In Defense of Being a Bitch

I've been waiting to post this until the furor over Josh Weed's post has died down a bit. And for those who have followed my blog for awhile, Josh is "Jason." I tell you this just because there's a slight chance I might revert to the former pseudonym and this revelation might help avoid confusion.

When Josh and Lolly published their "coming out" post, I spent a short time reading comments, most of which were supportive, loving, and favorable. However, one comment had me raising my hackles. The commentor did not identify himself, but insisted he knew Josh, personally. I find this cowardly. Granted, I was using my pseudonym, but Josh knows who I am, so anything I said would track back to me. Anonymous the Jerk did that thing where he can say what he wants because, well, he's anonymous. I hate it when people do that.

Beyond that, however, was the essence of what Anonymous the Jerk said:

1. I could have easily ended up gay myself, but I chose differently.


Um...yeah...like it's something you can choose. And if you could choose, in a world full of heterosexually slanted individuals, why would someone choose to limit their sexual interest to 10% of the population (the estimated percent of homosexuals)?


2.  I don't believe anyone can know by 11, 12, or even 16 that they are gay... (i.e. they are not really gay but because of teasing, bullying, enticing, or other external reinforcement they become gay)...


Sigh...okay, I'll grant you your belief while completely believing myself that it's WRONG (if I grant yours, you must grant mine), but really, even if that's what you believe, it doesn't make it fact, nor does it make it universal if it's applicable to even one person (yourself). I'm pretty sure that by the time kids are 12, they know which gender makes their hearts palpitate, their mouths dry out and their feet sweat. And while it's a confusing and stressful time of life, most kids are NOT confused about this particular part of being a teen.


3. Some of the most powerful words in the English language are "I am". It is how God used to describe himself to Moses. (Ex 3:14) When a Gay man (or woman) "comes out" and says, "I am" "Gay" it has a certain finality to it. The problem is God did not send us to a destination, but on a journey. You are challenging my belief in that by "accepting who you are" and that you cannot change.

I don't necessarily agree with the "powerful words" statement. While I know the power of words, I also know that this is something one can choose. One can buy into the semantics and implied meanings, or one can say, "They're words. I'll use the ones that suit my purpose for now. Should that purpose change in the future, I'll use different ones, but I refuse to be bullied or intimidated by people who believe they know who I am better than I know myself." Acceptance of self never implies an inability to change. In fact, it's a springboard which allows us to better explore the depth and breadth of our souls and decide where we wish to go from there. Right now Josh sees no problem with being gay. In his mind and vocabulary, that word simply describes the natural tendencies and desires of his persona. He is also promised to Lolly and he chooses (see--this is where choice enters in) to honor those promises and covenants because he's happy in that situation. The gay part of his life has been acknowledged (and continues to be acknowledged by both partners), and it's not a point of shame or contention. I don't know why this bothers you beyond the point where you refuse to understand that other people can think and believe differently from you.

4. There have been men that change their sexual orientation. There's no question that some men have changed to BECOME gay. If that is true then gay men can CHOOSE to become straight. There are many stories on peoplecanchange.com and evergreeninternational.org that reinforce that.


Actually, no. There aren't that many. And I love Rich Wyler who was the founder of People Can Change. The truth is, people change constantly. Rich knows this. And the changes he talks about are those that will allow men to not feel bound by their sexuality, or the change of heart that bring us unto Christ (which really has nothing to do with those to whom one is attracted). There are some who profess to have made a sexuality change. I don't disbelieve their stories. But more often than not, men find ways to make peace between their sexuality and their belief systems--and that is an incredibly healthy change, even if it means leaving the belief system behind. From my standpoint, your logic is flawed from the beginning because I have yet to find one person who admits to choosing to BECOME gay. Unless that point is supported, the following attestations are false.

5.  I find it difficult to believe that a man such as yourself finds no arousal from your beautiful, and very sexy, wife, Laurel. It is unimaginable to me that if she were to wear a something skimpy and try to seduce you that you would simply go, "eh!". If that is true then I truly do feel sorry her because women need to feel sexual and wanted. I've been married over 20 years and still find my wife attractive, sexually stimulating, and lusting after her. It's such an important part of our marriage.


I'm still trying to get beyond the "ick!" factor of this statement. The fact that you would refer to another man's wife as "beautiful, and very sexy" when you should be looking only at your own wife, sort of sickens me (and other commentors as is seen by this comment: "How can you question his ability to be "turned on" by his wife? For one, inappropriate question. Was it not made clear by him stating he has an active sex life and 3 children? Not only that, but he made a WONDERFUL statement above about how attraction is not only in looks and lust. Attraction is through love and understanding and common goals (he says it much more beautifully and elegantly above, I recommend a re-read)."). Quite honestly, I think lust is different from desire or attraction and I feel very sorry for your wife not just for the former comment you made about another man's wife, but also for the way you cheapen your relationship with her by your nasty lust. Your judgement of Josh's marriage relationship has no relevance and it is, quite frankly, none of your business. Should you wish for more information, you would need to identify yourself and form a trust between yourself and Josh before you ask prying questions about the intimacy he shares with his wife. I'm not sure such trust is possible for one who comments in such a cowardly way on Josh's blog, but stranger things have happened.


6. To be honest, I wish you wouldn't have shared this part of you, that you wouldn't have "come out". I guess I feel that I just didn't need to know that about you. It's one thing to tell your story anonymously and say, "I am straight but I struggle with homosexual attraction." It is another to say "I am gay". "I am" is such a powerful way of defining yourself. It does lead to prejudice and intolerance, and I can only pray that when we say hi to each other that I can look beyond it.

Yeah...way to make this all about you. Nice. When you pull your head out, I suggest getting over yourself, remembering that the only thing that's changed is that you judged someone who, by your own words, you've "had nothing but love and respect for you since I've known you, and many times found myself wishing I could be more like you." Still, it's not too late. You believe you can CHOOSE to be gay, so if you do that, you'll be more like Josh! Yay!

In my normal, in-your-face-because-I'm-sure-you're-wrong way, I replied to Anonymous the Jerk:

SamanthaJune 8, 2012 8:36 AM
Psshh...really??? It's a word, and Josh has every right to describe himself as he sees fit. My goodness, even the "Little Pioneer Children" got to call themselves, "merry, and happy, and gay..."


The bottom line here is that you missed the point, which is that this is Josh's blog and he gets to say whatever he wants to here, and while you're welcome to comment, what you've said hinges on semantics and comes off as churlish and judgmental. 


That being said, I bow to Josh's words: "It's okay that you feel that way." Because he's right. Allowing other peoples viewpoints and feelings opens the door to validating the views and honesty stated on this blog. But I still believe it's unfortunate to get hung up on how something is said, rather than hearing the meaning of the message.

I know. I'm offensive. I have no defense. Nor am I willing to take back my words even though Anonymous the Jerk tried to make believe he didn't understand my point, and who proved he could be just as nasty at me as he was at Josh. I took the bait and responded:

SamanthaJune 8, 2012 10:18 AM
Alder is correct: "...the trouble come[s] when we try to tell another person that their experience was skewed and try to give them an alternative explanation that fits in with our own."


Clearly you, Anonymous, have difficulty allowing Josh to use his words and to define them within his own experience. He's not a straight person who "struggles with homosexuality" (and he not only has the personal, but the educational and professional background to validate his claims)--he's Josh, and he says he's gay. Who are you to tell him otherwise? It's fine for you to describe yourself as you see fit. It's silly for you to say others must do so within your parameters.


As for questioning Josh's ability to be attracted to his wife sexually, I believe he answered it at great length as it applies to him. Simply because it doesn't belong in your one-size-fits-all definition, does not mean it's invalid.


This made him mad. Clearly, he's not used to being opposed.

Anonymous the JerkJune 8, 2012 11:00 AM

Sorry, Samantha, but you are "clearly" putting your bias and bigotry into what I am saying. I did not say he was a straight person with SSA. I wish he would have. I SAID there is a finality to saying, "I am gay". It means that he's accepted it, can't or won't or doesn't want to change, and he is now letting the world know about it. That is disappointing to me.

I personally know Josh, do you? I am disappointed that he "came out" at all. I didn't want to know that about him. I'm not proud of him for it. I have little tolerance for anyone that doesn't want to change or improve their lives (has nothing to do with being gay as it affects welfare-aholics, alcoholics, dead-beat dads, etc.) It's the ATTITUDE I have a problem with. Sure, IT'S MY PROBLEM, you are right.

I read his post three times and he did NOT answer, at any length, if he is "turned-on" at all by his wife, Laurel. If he is, then by the 0-100% SSA scale Alder brought up, he is not gay. It IS a valid question.

Now get off your high-horse.

Yes. I added "the Jerk" to his commentor identifier. I also loved this comment:

C Rowan HawthornJune 8, 2012 1:15 PM

Alder: "Please don't try to tell josh he has not understood himself. " YES! THIS!

Samantha: "It's fine for you to describe yourself as you see fit. It's silly for you to say others must do so within your parameters." AND THIS! <3

 Naturally, I loved it because it validated my former comment, but mostly I loved it because it was written by a person who has a name and uses it. And of course, I couldn't let it end there: 

SamanthaJune 8, 2012 1:04 PM

Nah, I think I'll stay up here and leave you to muck around in all the crap you're spewing. If you do know Josh, you're living proof of the saying, "With friends like you, who needs enemies?"

I've known this man and his family for more than seven years, spent time in their home, and I know from personal experience exactly where he's coming from when he describes what it's like to be gay, LDS, and married. Honestly, he describes his sex life in detail, but it's really none of your business whether or not he decides to say more about how he's affected by his wife, physically.

Whew--so very glad Christ will judge the hearts of men and your small-minded, bigoted judgments will belong only to you.

