"My mother used to say that there are no strangers, only friends you haven't met. She's now in a maximum security twilight home in Australia." ~Dame Edna Everage

There are a lot of changes going on in my life right now. People with PTSD don't always deal well with change. I've been experiencing panic attacks at a rate of every two hours, approximately. When they pass I feel weak and stupid. But while they're in force, I am at their mercy. You can't really say to a panic attack: "Go away. I don't have time and I don't want you." It doesn't listen.

So I have the option to go back on medication that causes me more side-effects than I want to think about (including insomnia, nausea, and weight loss), or trying to find help elsewhere. A few nights ago, unable to sleep, so tired I was crying, and feeling incredibly silly that I'm me, I went to a PTSD forum and signed up. Then I went to a PTSD chat room.

The forum has been a nice, slow-paced, constant reminder that I'm not alone. It's easy to feel very alone at 2 a.m. A few people have responded, letting me know that I'm okay. They don't understand my unique physiology and reactions to drugs, and have suggested several helpful ones. I've thanked them but I'm not ready to discuss why I don't take PTSD medication in that place yet. I've found that there is a great deal of judgment--people often believe I don't wish to be helped, that I'm choosing to stay in a state where I'm a victim of PTSD symptoms. Why they believe that of me, I don't understand, especially those who know me well. I sort of work like a crazy person to get better and if I could take a pill every day that would ease my stress without creating a dozen other symptoms, I would.

The chat room has been immediate balm to my soul. There are people from all over the world--so for some who are speaking, it's morning or afternoon while I talk in the middle of the night. One woman in her fifties, has been waiting for me, wanting to see how I'm doing, checking up on me...she calls me "sweetie." She's not living in the U.S. and she uses her iPhone to log into the chat room, so she's always talking about how small the print is, but the voice enable function sounds creepy to her. She's told me a great deal about herself. I haven't really said that much--just that I'm having panic attacks and can't sleep. Another man is often present. He's a vet with PTSD. He says I'll make it. He tells me at some point I'll sleep. They both tell me they love me.

I know. They can't love me. They don't even know me. But at 2 a.m., while you're breathing for a moment and waiting for the next panic attack to hit, love, concern, and reassurance from any source is welcome.

I think I'm going to stay in these places for awhile. I'm needing immediate and certain support at unpredictable times. The people there could be axe murderers. I don't care. They help me right now.

Don't judge me. :)

Nothing special--just what I'm thinking about tonight.

One of the side-effects my tendonitis problems is that I developed a rather pronounced limp. This happened because of uneven muscle development and because I didn't respond as expected to any of the physical therapies. At this point I've used all the therapy my insurance will allow for this particular malady and I'm sort of on my own.

I worked with three physical (they worked as a team) and one massage therapists. They were very careful to let me know what was going on with my body, why it was happening, and what I could do to help heal. My last appointment was two weeks ago. I left with a directive to call if I stopped progressing, and to continue running as tolerated, combined with pilates which, three years ago I loved, and now I hate because, let's face it, doing pilates with uneven muscle development hurts.

However, it also helps a great deal. Today my limp is less noticeable, I'm sleeping better at night because the pain is decreasing and my hips are staying in place like they're supposed to. My muscles are also responding better. It's rare that they spasm (and it used to be rare that they were NOT in spasms) and the strain on my knee is imperceptible when the spasms occur because they're pretty minor. All in all, I feel confident that I've learned what I must do to return to complete recovery.

However, I also have to say that I don't love the effort it takes and there are days when I feel sorry for myself and I just want to be able to run effortlessly again. When that happens, I take a day of rest, wallow in self-pity, and play Facebook games.

Adam and I made incredibly delicious peach cobbler tonight. He's a lot of fun, but I would like it so much better if he'd stop declaring random "sit around in your boxers" times. It's a little disconcerting to walk into the house in the middle of the day to find your grown up child sitting on the couch in his underwear.

Therapy: The Beginning of the End

This all began in February 2006. I didn't start blogging about it immediately. My first therapist had me write bunches of stuff, some of which was helpful, some of which was not. But then I discovered if I posted my therapy assignments online, I no longer felt I was writing secret things that I could only discuss with my therapist. It was out there. No one read it, but someone could if they wanted to. And that made a large difference in how I felt about myself and my therapy journey.

So for more than seven years I've been picking myself apart, looking at things I'd been burying so deep I thought they could never be found, and trying with every ounce of strength I possess to become more than the things that have been done to me. I've not always been successful. Even now there are days when I wake up and think, "I don't want to be the person who was unwanted, unsupervised, abused and molested by adults and raped by a cousin. I don't want to be her. I want to be loved and accepted and protected because people care about me and want me." But I'm not, so I wait until I feel strong enough to be the one I wish I was not, and then I get up and start my day.

I can do that now. I could not do it in February 2006. At that point in my life I would manufacture a scenario I could live with, I would become a fictional person who was strong, invulnerable, delightful, and funny and I would enjoy my day. I felt happy. I thought I was happy. I had no idea I was unhappy until my rapist cousin's wife killed herself. Then I couldn't stop remembering the things I had tried to zap out of my existence. Realizing my magic wasn't as strong as I had thought, was fairly daunting.

I made progress, but that brought an onslaught of feelings I couldn't manage. I ended up doing a stint in the mental health ward of the hospital on suicide watch. It was during that time that PTSD was diagnosed and I had a name for the monster that had become more and more powerful as I tried to heal from my past.

Today...

The monster remains untamed, but most of the time we coexist fairly peacefully. There are nights it robs me of sleep, and relationships it tries to destroy, and days it keeps me immobile, but I'm still working with it, trying to teach it who is in control of my life, trying to honor the emotions it elicits without buying into the ones that are from a long time ago, silencing it while trying to maintain communication in important relationships I'd like to keep healthy.

I never know what will pop up, but I'm getting very good at learning what to do with unpleasant emotional surprises. I've nearly finished all the therapy assignments I said I could or would not do. Most of the time I know who I am, and while I'm not what I would like to be, I think I'm okay. I long for a time when I won't feel that I am less than everyone who has not been abused or raped. I think that might happen someday. I wish the men in my life who make derogatory comments about women--their anatomy, their smell, their brains, their habits, whatever--could understand what that does to me. I'm hopeful it's not their aim to plunge me into the place where I am once again helpless, a victim too small and insignificant to fight against unfair or untrue words that hurt and demean. I think those men care about me until the words are spoken--then I am certain they exist only to hurt me. One day I will be strong enough to say I don't want those kinds of people in my life and I will do something about it. Maybe that will mean I have very few men, especially gay men who cast the slurs about the female body most often, in my life. Maybe that's okay.

I have everything I need to successfully live my life. This doesn't mean I always use those strategies successfully, only that I can if I choose to. I went through a period of time when I would rely on no one for many years. More recently I went through a time when I felt I HAD to rely on one or two people or I would not make it through the things that were happening. That feeling persists to a certain degree even now, and I'm pretty sure the people I've leaned on are ready for me to leave them alone for awhile. I can do that--I will do that. It's time.

