeks later I was in the mental health ward of the hospital on suicide watch. Apparently I was wrong. It wasn't enough.

I tried counseling with a couple of local therapists with fairly disastrous results. There are many reasons for this, but I finally decided I needed to track down Therapist and finish what we'd begun together. I knew it would be difficult to make the long trips, but I also believed the time and expense would be worth it. I contacted Therapist, told him I was coming to Utah and asked if he had time to see me. He said yes.

I think Therapist thought I was just checking in or visiting him socially. He seemed very surprised when I told him I wished to continue seeing him as a client. He mentioned the distance and cost of travel. I said I was prepared for that. So Therapist told me he'd love to continue our work.

That was many counseling sessions ago. I'm incredibly grateful for friends who have housed and fed me to help defray lodging costs. I've put more than 100,000 miles on my car and I don't even want to think about how much I've spent on fuel. In spite of that, I have no regrets. It was one of the best decisions I've ever made.

During those years I've threatened several times to fire Therapist. I've been incredibly angry with him. I've sometimes even made fun of him as I pretended to know what he might say to me, or predicted his response to the newest predicament of my life. There have even been times when I thought maybe he wasn't helpful anymore, or I no longer needed him. In the end, however, I've always been sane enough to recognize the help I was receiving from Therapist, I've been grateful for his willingness to let me call or email when life felt overwhelming or too stressful to manage, and I think I've always known that Therapist cares about me a great deal.

Knowing that your therapist cares about you--authentically, not just in a professional sense--is empowering. I've made harsh statements about Therapist, pretending that the only reason he cares is because I pay him to do so. I knew I was wrong. He's told me often how much he enjoys working with me, how glad he is to see me when I come, and he's even said that he feels happier after our sessions. That's a nice thing. I don't make my therapist crazy.

So when I began reading Therapist's email last month, my heart sank. I was worried. I didn't want to begin again with another therapist. I felt that I was so close to the "maintenance" part of my therapy, that to start over would set me back in many ways, and I did not have the emotional energy to work through that.

There was a part of the email, however, that I want to put here:
"... I don’t start there until January. There is a chance that I could, from time to time, continue to meet with you.  I don’t have an answer back on that, yet.  I’ve only asked for one exception and that’s you.  J  Do you feel special, yet? You should. After all, you ARE Samantha Stevens!"

Being Samantha Stevens really isn't anything remarkable, but I was grateful that:
1. Therapist had asked his superiors to approve his continuing to work with me
2. Therapist wasn't simply letting me know he was leaving and I was on my own
3. Therapist seemed to understand that this would be a big deal for me, and was willing to ask for an exception for the client who would travel more than 600 miles round trip just to see him.

I replied to Therapist's email, congratulating him on the promotion and letting him know I wished to continue as his client if the exception was granted. His response:

"Thanks, Sam.  I’m impressed with your ability to be flexible with all of life’s changes.  Hearing that your therapist is perhaps becoming unavailable is not one of the things you probably wanted to hear today.  I’m so sorry for the craziness.  I have an appointment this afternoon with my ‘current’ boss where I’ll ask her again what can be done.

"I believe in you, Samantha– you’re an amazing person.  I’m impressed with all that you’ve been able to accomplish.  I hope to continue being able to work as we’ve done to this point."

I spoke with Therapist a couple of weeks ago. He says the exception has not been approved, but his supervisor seemed in favor of it. His plan is to proceed as if he'll be continuing to see me, as needed. I suppose I'm thinking about this today because I'm realizing that Therapist did not have to make accommodations for me. He could have cut me loose, or referred me to his replacement. It feels nice to know that I'm important, in a way, and that Therapist understands how difficult such a change would be for me. And I'm glad he cares about me. A couple of years ago that would have felt strange; today it feels nice.

What this means to me is that I'm learning to accept that it's okay for people to care about me--and many people do--and some people might even love me as deeply as I love them. Someday I think I'll not only know how to accept this, but I'll do so without feeling stress or guilt.

However, I might need Therapist to help me get to that point. I think I won't fire him, after all. 

Update

I haven't been writing for a little while because recent days have been unusual and unpredictable, and quite honestly, I just haven't wanted to. So I'm writing just a bit tonight while I try to decide if I want to delve into anything in greater depth later.