To which he replied: 

Anonymous the JerkJune 8, 2012 2:08 PM

Samantha - you are a bitch. Nothing more to be said.

Now, I'm not arguing that last statement. I wasn't nice, for sure. But the truth is, I'm not a bitch, but if you say stupid things and I feel like expending the energy, I'll call you on it. People don't like that--especially ones who are very certain they're in the right. No one likes their dearest beliefs questioned. No one likes to be thrown into the grey area when they're certain they've made everything in life black and white. And when they get tired of being challenged, the more juvenile ones call names.

Probably Josh and Lolly would be unhappy that I was nasty to their blog reader. Normally I would feel badly for offending them, but right now, I'm just sad they know Anonymous the Jerk. They deserve better friends. And there's a good chance that, should I encounter a similar situation, I'll be called a bitch again because being quiet when people are spouting crappy rhetoric that has no basis in fact and is meant to cause pain, does not come easily to me.

Final note: I have no idea if more was said. Once the name-calling card is played I lose all interest in continuing communication. Name-calling says you're no longer (if you ever were) using your brain, you're feeling desperate to cause harm, and you're not intelligent enough to consider a viewpoint beyond your own--in which case, further communication is pointless.

I'm not offended that I was called a bitch. I defend my right to be one when the occasion calls for it. Chances are, it will happen again and I probably will never apologize.

I think (and I'm saying this cautiously) things are on an upswing.

Thursday marked the first day in nearly a year when I felt like myself. I woke at 5 a.m. (normal waking time for me), went to the gym where I did my therapy exercises and ran about 4 miles on the elliptical (still having difficulty with impact running but I'm adding more and more resistance on the elliptical), then I came home and spent the morning finishing a formal gown and altering dress pants for Tabitha, who was selected as a Girls State delegate which requires a new wardrobe (they're only allowed to wear formal and business attire during the time they're attending the 8-day seminar).

At noon I went to work for a couple of hours, then to a doctor appointment, then back to work until 4:00 p.m., when I went grocery shopping, went home, and made dinner (which was spectacular: lemon/herb baked salmon, butternut squash risotto with pine nuts and fresh sage, and spinach/mango/rasperry salad). After dinner I took a three-mile walk, then went home and worked until 11:00, at which point I decided bed was in order. And I didn't get tired.

That's the Sam I'm used to.

Yesterday was equally filled with energy and activity. I skipped the gym and instead spent two hours walking up and down steep, rocky, rutted dirt hills. It's time for my hip to learn how to do that again. Today I awoke to incredible soreness (to be expected), but was still able to do my physical therapy and I ran five and a half miles. I think next week I'll increase my impact running time and see what happens.

And I'm better, finally. No more pneumonia. I would like to never have that again.

I realized this morning that I've been battling poor health for nearly a year now. It has definitely taken its toll on my ability to manage emotions and PTSD symptoms effectively, and I've been exhausted for months. I've not been doing my best work in any of my jobs and I'm fairly certain my parenting skills haven't been stellar either. In an effort to stay on top of things, I allowed some drugs to be prescribed for me that were to help with nightmares and depression. What I ended up with was more depression, severely low blood pressure, insomnia, fatigue, vertigo, and digestive problems (read: vomiting blood). We (doctor and I) nixed the drug therapy after about 10 days of fighting side-effects. While I understand that there are myriad of other drug possibilities and I may have simply stumbled onto the few that would cause me difficulty, I'm not excited about continuing the crap shoot.

So I'm back to my original daily routine: meditate, get morning sunshine, intense physical activity paired with moderate exercise later in the day, good nutrition (still working on remembering to eat--it's a problem), and 4-6 hours of sleep. I'm working again on trying to manage my dreams. It takes a great deal of concentration and energy and sometimes I'm too tired. When I began doing this I chose a partner to work with me which was incredibly helpful, but for reasons of my own, I'm not doing that this time around which makes the process much more difficult.

Welcome to my life.

In the midst of all the poor health issues, many of the therapy issues I was working on lost ground--lots of it. I had lunch with a friend yesterday; one I have not seen for more than a year. She told me she had heard rumors that I'd been ill, so I told her, as briefly as possible, about my year. She said, "I had no idea you've been so sick--that you've had injuries and surgeries and everything in-between. I'm so sorry I didn't know." I said, "Why would you? You have to care for your family and you're very busy. It's okay that you didn't know. Few people do unless they see or talk with me frequently, or they're my students or business associates. I've been in hibernation for awhile, trying to get better."

I realized when I said those words that I hadn't even known I was doing it. I don't remember the last time I did something I enjoy--or if I did, the enjoyment factor for me was very low. I've gone to lunch with people, but I've had to schedule it and I haven't really wanted to go at all. I've been playing the game of life and wondering why for quite awhile.

I also realized that the people who really care about me know what's happening in my life. There are a few friends and family members who have checked in with me regularly, making sure I'm okay, asking if they could help. Always, I've said no. Don't help me. I'm fine. You have more important things to do.

But I wasn't fine--not at all. I'm not sure there's been a time when I cried so much or so often. There were days when getting out of bed felt beyond my ability, days when I yearned for the sun to set simply because it meant that I'd made it through another 24 hours, nights when I woke drenched in sweat because of nightmares or pain, and always the dread that this was it--this was my life--and it was never going to get better.

I tried, though. I made certain to watch the sun rise and remember that there was a time when I thought that was a beautiful, amazing event. I forced myself to notice the leaves turning in the fall, the snow when the sun made it sparkle, and my crazy pansies which try to bloom even when the temperature is below zero. And when I got so tired that trying felt it was an enormous effort, I cried a little bit and tried some more.

There were nights when my prayers to the Big Guy went like this: "I know I'm supposed to start by telling you how grateful I am--and I am--but I'm also tired beyond coping. I'm trying to do the things I know are right. I'm trying to choose joy every day. I'm trying to get better. Will you help me? And I know I'm supposed to pray for all the people who are going through things much worse than what I am, but I'm really tired--so pretend I just did that, okay? You know them better than I do anyway. Thanks."

Yeah, I know, I'm lame and probably the Big Guy stopped listening after a couple of weeks of such prayers, but it was the best I could do at the time. I'll have a talk with him about it in a little while, when I'm feeling more settled.

In the meantime, my house has become an absolute disaster. I see laundry-folding, vacuuming, dusting, and mopping on my agenda for this day, along with some online work. But first--stretching and a shower. I need to wash off those five miles I ran a few minutes ago.

My mother was obsessed with scrapbooking before it was a fad. She would spend hours making cut-outs and finding cute stickers. Used wrapping paper and greeting cards became paper art within the scrapbooks. Childhood anecdotes and important moments were recorded on the pages in my mother's perfect penmanship. And when it became known that much of the paper products and glues she had used were filled with acids and other nasties that would destroy photographs, she began each book again.

Mine is different from my siblings. There are fewer pictures. Many of the initial anecdotes describe how I, as an 18-month-old and toddler, was very interested in cameras and the end result of my interest was that I opened the camera repeatedly and exposed the film, destroying all the pictures. I remember reading those stories when I was older and asking my mother, "Why didn't you just put the camera where I couldn't reach it?" She would reply, "Sam, there wasn't a place where you couldn't climb. If you wanted something, you found it."

Hmmm....I sound a bit like my Adam.

Tabitha has recently become obsessed with my scrapbook. She looks for a long time at each surviving picture, reads the stories, looks at the Valentines and birthday cards, and traces each saved, childish drawing with her finger. When I asked her why my scrapbook is of such interest to her, she asked, "Mom, how could anyone not love you? I don't understand."

I think my mom loved me. She just didn't really want me, preferring instead, my blond, blue-eyed sisters. You can love someone without wanting them, I think.

I explained to Tabitha about bonding. I told her how my mother suffered debilitating postpartum depression in a time when it was taboo to speak of it. I talked about the miscarriage which occurred when I was less than a year old, in a time when the remedy for miscarriage was to get pregnant again as soon as possible.

Tabitha said, "I still don't understand. You were beautiful. I would have loved you--bonded with you."

And that's true. Tabitha bonds with every baby she meets. She's been a tiny mother since Adam provided her first Batman action figure when she was nine months old. She rocked and fed her Batman and even gave him a tiny black diaper--just in case. The mothering moved to nearly every possible toy she could find--stuffed animals, baby dolls, even a very large Frankenstein monster which she stole from her brothers (this was a two-fer, because the toy had a hollow head intended to store plastic tools--Tabitha ousted the tools and stored snacks in the head instead).

There's no question--Tabitha would have loved the baby Samantha with all her heart. I know this. It's just a part of who she is. It's not, however, a part of who my mother is. The part that mystifies Tabitha is why my mother bonded with most of her children, but not me.

I tried once again to explain, then gave up. Tabitha cannot understand. I told her that was okay--it's sort of incomprehensible. She said, "And now you won't ever have a mom who loves you like she should because Grandma's brain is dying."

This is true.

So I said, "You know, Tabitha, there were a lot of things that happened that shouldn't have. But there were also things that happened that were good--things that many children don't receive." And I listed them for her:
1. My mother read to me. This is a gift for which I will be grateful every day of my life. There are children whose parents don't read at all. They (both parents and children) miss out on a great deal.
2. My mother taught me basic life and homemaking skills. Tabitha perceives me as being extremely capable when it comes to keeping a home and taking care of a family. Those skills came from my mother.
3. My mother taught me appreciation for art, music, literature, and dance.
4. My mother loved beauty, and she, herself, has always been beautiful.

Tabitha said, "You love your mom."
I said, "Yes. I do."
Tabitha said, "Grandma is very lucky to have a daughter like you."
I said, "You know, Tabitha, I've never really thought about that."
Tabitha said, "I think you need to think about it."