During the next few years I believe I'll be concentrating on what is true about me now. I'll be identifying traits that are inherently mine, those that make Samantha the person she is. And I'll keep working on staying healthy emotionally and physically. I'm not sure what will happen socially. That belongs not only to me, but to the people in my life. On my part, I will always welcome them--chats, emails, visits--but there will definitely be times when the ball is in their court. I've found that when I'm the person who always seeks an audience, I begin to feel insecure and resentful. I don't like that and I definitely don't need that. Relationships in my life must be a two-way street; I wish to be loved and needed as much as I love and need the other person. When that no longer is in place, I'll probably become less available.

I have a great deal left to do in my life. I have a marvelous journey ahead of me. I hope there will be people who wish to accompany me, spend time with me, share my life with me, but if not, I still intend to live.

"...when I am happy, a sparrow's chirp is delicious to me. But it is not the chirp that makes me happy, but I that make it sweet." ~John Ruskin

About eight years ago I decided to be me. I thought it was time to allow other people to know me. It seemed a good time to start sharing the person I have been and the one I will become. Prior to this, I had been whomever best fit a given situation. I would change on cue to allow the person or persons in that situation the best experience possible--as long as they knew nothing about me. What I learned from this was that people are largely self-centered, they're perfectly content to talk about themselves as long as I continue to show interest and ask questions, and they don't have a problem with me coming into their lives for a brief moment and disappearing when the moment is over.

But I took a good look at myself and I thought, "I have a great deal to offer. I have a good heart. I'm supportive. I'm funny. I'm happy most of the time. I think people would like me if I let them know who I am."

Then I thought, "But why would I do that?" And I could come up with no good answer. So I decided to try it and see what would happen.

I started online with people I had never met and never intended to meet. I cultivated friendships with many people and eventually wished to meet some of them--which I did--and it was a wonderful experience. With all of them, I allowed knowledge of my history and let them know about my family and current life, but the core of myself remained hidden.

Since that time, I have allowed a few people to know the person I am, the fears I possess, and the things that make me happy and sad. There was beauty in that experience and for awhile I felt it was okay. I'm not sure I feel the same anymore.

I missed out on a lot of "growing up" milestones, emotionally. For about a year, when I was eight, I had a couple of friends that felt bonded with me forever. But I was eight. And then my family moved far from those friends and that experience never happened again. I stayed in touch with one of those friends, and eventually roomed with her in college. What I found out was that, while she still cared about me, I was not as important as the friends who had been present in her life throughout high school, our interests had diverged, and eventually our interaction has centered around a one-sided Christmas card exchange (she sends me one every year, but I've not sent Christmas cards since 2010, when Tabitha's behavior became exhausting and I was unable to do anything but the most necessary tasks).

During the course of the last eight years, I've again formed close ties with a few people. But the bonds are fraught with insecurity on my part. I have a love/hate relationship with them. I love the people, I adore talking with them and sharing my life with them. I hate feeling that I'm vulnerable to them, or that we could drift apart, or that I rely on them--that's the part that causes me the most stress.

Sunday was an eye-opener to me. Darrin and the kids were not home. Darrin was out of town and DJ, Adam, and Tabitha were spending time at church and with friends. I was by myself for the first time in months and I didn't have my cell phone which stores the contact information of people who will allow me to call when I'm having distress. And I was having a great deal of distress.

I am frustrated when I think of how difficult that day was. By evening I was a complete mess. I was berating myself for ever believing I could build a support system of "people". I knew better. I'd become weak. I didn't know how to depend on myself anymore. I was dissatisfied with the coping tools I'd assembled. I wanted to talk to a REAL person and I felt I wouldn't be able to handle the onslaught of emotional crap I was experiencing without that. And I sort of hated everyone for being unavailable, which was completely illogical and unfair.

Today, when I am rational, I keep thinking about that day and how painful it was. I don't want it to happen ever again. I'm certain the circumstances will present themselves in the future, but I don't want to feel at the mercy of whomever I might ask for help--who is living life and who needs to not be interrupted by the blips of my own life. I want to recognize that support systems don't always work as desired, and have a plan B for those times. Or maybe I need to make those support people the Plan B, and rely on myself, only resorting to Plan B when I absolutely have to.

I'm reminding myself of these things:

1. It was kind of brave of me to reach out to other people; to tell them who I am and invite them to share my life. However, they share when they please and are not available to me always. They are dealing with priorities and events and people--the things that are present and immediate. I am not one of those and it is unfair of me to believe my crisis timing will match their availability timing.

2. There is one person in everyone's life with whom they share themselves. Darrin is my person. Sometimes, when he's gone, I have difficulty. But he is always coming back and he always wants me. No one else feels the same way. Other people have their "one person" with whom they share their love and their lives. When I'm overwhelmed, I have been known to forget this and ask for help anyway. I need to not do that anymore.

3. I'm capable. I'm strong. I can take care of myself. These are important to remember. It's good to seek help from loved ones when I'm having difficulty--but not essential. I will be okay.

4. There must never be a time in my future when I feel I cannot function or make it through difficulties without the help of someone who loves me. Never. When I know how to manage on my own, the pain eventually eases. I identify the source and take the steps necessary to alleviate it and move forward. When I feel a need for help or comfort from another person and it does not materialize, I am flung backward to that time in my life when a little girl felt alone and abandoned by people who actually SHOULD have cared for and protected her.

But I am not a little girl anymore. I am completely able to deal with situations that pop up, I know how to care for myself, and I don't need to be protected anymore. Relying on others when I'm feeling overwhelmed makes me vulnerable to the belief that I am unwanted, burdensome, and annoying. I don't believe I am any of those, but my self-worth dwindles to the point that there have been times when I have felt no more desire to live. Perhaps that's cowardly. Perhaps I AM a coward. I don't know. But I do know that what happened Sunday cannot happen again. Help from others needs to be an option but not a necessity--delightful when it happens, and fine when it does not.

My exam yesterday did not go well. There was a great deal of problematic emotional crap that came afterward. I was fortunate that Tolkien Boy was online and could talk with me about it and I feel much better today. But I think that will be the last time I look for help in the moments that feel devastating. Because today I feel that I took too much of his time, and I said more than I should have, and when we spend time together, we should talk more of happy things that aren't centered on my personal flaws and malfunctions. I don't like feeling that way and I see no purpose in obtaining momentary relief, only to have other complications come when I start thinking like a real person and recognize that maybe I overused my friendship rights.

Still, I'm working through the "stuff" that has come up in the past five days. And I WILL be all right.

Also, my mammogram was normal and I am physically very healthy. I've been on a medication to stabilize my blood pressure, which has been fluctuating wildly since my reaction to the flu shot, and the low blood pressure moments are now becoming a regular thing for me, rather than the high spikes, followed by a drop to very low, and then stabilization just under normal, so my doctor thinks I should discontinue medication in month and see what happens. I'm all for that. Medicine and I do not get along well.

