"The real difficulty is to overcome how you think about yourself." ~Maya Angelou

I have not written here for nearly a month because my life has been a bit on the unmanageable side. I don't want to talk about it here, however, I mention it because of an odd development in my dreamworld.

About three weeks ago I began having dreams in which there are two of me conversing with one another. I am not one or the other, nor do I shift between them. I am simply both of them simultaneously and while I cannot explain this, it's a dream and I don't have to.

The conversations had by the Samantha duo are usually unsettling and awkward. They reveal truths about myself that I do not wish to address--usually uncomfortable ones that I believe any person would wish to ignore, and so my usual response the the dreams is to pretend they did not happen.

In reference to my current life situation, I will say briefly that I've felt a bit abandoned by some of my loved ones. That feeling is probably unwarranted which does not alleviate it's depth nor frequency. In addition deep loneliness and sadness are my constant companions accompanied by ceaseless nausea and distressing episodes of panic. Needless to say, I'm delightful right now.

However, I believe it is because I'm currently in this emotional state that the dreams have been occurring. And now that I have provided myself with a satisfactory explanation, I will move to the main point of this post which is: Last Night's Dream Conversation.

Sam1: I know you believe that love is important and that even if people don't love you back, it's okay for you to love them anyway, but that's not true.


Sam2: Yes, it is. I believe anyone who is loved by me should consider it an honor.


Sam1: You just say that to justify random loving of people who probably would be insulted if they knew you loved them.


Sam2: That's silly. I tell people I love them. They know.


Sam1: They don't know how you love them, though.


Sam2: I don't even know what that means.


Sam1: It means you love wrong.


I suppose the reason this dream conversation is stuck in my head today is because I've never before thought about the rightness or wrongness of loving people. I remember making a conscious decision to allow love to happen. I believe I was sixteen. I was tired of being in pain about my home life, mistreatment by my mother, and abuse from my cousin--but mostly I was tired of hurting because I was alone.

I remember thinking about bitterness--how it just made me feel worse--and I thought of when I felt free of the pain and negative emotions stemming from years of abuse. I thought of the way my heart nearly exploded with love when each tiny baby sibling entered our home--how I loved to hold them--how I sang and read stories to them. I thought of how I fell deeply in love with my teacher when I was the only child in my Primary class and she took me to the woods behind her home and we sat next to a stream eating popcorn and talking about God. I remembered various people of different ages who made me feel that I could live through one more day because I mattered for just a minute--and I loved them with my whole soul.

I decided that loving was what I could do, and I did it very well. It didn't matter that my body had been beaten and raped, or that the words I heard daily filled me with rage and pain, or that I was unwanted or used up. I could love people and they might never know but I would not feel as sad or hurt as much--and that was very important.

But I never thought about whether it was wrong to love someone. I suppose it's wrong to love someone who belongs to another, but I've never really considered that love--rather, desire or attraction and I've always believed it was based in selfishness. I suppose my love for others was based in selfishness, though. I didn't really do it for anyone except myself--but it was more a process of allowing love to happen rather than making a conscious effort to love someone.

AtP once told me when he spent time with me he felt he was the only one in that moment who was important to me. I would say that he was right. When I'm spending time with people I love, they are the only ones important to me in those moments. It's not like I've forgotten everyone else, it's just that I know the time will end at some point and I want to cherish every minute I have with that person. Maybe that's the part that's wrong. Maybe it's unhealthy in some way or obsessive.

I've tried to avoid unhealthy and obsessive. I give people breaks from me. I celebrate and support their relationships with other people. When I visit, I try to spend no more than three days at a time with any person. I did that when I went to Seattle a couple of years ago. I spent a few days with Tolkien Boy, then visited a few days with Josh and Lolly and family, and then spent one more day with TB before going home. I'm aware that being with me nonstop can be wearing. AtP reminded me of that when we spent about four days together a few years ago. When I left, AtP told me he would miss me, but it would be good to finally get some rest.

I don't know that I believe the first Samantha. I know I love with abandon and sometimes without forethought. I know my love is often not reciprocated which really doesn't cause me a great deal of concern unless it's in conjunction with someone who is close to me--which I believe is normal. But the fact that I had the dream at all tells me that there is a part of me which still believes love from me is unacceptable or undesirable in some way. I don't like that.

I also don't like the fact that when I finally sleep (which is rare right now), I'm troubled by dreams in which I argue with myself. Perhaps I, too, need a break from me.

A few of my favorite things...

NOT!!!