Perhaps my daughter is right.

The Eye of the Beholder

There was a time in my life when I wore a ribbon in my hair every single day. I believe I had about 30 ribbons of different colors.

This habit began shortly after I left home when I was seventeen. I took a job in Teton National Park. Naturally, because it was a resort in the middle of nowhere, employees lived in onsite dorms which came with a meal ticket attached. Our room and board were deducted from our monthly pay which meant we ended up making next to nothing, but when one has no other bills or obligations, and has just escaped from what felt like a living hell, the resulting independence and freedom is well worth the tiny monthly stipend remaining after one's meals (which I rarely ate) and room are subtracted from the paycheck.

The dorm arrangement in which I lived amounted to a huge warehouse-like basement with cement floors and sort-of walls creating the illusion of rooms, which went up about seven feet and then stopped. Some of the "rooms" had two bunk beds, some had rows of twelve or more. There were no doors and we could kneel on the top bunks and peek over at the occupants of the other rooms for chitchat whenever we wished. Viewed from above, I'm certain it looked like a crazy maze filled with walls papered with movie posters and pictures of home, and girls in various states of undress running about the passageways during the day, and sleeping or whispering at night. I loved it.

A couple of days after I had arrived, I was in the community bathroom trying to tame the curls I was blessed with--and I was frustrated. I heard my mother's voice saying unkind things about my unruly hair as she walked about without one strand of her own out of place. I wondered why none of my sisters had hair like mine. And then a perfectly beautiful stranger appeared beside me. She watched for a moment as I struggled with my hair, then said, "You have the most gorgeous curls. I would die for hair like that."

I paused and looked at her. She was probably 21 years old. She was tall and blonde and blue-eyed. There were tiny, light-colored freckles on her perfectly straight nose. I thought about falling in love with her, then decided that would be a very bad idea. Being in love with a straight girl for an entire summer did not sound fun at all.

I said, "I hate it. Everyone in my family has straight hair. It goes exactly where they want it to. Mine's like a pile of snakes."

She laughed, "Have you noticed the color? You have dark brown with streaks of lighter brown and red. Mine's just plain blond and it's always straight."

I sighed, "I don't know what to do with it. I have to be at work in 30 minutes."

She told me her name and asked if I'd let her help me, adding that she'd been wanting to play with my hair since she saw me check in a few days before. I shrugged and told her to have fun.

My new friend wet down the hair that had become a mane. She introduced me to hair products which encourage curl, not frizz, gently detangled the curls, then produced a thin red ribbon which she used as a headband, and tied a small bow on the side of my head. While she messed with my hair, she told me she was going to be a beautician, how she planned to go to some beauty school in the fall because she had received her associate degree, but didn't want to go to a university. She told me about her family and said I reminded her of her little sister, whom she missed a great deal.

Then she turned me toward the mirror and said, "See--you look so pretty!"

I don't know if I did or not. I took her word for it. I floated around all day, just being pretty because she said I was. That night I returned her ribbon to her. She took it from me and told me to follow her. We went to her room where she opened a box on her dresser, pulled out five more ribbons of different colors and handed them to me, instructing me to keep using them.

And I did. For a long time I used those ribbons, added some of my own, and remembered each time I tied the bow that a very beautiful young woman had once told me I was pretty.

Today I use a flat iron to tame my curls and I don't use a hair ribbon anymore. But I have one in my top drawer beneath my folded socks. It's red and not very new--a gift from a stranger I will not forget.

Thinking

Therapist talked with me about some things that are happening inside me which he believes will not be helpful. Then we discussed different strategies to circumvent the processes and try build the healthy habits and persona I've established. At the time I believed acting on those strategies would be a good idea. Today I no longer think so.

As I've worked on the assignments I've been feeling increasingly stressed. Granted, there are a number of things contributing to that which are beyond my control, but what I'm talking about is different. With each assignment I am left with the absolute certainty that I am "wrong." That everything about me is "wrong." That there is nothing about me redeeming or right or desirable or beautiful.

Even more, I'm feeling increasingly alone and isolated even when interacting with people. It feels as though we are not connecting. Please notice the italics. This does not feel solely as if it belongs to me. It feels as though I'm trying with all my might to feel some sort of camaraderie or affection or softness, but I'm blocked by the other person. What I want is definitely not what they want. Everything we discuss feels clinical and detached. I feel judged and analyzed--as though I'm an interesting specimen to be dissected and discarded.

Then, of course, because I've been trained to do so, I enter the cycle of wondering why it feels that way. Perhaps I'm not giving people enough breaks from me. Maybe I imagined there was genuine feeling from that person when there was not. Perhaps my perception that I'm friendly and delightful and sincere and real, is flawed and I'm just not that interesting.

But I refuse to believe this. I'm alone quite often and I'm never bored with my own company. I think interesting thoughts, see beautiful sights, and laugh often. I'm not ungainly or awkward. I don't have bad breath. I shower daily.

Besides, today at the gym a man asked me if I wanted to go get coffee after my workout--and at that point I was unshowered and sweaty (but my teeth were brushed). And since my gym partner reports to me that the man who invited me was "wowcute," I am left believing that there is something appealing about me. Darrin says this is true and, "Thank you for coming home instead of going out to coffee, as I don't think I would like that very much."

Maybe I'm trying too hard to be something I'm not. Maybe whatever processes identified by Therapist are a part of my integral makeup. Maybe there's nothing scary or bad or wrong about them at all. Maybe Therapist is the one who's wrong.

I don't know. But I do know I'm tired of being wrong, of having something wrong with me, of always doing or saying the wrong thing.

So today I think I'll spend the day with me. Maybe tomorrow I'll do the same. And maybe the next day, too.   Because I've been trying and trying to figure out how I fit in the lives of other people--something they don't even know themselves--and the truth is, I don't. Maybe no one really does. Perhaps that's why we float from friend to friend, and divorce is common, and families grow apart.

Regardless, the time has come for me to stop spending so much time "fixing" me. There are many things I'm not good at, but there are also things I do well. I might not be good at relationships, but I think I'm very good at the friendship cycle. And while I'm not the parent of the year, I spend lots of time with my kids and I believe they know I love them. And I'm still married after quite a few years. That's something.

There is so much about me that is healthy and good and right. I don't have the time or the patience to wait for anyone else to notice that. Today I have to just enjoy being me.

Bleh!

I have a ridiculous immune system. I contract the common cold/virus/flu once every two or three years. Sometimes though, I rely on that immune system a bit too much which results in something a bit more serious than the common cold. A couple of years ago I got H1N1 and I truly believed I might die. It was not good.

Two weeks ago I noticed my throat was sore. Two days later the soreness was gone. I felt fine. This is typical for me when I get a virus; the symptoms are mild and they only last a couple of days. But the next day I began coughing. Thinking that the virus must have triggered my asthma, I grabbed the inhaler I use a couple of times annually and took two puffs. It didn't help.

By Monday I was coughing every few minutes, and sometimes I would have coughing spasms. I thought about going to a doctor, decided I would be told I just had a virus and nothing could be done, and took more asthma medication.

The coughing increased. I didn't feel that my lungs were congested, but occasionally I would feel heaviness or difficulty inhaling. I just assumed they were tired--after all, I'd been coughing a lot.

For the past couple of nights I've not been able to get to sleep until after midnight; then I awake every hour because I'm coughing so much. This morning I tolerated it until 3:30 a.m. Then I got out of bed and folded laundry, did dishes, mopped floors, and checked email. I've not been able to run for two days because I've not felt well, but I went to the gym at that point and did the necessary strengthening exercises for my hip.

Darrin began badgering me to go to the doctor when he got home from work this afternoon. I didn't want to. I kept telling him I felt much better today than I had all week. He rolled his eyes at me.

We had to go to a rehearsal dinner for a wedding tonight. I felt miserable. After we'd been there for about an hour, Darrin made excuses to everyone and we left. I suggested we go to Walmart, but a dozen bottles of Nyquil and I'd drink it all. More eye-rolling from Darrin. As we headed to the store, we approached an urgent care clinic. Darrin suggested we make a quick stop. I rolled my eyes at him. However, I decided it couldn't hurt, especially because at this point when I coughed all the muscles in my stomach all the way down to my pelvic region wore cramping and hurting.

As it was almost 8:00 (which is when the clinic is supposed to close), we were almost immediately ushered into an exam room. The nurse and doctor took a brief medical history, then started the exam. For nearly five minutes the doctor listened to me breathe, saying, "Hmmmm..." each time.

The diagnosis:

1. Decreased function and spasms in both lungs.
2. Infection in both lungs.
3. Wheezing and low oxygen saturation.

Somewhere in all that, the doctor said something about almost pneumonia and why didn't I come in sooner and I stopped listening after that. I'm Samantha. I don't get pneumonia.

So now I'm on some stupid huge antibiotic, a steroid inhaler, and I'm supposed to take my regular inhaler every four hours. I'm very cranky about all this, and I'm still coughing.

Sigh...

I don't care. I'm going running tomorrow no matter what.

"I have just one day--today--and I'm going to be happy in it." ~ Groucho Marx

My daughter comes home from the hospital today. She's been there since Monday. We admitted her once again for suicidal thoughts/behavior, and a generalized suicide plan, rampant cutting, and debilitating depression.  Monday was not a great day.

I've been thinking a great deal since leaving Tabitha Monday morning.

In spite of everything, I am happy. I don't understand why. I just am.

I have reasons to be unhappy. Many of those reasons have been detailed here and in other blogs I keep. There have definitely been times when I've felt unhappy.

I understand suicidal feelings. I've experienced them. I know how it feels to believe death must be better than a current life situation.

I understand depression. I've felt it. I know that sometimes there are external reasons for, or physical causes of  depression, and sometimes there are not.

