Love Lists: Day Eight

Memories I love:

1. Laughter. I used to have a best friend in high school whose laugh was loud and obnoxious. I would purposely wait until we were behind a group of people (preferably the cool people who couldn't be bothered to notice if I was alive--this was high school, after all), then I would say something that would catch him off guard and make him laugh. He would glare at me when he regained composure and remind me that a REAL friend wouldn't do that. He was right, of course, but that didn't stop me from continuing the habit when I met AtP, whose laugh is similarly, delightfully loud.

2. Huckleberries. They grow wild in the mountains behind my childhood home. We would gather them in the summertime. Our dog would lie down in a patch and eat them from the surrounding bushes. Once I encountered a black bear stripping the bushes of leaves and berries. It looked at me. I looked back. Then it fled. I was relieved beyond measure.

3. Driving a tractor. My father taught me when I was almost ten. My first job was to level a plowed field. I would level the upturned soil, row by row, making side by side loops in the corners so none of the ground was left unsmoothed. Later I graduated to plowing, discing, and drilling the seeds. I don't remember ever being bored by the solitude. It was alone time I adored.

4. Kittens. My father allowed us to have a large number of cats. They kept the rodent population under control and made wonderful pets. Litters of kittens were celebrated. We gave some of them away to neighboring farms, but kept many. I always chose the black ones, however one year we had a litter of tabby kittens and one had a mark on her head that looked like the infinity symbol. Her coloring was unusual, too, made up almost exclusively of bright gold and deep black. I taught her to fetch, and she would leap onto my shoulder and sit there. She was definitely my favorite.

5. Roommates. I had some amazing ones. We were all on academic scholarships, but you'd never know it if you spent time with us. We were quirky, and funny, and adorable. Our home evening brothers spent more time in our apartment than in their own even after they found out that we had made a pact never to date them. We made up imaginary poltergeists, created Marshmallow Art, and tried to have sleepovers in the park (dumb police person who foiled our plans--apparently there is a curfew or city ordinance against it, or something else equally stupid). I miss those girls.

6. Hay harvest. If you've ever actually done this, you know it's actually pretty awful. The hay creates a fine dust that gets everywhere, but is especially irritating in the nose and lungs. It finds its way inside clothing, lodging and chafing in the creases. The days are hot and dry and the work is incredibly fatiguing--at least the way we did it. We were unable to afford the labor-saving equipment that would bale and stack the hay simply by using a tractor and some levers. Instead, we baled the hay in rows and stacked the bales by hand as they came up an elevator attached to a bale truck--which we then drove to the hay shed where we would unload the bales onto a larger elevator, and send them into the shed where they were again stacked by hand. Why did I love this? To this day I'm not sure. I think it had something to do with working as a group, loving the warmth and sunlight, feeling lost in the blue sky, and knowing at the end of the day I would be able to shower all the hay dust off me and sleep soundly because I was completely exhausted.

7. Peonies, daisies, tiger lilies, lilacs, and columbines. All my life I have wanted a flower garden. My mother would never allow it, telling me we needed all our garden space for fruits and vegetables. I still tried to plant flowers in places I thought she wouldn't notice. They never grew. When I was ten, my grandparents built a new home and we moved into their old one. Grandma adored flowers. She had planted peonies near the front of the yard, daisies and tiger lilies on one side of the house, and columbines near the front porch. Two large lilac bushes graced the south side of the yard. For the first time, I had flowers. My mother never tended them, and our dog used to lie in the daisy patch, but I was in heaven. Throughout spring and summer, I used every glass and jar I could find, filling them with blooms and placing them on every flat surface in our home. My mother complained that they aggravated her allergies, which is probably true. I chose not to notice. Those flowers still bloom today near the house no one lives in anymore.