And now it's time for physical therapy.  My life is fun.  :)

Today I am breathing again...and completely, horribly embarrassed. The aftermath of a simple mammogram was much greater than I had anticipated. Yesterday I was a mess. If I called or sent emails, please pretend I did not. Fortunately, none of the people I contacted was able to answer so I don't have to apologize for panicking or crying in their presence. And while processing the emotions by myself was unpleasant, it won't kill me and I've done it before. In fact, I used to be very good at that alone thing. I've become soft.

This is one area where Therapist and I vehemently disagree. He says it's not good for me to be alone when I work through emotions linked to being raped. He tells me it increases my belief that there is no one who will be present in my life and help me when I need it. I believe relying on others when the pain belongs only to me, is weak and wrong. And I know I'll get through whatever presents itself, however messy it might become. Therapist will tell me I should have called him. I'll remind him it was Sunday and he would not have answered anyway. He'll say that I've been working on not being alone when I'm vulnerable, that I'm working on trusting the people in my life, that this was a small step backward. I'll remind him it was Sunday. People rest on Sunday. And besides, I did try. No one was home. And I was okay.

So today the spontaneous crying has eased. It's still hanging around, but it's not as frequent. I'm still a little nauseated because of the intense panic I felt yesterday, and I always feel nauseated after panic attacks, but the panic has yielded to anxiety which means I'll feel at odds with life today, but not immobile. And I don't feel lonely or in pain, emotionally. A numbness has taken their place which will allow me to rest and catch my breath and think logically until this whole "thing" is over.

I'm hung up on the flashbacks. Part of me is insisting they never happened because I want desperately to reach my 3-year mark, free of flashbacks. I don't know why that seems so incredibly important. I've always known that, given the proper circumstances, I might have flashbacks again. I think I felt really powerful when they left--like I did something to make them go away because I'm that amazing. I don't like admitting it was probably a random fluke and my luck just ran out.

The flashbacks were tiny.

There. I just admitted they exist.

But they were tiny and they happened while I was driving and I didn't wreck, so that's a good thing. And I had some control, which hasn't happened before. I remember slipping into the past event and my brain saying, "No. I'm not going to do this." Again and again this scenario repeated itself--I don't know how many times. But I was on a mile-long stretch of road, and the flashbacks stopped trying before I reached the end of it, so the process took place fairly rapidly.

I feel incredibly disappointed, which is probably silly. I had a lapse. That's all. And it was tiny. And I recovered. Still, the disappointment and sadness persist. I feel I've failed somehow.

I think will take an inventory of the small improvements that have come with today:
1. I feel I can leave my house. That was not true yesterday--and I stayed inside the entire day, which is very odd for me.
2. I have energy to work and do the projects I had planned for today.
3. While I don't feel up to talking with anyone, I think that will happen by mid-July. Although I have to be at a social function this weekend, so I'll put on my happy face and be pleasant while I'm there.
4. While I still feel a huge need to protect myself, I don't plan to cancel my physical this week. It's important.
5. I don't feel like smiling, but I think I will today. And maybe I'll laugh. Those things are important, too.
6. I'm reminding myself that this isn't forever. In a week or two I'll feel less sad, and while I might still feel lonely, it will be something with which I can cope.
7. In these times, it's difficult to feel love or to believe I am lovable. Therapist says I must always remember I am loved. Today I can't do that, but I think tomorrow I'll work on that.

And I have to keep reminding myself that this small setback came with a tiny triumph. I'm taking care of my health--I'm taking care of me. I'm doing the things I need to so I can stay well, physically. And I  wasn't able to do that for many years. So in the end, no matter how bad I feel, I think I win.

"Mammograms are really sort of a gift. You can either catch something early or count your lucky stars because nothing was discovered." ~Charlotte Ross

Yesterday I had a mammogram. I know. Big deal. Women do that annually after age 35 as part of their well care.

But you see, I've never had one. And I've not had a physical since Tabitha was two. I have a lot of fear about being touched.

So for seven years I've worked with Therapist to reach a point where I felt I could have those important things become part of my life. I've made many, many appointments--and canceled them when the time came. But I didn't cancel this one.

You know, mammograms and physicals are uncomfortable, bordering on painful. But for someone like me, the daughter of a breast cancer survivor, they're vital. I started thinking about how I feel when Darrin insists he can't use a Cpap machine, which could improve his life drastically and, ultimately, keep him alive. But it's uncomfortable. It interferes with his sleep. He doesn't like it. He'd rather die???

It makes me panicky because I'm the one who notices the repeated cessation of breathing for up to thirty seconds. I'm the one who feels his abdomen cave in as he struggles for breath. I'm the one who deals with his moodiness, lack of energy, constant napping, and gradual but constant health decline. And I'm the one who moves to the couch because the snoring is so loud my own sleep is interrupted.

I started thinking about how my family feels about my irrational fear. I won't take part in preventative medicine because I'm scared. I have a higher than normal a breast cancer risk. I won't get the tests done that could facilitate early detection and remission because I'm scared...I'd rather die???

I'm guessing there is no one who loves me who, in the event of late-stage cancer detection, would say, "It's okay, Sam. We understand that your fear put your life at risk. We're all right with you taking that risk and it's okay that you're going to die, probably." Nope. I can't see anyone making allowances for my fears when my life is on the line. And it is. This is something I need to take seriously.

When I was tired of being afraid of the person who raped me, I went to lunch with him. It was yucky and I don't want to do it ever again, but I'm not afraid anymore.

So yesterday, I went to the hospital, stripped from the waist up, used a baby wipe to remove any traces of anti-perspirant which would interfere with the imaging process, donned a gown large enough for several people to share, and waited my turn. When I met with the tech who would be doing the deed, she asked me several questions, then asked if there was anything else she should know. I found myself saying, "I'm afraid. I have PTSD because I'm a rape survivor. I've never had this done before because it can trigger all sorts of messy emotional side-effects and I don't want to deal with those. But I'm here. I'm doing this. And I might cry, but it won't because the process is hurting me and it won't have anything to do with you, so don't worry, okay?"

She said, "This is really important for someone with your family history. I'm glad you're here. Let me know if I can help you through this."

And then we went to that hateful machine where she danced me into the proper position, lifted my breast into an impossible angle and let me know the compression plate would stop when the light went on. And it didn't feel nice in the least. We did it three more times in three more positions and then I was done.

On the way home, I felt the flashbacks coming. They were very specific in the memory and content, and it's possible that I actually had them because I know what they looked like, but I'm going to say, instead, that I was able to avert the fullfledged version of flashbacks because in six weeks I will have been flashback free for three years, so I'm not counting whatever happened on the way home. Anyway, it felt nasty, but nothing like what I've felt in the past when flashbacks occurred, so they weren't the real deal.

And when I got home, I sat in my driveway and cried because I'm a coward who can't even have a routine health process without feeling violated and overwhelmed. And I also cried because I get to do it again in 12 months--not a happy thought for me.

But I did it. I think that's something. And Therapist says I rock and he's proud of me.

...Don't say anything at all.

I wrote my last post when I was feeling a great deal of anger and frustration. It is not unusual for me to do this on my blog, and the process of doing so often helps the anger disperse so I can see with greater clarity the larger picture. Most of the time I believe this is a very helpful tool and it has become habitual for me to come here when I feel frustrated or helpless in a given situation.