I understand eating disorders and cutting and false self-images and lack of self-esteem.

I know about loneliness.

Each time the above entities have reared their ugliness in my life, I've chosen not just to live, but to be happy. It wasn't a conscious choice, but it was a choice all the same. Sometimes it took awhile for me to find that happiness (or for it to find me), but eventually it arrived.

What I do not understand: my daughter.

For a few months I have allowed her anxiety and depression to interfere with my life to the point that I felt I no longer had one. That time is gone.

For a few months I have felt so much stress that I could not sleep at night and I dreaded arising in the morning. I no longer feel that.

For a few months I have longed to be free of my daughter and her problems. Today I will welcome her home without reservation.

What my daughter does not understand about me: It has become impossible for me to live in unhappiness. I can't do it. It seems that no matter how fast my unhappy feet can run, happiness is swifter--it inevitably overtakes me. And when I occasionally find myself running faster than normal, happiness simply runs in the opposite direction, circles around, and collides with me. I can't avoid it.

So while she remains in the morass of her depression, and continues to mutilate her body, and refuses to take her medication or use the provided therapy tools, or move beyond whatever hurts her now--I cannot stay with her in that place. Happiness moves me beyond it.

Today my daughter comes home. I will greet her, as I greet every person who enters my door, with my customary smile. She'll be hugged and kissed and loved as she always has been. I will encourage, and draw healthy boundaries, go to family therapy, and protect myself from being drawn into her nightmare. I will concentrate on doing the exercises and therapy assignments and daily projects which help me remain Samantha.

Daily I will walk with happiness, because it's so much easier to do that than to attempt avoiding it. Sometimes, at night, I will wonder why my face feels funny, and I'll realize it's because I'm still smiling even while I try to sleep. I will watch with awe as my royal purple irises bloom, wake to birdsong and sunlight in the morning, enjoy endorphins as I run, and plant herbs and tomatoes and beautiful flowers in my garden. I will inhale the scent of green as I mow the lawn. I will bake cookies, make up new recipes, and squeeze fresh lemons for lemonade. I will laugh and dance and turn in circles when I think no one is looking. I will sing.

I will live.

Because I am happy.

"Mothers are all slightly insane." ~ J.D. Salinger

I've been waiting a long time to write this post. Until now, I could not because there were too many unresolved issues floating around inside me. Today I'm both relieved and sad that I've finally made it to the point where I can express the things I've wished to say for decades.

My mother is mentally deteriorating. A couple of years ago she suffered a small stroke. When the results of her medical tests returned, small dead spots had been found in her brain. At the time there was chicken/egg speculation as to which came first: the spots, which caused the stroke; or the stroke, which caused the spots. At this point, most of her physicians believe that the spots were there first--no one knows why. There is no genetic anomaly, she does not have Alzheimer's, and she has reported no trauma. However, what they do know is that the spots are becoming larger and no medication seems to deter them.

No trauma has been reported--which doesn't mean there has been none. My mother was a childhood victim of physical abuse from an alcoholic father. She used to remember the beatings given to her brother. Today she has no memory of that. I have no doubt that she was the recipient of similar abuse and that the dead spots in her head are a result of the trauma suffered from the time she was a toddler. I have no evidence nor medical records to back me up. It is simply my opinion.

Today my mother has no short-term memory. She has lost her sense of verbal social boundaries. She does things that baffle us, but also cause tragic laughter--because the situations are funny, but also very sad. I'm watching my father battle depression. This was not what he hoped his older life with his spouse would be--but then again, there have been many things she has done throughout their marriage which have caused him pain. My maternal grandmother lives with them. She nursed her husband through Alzheimer's disease, institutionalized him when he became dangerous to her, and sat with him as he died. She never dreamed she'd watch her youngest daughter slowly lose her mind, as well.

My dreams of rediscovering a parent/child relationship with my mother are gone. She has no capacity to form and nurture relationships. Most of the time, I'm okay with this. She and I worked very hard for a number of years to mend some of the pains of our past. She has apologized abundantly for the years of abuse and neglect. I've seen her weep as she talked of being monstrous, and drove her to therapy appointments so that she, too, could mend from past abuse. She did not have the stamina required to sift through her past and ceased her therapeutic venture after two months. At the time, I was angry with her. Today I understand that going through therapy to heal from abuse requires more inner resources than those with which she is equipped, and truly, I believe she did her best.

Recently, I sat beside Tolkien Boy's mother during a church meeting. At one point I was commenting about a topic I found deeply emotional. She put her arm around me for a few moments. My response shocked me. I felt completely baffled as to why she would touch me--ever--for I do not see myself as a person with whom others wish any sort of physical contact, and at the same time I experienced a huge surge of envy and anger toward Tolkien Boy who, for his entire life, has experienced love and nurturing from the woman beside me. All this was followed up by intense shame for my anger and jealousy, and that enormous cocktail of questions that always follow such an event: Why didn't my mother want me? What was wrong with me? Why would she not hug or touch me? Why does this still bother me after aeons of time?

I hastily excused myself when the meeting ended and went to the restroom to put my head back on.

I'm unsure whether I'll ever get to a point when, if I'm caught off guard, those questions will stop surfacing. There's something grounding and necessary about being deeply loved by one's mother. While I've made enormous progress through the grieving and acceptance process, it doesn't mean I no longer wish my mother/daughter relationship had been different. I believe I'll always wish for that. And occasionally, when I catch glimpses of the beautiful relationships shared by my friends and their mothers, I might feel that ugly envy and anger. It's not personal, it's just me acknowledging that I still wish for something most children are automatically given simply because they are born.

Today, I can admit this. And quite honestly, I no longer feel I am less of a person because I wish for something I cannot have. However, I can also admit that there are many things my mother gave me that other children are not given, and for those things, I am grateful. So on this Mother's Day, I give tribute to the woman who bore me--the person who is healthy and alive, but slipping away from our reality daily.

Dear Mom,


I'm writing to let you know of the many positive things I have learned from you which have enriched my life. Though most of the learning was stressful--I like to do everything myself, I don't like instructions, and I'm always certain I can do things better than everyone else--you resolutely continued to teach me the things I needed to learn.


You taught me to cook. Today my methods and choice of foods are vastly different from yours, but I learned about baking, and measuring, and stirring, and kneading, and how some foods mix well but others don't. I learned to preserved fruits and vegetables, and make jam, and dry foods. You taught me to experiment, to find out for myself what foods taste good to me. You helped us learn about nutrition and tried to impress on us the importance of growing a garden. 


You taught me to sew, and knit, and crochet. You allowed me to take that knowledge and adapt it to my abidexterity, rather than insisting I use just one-handed direction. When my finished products showed more uniform stitches than those which had to be turned with each row, you encouraged me to enter them in contests and shared my glee when my entries beat out those of more experienced knitters and crocheters. You showed interest in my next project, provided me with materials and encouragement, and made certain I knew you were proud of me.


You recognized my aptitude in academics. You encouraged me to read and write. My earliest memories find you reading to me daily. You made certain I had access to books, encyclopedias, dictionaries, and academic magazines. When you found me reading the classics, you bought more for me. You made certain I learned and spoke with proper grammar. You told me from the time I was a child that I would attend college and graduate. 


You paid for music lessons on a shoestring budget. It was vital to you that I be given the best training you could find. You recognized that I had unique ability and did all that you could to foster it. I was chosen to learn the violin and given my grandfather's instrument. You allowed me to practice at 5:00 in the morning when I know you wished for more sleep. Somehow, on a farmer's salary, you squeezed out enough extra money to send me to music camps and clinics. 


You taught me to clean and do laundry and care for myself. Through you and Dad, I learned the value and satisfaction of work. You taught me to budget money, to provide for my needs, and to use all that I could spare to help others. 


There were some things about our lives that both of us have said we wish had been different. But there are so many things you did for me that were life-affirming and wonderful. Jill Churchill has said: "There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one." Thank you for discovering some of those "million ways" and giving me many gifts which helped me to become the person I am today. 


I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day.


Love,
Sam

I have asthma. I like to pretend I don't because asthma is annoying and I would rather not have it. Being a runner at 8000 feet has caused my lungs to develop in ways they would not otherwise, and living in a relatively air pollution-free environment has allowed me to breathe without difficulty about 99.9% of the time. However, occasionally my lungs remind me that they're not quite perfect. I woke up this morning because of that little reminder.

I don't like taking my inhaler medication. It tastes nasty and makes me feel unfocused and shaky. Given the fact that I deal with anxiety and panic daily, I don't need the added dimension the inhaler provides. Often, if I quietly concentrate on breathing and go about my day as usual, the wheezing eases and I can avoid taking the nasty medicine. I've been working on this for about three hours now. It's not working and I can't go running till the wheezing is under control. I'm thinking of taking a day off my physical therapy/running, getting into a steamy shower, and maybe taking it easy today.

I suppose, if I'm still struggling to breathe in an hour, I'll take my medication and stop being stubborn.

Darrin says I'm like this with everything. When an easy "fix" is available, I find all the reasons I don't want to do it, I put it off as long as possible, and I try every possible alternative to avoid doing what's easiest. I don't know that that's true, but I often understand that the end result is not always better than the initial situation when one uses what seems the obvious solution.

I am in the process of figuring out who I am--what I look like, why I feel certain emotions, how I feel about myself and others, why selected things frighten or delight me... It's not an easy process, and I don't recommend it to anyone. I hate doing it. I find myself discovering all sorts of uglies within, and wishing I knew how to change them. I feel vulnerable often, unloved most days, and powerless when I used to feel powerful. Reality--my former reality--seems counterfeit.

Therapist suggested I not do this alone. I ignored his advice. That was a bad idea.