8. Photographs. When I was a child, we had a cardboard cube about six inches tall, in which we kept current or favorite photos. I would systematically flip through them at least once weekly. If a visitor was unlucky enough to be cornered by me, they were pressed to look at each picture and hear the accompanying story. Regardless of how many times I had seen them, I giggled at the funny ones, and melted when I saw the beautiful or adorable ones. I had to talk quickly because at the first lull in my narration, my spectator would escape. I've never lost that love of looking at photographs and hearing the stories behind them. During one of my visits, Tolkien Boy surprised me by pulling out a photo album and sharing his past with me. I'm certain he had no idea that he was giving me a beautiful gift, as this time I was the guest chosen to see the photos and hear the memories. I was allowed to linger over each picture and ask questions, and I enjoyed every part of that moment.

9. Potatoes. I've always been fascinated by how they grow. When I was small my parents had to watch me carefully so I wouldn't pick the blossoms. Because of the dirt and digging, my sisters hated harvesting them but it always felt like a huge surprise to me. One never knew how many, or how large, or what color the potatoes would be. I loved gathering and cleaning them. My grandma would always ask for my help when she dug the tiny new potatoes so that the the others would grow very large. Then she would shell fresh peas, scrub some tiny carrots, steam them with the potatoes, and add fresh cream and simmer until the sauce was thick. I've made creamed peas and potatoes since then, but they never taste the same. Darrin believes it's because I don't always grow the vegetables myself, but I think I'm just missing the right company. There are days when I would give a great deal to have a simple meal with that grandma again.

10. Lambkins. We didn't raise sheep on our farm, but occasionally we bought bum lambs (Sometimes ewes refuse to allow their lambs to nurse--especially, as often occurs in lambing, when there are twins born to her. When that happens, the abandoned lamb is called a "bum lamb" and must be bottle fed and kept separate from the rest of the sheep.), raised and slaughtered them for meat. I always became far too attached to the animals and my father would not allow me to help with their feeding or care. One year, however, we got a lamb that immediately bonded with me. I named him Lambkins. My mother would remind me not to think of him as a pet, as soon he would be lamb chops. I ignored her.

Lambkins was somehow able to get out of every pen we put him in. Eventually, my father allowed him to roam freely about our farm. Lambkins took up residence on the front lawn (which he kept neatly mowed, but was not nearly as nice about cleaning up the droppings he left behind), followed me everywhere, and adopted our dog, John, as his surrogate mother. Lamkins soon forgot all about me as he began to imitate our dog. He tried to herd cattle with John (much to the poor dog's distress--the cattle would scatter everywhere when the lamb began chasing them, rather than heading for the milk barn as John intended). We had to hide the dog food to keep the lamb from eating it. John was fed in a secret place while someone distracted Lambkins. Our dog took on a look of pained long-suffering.

When we drove into the fields in the pick-up truck, the kids rode in the back. John would jump over the side or closed tailgate of the truck and join us in the truck bed. One day, following John as usual, the almost adult Lambkins made his first attempt at leaping into the truck. We heard his body slam into the side and assumed he wouldn't try again. To our surprise the lamb slammed itself repeatedly into the side of the truck, trying to sail over the edge to where his unconcerned surrogate mother sat. Finally, my father took pity on the animal, lowered the tailgate and lifted Lambkins into the truck where the lamb trotted over to our dog and leaned adoringly against him while John whimpered miserably. As he got back into the cab of the truck, I heard my father mutter something about needing to make a meal of that animal. I remember thinking that it might be time. Poor John was having a nervous breakdown.

Love Lists: Day Seven

Looney Tunes Cartoons I love:

1. Confusions of a Nutzy Spy

2. Congo Jazz

3. No Parking Hare

4. Hare Brush

5. Rabbit Seasoning

6. What's Opera Doc?

7. Rhapsody Rabbit

8. Rabbit of Seville

9. Rabbitson Crusoe

10. Spaced Out Bunny

Love Lists: Day Six

Public places I love to visit:

1. Tourist traps. I always feel that if people go there over and over again, there must be something I should see at least once. Even if I don't enjoy the item of interest or geological location, it's fun to watch the visitors. Sometimes I talk with them, find out where they're from and why they came. And I like to see which souvenirs they buy.