I should not have done so in the situation I described in my previous post.

I received an email from one who was involved in the same dinner party. My friend expressed hurt and anger that I had aired my upset here--in a public place--rather than addressing it personally with the people involved. And he was correct.

I should have discussed the problem in the correct place with the people involved because while it might be common for bloggers to air their anger and frustration in their private blogs, that doesn't mean it's right, and in doing so I put my friendship with someone I love on the line. And I was wrong.

My friend further explained that the things I saw were not what he saw and that I had judged swiftly, harshly, and wrongly. While I don't agree with his viewpoint about what happened during the conversation in question, I do agree that I was unkind in my portrayal of the person with whom I was angry, and judgmental, and I had very little information upon which to form that judgment. Again, it was wrong of me to do so.

Tolkien Boy once told me that something he admired about me was that I don't make snap judgments about people. When they seem unlovable I manage to love them, and I'm always willing to give people, not just second chances, but many, many chances because I believe all people deserve love and respect. Tolkien Boy would be deeply disappointed in me.

So today I wish to say that I take responsibility for my wrongdoing, and ask forgiveness of those involved. Perhaps, one day, we can grant each other a second (or a third...fourth...fifth...) chance.

"To be normal is the ideal aim of the unsuccessful." ~ Carl Gustav Jung

When I work with a family member or friend on a therapy assignment, my contact with that person usually happens after I've laid all the groundwork in place. In general, I've spent six months or more on myself, or my part in the assignment, I've done a great deal of research, and I have only to lay the last piece in place in order to finish what I began. That final piece usually involves asking questions of another person, or discussing something between us that causes me stress, or requesting a change in our relationship (usually just a minor one). As a result, the person involved hears about the difficulty I'm trying to manage at the end of the assignment. They're usually completely unaware of the work I've been doing and I usually don't tell them a great deal about it, but it provides the illusion that I identify a problem, talk with the person involved, and instantly solve whatever difficulty has presented itself. I'm amazing.

Example: Integration of Tolkien Boy

The problem was identified months ago. The first step I take is to look at the depth of what has happened, figure out what might have triggered it, and find all the tiny details that might need changes made. In the case of TB, there were large details (i.e. my feelings about the two entities which had to be identified and catalogued--this took at least three weeks), and smaller ones (for instance, I'd replaced all online pictures of real-life TB with the most obscure ones I could find--they were taken at least seven years ago and didn't look at all like TB today).

Once the detail identification was finished, I took care of any small changes that could be done immediately (easier said than done--my guts did not want ANY changes made--I spent a great deal of time arguing with myself: "Sam, you have to do this." "I don't want to. I like things the way they are." "No you don't, you hate them, that's why we're here right now, trying to fix what you messed up with your subconscious." "I still don't want to." "Do it anyway, Sam." "Fine, but I hate this." "Me, too."), and listed the ones that might need more lengthy work.

The tasks that needed more time were then further subdivided so they didn't seem overwhelming and, bit by bit, I hacked away at them, doing the necessary emotional exercises to force me into reality.

There is a reason I dissociate. It's because sometimes reality sucks.

Eight months later, I had finished the miserable work of undoing the dissociation, and I had accepted that I'm a freak, and I had sort of put TB back together--but not really, because the last step needed him in person and he lives a million miles away from me.

Tolkien Boy loves me, I think, because even though he was a newlywed, and exhausted, and leaving early in the morning for his honeymoon, he stayed up with me into the wee hours of morning, allowing me to talk about the problem, and ask questions, and telling me his thoughts, as well. If he doesn't love me, then I have no idea why he would do that, and besides, I prefer to believe that he does because being loved by Tolkien Boy is a priceless gift, and if I'm going to be delusional, I like that delusion so much better than the dissociative one I created earlier.

The truth is that my life right now is still really difficult. The insanely desperate part has eased and I'm left with a huge mess to clean up--emotional, physical, financial...you name it...if it exists in my life, it's a mess. That's hard to wake up to every morning. And all the support people in my life who are physically present are somehow involved in that mess; either they've presented me with new problems that need my help (like DJ having surgery and being unable to drive and limited in his ability to care for himself), or they are as deeply responsible for the problems as I am (like Darrin, working extra hours in the hope that we can pay off at least one debt before the year ends), which means they're all emotionally depleted, as well, and very tired, and not really a great deal of support.

I'm actually not sure where we all go from here.

I was speaking with Ambrosia last night, expressing disappointment that I'd allowed the transferred dissociation to happen. She said it seemed like I expect myself to be perfect. I don't, though. I just want to be normal. I don't want to feel much of what motivates me to seek out unhealthy coping. I feel badly when my deficits affect my loved ones. And let's face it, I'm still very afraid that those staunch friends, however few, who have stayed by me through the horrible mess of the past couple of years, will get tired of me and leave--especially when I do freaky things that affect how I feel about and act around them.

Normal. It seems I'm always shooting for that and missing. But there are so many days when I realize I'm an anomaly in nearly every part of my life and I just want to be unremarkable.

This is such a weird post.

I spoke with a friend last night. We talked far too long and went to bed in the wee hours of morning. As I lay in my bed, trying to put off sleep with its accompanying nightmares, I realized how terribly ugly my life is. Jagged trauma scars rip through what I wish was beautiful, interrupting the peaceful landscape I would create. I don't seek out the disruptions. Drama and discord are not appealing to me. They find me anyway.

I want so much for my friend to have a life filled with predictable joys, seamed by tiny challenges which seem insurmountable in the moment, but which mend themselves with time and disappear beneath the larger picture of daily life drifting into nights of dreamless sleep. No doubt there will be difficulties which mar the picture, but I desperately hope her life will not ever approach the hideous darkness of mine.

We spoke of the challenges of raising small children, yearning to spend moments with them as they quickly grow, while wanting so much to have a separate self-fulfillment. We talked of the fear that someone might harm those children due to non-vigilance or misplaced trust. We discussed the reality of anxiety and depression and the subsequent difficulties due to those.

At one point, probably because I was tired and it was long past midnight, I broke my code of silence. I disclosed details of my past. I talked about my not-quite-twelve self, sitting on the floor of the bathroom, cleaning up my own blood and someone else's semen, not understanding what had just happened and reeling with the pain--physical and emotional--of my deeply scarred world. I told her of the loneliness I felt as I wrapped myself in a towel and rocked myself, wishing someone safe would hold me while knowing no one would come.

I told her about the fatigue, years later, of watching my daughter trying to end her life and the desire to be released from my living nightmare even if it ultimately meant my daughter's death. I recounted a night in the hospital emergency room, when I climbed into my daughter's bed with her, held her close, and whispered how very much I loved her, told her she was the most beautiful person I knew, and said I was honored to be her mom. And I meant it. I didn't know why she was so sad. I had no idea why she was harming herself--why she wished to die--but I could never be ashamed of her. She was a bright spot in my life even during the most exquisitely painful moments. Today my daughter doesn't remember that night. She was too overwrought and distressed. But I remember it. I will never forget.