He told me I need someone to balance my discoveries, for while they're valid, they're not always accurate. He suggested that my beliefs, especially those dealing with how I believe others perceive me, are not always correct, and the purpose of doing this is to gain a more truthful understanding of who I am. So why did I disregard his advice?

I think I wanted to avoid leaning on another person's opinion of who I am. For years, as much as I have tried to stop doing so, I have heard the things said about me by my mother, and I have believed them. I have heard her tell me I was homely, ungainly, and fat. I have listened as she belittled my ability to read and write well. I have heard her disregard my musical talent--dismissing it, calling it unimportant--while at the same time pushing me to play or sing often, enter competitions, audition for groups--not because I was worthwhile or talented, but simply because it was expected of me. I believed her assertions that I am unwanted, lazy, stupid, socially awkward, disrespectful, unlovable.

Those were not the only messages sent to me by my mother. She taught me many things--especially about homemaking. I listened and learned and finally, surpassed her. When she didn't know I was listening, I heard her tell people how she loved hearing me play or sing. One day, when I went to her for help with an English assignment, she admitted to me that I was much smarter than she, and the schoolwork I was doing was far beyond her ability to help. At the time I believed she just didn't wish to take time to help me. Now, I believe she was telling the truth.

But she never told me she was proud of me. Any achievement I made was ignored, belittled, or taken for granted. And I was always made to feel that there was nothing about me that was beautiful. I was obnoxious and annoying. I had nothing important to contribute to conversations. I was cankerous, belligerent, rebellious, disrespectful...

The voice should have been silenced long ago.

It should have been silenced when--

-I took an IQ test which assured me I was not stupid.
-I received three music degrees which let me know my ability was above average.
-I won awards and achievements in many different areas.
-I realized I make friends easily, people aren't frightened of me and they actually believe I'm pleasant and delightful.
-I recognized that while my bones no longer poke out as they did when I was emaciated because of anorexia, I look healthy and fit--but even if I was fat, it wouldn't really change who I am.
-In spite of a failing economy, I've never lost a job or been without work. In fact, I've always had too much work.
-I chose to live my adult life near the person who tore me down, accepted her request for forgiveness, offered my own for any offenses I've given, and tried to build a relationship with her.

There are many reasons the voice should be silent. But it is not.

Yet.

It's time for me to figure out how much of what that voice said was true and disregard those things which were untrue. I need to decide for myself what I look like, what personality traits I will claim or discard, and if, in fact, I am unwanted or unlovable. I need to know--and I need to believe what I know.

Probably I will take Therapist's advice in the near future. When I have established what I believe, I will seek corroboration. Because I'm a coward, I'll probably ask people who won't say unkind things to me, but I think, given the bulk of unkindness I endured as a child, that's probably okay. There's nothing wrong with finding people who support and affirm who you are.

And now I'm going to try that steamy shower thing. I still do not want to take my medicine.

Inevitable

You see, I am Samantha.

If you don't know me personally, that statement might seem meaningless, so for you, I will explain: I don't give up--ever. 

For the past couple of years I have slogged through medical difficulties (not quite finished with those), financial problems (welcome to today's economy), parenting difficulties (um...what parent doesn't have those?), identity crises (just preparing for my middle-age crisis which will, no doubt happen within the next couple of decades), depression (sigh...it happens...), and difficulties managing stress/panic/PTSD. 

I won't lie; there have been moments when I absolutely wished to give up, when I felt so incredibly tired I wanted to lie on some busy street and let the traffic run over me, when I felt alone and picked on and completely unable to manage my life. 

However, giving up seems to be one thing I do not know how to do--even when I wish to.

This morning I woke up--literally and figuratively. Many of the therapy exercises I've been working on finally kicked in. Add to that the fact that I've been trying to take care of myself in a lot of different ways; I've been taking time to be with people in person, through phone calls, and online; and I finally decided that I will be who I am and finish the things I've begun and live the life I've been given.

And in the midst of all that, I found my lost sense of humor, regained my endless sense of wonder, and took just a few moments to dance in my kitchen this morning.

If you know me personally, there is no surprise in all this. It was bound to happen...a matter of course...simply inevitable.

Why?

Because I am Samantha. I think deeply, love endlessly, and live joyfully. My cooking is delicious, my energy is boundless, and my laughter is contagious. 

And my favorite number is three. 

Today I saw a butterfly. It's been so long since I've run on the ridge above my house that I almost forgot it was time for them to arrive. This particular butterfly nearly collided with my car while fluttering across the street as I drove home from my first rehearsal this morning. I think tonight, when the afternoon wind dies, I will wander up to the ridge and see if more butterflies have come. I'm guessing the wildflowers are blooming.

A friend stopped by for a visit yesterday. I wasn't expecting her and it made my work night later than I wished. I was very tired--chatting with every person I could find online to keep me awake. I still didn't quite finish my hours, but I was close enough to rationalize stopping and heading for bed. My friend mentioned that the birds seem louder than normal this year. I don't think they're any louder, there is just a larger variety. The birdsong is incredibly beautiful as the different calls mix together. I can hear it through my closed windows. There are moments when I stop my work just so I can listen.

As my world seems to thin and sway, the one constant is my intense love of my surroundings. I might never figure out who I am, but I don't believe I'll ever tire of watching the shifting blue of the sky--the branches of my crab apple tree currently covered with feathery blossoms that will turn from white to green to deep red as the blossoms become fruit--the stillness of the rabbits on my lawn as they pretend I cannot see them if they don't move--the gold of the spent sun as it sinks below the horizon--and the birds provide a constant soundtrack to all I see.

I don't know what to do with people anymore. I smile at someone and have my smile returned...and I wonder what that means. Why did they smile at me? Is it a reflex? Do I look as if I need a smile today? Perhaps they were smiling at the person behind me...

Darrin says I don't talk anymore. He could be right. I don't really have anything to say outside of this blog. I feel that all I can talk about right now is the confusion I feel constantly, the agony of trying to figure out how to function normally, and the weather. I give myself an "A" in weather.

I think I am going to go buy myself flowers tonight. Life feels better when I have flowers.

Change

Today I awoke, aware that there are some major changes happening inside me. Therapist has been working with me to assure that through all the changes I retain "Samantha," fully integrated and well-adjusted...

Probably "sort-of-well-adjusted" is a better descriptor.

Regardless, I've been doing a great deal of mental and emotional work so that the changes which take place do not undermine the persona that is me.

I know. That sounds crazy. I suppose it is, technically. Most people do things to adapt, adjust, accept, which do not compromise who they are, but rather, enhance their "selves". A few of us, however, get lost when those things happen in our lives. We forget who we are, or (as in my case) we create a new persona in order to avoid facing the things that cause the need for change in the first place. I've done that three times. 

And then I had to put myself back together again. I don't recommend that process to anyone. It's very important--and very yucky.

Stress is a catalyst which causes me to want to invent a new person. I've had a lot of stress in my life lately. 

Therapist has suggested that I do the work he assigned so that I can remain whole and healthy while dealing with the large amounts of stress. I don't want to; and I'm really tired.

I told him of the relief I feel when I lean in the direction of not being healthy and whole. He reminded me that this is the first time this has happened when I've been conscious of the symptoms and desires. He said that, alone, means I'm still in control--I still have a choice. He reminded me that if I give into that relief, I'll lose much of my desire for current relationships and probably more than just a few memories. He told me the person I am--the fully-integrated, multi-faceted, whole person I am--is well-equipped to handle the things that are causing me pain right now. I can work through them. He believes in me.

I don't expect anyone to understand. I'm talking craziness. And I really am very tired. I find that right now I'm completely unable to do the following:

1. Manage PTSD symptoms--which means I spend my days wondering how to interpret intent behind words, fighting past voices, and unable to understand if people care about me--and if they do care about me, WHY? I am unable to figure this out.

2. Sleep--I do sleep, just not well. I'm up every 30-60 minutes, wandering around my house, checking to make sure the doors are locked, trying to get the stupid dreams out of my head, reminding myself that things I dream are not real. I'm very grateful when 4:30 rolls around and I can dress in my workout clothes, drive to the rec center, and wait for it to open.

3. Think logically--I can't even fool myself into believing I'm logical right now. This is something I've always felt I could control. I want it back.

I have a friend who wants to take me away for a few nights. We would go to a condo in the mountains. I would be given a great deal of space to gather myself and learn how to think again. I need to do this, but the thought of not working, leaving my family, changing my routine, terrifies me a lot. 

It's weird, but admitting this here, on my blog, makes me feel less panicked about everything. 

There are two assignments on my list that make me more stressed than the others. One is that I have to learn to see myself as I am. I have to recognize that I'm not invisible. I have to decide if I'm attractive or plain, obese or not--I have to look at my flaws and my assets--I have to learn how to recognize myself when I appear in a picture--I have to know who I am physically. I don't want to do this. It scares me.

The other is that I have to allow the people who love me to help me remain "me". I don't even know how to go about doing this. I'm pretty sure Therapist outlined a plan replete with suggestions, but when he said that "help" word, I had a panic attack and forgot to keep listening. What if they don't want to help? Who has time for that? How can I allow help without becoming dependent? What if they say they'll help, but then they don't? What if no one loves me? Who will I ask then?

Panic inspires illogicality.

So, instead of working on my assignments yesterday, I went to rehearsals for nearly the entire day, then I went to Walmart where I saw a doppelganger of AtP's boyfriend--except it was the version of him that wears gym shorts with black dress socks and brown leather walking shoes and a too-large-striped t-shirt. And Doppelganger needed some grooming of facial hair--but still--change the dress habits, and trim the facial hair and it would be difficult to tell Doppel-g from the original.