2. Cathedrals. I'm a sucker for stained glass and carved wood. When I visit I can't stop thinking about the history of the building, how it was constructed without modern means, and how that construction probably required many years. And every cathedral has heaps of irresistible stories and legends. If the option is available, I always light a candle for my aunt because it makes her happy.

3. Ghost towns. I'm not talking about ones the historical society has saved, so there are restored buildings and tiny museums and guided tours. I'm talking about the towns that have been abandoned and remain in that state. There is nothing, really, to see or do, but I like thinking about how this used to be a place with people and stores and life. I wonder how the last residents felt about living there and I wonder how long the empty buildings will stand.

4. Museums. All kinds. I don't mind going with other people, but only if they allow me to ignore them. I don't want to wonder if they're being entertained or if we're staying too long. Going to museums is all about me. If I'm with someone who feels the same way, I'm fine if we discuss exhibits or share points of interest. And I definitely want to compare notes on the way home. But if you have a short attention span or constantly need conversation or are uncomfortable with silence or solitude--don't go to a museum with me.

5. Book stores. I try not to go to these places unless I have a huge block of time. And I turn my phone off or leave it in the car. Usually I purchase only a couple of books but it might take me four hours to decide which ones I want. When no one's looking, I escape to the children's section to discover new stories and illustrations that are clever, or colorful, or humorous, or beautiful--or any combination of those--but always delightful.

6. Tiny city parks forgotten by nearly everyone. There is one about two miles from my home. When I could still run it was my midway point. Two corners of the park are outlined in large, flat rocks, about two feet in height. Sometimes I would take a break from running, sit on the sun-warmed rocks and enjoy the trees, green grass, light breeze, and solitude. Occasionally a few children would be playing on the playground far enough away that I was not disturbed, but near enough for me to hear the sounds of their voices.

7. Libraries. For as long as I can remember, a library has been my favorite place. The year after my cousin raped me, the school library became my safe haven. I couldn't manage the social structure of junior high and I seemed to have lost my ability to make friends. I stopped eating after the first two weeks of the school year and spent my lunch hours reading in a corner of the library. After about three weeks, the librarian noticed I'd taken up residence there and that I was becoming increasingly thin. She would come talk to me, ask if there was anything I needed. Eventually I became too ill to go to school. Part of what gave me reason to start eating again was knowing there were still books to read (which sounds silly, I know, but we all have our reasons for living). A couple of months later, when I returned to school, that librarian was waiting for me. She said she missed me and gave me a hug. I remember wondering why she would do that. She also gave me permission to eat lunch in the library if I didn't tell anyone.

8. Court houses and capitol buildings. I love the architecture and history and the way voices echo in the main hall. Most have large marble staircases and alcoves with wood carved edges which have a name I do not know. I love looking around, reading about the buildings, and for reasons that escape me, I'm always very glad to leave. I think it might be because of the persistent dimness inside.

9. Amusement parks. I'm a roller coaster girl. And I love the cheesy haunted house rides. And even though I never buy them, there's something wonderful about corn dogs, and cotton candy, and funnel cakes. I avoid the water rides and adore the spinny ones. I don't leave without riding the merry-go-round and the ferris wheel because they remind me of when my dad used to take me on them as a child.

10. Farmers Markets. Part of my interest in these stems from the fact that they are not permanent structures, they're outside, and most of the people who come look very happy to be there. Perpetual purchases include mushrooms, homemade salsa (with way too much garlic), peaches, squash, and fresh pastries from the Austrian baker.

Love Lists: Day Five

Piano works I love to play:

Just for the record, some of these are of a difficulty level that I have to practice a great deal to get them close to where they were when I performed them, so if you're with me and we're near a piano, don't think I can just sit down and play them. While I would love to have that kind of retention, I don't, and after I received my last performance degree I stopped practicing four to six hours daily. However, when I performed these pieces I never grew tired of them, and when it takes months to prepare a piece for performance, that's saying quite a bit.