This week I applied for a job. I'm going through training and testing right now and on Monday I should know if I'm hired. While I need the job, I'm okay if I don't get this one. Quite honestly, I'm just happy that I've finally found enough emotional stamina to apply. That's a big step in the right direction.

Last week was very good. I even had some days when my hip was functioning normally and without pain. However, there are always reminders that I'm still recovering. I found that reminder when, on Saturday, I spent two hours at the gym and came home to find a message on my phone reminding me that I was supposed to be judging a music festival. It was 10:00 a.m. I was to have been there at 7:45 a.m. Somehow, I forgot. These are the kinds of things that let me know I still have a ways to go before I'm myself again.

In two weeks we'll visit Tabitha again. Adam and DJ are planning to join us for this visit so we can have Thanksgiving together. We'll be staying with my cousin, Jeff, and his family--partly because we enjoy spending time with them, but also because Jeff is not doing well. He had his first flashback last June and has had difficulty staying sober since then. I don't know how I can possibly help, but I'm hoping it will be comforting, at least, to know I understand much of the pain he's experiencing. We'll see how the visit goes. I'm wishing there was more I could do to help Jeff. Then I remember how, regardless of the help I've received, I've had to do the majority of healing work myself. I also have to remind myself that I'm still healing after more than seven years of therapy. It's a very long process.

In the meantime, my time is filled with rehearsals and performances and the unending work of trying to put my life back in order. Some days are better than others. And now I'm going to bed. Good night!

Lonely

I frequently have days when I feel this. I used to believe it was a unique personality flaw--an inability to accept human companionship on a casual level, and move through life without constantly yearning for deep connection with people I love.

I don't believe that anymore. I think most people have moments when they feel invisible; when connection feels impossible, and when making the effort to build that connection feels too difficult. I think others have days when they are certain they've been forgotten by the entire human race, and no amount of social interaction seems to make a dent in that belief.

This does not mean that I'm waiting for someone to contact me--to assuage my loneliness and disprove my assumption that I have disappeared. It simply means that my life feels distressing right now and I've not yet figured out how to change that. I know that I will figure it out eventually, but it might take awhile and in the meantime, I feel lonely.

A couple of years ago, when this feeling began lingering, I would immerse myself in something: work, exercise, meditation, cleaning...

I've been to the gym this morning. Two hours of expended energy has had no effect. I'm a bit baffled by that.

I have a list of things I need to do, so I will start on that next. But before I do so, I'm allowing myself five minutes of self-pity because being lonely feels really sad today and I'm sort of tired after my gym time and besides, sometimes I think it's okay to just sit for a moment and feel overwhelmed by all that "stuff" inside.

Also, if you're someone who loves me, it would be okay to tell me that today. And if you're not someone who loves me, it would be okay to tell me you do anyway. I'm not above believing falsehoods if they make me feel happier. :-)

A few weeks ago my father asked me if I would be willing to drive my mother to Utah. She wanted to attend "Time Out For Women" which is a conference intended for LDS women (one which, for reasons of my own, I abhor). I didn't want to, but I understand the risk of allowing my mother to drive by herself. So I said I'd be willing to do that. My mother offered to by me a ticket to the conference but I said I'd prefer to spend the weekend with Tabitha. Darrin and Adam were planning to come, but had to work. My sister-in-law also wanted to go, but called me the day we were supposed to leave to let me know she was ill. So it ended up being a road trip with just my mother and me.

Talking with my mother is challenging. Her memories have merged and she has no concept of time. A story that began in 1995 might combine with events of yesterday. In her mind we have always had cell phones and  her grandchildren morph from childhood to teenagers in moments--and some of those grandchildren aren't yet in their teens. However, I allowed her to talk without challenging her fantasies and she rambled on for hours.

My mother has spent the last decade denying that she was ever abused. As she wandered from one topic to another with dubious chronology, moments of terrifying violence at the hands of her father slipped out. She told of his abusive words and punishing hands. She talked of seeing her sister beaten for defying that father. She told me that she was never allowed to have an opinion and there was no such thing as conversation with her father. Today my mother will have no memory of our conversation. Sometimes I think that's okay.