On my trip to a public bathroom this afternoon, I experienced the following:
1. A drain grate edged with mysterious green, the source of which I refuse to contemplate.
2. Paper toilet seat covers which shredded as they were removed from the dispenser--completely ineffective.
3. An automatic toilet which flushed before I sat down.
4. Nail clippings on the floor of the adjacent stall (toe? finger? who knows?).
5. An automatic toilet which flushed while I was sitting.
6. A cute toddler's face peering at me beneath the door of the stall (while Mom whispered, "Stop that!").
7. An enthusiastic automatic toilet which spewed while flushing, after I stopped sitting.
8. Empty paper towel dispensers and overflowing trash cans (yay for wiping hands on pants).
9. An older couple in their 60s sitting at a table near the restroom, making googoo eyes at each other while the man slid his hand up inside of the woman's thigh.

Probably there's a tenth one, but at that point my eyeballs could stand no more and I just stopped looking and made a beeline for the exit.

It could have been worse. I might have accidentally dropped my phone in the toilet, or lost my shoe while walking near the green grate or not had pants on which to wipe my hands. Or I might have been the older lady having her thigh felt up...that would definitely have been worse...

I need to stay away from public restrooms for awhile.

Cricket

No. Not the game nor the insect.

This morning I was awakened at 4:45 a.m. when Tabitha's beast bounded across my bed.

Darrin and I have been taking turns feeding Cricket the Sugarglider while Tabitha has been at girls camp. Someone fed her last night and forgot to close the door of her cage.

That would be me.

Cricket (nocturnal creature that she is) had gotten lonely and decided it was time to play. I grabbed one of the bags she likes to sleep in and followed her as she scampered out of my room and into the family room, leapt onto the back of the couch and sat there with her tail in the air, waiting for me to chase her. I looked at her for moment, then, knowing full well I would probably have to find her if I left, I went to the bathroom. Some things cannot wait even for Sugarglider captures.

When I returned to the family room, Cricket was in the same place, still waiting for me. She ran back and forth across the back of the couch several times, pausing briefly to put her head teasingly into the bag, then jumping out when I was certain I had her. I said, "This isn't funny! Get into the bag now!"

Cricket decided that was her cue to run up the stairs. I followed her, thinking to myself, "Please just get in  your cage." To my surprise, I found her perched on top of the cage when I got to the top of the stairs. She jumped onto the arm of a nearby chair as I approached. I opened the top of the cage (it's about four feet tall). Cricket jumped to the edge and sat there, staring at me. I'd had enough of our game, so I shoved her over the side and closed the lid. I saw the little beast running purposefully down the side of the cage and remembered, just in time, that I still hadn't closed the side door of the cage. Cricket and I got to it at the same time. I poked her into the cage and quickly shut the door.

Then I surveyed the damage.

Cricket had opted not to eat the food we left for her before going to bed, and instead had sampled every peach, plum, and apple in my fruit basket. The plastic bag covering a loaf of bread on my kitchen cabinet had a hole chewed in the corner and Cricket had burrowed through four slices of bread before losing interest. A nearby cube of butter was no longer a cube.

I sighed. I am not meant to be a pet owner. Cricket is cute and a lot of fun, but I will not miss her when she leaves my home with her mistress in a couple of years.

I left the mess and went to the gym. It's not like it's going anywhere. Besides, I was hoping if I ignored it, Darrin might take a stab at cleaning it up before he went to work (yeah...I knew he wouldn't, but delusional thoughts are strong at 5:00 a.m.).

I have a technicolor dream...

It's time for me to write this post. It's been kicking around in my head for years and some people have already heard from me portions of what I have to say today.

I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day-Saints. I have personal reasons for my membership in this church which are relevant only to me. I do not share them.

I had a young friend who, when he studied and researched and thought for a long time, decided that not only is God a fabrication of man, all churches are evil. When he set out his ideas for me, he believed I would join him in his quest to free mankind from the God myth. I didn't. At that point, all his care and respect for me began to dissipate. If I was unable to agree with his beliefs, I was deluded and brainwashed and by my association with the religion of my choice, bigoted.

For awhile I was hurt by what I deemed his close mindedness. Then I realized I was hurt because I wanted him to agree with my philosophical views which are thus: I have always believed that differing viewpoints are valuable, that people should not always agree but should share their ideas and thoughts regardless of whether or not those are popular. I think it's important to allow others to think and speak for themselves even when what is thought or said disagrees wildly with what I might believe.