Also, just because I love playing a piece doesn't necessarily mean I love listening to it. No--I can't explain that. I've tried to link to a quality performance of each piece.

1. Prokofiev, Toccata op. 11

2. Debussy, Reflets dans l'eau

3. Debussy, Mouvement

4. Gershwin, Three Preludes

5. Chopin, Ballade

6. Bartok, Six Dances in Bulgarian Rhythm, VI

7. Beethoven, Sonata in C Minor, op. 111

8. Brahms, Zwei Rhapsodien, op. 79

9. Bach, Partita No. 1 in B-flat Major

10.  Liszt, Mephisto Waltz, No. 1

Love Lists: Day Four

Things I love to avoid at all costs:

1. Construction sites. I don't find them fascinating, I'm not interested in what the finished product will look like, I'm not happy that something new is being built. I just want to go back home and hide under my covers until the thing is built, at which point I'll be very happy to look at it.

2. Your latest remodeling project. This is related to construction sites. Please don't show me the work in progress or tell me about it. I don't want to hear about deadlines or backorders or over-the-budget contractors. However, if I love you enough I will listen, but at that point you'll need to acknowledge that our love has exceeded the bounds of friendship and ascended beyond that of lovers. Just let me know when your remodel is done and I'm happy to ooh and aah the finished product. If pressed, I'll even view "Before" and "After" photos without becoming nauseated.

3. Big hunks of meat. Any kind. I don't want to touch them, see them, or smell them. A large steak does not make me drool. I was raised on a farm. I probably met the animal from which the meat came. I don't want to have anything to do with it. However, I am not a strict vegetarian. I will eat fish and seafood. I'll eat the white meat of chicken. Occasionally we include beef and pork in our diet, as long as I don't have to handle larger pieces. Sadly, I have passed this dislike of meat on to Tabitha and Adam.

4. Crowds. This might have something to do with the fact that when large groups of people are standing together, I'm probably shorter than most of them and cannot see beyond the people surrounding me. I'm a very bad concert date. Quite honestly, I would rather miss something amazing and read about it later, than stand with bunches of people waiting to see it in person. Probably when Christ comes again, I'll be the one staying home, praying, "Thank you for coming. I'm sorry I missed it. I just have difficulty with all your children."

5. Garage Sales. Don't get me wrong--I think they're great ideas and I've attended them and purchased my share of used items. But they scare me. People I've known forever display parts of their personal lives I don't want to know about, and perfect strangers become far too familiar by means of the things they wish to sell. And it doesn't matter if I know the person or not, whatever I end up buying is scrubbed and washed millions of times before I allow its use. All I can think of is the fact that it's been used before, when the truth is, it's probably a great deal cleaner than anything I could buy at Walmart.

6. Interior decorating. I'll be honest, I find walls with nothing adorning them rather soothing. Each time we've moved, Darrin has been the one to place pictures and decorative items. One of my students presented me last year with a very large painting for my studio. It's lovely and I like it a lot--I just don't know what to do with it. Hence, it still rests against one of my studio walls, as yet unhung.

7. Shirt tags. Even the printed ones can bother my skin. I've been known, in the evening when I'm relaxing, to put on sweats and an inside-out t-shirt because the tag bothers the back of my neck. My kids are used to this now, but Darrin will invariably mention that my shirt is inside-out. I used to remind him why I wear it that way. Now I just say, "How about that!"

8. Adult-sized socks. This limits my selection a bit, but women's socks are always too large and the heel part lands just below my calf. This would be okay if I were a tiny person upon whom tiny feet looked appropriate. But I'm not. I'm a smallish person whose feet look ridiculous. I've been known to purchase shoes a size or two larger so people won't notice quite as much. But too-large socks make me crazy. They twist and bunch up and look silly with the heel part sticking out of the back of my shoe. So if my socks appear a tad less mature than I do--well, now you know why.