I talked of being molested by strangers who followed me into church bathrooms, seeing I was unattended and taking their moment to harm me. And suddenly I realized how inappropriate it was to share the ugliness of my life with her--with anyone. So I changed the subject and shortly thereafter, went to bed.

I want to be the woman who fights with her mother and feels overwhelmed with children and sometimes is frustrated with the husband who might not always be supportive. I want to complain about work and the weather and the cruise I can't attend because of the family reunion taking place at the same time. I want to have car troubles and worry about what we'll have for dinner. I want to feel upset because my house isn't as clean as it should be or because a neighbor offended me. I want to be a regular person.

Instead, I live in labyrinthine ugliness. My life is repulsive, unimaginable, horrifying. As I try identify with and understand the problems spoken of by others, I feel a desperate desire to have those problems, to live a similar life, to rid myself of the unbelievable horror of my own.

I feel tremendous shame when a friend talks to me of problems that feel real and overwhelming in his or her life, then stops, takes a step back, and reminds me that my problems--my past--are much worse than the current topic of conversation. I feel frustrated. I didn't choose the things I've lived. I would have prevented them, had I the ability to do so. And even though my life is monstrous, I still wish to converse, to talk about everyday challenges, to pretend, just for a moment, that I'm like everyone else.

I once read that to open your heart to someone means exposing the scars of the past. I think whoever said that has not met a person like me. I try to open my heart--then I run in as quickly as possible to protect whomever might see the spectacle of my lifescars. I try to explain that while my life is scary, I am not. I say things are okay and they are safe from me. Then I retreat and in my alone time I wish for something different. I wish for a time when I will not feel I have to protect people from knowing who I am and what I have experienced. I wish for someone to look long and hard at my jaggedly scarred life and tell me I'm okay--and they're strong enough to touch the parts that cause me to ache, and such an experience will not harm them.

Probably that can't happen, and tomorrow I won't care as deeply. Tomorrow is always better.

It seems I am feeling sorry for myself today. I think I will allow myself a few more moments of self-pity, and then I will take a shower, do my physical therapy, and take a walk outside to see how many blue flowers I can find. My life, however ugly, cannot mar the fact that our world is incredibly beautiful. And maybe later I'll call another friend and we won't talk about me at all.

I was talking with Tolkien Boy yesterday about the phenomenon of wanting to be someone different from the person one is. He understands, a bit, what I'm speaking about. Probably most people do. But I'm not talking about accepting sexual orientation or accepting personal faults and weaknesses. I'm not speaking of learning to accept and love the person you are and whom you will become.

I realized not long ago that each morning when I wake I'm faced with resolving the nightmares that have come in my sleep, knowing that many of them are real, and telling myself that I AM that person. I'm the one who was abused and raped. I'm her. And this is important because if I don't go through this process, I tell myself it never happened and for one day I live in a delightful fantasy. According to Therapist, this is a coping device that is normal but not healthy, and I am ready to become the person I am. Most days I agree with him, but after several nights riddled with terrifying, sad, gut wrenching memory nightmares, it's difficult to feel happy about it.

As I continue forward, I constantly discover little things I've done subconsciously. They're not necessarily sabotage, although in the end, they serve to do that, but they seem to be one last effort of mine to cling to past coping devices. When I stopped self-harm, for instance, I found that I was burning or cutting myself more often while cooking, without realizing I was doing so. It was, Therapist told me, my body's way of maintaining the status quo and would, with time, decrease. And he was correct. While I still get burned occasionally, it seems to be more of what would be expected when one uses a hot oven and not a ritual that serves to relieve emotional pain.

Recently Therapist spoke with me about another problem I'll be correcting in the near future. It seems that while I was working on integration, I moved the impulse to fragment to one of the people closest to me, emotionally. Tolkien Boy has become two people in my mind. The person online is a different entity than the corporeal one. I feel differently about each of them and they represent different things to me. It's a rather difficult situation to explain, and one that makes me feel beyond crazy. I KNOW they're the same person, my brain comprehends that, but somehow, they're not. TB online looks different from TB in person. I feel separate feelings for each of them. They are two people to me.

Transference is a common thing, especially when one is under emotional stress. Part of me, however, feels enormous guilt for allowing this to happen. I understand it was beyond my control and I had no idea it was happening, but it still feels horribly shameful. It's caused a bit of stress for me this week as I've been spending real time with TB. Therapist had mentioned that the dissociation had happened, and while I knew he was correct, I didn't really believe it. Then, a couple of days ago, I sent a chat message to TB while he was sitting next to me and he replied, and I realized, in my mind, there was another person talking to me.

This sounds incredibly stupid and crazy so I'm going to stop trying to describe what's happening. I'm guessing no one who has not experienced it can comprehend what I'm saying anyway.

The bottom line is I'm feeling that no matter how hard I fight to overcome the crap in my past, it keeps reaching out and trying to destroy healthy, loving relationships in my life. And I'm tired. I don't want this to keep happening. Giving up/giving in sometimes feels like it would be a wonderful thing. I won't, but I want to.

Anyway, next job--integrating the Tolkien Boys. Wish me luck.

Therapist told me, last time we spoke, that I have all the tools I need to stay healthy, and I've learned to use them correctly. He said this has been true for more than a year, but he knew I needed support and encouragement because I was going through a great deal of difficulty. Translation: I have abandonment issues and Therapist didn't want to add to those by telling me I could deal with everything on my own. Looking back, that was a very good idea. I think, had Therapist stepped away from me when my family and several friends were already doing so, I might not have weathered the storm very well at all.

But now that I'm declared able to care for my own emotional well-being, I don't really know what to do. I feel exposed and a little bit afraid. It's not like I can't call Therapist if I need help, it's just that I won't be seeing him regularly--which is equally silly, because I've been seeing him about every six months, which really doesn't constitute regular visits. Still, there's something a little bit daunting about knowing the person I'm supposed to turn to in times of emotional stress is Me.

So today I am reminding myself why I'm capable of the task of taking care of myself.

I was neglected and abused by my mother who taught me that I was not an important part of our family--or of anyone's life, really. The message I received from her was that I was ugly, belligerent, and stupid. I am none of those things. I never was. She was wrong. She has since owned her actions and apologized many times for her wrongdoing. Still, tiny ghosts sometimes whisper the words I heard as a child. Part of having PTSD means that those words interfere with my relationships today. I assume that's why some people leave. It would be difficult to be close to someone who often has doubts about their ability to love, their importance to others, and their own self-worth. Sometimes I have those feelings. I don't always manage them well. I'm working on that.

I was molested by three different people and raped by one. This has made me feel fear toward others on a regular basis. I have felt it for close friends, my husband, and my children. For a long time I refused to acknowledge that fear, I just left when a situation or person became uncomfortable. I don't do that anymore. I very much wish for long-term, close relationships with my family and spouse, and with a few people who choose to stay in my life long-term.