Also, I was very happy because our resident Oompa-Loompa (translation: a Walmart employee in her early sixties who must bathe in self-tanning lotion because she is orange) was helping with the self-checkout department. I love seeing our Oompa-Loompa. She makes me smile. When I am in my sixties I'm not sure I'll be able to pull off the white hair and orange skin, but I'm going to try. Then when Therapist asks me if I see me as I am, I'll say, "Yes. I'm an Oompa-Loompa. It took 16,000 bottles of self-tan to achieve this, but it was worth every penny." And then I plan to dance for him.

"Almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities that he does not possess..." ~Samuel Johnson

About a month ago I received an email from an old friend. This particular person has not spoken to me for a couple of years. He requested that silence and I believe in honoring such requests, so the email came as a surprise. I believe his purpose in writing was to offer an explanation concerning the silence, divulge his negative feelings about our friendship, and let me know he has moved beyond it. Naturally, there was nothing complimentary nor kind in his words, nor were they, in my estimation, entirely accurate. But I also believe in allowing people to draw their own conclusions and explore their own feelings regardless of how those might reflect on me.

I've read his email a couple of times. Tolkien Boy, a bit impatiently, said: "I don't know why you're torturing yourself with this." At the time the statement was made, I was not in an emotional condition to explain, so I said nothing more than, "I'm not."

And I wasn't. I just wanted to make sure...

You see, I'm aware that I have an unfortunate habit of stating my mind. I do it often when with a person with whom I feel comfortable. More than one friend has borne the brunt of my bluntness. Sometimes I try to backpedal, soften the blow, but it's difficult because if I said it, I probably meant it. The only way to excuse oneself when that happens is to admit to idiocy and tactlessness, which is what I usually have to do.

In the past, I've spent a lot of time with the email friend. I've said lots of things. I suppose I wanted to read and reread his evaluation of my interaction with him because I don't want to have another friend leave for similar reasons. Honestly, I don't really care about the opinion of the person who emailed because he's made it abundantly clear that I am not someone with whom he wishes to spend time, and as my time is a premium, I'll simply move to someone who cares about me. But...

Unless I know you well, I don't talk a lot. I listen. People like to talk. I like to hear what they have to say. One of my physical therapists said, "I don't know what it is about you, but I always end up telling you my life history. You probably know more about me than my husband." That's a huge exaggeration, but she did tell me a great deal about herself--details spanning her teen life to her sex life. I'm a safe person to tell. I have no one to whom I would repeat the stories.

However, once I get to know you a little better, especially if you've been in my life at least a couple of years, I talk a lot. I talk about many things (from my teen life to my sex life--well, maybe not quite that much--I don't really talk about my teen life) and I rarely filter what I say. I offer opinions, I expose my judgmental side, I interrupt, I'm sometimes crass, and I say potentially hurtful or offensive things without even noticing that I'm being unforgivably rude.

This is why, I suppose, I don't often get to know people well. I'm aware that I'm not always the nicest person up close.

So when I receive an email detailing all my faults and shortcomings, while I might not agree with the author, I take his words very seriously. I read them, evaluate current relationships, and try to decide if my behavior needs realignment. Most often it does; and so I go through a process where I think of things I've said to my loved ones, wish I could rescind most statements, and make a promise to myself that I'll think before I speak in the future.

It never works.

I suppose the only bright side to all this is:
1. You never have to wonder how I feel about something--ask me, I'll tell you.
2. You don't have to worry that I'm talking about you behind your back if I'm saying it to your face.

Maybe that's not a bright side.

The thing is, most of the time I'm not saying nasty, mean things, I'm just talking. I spew information about myself, dish out unsolicited advice, and verbalize deep feelings. It's uncomfortable, no doubt. I know this because my listener doesn't balance my personal information with his own, people rarely offer advice to me, and my feelings are obviously not reciprocated. Therefore, even if the person wishes to share with me, or feels similarly, it's certain they feel uncomfortable divulging such feelings and/or information. Clearly they have an appropriateness filter.

I need to get one of those.

Tomorrow, when I get to work, I will respond to my month-old email. I actually have not put it off because I didn't wish to respond, but because my life has been extremely busy and it was not on my priority list. However, I'll take care of that tomorrow. My response will, no doubt, be clear and forthright because that's how I speak. It will probably incite more aggravation in the recipient, but that can't be helped--or if it can, I choose not to take the time or make the effort to do so.

Therapist once told me that I was very aware of things people believe are my shortcomings, but I do not see them as such. He said I view them as distinct personality traits that make me Samantha. He could be right. I don't believe he is, but I'm willing to entertain the possibility.

Today the bumblebees arrived. The white blossoms in my crabapple tree not only smell lovely, they buzz with the constant sound of striped, fuzzy bodies flying from limb to limb. DJ used to spend hours watching and listening to them from his upstairs window. Often I would join him. Adam now owns that window. He doesn't love bees.

Darrin has a terrible habit of cutting the lower boughs from our Christmas tree and spreading them across the garden plot near my front door. The pine needles inhibit the growth of my spring flowers and I usually remove the boughs before March is over. This year I wasn't able to do that. My flowers are trying to grow in spite of the hindrance. Tiny pinks and bleeding hearts peep through the long needles, reminding me of my need to remove the dead branches. The dandelions have spread to my lawn. It's time for some serious yard work.

Tabitha and I have been watching the hawks. They're pairing off now. We see them circling and diving as they harvest numerous prairie dogs. I would feel badly for the rodents if they weren't so prone to throwing themselves beneath the wheels of my car when I drive past the prairie dog towns. There's no way to avoid them, and I'd rather have them be dinner for the hawks than roadkill. It's not as much fun to watch the birds from my front porch as it is to spy on them during my morning runs on the prairie ridge above my home, but my hip is not ready for long outdoor runs yet. Each day it grows stronger, though. I'm hopeful I'll be running outside by June.

Adam had a heart-to-heart with me last week. He let me know that he's realized I was right about that get-good-grades-in-high-school thing. His amazing test scores, it seems, serve only to let the universities know he's brilliant but lazy. Every person he spoke to at his universities of choice let Adam know that while he will be accepted, he will  be offered scholarships only after he attends a semester or two at a different school during which time he would, of course, earn extremely high grades. Adam was a tiny bit devastated.

Adam further let me know that in spite of the hours of training he had put in, he was not really interested in being an EMT. I suggested he get a different job--any job--if that was the case. By the next day he had secured a job at a call center affiliated with the university. The pay will be half what he would make as an EMT, but I have to admit that a reluctant EMT is not someone I would like working on me when my life is on the line.

Adam ended our conversation by asking, "Do you ever get tired of being right?"

How I wish he could understand that I'm often right only because I've spent so much of my life being wrong about everything.

I have a recital on Monday next week and then the month of May is filled with accompanying for festivals and competitions. I will teach at the university briefly, for summer music institute which ends the second week of June. My hope is that in July I'll be able to take some days off to rest a bit.

I met with Therapist on Monday. He is always encouraging, pointing out the many obstacles I'm overcoming bit by bit. Unfortunately, there are some things happening which seem to be beyond my control right now. Therapist has assigned a number of exercises to help combat the probable outcome. I feel exhausted just thinking about them. There are definitely moments when I simply want to let things just happen, regardless of whether or not they make me unhealthy or unhappy. Then I cry a little bit (or sometimes a lot), whine about unfairness, wish things were different, feel sorry for myself--and then I move in the direction I'm supposed to. I pretend that's what everyone does when faced with difficult challenges. It makes me feel less like a coward.

In the meantime, I intend to enjoy newly blooming flowers, circling hawks, abundant sunshine, incredibly blue skies, fragrant cherry and crabapple blossoms, and my bumblebees. And maybe, when the afternoon breeze kicks up, I'll take a break from work and make some cookies. Therapist says the smell of baking cookies makes everything seem better and I agree.

Time for the leopard to change her spots

I find the things I'm about to write incredibly confusing.

I think I'm starting to understand this friendship thing. Maybe. To be more clear, I believe I'm beginning to understand the part of friendship which allows people to go away. I think it's because for the first time in my life I'm allowing myself to move beyond my selfish need to "keep" people, into the part where I understand that they have lives separate from mine. Not only do I understand it, I find myself participating in it.

Probably it began when, for the first time in seven years, I forgot the birthday of a friend. It's not really remarkable that I forgot; this particular person hasn't really spoken to me for about three of those years. This was by his own arrangement and I had no say in the matter, but I continued to send email birthday wishes for two years and then, this year I forgot. Darrin reminded me.

I realized after I sent this year's birthday email that I didn't feel at all guilty about not remembering. It's not like my friend went out of his way to...well...do anything to keep our friendship alive so forgetting his birthday seemed to be a minor incident. But I was a little bit fascinated that I felt only mild surprise at my forgetfulness. And I sent the birthday hail only because it's a habit, not necessarily because I wanted to.

This all happened about three months ago.

Following that incident I went through enormous emotional bouts where I would feel angry that friendship even existed. I knew why I was angry and it had nothing to do with the mechanism of friendship. It was because I was feeling the need to let go of some people and I didn't want to. It was a silly temper tantrum, as some of those people had already made it clear that I did not figure prominently in their lives (although some may have said differently, one gets a picture of reality when there are no attempts at contact from them, and any that I might make are allowed to fall flat or ignored). And my feelings had nothing to do with the people, themselves, and everything to do with my perception of me.

I didn't want to let them go because then I would be just like everyone else.

More than that, I think I didn't want to let them go because I really wanted to be someone who didn't let people down. I thought of all the times I was made to feel unwanted or unloved by my family--I think I wanted to save the world from feeling the same way. Maybe I thought if I was different, if I loved differently, if I never made one person feel that I didn't want or need them, everything that had been missing in my life would somehow be restored.

It doesn't work that way. What was not mine will never be mine. I can't magically make a childhood in which I was loved and nurtured and accepted by forcing those things on people who are currently in my life.