9. Makeup. I know it's socially appropriate for a woman to use that stuff to appear more beautiful, more colorful, more healthy, younger... I don't know how other women do it. Who has time? Who can manage to go through a day without smearing it or wiping it off? And it's EXPENSIVE! I suppose some women can buy the bargain stuff, but I always end up allergic to it. And, let's face it, I'm skill-less when it comes to application. Do I wear it? Occasionally, if I feel there is some reason to warrant it. But most of the time I only wear it if I'm performing onstage, and I usually wear it to church because I'm ready hours before Darrin and I have to kill time. And I'm pretty sure no one at church cares if my makeup looks stupid.

10. Emotions and relationships that confuse me. And who doesn't want to avoid these things? But I suppose what might make me different is that I've been known to talk about this to the point of aggravation. I can't seem to stop worrying the topic. Emotions are difficult, but if I'm in any kind of relationship which doesn't make sense to me, the other party will probably hear about it. The compulsion to figure things out is one that overwhelms me. I am powerless to stop talking about my confusion. And if I try, the result is that I simply stop talking. Forever. I suppose it's a "Love me or leave me" situation, although I've yet to figure out if that applies to me or to the other person.

Love Lists: Day Three

Desserts I love:

1. Double Chocolate Almond Biscotti 

2. Chocolate Chip Cookies  (I prefer mine with walnuts and/or oatmeal)

3. Strawberry Truffle Cake

                                  

4. Frosted Ginger Creams

                                              

5. Nutella Cheesecake

6. Pots de Creme With Berries

7. Lemon Pudding Cake

8. Fruit Pizza

9. Chocolate Walnut Brownies

10. Creamy Amaretto Rice Pudding with Raspberry Sauce

Love Lists: Day Two

Poems I love:

1. Shakespeare's 29th Sonnet. I know. Who doesn't love this sonnet. But I've often felt as the narrator feels, and I also wish to be the one who can bring joy to one who sorrows, simply because I love with my whole soul--no strings attached. This sonnet speaks to my heart.

2. Longfellow's The Children's Hour. I memorized this poem when I was ten. I don't know why. But even though a father, or perhaps a grandfather, narrates the story, this poem captures moments of beauty and joy felt by both children and parents. I smile until the last three stanzas, at which point, I cry a tiny bit.

3. Sara Coleridge's The Garden  Year. This poem also goes by the title, "The Months." When I was very small we had a large book of poetry with beautiful illustrations by an artist whose name I can't remember. My mother loved poetry. She read to us from the book regularly and from her we learned to love poetry, as well. I remember her allowing us to discuss and linger over the pictures. She would talk about rhyming schemes and why some poems don't rhyme at all. When I worked on integration a few years ago, this was a memory I was willing and able to claim. And one night, instead of with nightmares, my mother's voice filled my sleep as she read to me from that book and when this poem was read, I chanted the words with her.

4. Sandburg's To a Contemporary Bunkshooter. I'm not an avid fan of Sandburg's works, but this particular poem speaks to me. It was leveled at Billy Sunday, whose preaching, to Sandburg, seemed self-righteous and judgmental, and often included staged anger and attention begging stunts. When I encountered the poem, however, my thoughts turned inward. How many times do I make judgments that are not Christlike in nature? Do I assume people are wrong simply because their beliefs do not tally with my own? Would Jesus Christ condone my behaviors that exclude or harm others? In that moment I made a conscious decision to try to love and value people in any condition. I'm not great at this skill, but I'm not dead yet either. I keep trying daily and maybe someday I'll get it right.

5. An excerpt from Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. I've done this many times with Woolf's writing but I thought I was the only one. I used to write it out longhand, add line breaks and stanzas, and breathe in the cadence and beauty of this woman's words. When I found a fellow blogger who had done the same type of thing, I decided it was legitimate for me to feel the poetry in Virginia's writing. Granted, only two people (that I know of) have done this, but I think that's enough. And this particular excerpt is incredibly lovely.