So I stopped being hurt and I hoped that one day my friend might grow enough to make room for me in his heart again. It will probably never happen, but he is a good person and I would like to believe that with time he will see that the world is not and has never been black and white, but instead ripples with colors of every hue, and sometimes the colors blend beautifully or appear in sharp contrast. And there are definitely spots of black and washes of white, but those with eyes to see and ears to hear will find in their world a depth and breadth absent in the one devoid of color, because they will understand there are things they don't understand, answerless questions, and a multitude of choices and beliefs that conflict and contrast...and that's okay.

Do I believe that in my religion I have found the truth?

Yes.

But I also claim that belief for myself alone. I do not expect nor entice others to believe something simply because I am certain it's correct. I encourage them to think, to study, to search their hearts, and decide for themselves.

I am recording all this because of a recent conversation with a friend I love dearly. She's been in my life sporadically for nearly 17 years. She is not well-educated. She is more comfortable working in her chicken coop than at an executive meeting. She prefers life to be simple and pure and uncomplicated. I adore her.

She asked me how I reconcile my religious beliefs with "the gay agenda." I laughed and asked what she meant. She said, "How do I love people I know are gay without betraying my God and my religious convictions?"

I said, "How is that possible? Why would loving a gay person ever offend God or present a situation where you felt your religion was compromised?"

She thought for a moment, then expressed anxiety about setting a good example for her children. I asked again, "How could inviting someone you love to visit you in your home be a bad example for your children?"

She thought maybe it would look as if she was condoning homosexual behavior. I said, "Why does it matter if you condone or condemn it? And who are you afraid will notice whether or not you are judging the lives of others?"

She said, "Okay, I understand what you're saying. I'm not trying be judgmental. I've just never really thought about this before. I need you to help me understand."

This is why I love her. She has been brought up in a closed-minded, judgmental, gossipy environment where the entire community knows the details of each person's life right down to the brand of toilet paper used in every home. But she recognizes the danger of allowing herself to conform to traditions and common beliefs. She wants to grow beyond her roots. She wishes to see new ideas. She invites color to invade the boundaries of the black and white beliefs instilled in her as a child, teen, and adult.

So for the first time in my life, I shared my thoughts on the matter we were discussing. Normally, I would say, "Maybe you need to just spend some time thinking, praying a bit, and getting to know the people we're talking about. Once you've spent time with people who are gay, you'll understand better how you wish to include them, or not, in  your life." But this time, because I love her and I know she will not belittle my beliefs even if she disagrees with them, I spoke some of the thoughts of my heart.

I did not disclose my sexuality. She's not ready to deal with that yet. She needs time to sort through her preconceived notions, separate truth from rumor, and decide what is important to her before I muddy the waters by telling her that I experience the feelings she's been taught are sinful. This was what I shared with her (most of this was in response to her subsequent questions or comments and not a one-sided lecture):

1. Members or former members of the church who are gay do not need other people to tell them how to live their lives. Most have grown up learning the gospel and have gone through a period of time when they studied it intently in order to grow closer to the Lord or to make a decision about its truthfulness. Some have spent what amounts to weeks, months, even years, on their knees begging God to make them heterosexual. They don't need rhetoric about their choices thrown in their faces. They need human beings who are willing to accept that they have the right to decide what is best for their own lives. They know what active members of the church believe. We do not have to tell them.

2. There is no need to "condone" or "condemn." The only time I would ever speak out in judgment about a loved one's life decisions is if I could see that a relationship was abusive in some way--and even then, I would not place myself inside that relationship. I would mention what I saw as tactfully and sensitively as I know how, then refer the person to a professional who could help. In all other cases, I believe it's important to remember that if we believe gospel principles, we understand that agency is a gift from a God who trusts us to use it to govern our own lives--not the lives of other people. In my opinion, it is a greater sin to try to coerce or control another person's beliefs or behavior, than any other thing one might choose to call a sin.

3. Those who choose to exclude people from their lives based on sexual preference, are missing out on experiences and relationships which would, without doubt, enrich their lives and increase joy. One cannot discriminate against any group of people and call it a god-dictate. Christ has clearly taught otherwise. It seems to me to be bizarre and unhealthy to first think of how a person has sex before deciding if he or she is allowed to eat dinner with us.

4. I have no answers. I don't know if there are any clear-cut answers. But I don't need them. All I know is that there are many, many people on this earth and we have a commandment to love them--and I can do that. It's not always easy--but that has nothing to do with sexual preference and everything to do with being human and having disagreements that must be resolved and wrongs that must be forgiven. I am deeply saddened that men and women in our midst have felt that life is too difficult or too lonely, and have ended their lives because no one was there to hug them, to tell them they were worthwhile and beautiful, to allow them a voice to speak for themselves.