I have an eating disorder that is mostly in remission. Sometimes it troubles me. I suppose the largest residual effect is that I believe I am very fat. I have a sister who reminds me that a size 4 is not fat. She says I am definitely not skinny--I look healthy and fit. Still, when I look in the mirror, it's difficult to silence the voice that finds all my flaws and tells me if I lost weight I would be beautiful. For any person who has read my blog, this might be news. I've denied for a long time that I suffer from typical eating disorder symptoms. Recovering from this disorder has been the most difficult of all that I've experienced. Denying the way it affected me was simply one more tactic to keep it alive and well. I need it to stop being problematic, so I will no longer deny that, while it may have begun atypically, what I experience is very normal for a recovering anorexic. It has been many years since the disorder left me emaciated and near death, but I still find it lingering beside me whenever I encounter stress. So--I will be honest about how it affects me, and one day I think it won't be bothersome anymore.

I suffer from panic and anxiety. These kick in when I begin to feel that people don't want me anymore, which in turn, leads me to act needy, or combative, or just unpleasant. I feel, in those panicked, anxious moments, very much at the mercy of the people in my life. I feel alternately used and abandoned by them. And then, when I am sane again, I feel terribly ashamed. I don't yet know how I will manage this particular problem, but I own it. On days like today, I just believe I will end up an old lady, living in some quiet forest in Northwest Territory. On good days, I remember that most people who love me are just a phone call away. I've not been able to summon the courage to call them in the last few days, but I'm trying to remember, and that's a good thing. Someday, maybe I won't feel like this anymore. Maybe I'll end up an old lady with grandchildren and good friends.

I have integrated splintered aspects of me. There were a few months recently, when I felt the need to dissociate one more time. I didn't. I was confused and shocked at how painful it was to remain Samantha. I was even more confused at how very much I did not want to be me. The steps I took to remain whole were unpleasant and unwanted, but I did it anyway because I believe it is healthy and important. I also don't want to lose the memories I've reclaimed, nor any others.

I have PTSD. It factors into everything I've already mentioned, but adds an aspect of unpredictability to it all, and intensifies every obnoxious feeling. I've recognized this includes positive and negative emotions, so those that often should be bonding and delightful become stressful and annoying. PTSD infiltrates nearly every part of my life. However, I am learning to cope with it. I have a feeling that there will always be some times when I will be better at coping than others. I still believe, though, that one day I won't be bothered by PTSD anymore.

Today is a difficult day, but not an insurmountable one. Therapist is right--I possess the management and coping skills necessary for me to take care of myself. There's just a lot going on--some of it is difficult and some is chaotic and some is just inopportune. But tomorrow will be better. I've never stopped believing this.

Tabitha graduated on Friday. Because we weren't sure that her credits would transfer in time, no one was invited. DJ and Adam were already scheduled to work, and by the time we got word that Tabitha had been added to the program and she would be allowed to march with her class, it was too late to change anything.

So Darrin and I went alone. My mom was on the other side of the state for my nephew's graduation the night before. She called me five minutes after the commencement exercises began and asked where we were sitting. Apparently, she decided she WOULD be at Tabitha's graduation, understanding all that my little girl has been through. She drove seven hours to get there. I can say whatever I want to about my mom's actions in the past, but I can never fault her for trying to do better--to be better. Even now, when her mind is failing her, she often surprises me with her ability to be loyal and compassionate.

I watched my daughter walk in with her class--no honors tassels or collars in spite of her 4.0 GPA. Tabitha didn't live here during the time when all those honors were bestowed and they weren't offered where she has been living for the past nine months. But in my mind, she deserves them. I watched her work nearly ten hours daily, trying to make up the credit hours online that she wasn't enrolled in this year. She was determined to graduate. And the truth is, she finished all but .5 credits necessary for graduation last year. The things she worked on for the past two and a half weeks made her eligible for a very large scholarship. But in order for her to march at graduation, everything had to be complete by May 29th. 

So she worked. And had meltdowns. And screamed and cried when the passwords for her online tests didn't work. And she was angry at the administrator who could have enrolled her in the classes during her last year of school, but who declined to listen to Tabitha, or me, or Tabitha's former school counselor--or anyone. The school year was a mess, and Tabitha returned home three weeks ago with 2.5 credits not yet begun.

I'm still not sure how she finished. It was more work than I want to think about. 

So Tabitha walked with her class, and shook hands with the state officials sent to our graduation, and played all night with her friends, and no one has any idea what that little girl has been through. Probably every parent believes their child has a unique story of courage and achievement and they're very proud to see them graduate. 

And after all "this" (which I suppose is representative of a few years that have been incredibly painful and sad), I feel tired. I don't remember the last time I laughed because something was incredibly funny. I don't feel like celebrating anything. In fact, yesterday I believe I slept most of the day away. I can't seem to stop sleeping. I understand this is a problem, because it means in about three days I'll have insomnia that will last awhile, but my whole body feels an emotional pain that overwhelms me. I don't know where it's coming from, so I have no idea how to manage it. So I sleep.

Our house is chaos again. Tabitha has yet to organize her room, throw things out, and make a place for all that she brought home with her. DJ accepted our invitation to move back home and save money to return to college. This actually turned out to be serendipitous for all of us because about 10 days ago he injured his knee badly enough to need surgery. That will take place on Wednesday. As he's at home now, it will be much easier to help him through his recovery time than it would if he were still living in his apartment. And it's nice to have him here. DJ is a lovely person--even when he's injured.

So we have a full house. I think we will all reach the point where we've adjusted to this, about the time that DJ decides he's ready to leave again. And if Adam can ever figure out how to budget his time and money, he might be able to live on his own, as well. Tabitha wants to live at home for at least a year. That feeling might change as she watches her friends leave for college and move into their own apartments. 

Life feels transient and odd right now. Unfortunately, that affects my interaction with others. I feel a great need to spend time with me, making sure I'm doing the things I need to feel emotionally healthy. Therapist says these are the times I need to reach out to others, to interact with them. There have been many times when I've listened to him and followed that advice. Today, I'm too tired. Reaching out seems needy and pointless. And I will admit that I have have had more times lately when I've wondered why I'm reaching out in the first place. Probably I'm just not noticing, but with the exception of Ambrosia, no one seems to reach back to me. It's an odd feeling, but one that has been hanging around for more than a year now and I have arrived in a place where I no longer care. 

Tolkien Boy would tell me this will pass. Somehow, I don't care about that either. Maybe someday I'll care again--yearn for closeness and intimacy with other people. It seems like a lot of trouble for nothing right now.

Okay--done talking.

"Come, let us reason together..." Isaiah 1:18

I taught a lesson in church yesterday. The topic was taken from the conference talk, "Obedience to the Law is Liberty," by Elder Perry. It had the potential to blow up into a full-fledged bashing of current controversial social movements (i.e. same-sex marriage, healthcare reform, equalizing the salary gap between genders...). I nipped it in the bud by saying the entire purpose of the lesson was to help members decide how they could personally apply the precepts taught--we were not going to think or talk about how someone we knew needed to hear the Elder Perry's words, we weren't going to discuss how the world is going down the toilet, and we were instead, going to discuss how this conference address can help us do an inventory of our very own lives so we might find a bit of self-improvement.

It actually went very well. With one exception, the women respected my request to personalize the topic, and the one who did not recognized, mid-comment, that she was doing exactly what I had asked her not to do, corrected her course and apologized.