6. Robert Frost's Home Burial. I discovered this poem as a youth shortly after some friends lost their five-year-old daughter to Reye's syndrome. I was their chief babysitter and I loved that little girl, but I was fascinated as I watched the rift that formed between the parents who had previously seemed incredibly in love and when I encountered the poem, somehow the stress felt by that couple made sense to me. There was no parallel between their emotional battle and the story line of the poem, so I'm unsure why I made the connection. As an older teen, I loved the way Frost was able to express pain and suffering in the misunderstanding and distance between two people who once loved each other, and I love that most of the poem is dialogue. That doesn't happen often, and rarely effectively.

7. Dorothy Parker's Threnody. Okay--the truth is, I love all her poetry. I'm stunned by her...everything. And I'm probably a little bit, well, a whole lot, in love with her. However, Threnody was my first discovery simply because I adored the word and had no idea what it meant. When I read the poem (after looking up the word), my world became a treasure hunt for more poetry and writing by the adorable Dorothy. She was my first huge infatuation. It was also at that point that I decided I needed to choose people who aren't dead with whom to fall in love.

8. Seuss's What Was I Scared Of? If you click on the link it WILL NOT take you to the entitled story poem which was definitely one of my childhood favorites. I felt deliciously frightened by the body-less pants and loved the ridiculously brief scary episodes and their accompanying drawings. I was relieved by the ending, as a three-year-old should always be. However, finding an online copy of the story seems impossible, so for your reading pleasure, I present instead one of Dr. Seuss's out-of-print stories (pictorial, not poetic) intended for adults. Enjoy!

9. Lisa Zaran's Subtraction Flower. This, as does all her poetry, speaks to the feminist in me and gets me all riled up for about thirty seconds. Then I'm distracted again. I am a poor, poor feminist. But I could read her poems forever. I love her voice. When I discovered Zaran's poetry I though, "Oh my goodness! I need to meet her!" I know I won't, but that's okay as long as she keeps writing.

10. This last is, I believe, unpublished. Danny Nelson sent it to me nearly five years ago. I'm mystified at how some poems speak to one person while another turns away untouched, but this one left me feeling as though someone wrote words I have imagined about something I have never experienced. I can't really explain it. Danny has written many poems I love, a few (not this one) were written for me, and sometimes I have to remember that I love him because he's wonderful, not just because I want to read what he writes. However, today this is the poem which inexplicably speaks to me. And so I am sharing it with you:

The View from Bellevue, April 2007

Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it.

                -Arthur Hugh Clough, “Amours de Voyage”

The silver city sits heavy on shifting sands,

creaking on its splayed steel spines,

cut by a cold, coarse ocean.

Mouldering ports line its edges in tatters,

dirty lace stitched about the urban chin.

The rain. Spikenard sheets of shrouding swathe

and sweep against the sweating skyscrapers.

Their faces are old flesh, water-poxed:

worms writhe below on brackening cement.

My friend. He has a horse’s face,

large and leafish eyes, and

two adder-puffs of his father’s jowls.

He lays a heavy hand across my neck,

calls me sad.

Sad.

The mountains wring their cloudy handfuls,

water from cirrus slate. Gullies green up

reeking with life-drown.

I take a misty breath, silver and sere,

and say: Yes—

Yes.

But the rain is very beautiful.

Love Lists: Day One

Quirky Things I Love:

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

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

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

4. Salt on my grapefruit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving On

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

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

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

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

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

Conforming does not come easily to me.

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

The End.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead I wept silently, watching him sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do I want?

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

What do I want?

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

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

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

I want to be warm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Happy is coming. I can feel it.

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

I hate folding laundry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...what I'm feeling...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is stupid, yes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is this how life is supposed to be?

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

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

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

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

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

For now, this is enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once again, I feel silly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The down side: the perpetrator named is my brother.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes there are no words to describe a heartache.

Sometimes life defies explanation.

Sometimes there is no room for even one more emotion.

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

Sometimes sleep is elusive.

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

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

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

Sometimes mint ganache tastes exactly right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Tis the Season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have a new job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December is a good month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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