I left my mom with my eldest sister and went to a friend's house for the night. The next day I picked up Tabitha and we went to the airport to get my youngest sister (my mom had invited all the sisters in our family to join her at the women's conference). We joined my family for lunch--my mother, five sisters, three nieces, Tabitha and me. Then we took my youngest sister into the city to see a friend and rejoined everyone at a restaurant for dinner. Finally, Tabitha and I went back to my friend's house for some quiet time before I had to take her back to school.

I spent the next day and Sunday morning with Tabitha, then my mom and I went home. Another long trip with stories filled with startling honesty and false fantasies. At one point my mom mentioned one of my brothers. She feels slighted by his attitudes about mental health. He believes anyone who must rely on drugs or therapy to counteract the effects of depression is weak--not trying hard enough. This particular brother is so messed up mentally that most of us just ignore whatever he says, however, it was clear that his words had been hurtful to my mom who cannot function without antidepressants and anxiety medication.

I said, "He's very certain about his opinions, but please notice that his personal life is horribly unhealthy and he, himself, is emotionally unstable. I think you should consider the source."

My mom nodded, then said, "Do you think I take too much medication?"

I thought for a moment, then said, "Mom, can you imagine if you'd had access to that medication when your kids were small?" I began to list the benefits, the types of relief she might have felt, but she interrupted me and said bitterly, "I wouldn't have been such a horrible parent."

We've had this conversation before. My mother admits that she did awful things, that her parenting and discipline skills were often lamentable. I've accepted her words which are always accompanied by apology and requests for forgiveness, and pointed out that her life now is different--that she has grown past those things and become a very lovely person.

This time I stopped her. "Mom--that's not what I'm talking about." She looked at me blankly. I said, "You were in an incredibly stressful situation. You had eight children--plus extended family who often dropped in for visits--plus whomever I felt like bringing home with me. We lived in a four bedroom home with one bathroom. You were expected to cook three meals daily, keep house, care for children, work in a huge garden, sew clothing, do laundry, entertain whenever necessary, make certain homework was finished, and do whatever else might pop up. Add to that the fact that you were deeply depressed due to a chemical imbalance, you had no examples of good parenting in your past to use as a resource, and you suffer from an anxiety disorder. Without that last part, your life would challenge anyone. When you put it all together, I'm guessing your days were filled with stress and sadness--I know they were. I saw you crying."

I looked over at my mother who was weeping uncontrollably. She whispered, "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying now," then made a quiet comment about how helpful it would have been to have the relief of an antidepressant and anti-anxiety meds. Then she said, "I can't seem to stop crying."

I said, "Anyone would cry, Mom. It was a sad, impossible situation. I think it's okay if you cry about it."

But I think more than sadness about her past, she wept because for the first time in her life I showed her compassion. I didn't just accept her apology and acknowledge that she was a pretty awful parent--I let her know that I understood. And while I don't believe that abuse is ever an acceptable coping mechanism, I do believe that sometimes good people are put in positions where they simply do not have the skills to cope with the stress presented to them, especially when they, themselves, have been abused.

I think my mom cried because for the first time I offered understanding and empathy rather than judgment and condemnation.

And maybe she cried because she knows that in spite of everything, I love her.

Assumptions

We all make them. Sometimes we're correct, but often we're not. A couple of days ago, due to some assumptions he's made about Josh Weed and the organization, North Star, Mitch Mayne made the decision to be absent at this year's Circling the Wagons conference.

Before I continue, I think maybe it would be good to introduce the characters and organizations in this post:

1. Josh Weed: You can read his own words about himself here. If you've read my blog(s), he figures prominently in those as Jason Lockhart, which was his blognym before he began his personal blog a couple of years ago. I retained his anonymity in my blog until he came out this year, at which point there was no reason to be concerned with people knowing about his friendship and association with me.

2. Mitch Mayne: His blog is here. I have not met Mr. Mayne, nor do I expect I will do so, as there is no real reason for such a meeting. However, he is a high profile person in the LGBT community, so many members of that community know him or know of him, especially those who are or who have been formerly members of the LDS faith.