I asked one of my friends to tell us about raising children as a single parent--because her husband decided, when she was pregnant with their third child, that he didn't like the responsibility of being a husband and father. He left and is now living a life that makes him happier. But my friend was left to take care of his children. Sometimes life does not work out as the mormnorm dictates.

We talked about loving others, regardless of circumstances or beliefs--the kind of love that means involvement, not lip service. We discussed never saying, "I love this person (or group of people) but..." and instead ending the sentence early and then getting to know that person (or group of people) well enough that the words, "I love you," have meaning.

We talked about how there will always be people who do not endorse our beliefs or the laws embraced by the gospel--and that does not make them our enemies. It just means they believe different things and it's a good idea to hear and talk about different ideas, even when we disagree with them.

We discussed ways to include people, rather than excluding them because they support Obama-care, or are rabid about the right to bear arms. We wondered how to be more supportive of single parents, how to be accepting and welcoming to same-gender couples who might be our neighbors or colleagues, and how to become more involved in their lives.

We stepped outside the box.

Some of the women were obviously uncomfortable, but when I asked them, they all admitted to believing that Christ would not approve of excluding any of his children, and they remembered that the second great commandment is to love thy neighbor.

Two of the women wept through the entire lesson. Later, when I asked them why, both admitted to feeling left out in the church, for different reasons. Both said they hoped the message we discussed would be received. Both admitted that they, themselves, had been judgemental of others and wanted to do better.

I believe there are laws decreed by God. I believe some of them are absolute. I also believe only the Lawgiver, Himself, can judge people who might be transgressing those laws. I cannot. It's not my job. My job is to love. If that was the message sent by that lesson--if that was the message received by those who discussed it, then I believe it was good enough.

Darrin was sad he couldn't come to my class. He said the men's class (discussed the same conference address) was boring and contentious. They had conservative versus liberal debates and it was not fun. Which just goes to show, girls are better than boys ("I'll never grow up, Never grow up, Never, never grow up--Not Me!").

"It's no good trying to keep up old friendships. It's painful for both sides. The fact is, one grows out of people, and the only thing is to face it." --William Summerset Maugham

Last year I realized a few things:

1. My family has some wonderful people in it--and some less than wonderful. They communicate with me infrequently and are not usually around when I'm in need, but they still consider me an integral part of the family structure, meaning they claim me as family even though I'm not really that important in the scheme of daily life. What that means is that I have a place in my family, such as it is. Not everyone has that. I need to be grateful for what I have.

2. In the past seven years I have met person after person with whom I have fallen in love. I've wished those people were my REAL family. For awhile, as with all friendships, those people were excited to spend time with me, wanted to know about me, and checked in with me when I had difficulty. Some of them paid me the beautiful compliment of saying they considered me a part of their families. But the truth is, we all have our own families and nothing changes that.

3. No matter how much I love someone, no matter how much I would love to spend my life interacting with them, I can't make them want the same thing. Tolkien Boy told me that years ago. Well, not exactly that. He said, "Sam, you can't ask people to feel the same way you do." So...during the ensuing years I have worked very hard to allow everyone I know to feel what they do, regardless of whether or not it's what I want.

When I realized that for much of my life I had been seeking parents and a family who wanted me, I was mortified. I wanted to need no one. I wanted to be independent and self-sufficient. The last thing I wished was to acknowledge I wanted people in my life--permanent people who wanted me back. However, part of being honest with myself meant looking at the things I'd been hiding from--so I did. And in doing so, I identified those people I would keep forever. But I also knew quite a bit about friends, which was what those people were.

Friends are an essential part of life. They keep us from being lonely, expose us to a variety of personalities and opinions, and they help us learn who we are. But friends aren't family. We don't wake up to them, share daily meals with them, or take care of them in the way we care for family members. They offer us sympathy and cards and flowers when sad things happen, but they don't stay with us day after day, watching us dig through the sadness, sometimes with less grace and dignity than we might wish. They don't sit up with us night after night because we can't sleep. They don't go grocery shopping, clean bathrooms, or do laundry with us. Friends are social constructs that have infinite value, but really aren't part of the nuts and bolts of our lives.

Knowing this, I tried to make those people I loved, those who would be my friends, become more than that. I wanted them to have importance and intimacy beyond friendship--and I wanted to give that in return. I wanted a family who was involved with me, as my family never had been. And I pursued this for about six years.

Then one day I came to my senses. Tolkien Boy's words came back to haunt me, loudly. I realized that what I wanted didn't really matter. Reality is reality. The people I love are my friends. I needed to allow and honor that and stop trying to make it something it was not. I suppose Tolkien Boy is also the one who taught me this lesson with the greatest impact. As he goes about the process (one started two years ago) of making his own family, I understand how far removed I am from the real lives of my friends. I really don't know anything about them. For awhile, Tolkien Boy and others shared many details of their lives, with the intent of our getting to know one another. I mistook that intent as a desire to have that interest and intimacy permanently.

I have thought about this a great deal in the last year. I came to the conclusion that it's disrespectful for me to wish for familial relationships with friends. There are many different levels and types of friendships:
1. Passing friends--those who make an impact briefly, who bring us happiness in the moment, but who, for many legitimate reasons, must not be present often, or sometimes, ever again.
2. Good friends--those we turn to when we need to talk. They give good advice, listen with integrity, and genuinely care about our feelings and experiences. They're usually in contact with us frequently throughout the years and know our spouses and children. We keep in touch.
3. Best friends--often these are friendships formed in childhood. These are friends who know the good things and very embarrassing things about us and who continue to choose us over and over again. They're the ones who attend our weddings and help raise our children. We think of them and want to share both good and bad times together. They share their families with one another and sometimes spend extended time together. They might seem like family, but they're not.
4. Lifetime friends--the ones we've known forever in varying degrees of closeness. They'll attend our funerals and reminisce even if they've not seen us for years. They send Christmas cards and sometimes phone on a whim. They're the ones who, when we get together after years of absence, feel close almost immediately and the time we spend together feels joyful. But they're also the ones who are comfortable with limited contact. They stay in touch, but don't really know anything about us.

I didn't want any of those things. I wanted siblings who knew me and parents who were proud of me. People who shared my blood and my life.

I freely admit that I was wrong to seek for that among my friends. I also understand that my reasons, however invalid, were tendered under the best of intentions. This year, finally, I was able to let those needs go. I had to honor the friendships offered me, regardless of the temporary or intermittent nature of those. I needed to let my friends be separate from me, to live lives without my involvement, to be who they are--which did not include being my family members.

So I've worked on that with a fair amount of success. The success might not be apparent in my contact frequency with those involved, but it's becoming more and more clear in the way my heart perceives them. They are my friends. Friends are a very good thing.

I have built my own family. I have a husband and children who love me and wish to be intimately involved in my life. I'm hopeful this will always be so. They belong to me. As for my first family, I no longer worry about being in their lives. I don't have the time or energy to make certain it happens and if they're unwilling to put forth effort to meet me halfway, I'm okay with that.