I know. All this makes me seem incredibly delusional and needy. And I suppose that's not 100% untrue. But the good news is, I'm getting over it.

Last week that birthday boy I forgot earlier this year took it upon himself to write me a rather nasty little email. I'm certain it was not his intent to be nasty...you know...just explain...

Whatever.

To my surprise I found myself shocked and hurt for only a day. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, double checked my behavior with a few close friends and with those who had oversight in my relationship with the email author. All corroborated my belief that things were not as he portrayed them and I had no need to worry.

So I replied to his email, letting him know I had a great deal to do in the next few weeks, that I had some firm deadlines that could not be changed, and I would have to wait to send a reply until I had more time.

You see, while something seems to have motivated him to spend time letting me know how much he holds me in disdain, I really don't have time to do that to another person. And I don't want to. Also, I want to be very clear that whatever his impression of me might be, I've moved on. I have no desire to rehash whose memories are correct, or worry about what he's thinking of me, or wonder if we'll ever be friends again...because we won't. I clearly had already answered that question for myself sometime before his birthday rolled around because I don't forget a friend's birthday and I forgot his.

While I was thinking about this, I realized I had accepted the friend cycle. Wholeheartedly.

Perhaps it's a necessary component of humanity. It keeps us from drowning in drama and hurt feelings while allowing us to temporarily enjoy the delight of getting to know one another, spending time together, and moving on when the time comes. It also helps us continue to get that friend twitterpation which only happens when meeting a person for the first time with whom we are compatible. We're inseparable. We constantly talk about the other person. We plan activities, spontaneously phone or visit, and think of a future which will never happen in which we share family vacations, become next door neighbors, and our children are best friends for life. And then, in time, we tire of each other and move on to the next person who makes us laugh spontaneously, or shares a common interest, or makes us feel for just a moment that we've come home.

It used to make me want to scream--that part where you spend so much time drawing close to one another, but you know it's not forever because you're just friends. It doesn't make me feel that way anymore.

Today my computer decided to be uncooperative. I spent hours cleaning it and looking for problems. All that requires waiting time. So while I waited I went to Facebook and browsed through the pictures of a friend. Months ago such an action would have left me yearning to see that person, wishing my friend would call or chat, thinking about how accepted and loved I felt when I was with them. Today I realized I felt none of those feelings. I felt happy that we've shared so many fun moments. I was very glad we had met. But as I browsed the photos, it was clear that I figured in none of them. My friend's life is very much separate from mine and we're both comfortable with that.

So perhaps the friend cycle doesn't end with separation and distance, but with acceptance that we can only be involved as much as our real lives allow--which might morph into a situation where we rarely speak and we only think of one another occasionally, but with fondness. Maybe it means each is granted the right to relegate the other to a secondary position while they spend time with the people who are present, those they live with daily, and to whom they are committed--and that's okay.

Maybe I'm not monstrous because I've begun buying into all this just like everyone else. And maybe one day it will seem second nature, unremarkable, normal--and the person who will seem extreme and crazy will be the former me who wept over ties that thin and stretch, and relationships which wane, and former best friends who forget each other's phone numbers or addresses and only remember they were best friends when an odd memory interrupts the daily operations of life.

I used to be Winnie-the-Pooh: "If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus one day, so I never have to live without you."

I'm not Winnie-the-Pooh anymore. I still have a lot to learn, but I think I'm ready to move on and let go.

Oops! I did it again...

Hello. My name is Samantha Stevens and I'm a workaholic (cue canned laughter).

Sigh. And I was doing so well, too.

Every time I hear the word "workaholic," I react strongly. It doesn't exist in my mind. It's clearly something people can control (when you finish work, go home and relax), and in today's economy, with the dearth of employment, how can it possibly be a problem?

But it is--for me anyway.

December 2011: Sam had quit all extraneous jobs and, knowing she had to recover from major surgery which took place on November 28, 2011, did not accept another teaching contract at the university.

And within three months I have accepted other contracts, jobs, gigs--you name it--so that I'm now working 55-60 hours weekly once again. I have no idea how this happened. Nor do I have any idea why my email is tempting me with two more very nice contracts to which I have not yet responded. I think I'll take one of them. It doesn't begin until June and will last only a couple of weeks.

See? That's how my mind functions. "I'll just take one more contract...it's not very long-lasting...it pays well...I like what I'll be doing..." I'm ridiculous.

There is good news:

1. My tax deadline is approaching at which time I believe I will reclaim Saturdays as non-work time (or do-housework time, as the case may be).

2. Most of my performance contracts will be over by mid-May, so at that point I should have some more personal time opening up.

That's it, I guess.

I'll be honest; the thought of having spare time is giving me panic attacks. It's good that I'm seeing Therapist in a few weeks. Maybe he can help me. In the meantime, I think I need people to teach me how to play again. I need to learn how to waste time and stop being so anal about reliability, promptness, and organization. I'm back in that mode where, if' I have five minutes to spare, it needs to be utilized on some project. I've forgotten how to daydream and I don't remember the last time I really laughed about something--the kind of laughter which leaves you weak, helpless, and joyfully tearful. I'm not sure I even remember how to do that.

So I'm going to finish what I began (six more weeks of working 55 hours or more), I'm going to try to exercise restraint and stop looking for more contract work....

I just deleted my list. It had things on it like: read more books, take long walks, lie on the grass and look at the sky, go out to lunch with friends--you get the idea.

Even looking at that last sentence makes me feel like I'm going to throw up. I have a real problem. I need to solve it.

Guess what, Sam! Workaholism is real and you're the poster child!

"There never was an angry man who thought his anger unjust." ~St. Francis de Sales

Today I saw the first leaves beginning on my rose bushes. After a very mild winter, spring has begun. It worries me a bit. Longer, more severe winters bring a great deal of moisture in their aftermath. I'm not looking forward to drought conditions again.

Last night I snapped at Tabitha over something minor. My displeasure toward her was undeserved. I have no excuse for my behavior. But I had had a very trying, long day, followed up by an unexpectedly nasty email. The sender, it seems, was trying to convey something nice, but spent two paragraphs outlining all my deficits and telling me he was angry about them, before following with a paragraph thanking me for some small things I had done for him. Each fault he mentioned managed to target every fear I have about having relationships with people I care about. He finished up his email by mentioning that, regardless of his minor gratitudes, he had no desire for an "active friendship" with me. I think that sentence actually startled me out of shock over the mean-spirited tone of his email, and made me laugh. While I love him and I probably always will, I've not considered him a friend for more than three years and I have no desire to change that, so at least we concur on one point.

However, the email caught me when I was tired and weak, and I was not unaffected. I suppose no one enjoys hearing all the reasons (true or not) someone has been angry with them, and I don't love it either. I stewed a bit, wondered why it bothered me when I really don't care what this person thinks of me, and finally called someone I could count on to take my side. I know--cowardly--but as I've mentioned, I was very weak.

The problem, I suppose, is that I don't understand this aspect of being human. If I'm angry with someone I do one of two things:
1. If the person is not someone who is close to me, and I don't have a great interest in a continued friendship with him or her, I usually say nothing, work through the emotion, learn from the experience and avoid placing myself in a position where the hurtful words or actions can be repeated.

2. If I care about the person and am interested in continuing our relationship, I tell them. My exact words are: "I'm angry with you." Then I follow up by telling them what has upset me. I do this not to spread the anger or cause defensiveness, but because I want to resolve the issue in such a way that both of us feel peace about it, and I'm very clear about that intent. I'm sure the process is unpleasant and probably the other person would rather not go through the emotional gymnastics necessary for me to feel safe with them again, but I'm careful to help them understand it's a necessary process for me if I plan to remain close with that person. They are also given the option to let me know how they feel, both about the words or actions which caused me pain, and about the continuation of our relationship.

So to receive an email where it's very clear that the sender is angry with me (because he says so) but neither of those conditions apply, is confusing to me. I don't understand why someone would go out of their way to do that. I'm not really important enough to warrant such time and effort. It seems mean-spirited and spiteful. Those are not qualities I would have attributed to the author of the email.

So today I will apologize to my sweet daughter and hope she will forgive my nastiness toward her. And I believe I will cling to the words spoken during yesterday's phone call by someone who truly knows me. And I will get some rest, as it seems I really need it.

In the meantime, should anyone who encounters this blog post feel rancor toward me for any reason, unless  you have an interest in resolving the issue with me so that we can be mature adults sharing a healthy friendship, please keep it to yourself for a month or two. When I'm no longer down, I field the spiteful kicks with much more grace and dignity.

Thanks.

"My surgeon is only allowed to say seven sentences to me during an office visit."

That's what I told my physical therapist when she was testing my strength so she could send a report to Surgeon before I saw him on Wednesday. She laughed, "Not a big conversationalist?" "Nope," I said, "and I'm certain if he says more than seven sentences he'll explode all over the place. That's just messy."

My PT said, regardless of the taciturn nature of dear Surgeon, I was to ask him if I was released to begin running on the treadmill and track.