3. Circling the Wagons: I admit to not being completely knowledgeable about this, not having attended a conference before, but this is a portion of their mission statement:

The goal of the Mormon Stories “Circling the Wagons” conference is to create a space where LGBTQ or SSA individuals and their families and allies can gather to acknowledge, explore and honor shared experiences.  No issues strike more deeply than who we love and how we understand and honor God.  These issues carry an especially profound weight in Mormon communities and have been the source of a great deal of misunderstanding, judgment and hurt.  Consequently, gay Mormons are deeply divided over how to address same-sex attraction and negotiate the choices they face.

The rest of the mission statement (which is a little longer than I wish to publish in my blog, but is worth the read) found here (scroll to the bottom of the page).

4. North Star: This is an organization with which I've been associated since its inception. I know, personally, most of the board members, and have friendships with them. This is their mission statement:

The mission of North Star is to provide a place of community for Latter-day Saints who experience homosexual attraction, as well as their family, friends, and ecclesiastical leaders. North Star serves those who desire the spiritual and social support that strengthens faith, builds character, and empowers men and women to live in joy and harmony within their covenants, values, and beliefs as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Values Statement:
North Star appreciates the importance of supportive fellowship and friendship with others who share their life experiences, values, and commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ. North Star seeks to facilitate these relationships and to create a community where individuals will find joy in the gospel, help one another more fully understand and apply the atonement in their lives, share their experiences and challenges without shame or fear, and discover ways to contribute their unique gifts and talents to the work of the Lord.

Recognizing the uniqueness of individual circumstance, North Star takes no official position on the origin or mutability of homosexual feelings and attractions but supports all efforts consistent with the gospel that help individuals live in more full harmony with their covenants and attain greater peace, fulfillment, and sense of individual worth, while affirming that the most essential and eternal growth and progress come through the power of the Savior and adherence to the teachings of His prophets.

North Star holds that the power and grace of Christ enables each individual to renounce behavior and manage thoughts that will prevent him or her from returning into His presence. North Star testifies Jesus Christ has the power to reach and transform every life and every individual can find genuine peace and hope in the promises of His gospel. 

In a recent blog post, Mr. Mayne makes the following assumptions about North Star:

1. "...North Star, an organization that positions LGBT Mormons as 'struggling with same-sex attraction' and encourages them to change or suppress their orientation."
2. "North Star encourages LGBT Mormons to view themselves as broken and afflicted..."

In the first assumption I am uncertain as to the source of Mr. Mayne's quote. Members of North Star's board have been careful to gauge homosexuality as a condition some members of the church experience which is unique and is frequently accompanied by feelings of loneliness, depression, and shame. The point of North Star's existence is to be a place of support for homosexual members of the church who feel a need to remain faithful to covenants and live the gospel. The organization is not for everyone, nor was it intended to be. However, there is no encouragement to change orientation. As for suppression of orientation, I suppose if one believes that not entering into a same-sex relationship is suppression, then North Star must remain guilty as charged. North Star has made no secret that the organization exists to support those who desire to remain faithful and active in the church, and at this time that does require abstinence from same-gender sexual relationships. Other than that, however, I am unsure of Mitch Mayne's meaning when he accuses NS of encouraging suppression, and as I choose not to make unfair assumptions, I will limit my comments to that which I have said.

The second of Mr. Mayne's assumptions is blatantly false. As one who has been a member of discussion groups and who knows well the purpose of North Star's inception, I can say without reservation that the opposite is true. Those who participate in the organization are encouraged to see the beauty of who they are, to seek for purpose in their lives as they live with same-gender attraction, to find self-worth, and to use their unique situation to help others. One of the attestations in Ty Mansfield's first book, In Quiet Desperation, which served to infuriate one or two leading reparative therapists of the time was his sincere belief that the Lord loves him as he is, and that his task in life is not to change his orientation, but to seek the Lord's will in his life, and follow it. Ty met with similarly believing people and in time, North Star was formed to help individuals who wished simply to follow Christ--not to agonize over homosexuality or feelings of shame.

The purpose of North Star has been skewed drastically by Mr. Mayne in his blog post. I am unhappy about this because I believe that the organization serves a genuinely positive purpose for many SSA men and women who find support and love there as they continue to serve faithfully in the LDS church. It has also been of great benefit as parents and friends within the organization learn of ways to remain close to their SSA loved ones, regardless of whether or not those loved ones remain in the church, leave it, or choose to seek a same-sex partnership. Those family members and friends are given a place to talk of their fears and hopes and learn from each other. As they feel supported, they are better able to love without judgment and continue valuable relationships with homosexual children, siblings, spouses, and friends.