5. Other people's life choices have no reflection on us. Anyone who judges us for loving others, based on their own bigoted beliefs, is wrong. I will never back down from that statement, nor will I bow to the social dictates of a religious myth which says if I associate with gay people I'm condoning a lifestyle I should condemn. If that is what they believe, so be it. I'm unashamed to say that I would never wish a religious group to ostracize me because of the person with whom I chose to spend my life, and I will never allow my religious beliefs to become so twisted that I feel I must do that to the people I care about. And for those of my loved ones who have ultimately chosen to believe and live differently from me--I have the greatest respect for your journey, and I'm deeply honored that you would allow me to continue with you even when  our philosophies do not agree. And always, I admire you for thinking for yourself, understanding there would be a cost to taking that step, but having the courage and conviction to take it anyway.

6. When I meet Christ, I want to tell him how very much I love his children, how I kept his commandments to the best of my ability, how my world has been colored by the beauty of each unique soul who has touched my heart and shaped my life. I want to express how grateful I am to Him for allowing me to live in a world filled with diversity of opinions and beliefs and people--how that has forced me to grow and think and learn, but mostly how it has filled me with an appreciation for others. I want to thank Him for not giving us all the answers, but allowing us to think for ourselves and develop the ability to reason and make decisions. I want to acknowledge that I've made mistakes, sometimes huge ones, and let Him know that I'm very glad for the opportunity to do so, and to take His hand as I try to recover from my folly.

When I left my friend, she hugged me. She said, "I don't know yet what to think about all this. Thank you, though, for challenging my belief system a little bit. There is so much more to this than what I've been told. Maybe I worry too much about what I'm doing on the outside and it's a lot more important to change on the inside."

On that we can agree.

Smoke

It's everywhere. There are moments when I feel I can barely breathe. Someday the rain will come and the fires will ease and I will inhale clean air once more. I don't know when that will happen. I hope it's soon.

I told Darrin I was looking forward to last weekend. My sister got married. For the first time in about four years, my entire family was together. Most of the in-laws made it. There were more than thirty of us gathered together.

I said I was ready to rejoin my family--to be a part of them. I felt my demons had been laid to rest and it was time for me to strengthen relationships.

And at first if felt nice. I was glad to be with my sisters and brothers and their families. They were happy to see me. But soon, very soon, I was invisible. I found myself avoiding the clusters of people, cutting short any attempted conversations someone might start with me. I sat in quiet corners, watching.

It felt as though the smoke from the forest fires had permeated my soul, creating a hazy screen between my family members and me. Darrin disappeared into the fray--he loves my family. DJ and Adam found their cousins and started a game of some sort. Tabitha went for walks with various girl cousins and played with my younger nieces and nephews.

There are good people in my family. I don't know why I don't fit.

There was a lot of noise. I don't like that, and maybe it's why I retreated.

I think, though, there is still some resentment floating about inside me. It seems unfair that all my sisters are tall and blond and beautiful--I'm not. It seems unfair that I'm not a part of their circle unless I'm entertaining. I listened as they traded stories and life details with one another. I was not asked about my life. It seems unfair that there is no interest nor concern about me. It's not that I need to talk; rather, I just would like to know there was someone in my family who wonders about me occasionally.

I know. All that stuff in the above paragraph is self-centered. But I think everyone has moments like that. People have often told me how lucky I am to have such a large, family circle. I don't feel lucky. I feel lonely. And part of me believes they're all missing out, because I'm an okay person and they don't know me. They don't want to know me.

I guess I hoped that after all these years of therapy, one of two things would happen:
1. I would learn how to become someone of worth and interest to my siblings and parents
or
2. I would learn how to stop caring that I don't really matter to them.

Neither happened. No one questions why I don't often attend reunions. No one really notices when I'm there. I don't want a parade, but it would be nice to talk quietly with someone, to find out what's happening in their world and let them know the things that go on in mine.

My oldest sister left the family gathering first. As she walked by me she stopped and said, "Oh! We didn't get to talk much. You should call me!" And then she left.

We didn't get to talk much.

For three days I attempted to talk with her. She did not wish to be engaged by me.

I should call her...

But the phone works both ways. Perhaps she could call me?

I decided I'd had enough. I gathered Darrin and the kids and said we needed to leave. I hugged each sibling, in-law, niece, nephew...

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it's not yet time for me to have family relationships. Maybe I don't know how. Maybe I'm just someone who functions better in a work environment. Maybe I want too much from my family. Maybe I really am the black sheep and I won't ever fit in. Maybe it's time for me to find a hobby or something.

I do not understand why I fail at family stuff.

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.