So I went to my appointment, put on the HUGE exam shorts (I seriously believe that "one size fits all" means that all the patients are supposed to wear that pair of shorts at the same time--and there would be plenty of room for everyone), and waited for Surgeon. This is how our visit went:

Surgeon: Lets see, we injected your hip because you developed bursitis. Did that help?
me: Yes, very much.
Surgeon (poking around where he stuck a needle in me six weeks ago): Are you still having pain?
me: Only when you poke my joint like that.
Surgeon: That is not your joint. It's your bursa.
me (rolling my eyes): Only when you poke my bursa like that.
Surgeon: Seriously, Sam, you've had major surgery. You need to know these things.
me: Okay.
Surgeon: You're feeling better?
me: Yes. So much better.
Surgeon: Good. Everything looks like it's healing nicely.
me (wondering how he can possibly know that when the only thing he's done is poke me through my giant exam shorts): My PT told me to ask you if you think I'm ready to start running.
Surgeon: Can you stand on your right leg alone?
me (obediently showing him): Yes.
Surgeon: With no problem or balance checks. Good. You know, of course, that swimming is the best exercise for anyone, but if  you want to run, you can start.
me: Treadmill or track?
Surgeon: Actually, as long as the surface is fairly flat and forgiving (no concrete sidewalks), you can run wherever you want.
me: Good!
Surgeon: Sam, don't push too hard. Start slowly.
me: Surgeon, it's been a year since I've been able to run regularly. If I make a mile the first time, that will be a miracle.
Surgeon: Well, just build up your miles a little at a time. And keep building the muscles--that will keep the bursitis from coming back.
me: I will.
Surgeon: And I'm very glad you're feeling better because I like you very much.
(I laughed--there really is no other response.)
Surgeon: No, really. It makes me happy when you come in. You're very positive and you have a great smile, so I'm glad things are going well for you.
me: Thanks! Me, too.

So there you have it--Surgeon said more than his required seven sentences, and he's very glad I'm getting better.

And yesterday I tried that running thing. I firmly believe that sometime during the past year, the joint fairy swapped out my hip with someone else's because that was not my hip I was using. I've run all my life. It's a natural movement that has always felt effortless. Not this time. It was all about effort. I had opted to use the treadmill just in case something like this happened. By the time thirty minutes had passed, I could barely walk.

So this running thing is going to take a little time.

The good news is that when I had rested for a couple of hours there was no more weakness in the joint and it felt fine. That means I didn't cripple myself. I think that's a very good thing.

Death

I have a rather obnoxious aunt who, when someone we knew had passed away, would interrupt our silent mourning to gleefully chant in her obscenely loud voice, "It comes in threes, you know! It always comes in threes! Wonder who'll be next! Hope it's not you!" Then she would repeat the chant to every person present and  name the possible second or third person based on their relative health or age.

Because this particular aunt has an IQ nowhere near genius level (shocking), she's a fairly easy target when she does things like that. Each time her relentless chant would begin, I would quietly approach her, tap her on the shoulder, and solemnly say, "No. I'm sorry, but I'm certain it always comes in ones." She would stop mid-sentence, think about what I said, then explain the validity of her "comes in threes" theory, adding concrete examples of how the threes had come to friends and relatives in her life.

I would wait until she finished, then add to each of her sets of deceased people one more person who had died within weeks of her third. Calmly, I would wait as she became more and more agitated, searching for reasons why my "fourth" didn't count and as she argued with me I would resume my assertion that the only real answer is that death comes in ones. Of course I won, not because I was right but because I was tenacious. She simply became tired of arguing with me. She would slump away from me muttering, "I still believe it comes in threes. Everyone says so. It comes in threes."

I assume she still does the same thing. Fortunately, I grew up and moved far away from her, leaving her desperately clinging to her "comes in threes" belief. It's probably best. Everyone needs something to believe in strongly, even if such a belief is ghoulishly declaring the death of a third person each time two other deaths occur.

I'm thinking of this today because three people I love have died in the past two days. The first is Carla. She died after an incredibly courageous battle with cancer. She left her husband and two sweet babies behind, not to mention thousands of people, myself included, who love and admire her like crazy.

The second is an elderly woman I've known for about 15 years. She had no children. She was a clean freak (as was her husband). They had a carpeted garage. She was a retired school teacher who never took herself very seriously. On the rare occasions when I was not in callings that kept me from attending Relief Society, she was one of the instructors. One week she was teaching and she told us she was very nervous--then said that if we didn't believe her, she would like to point out that she had been unable to decide which earrings to wear that morning. She found two pairs and debated between them for about twenty minutes, then began hurrying so she wouldn't be late for church. When she arrived she discovered she was wearing one earring from each pair. She said she would be teaching the lesson in profile so that we could get the full benefit of the different earrings. Then she giggled with us.

The third is the father of one of my closest high school friends who was also my family physician when growing up. He was a doctor when my father was in high school and still practicing on a limited basis until very recently. I believe his name is legendary throughout the community he served--he even has a street named after him. I'm guessing no one can count the number of babies he delivered. His eldest son passed away earlier this year and his first wife died about 15 years ago.

Death is a part of life. It's natural and someday it will happen to me. But no matter how prepared one might be, death carries with it an unavoidable sting and when you love the person who has died, grieving is inevitable. Today I'm missing those loved ones and wishing for a way to ease the pain of those who were closest to them, and I'm getting a little bit tired of crying.

Also today, I'm praying that the tenet fiercely proclaimed by my aunt is correct. I'm ready for people to live.

Spring

The birds believe they must make up for lost time. They sit on my crab apple tree eating the dried fruit and singing loudly. A few smaller ones sit near my window in the rose bushes. I love watching them. Bird noise after 6 a.m. is lovely.

Observing their annual spring ritual, dandelions are slowly taking over my garden. Darrin has only mentioned it once. Perhaps he's learning that I cannot eradicate them until they begin to choke out everything else trying to grow there. I love the bright yellow blooms, and while I understand that each flower will perpetuate thousands of new plants, I still want them. Sometimes when no one is looking, I play with the yellow pollen (Do you like butter?) or curl the stems or taste the bitter leaves and wonder how people can ever enjoy eating dandelion greens.

My grass is not yet green but it will be by Friday. DJ made fun of me for going barefoot on Sunday. I looked at him in surprise, "I always go barefoot." "Not outside," he answered. But he's forgotten. Even in winter I'll walk barefoot to my mailbox. Maybe in 30 years I'll stop doing that.

I made cookies last night. I haven't done that for awhile. I was surprised to find I wanted none of them. Darrin bought me Cadbury Mini Eggs. I didn't want those either. He raised his eyebrows at me and asked if I was sick. No. I'm not sick. I'm not sure why I didn't want them. I'm not sleeping well lately, maybe that's why.

I had a list of projects I wished to work on with Therapist's help. Today the list seems too long, daunting, even unnecessary. I wonder if I really need to fix all the things that are wrong with me--if it's even possible to do so. I wonder if it might be okay if I don't finish what I began seven years ago...seven years...

I can hardly believe so much time has passed. When I walked into my first therapist's office, I had allowed myself three weeks. I thought there was a plan I could follow that would lead me out of the the despair I was feeling, back into a life of empowerment and calm. I didn't know I would encounter memories and horrifying discoveries and former versions of myself--all waiting to be examined, accepted, and claimed as my own.

I have great respect for every person who has suffered childhood trauma and chooses to continue to live an emotionally healthy life--because it is a choice, and a very difficult one. I am tempted each day to lose myself in the despair that lives at my core. Most days the temptation is fleeting--I'm able to laugh at the impulse, knowing full well that giving in is not going to bring me peace or joy. Other days the temptation seems overwhelming to the point the no logical thought can keep it at bay. On those days I succumb, understanding that I will feel worse later. It doesn't matter. It just seems that what happened to me was so enormously harmful that I have to allow myself to cry, to wish those things had not happened, to imagine who I might be if I had been loved and protected.

Perhaps someday I won't give in anymore. Maybe that's when I'll know I'm healed. At that point, perhaps I can join all the panels and editorial blogs and help sites that have asked me to share my experiences and knowledge about abuse and rape. I can't do it right now. I don't feel I'm able to help anyone as long as I can't seem to manage my own pain successfully. However, if the time comes that I feel I can help, I have a feeling I'll be a very old lady by then and no one will want to listen to me anyway.

I wonder though, if that's how it should be. Regardless of what I've read or been told, my journey has been my own. I've forged my own path, made my own rules, and discovered what works and what does not. Therapist told me, after we had met for about four weeks, "Sam, I think you should tell me what you'd like to work on. I'll make suggestions and you can share the ideas you have about possible strategies. You hate the writing exercises and the textbook "tried and true" methods, so let's do it your way instead."

I have a feeling he thought I'd get tired of doing everything my way and eventually go back to his textbook training and then I'd get better. Probably if I had, my seven years would have condensed into three or even two years. But maybe I'm wrong about that. Therapist has never seemed jaded by my incessant desire to find new ways to cope with problems; in fact, he's been my greatest cheerleader and supporter, pointing out weaknesses and flaws in my ideas and helping me fine tune those into structural strengths. He's quick to point out that my progress is unique but will probably be more lasting than many of his clients. And he's told me working with me is joyful for him because I have a great desire to overcome the things that cause me grief.

Yesterday I decided that Tolkien Boy could use a measure of the abundant sunshine I enjoy every day, so I sent it his way. It didn't arrive until afternoon and the cost of allowing him that sunshine meant that I enjoyed a cloudy day filled with wind gusts up to 65 mph. It was rather nasty. I'm hoping TB used up a large amount of that sunshine because today I'm keeping it here. He might share it with me but I'm not sending it away again. I need it, too.

I've been watching the sun rise as I write this morning. I love seeing the pale colors glow warmer and more golden. Now there is a rim of pastel orange ringing the entire horizon. It will last a few moments more and then fade into the blue, cloudless sky.

Yesterday was difficult. Today I'm feeling the aftermath of that. In a few minutes I will go to the gym, run on the elliptical, and be grateful that I can do that. Tomorrow I see my surgeon. I've been instructed by my physical therapists to ask him if I'm allowed to begin running on the track and treadmill. I hope he says yes, but if he doesn't I'll keep working on the things that will give me strength and allow me to heal, and soon he'll say I can run again.

If I've learned one thing in the past seven years, it's this: No matter how much I want to, or I wish I could, or even when it seems so much easier or better than what I'm doing--I don't give up.