In reference to Josh Weed, Mr. Mayne says this:

"Mr. Weed’s message is routinely co-opted by many within our faith as the preferred path for LGBT Mormon youth, despite his insistence that it may not be the path for everyone. "

Unfortunately, this is not incorrect. Many within the church, for countless years, have decided that the best way to "cure the gay" is to get married. This has had disastrous results for many who have heeded such counsel--but not all. Most of us who live happily within our mixed-orientation marriages say nothing. One reason is that we understand that this is not something that will work for everyone, and we don't want to fuel the currently existing misunderstanding within the church. Another reason is that we don't wish to have our marriages placed beneath the public microscope. We simply want to continue living with our spouses, enjoying them, fighting with them, sleeping with them, and basically just being married to them, without comment or judgment from people who know nothing about us. 

And finally, we say nothing because we're aware of the derision that comes to us from the gay community. We've heard all that "stuff" about not being true to ourselves, and living lies, and how our kids will turn out screwed up because of us. We're not immune to the hate-filled statements aimed at us, and while we understand that many of those come from spouses and children who have been deeply hurt by mixed-orientation marriages that have not continued, we would still like the opportunity to make our own choices without being called "evil" by those who do not know us.

So--while Mr. Mayne's assertion is not necessarily wrong, it is unfair to place a gag order on Josh because he chooses to speak about his experience with mixed-orientation marriage. My hope is that as he does so, he continues to caution church members not to assume his story belongs to anyone but him, and remind people of all faiths that marriage is always difficult (there is a reason for our rather high divorce rate).

But my problem with the blog post is that Mr. Mayne cites information about families rejecting SSA children and suicide rates and depression, as if he somehow believes that information is linked to North Star's representation at the Circling the Wagons conference, and Josh's speech, which Mr. Mayne has yet to hear. From my previous statements about North Star, it's clear that the purpose of NS is to prevent such familial rejection and help alleviate depression and combat current rates of suicide, and anyone who has been a reader of Josh's blog understands that he desires those same things--and in fact, once devoted more than one post to helping a suicidal young man who left a plea for help.

Mr. Mayne's assumption that including North Star and Josh Weed in the Circling the Wagons Conference will be detrimental to the inclusive and open-minded stance touted by previous conferences is premature and smacks of small-minded ignorance. Indeed, he is making assumptions of a nature similar to those in the church who lump all SSA individuals into one large group of "evil", or who assume they will molest their children, or who believe being gay is a choice...

Which brings me to my point, I suppose, which is that anyone, regardless of how free-thinking or progressive  he might believe himself to be, can be just as judgmental and bigotted toward any individual or organization who/which does not fit into his cookie-cutter mold of how life should be.

"Should" is a word which Tolkien Boy suggested to me, a long time ago, be omitted from our ideas about life. Instead, he believed we might simply look at what is. That takes a great deal of courage. I believe that's what those who are producing the Circling the Wagons conference are doing--looking at what is happening now, allowing those currently existing people and organizations a voice, and trusting those who hear to choose for themselves what best fits their lives right now. Some will reject North Star and some will reject Josh Weed, but they'll do so after hearing their voices and knowing more about them, and that's much better than doing so out of blind ignorance and fear.

"What the mirror presents as true has no authenticity." ~Sri Sathya Sai Baba

I'm a little bit surprised at myself.

I began this journey nearly eight years ago. I began chronicling my journey in a different blog about six months after it began. I'm not really sure why I ended that blog and began writing in this one, but I believe it had something to do with a subtle shift in my persona. I became someone I did not intend to be.

My life has been ruled by logic. This is not to say that I've not had emotions, but I am not an emotional person. I don't immediately feel empathy for someone or for a situation. I look at the facts, ask questions, then decide if the emotions I'm feeling are helpful or not. And sometimes I recognize that my involvement with a particular person or situation is counterproductive, so I find something else to do.

I have, in the past, been cast as unfeeling or callous. I am neither of those. However, I clearly see the difference between emoting for the sake of emotion, and genuinely lending support when needed. This means that I feel completely within my rights to walk away from a potentially emotionally dependent situation without explanation or apology.

However, about four years ago I lost all perspective. In the midst of reclaiming remnants of myself, I forgot to retain my customary balance of emotion and logic. Add to this the immersion of my life in Murphy's Law, and I was completely unable to maintain equilibrium. The result of this is that I became for a very long time, an emotional mess.

I tried to link my unregulated, intensely emotional reactions to my current situation, or my relationships, or PTSD, but although those things played a part, they were not the problem. The problem was that I was buying into the "feeling" part of myself for the first time in my life, and there was definite compensation in spending time there. But each joyful delusion was accompanied by insistent dark feelings, reminding me that something was terribly wrong.

I felt deeply connected to people in ways I could not remember experiencing. This was offset by a depth of fear and insecurity explainable only if one is strong enough to recognize that perhaps such connection is not intended to be a normal part of life. I was angry that friendships are allowed to wax and wane and no one seemed to care about that except me. Tolkien Boy hinted that I would eventually outgrow my anger and join the throng of mankind, recognizing that most relationships are not meant to be a daily thing; which naturally  made me angry with him, believing that he thought I was some freak of nature who had never gained the necessary maturity most adults enjoy.

I felt a depth of loneliness I had never before encountered. I supposed it to be recognition of my past deficits, of basic human needs left unmet throughout childhood and adolescence and then ignored when I reached adulthood. I believe now it was simply a reaction to losing that part of myself that brought balance and equilibrium; the part which allowed me to feel without being overwhelmed.

I experienced panic attacks and feelings of stress beyond that which I was used to. These did not wane with time, nor did they abate when I took steps to alleviate their intensity. I supposed they were side-effects of the difficulties I was encountering in my life--and perhaps that was part of it. But mostly I think those things became more frequent and intense because I could no longer do anything but feel. I could not think clearly, nor could I reason effectively. I was trapped in a whirlwind of feelings that could elevate me one moment and plunge me into despair the next. This is not healthy for anyone.

Last weekend I bottomed out. I lost the strength to manage any part of my emotional life. For days I wept and wondered why I was so terribly sad. Then I decided to take a deep breath and return to the person I knew I was--the one who searched for answers rather than conceding defeat--the one who could ask questions and look at situations and make decisions.

Today I finished my research.

I'm left a bit shocked because I never believed I could become "that person." I've always believed in my ability to act responsibly in any situation. I did not know that I could so firmly buy into the desire to feel to the point that I was no longer able to reason. And the thing that surprises me most is the length of time I've spent in this state.

Today I did not time my run. I simply ran until I was finished thinking. Ten miles later I finally remembered who I am.

I'm left in a bit of a quandary. If I am completely honest, I will admit to being a bit addicted to deep, unregulated, passionate feelings. There was something that felt liberating in allowing myself to yield with abandon to any emotion, buying into it, and remaining there indefinitely. I deluded myself, believing I was sorting through past emotions, allowing them expression, and moving on. But I was not moving on. So regardless of my wish to retain those emotional experiences, and even repeat them, it is time to move on.

Today at 3:15 p.m., I was able to eat for the first time in five days. I'm mortified that I had to wait that long before regaining control of my eating disorder. However, I'm also grateful for that horrible part of me, for had it not been for the triggering of the disorder, I have no idea how long I would have continued in my emotional dysfunction. I required some manifestation of that sort to let me know I was in trouble, I suppose. How odd that I was allowed nearly four years of turmoil before my body let me know it had had enough.

And so I am releasing my need to become immersed in feelings that are unnecessary and often invalid. It will take a great deal of practice because replacing a deeply ingrained habit takes time, but I am very good at practicing. It's time for balance to again rule my life and for me to rediscover the person I truly am. It's also time to regain management of nightmares, irrational feelings, fear, and my eating disorder.

I feel a bit as if writing in this blog has somehow figured into the development of the emotional imbalance. I'm not exactly sure how, but I plan to ponder the possibility. Should I decide this is a truth, I will likely cease writing for a little while. However, I may also feel that writing will be helpful as I practice becoming whole. Today, though, I'm simply enjoying the fact that I no longer feel insane and I do not intend to return to that state ever again.