And what I'm realizing about friendships is that because of their transient natures, they might not last, but there always seems to be another waiting in the wings. One day I'll be ready to embrace that. I'll learn how to mourn losses less deeply, and seek out new people to fill the needs created when one friends becomes unavailable. Or I'll learn to fill those needs through other means. This is what real people do all the time. I'm pretty sure, with a bit of practice, I can do it, too.

Forty-Year-Old Virgin...

...ears, that is. They've never been pierced. I've never wanted them to be. I don't really wear jewelry and the thought of putting holes in my lobes has never appealed to me.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself sitting in a chair with a piercing gun on my earlobe.

I drove home, walked into my house and said to Darrin, "I just had my ears pierced. I don't know why."

And for a day and a half I've been wandering around wondering why I did it. I don't like it. I want to take the earrings out right now. They bug me. And I'm supposed to keep them in, day and night, for more weeks than I want to think about.

But on the long drive to Utah today I figured it out. Darrin was snoring in the passenger seat and I was thinking about a number of things and it dawned on me: I got my ears pierced because I CAN. For the first time in my memory, I'm able to allow someone to get that close to me, to touch my face, my ears, without me panicking or having flashbacks. I don't necessarily want the piercings or the earrings, I just wanted to do something because I'm able to--and I wasn't before now.

I'm not sure what I want to do next. Part of me wants to say, Okay--I did it! and take out the earrings so the holes will heal up. The other part of me wants to keep the piercings as proof that I was able to overcome my fear of touch in that area of my body and allow the close proximity necessary for the piercing to take place.

I can't decide.

In the meantime, I really dislike having things in my earlobes. Sigh...

Tomorrow I will go with Darrin to bring Tabitha home. I've missed my daughter.

What I haven't missed is the constant stress of wondering if she's safe, not knowing how to help or support her, and wanting desperately to be released from the pain of daily life with her. When we left Tabitha at the managed care center, I felt as though someone had wrenched my guts out and I thought I might drown in the constant tears. Three months later I resurfaced. I had mourned the temporary loss of my daughter and begun to reassemble my life. I realized at that point that the thought of her coming back any time soon sent me into a panic attack that was completely unmanageable.

Nine months later, knowing she's coming back home, I still experience panic, but it's minor. I'm excited to have her home.

And I'm afraid.

I never want to feel that my life is not my own--that I'm held hostage to Tabitha's mood swings and tantrums and that nothing I do to regain control or prevent being sucked in is effective.

I don't want to wake up in the morning, dreading the day and wanting only to go back to sleep--forever.

I never want to be in a place again where, should my daughter threaten suicide repeatedly, my gut reaction is: Please. Please just do it so I can be released from the constant agony of not knowing if you will.

I don't want to feel that I must shield everyone I love from the nightmare of my life, that there is no help for me, that I am sentenced to sadness and desperation forever.

I believe Tabitha has made progress. I think acknowledging the sexual molestation that occurred when she was a child has helped. I think she will come home and try to make a good life for herself.

However, while Tabitha has been gone, I've made some decisions. Darrin's not thrilled with all of them, but he didn't bear the brunt of Tabitha's behavior the past two years. He just checked out--and I don't blame him at all. I wish I could have done the same, but probably, had I chosen that, Tabitha would not be coming home tomorrow, or ever.

Decision One: I am not Tabitha's therapist. I do not have to make anything better for her. She must do this for herself. She knows I love her and I support her. That has to be enough.

Decision Two: Should Tabitha's behavior begin to escalate to the point where it is clear that nothing I do or say is helpful, I will walk away. She is an adult now. It is her responsibility to find healthy ways to cope with stress. When she is calm again, I will come back.

Decision Three: Tabitha has at least three months of aftercare, during which she will have therapy visits through Skype and the phone. I insist that she carry through with this. There is also and eight-month option. If she needs further help after the three month mark, I will insist on the eight-month option. If she chooses not to take advantage of this (because she is an adult, she does not have to do what I say), I will ask her to find lodging elsewhere. I can never again live the life I had a year ago.

Decision Four: I will continue to make my health and healing a priority--perhaps above everything else. I must carry through with the physical therapy so that my body will again be whole, and I must continue to become emotionally healthy. I cannot allow Tabitha's homecoming to interrupt this process.

While I understand that the above list sounds egocentric, I also do not apologize for this. I nearly lost myself during Tabitha's crisis. Had she remained in our home even one more month, I worry that I might not have recovered.

Therapist asked me if I've been able to work through the trauma of many of the events. I think I have. I don't know that I'm finished. If you are reading this, I will say that what follows might not be something you wish to know, but it is something I wish to write. I suppose that's a warning not to continue if unpleasant details bother you. However, Therapist reminded me that part of healing is acknowledging not only what has happened, but how it has affected me. So the rest of this post will be random thoughts and memories. I'm purging.

After Tabitha left, I decided I needed to clean her room. It was filthy. She's never been good about cleaning it, but when her emotional stamina left, her room became unlivable. I threw away, half-eaten food, used tissues, wrappers of all sorts, used sanitary napkins--I was appalled that she had made many of the messes. There were stacks of paper filled with morbid, twisted poems that made her seem so unbalanced and extreme. I stopped reading and I threw the poems away. Then I came upon the saved stash of bloody tissues used when she was cutting. As is normal for me, I methodically and unemotionally placed the dark red tissues into the trash bag. Then I vacuumed the floor, wiped down the surfaces and left the room.

Later, I cried. What happened to my beautiful Tabitha? I think at that point, even though she had yet to tell me, I knew there was more than she was letting ut know. Her arms, legs, and stomach were laddered with scars. And I didn't know what that meant in terms of who I am. What could cause such an extreme need to cope? How could I, the overprotective mother, not know what happened? I was unable to go into Tabitha's room for more than a week.

I had nightmares. Lots of them. I was driving alone in my car at night. It was calm and quiet. Then I heard gagging noises and Tabitha was in the passenger seat. The seatbelt was twisted about her neck and choking her. I cried out, "Tabitha, take off your seatbelt!" Then I realized she was doing this to herself, carefully clicking the seatbelt tighter and tighter. She would lose consciousness briefly, then tighten the belt again. I woke up.

I was in my bed. Tabitha was at the care center. But I was left with the knowledge that the nightmare wasn't a nightmare at all. It was real. The memories would come flooding back, along with the knowledge that in the moment I felt nothing at all. I hadn't told Tabitha to take off her seatbelt. I changed directions and drove directly to the hospital, certain that at some point Tabitha would lose consciousness for a longer period of time, at which point I could release the seatbelt and she would live. This happened as we parked in the hospital lot. I released the belt and carried my daughter into the emergency room.

Much later, hours and hours later, while we waited to see if a room would be made available for my daughter, Tabitha said quietly, "Mom, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." She was crying. I don't remember moving toward her, but the next moment I was lying next to my daughter in her narrow hospital bed, holding her tightly. I stroked her hair and kissed her. I told her she was beautiful. I talked about all the things that made me love her. She sobbed and so did I. She said, "Mom, there's something wrong with me." I said, "Yes." She said, "I'm not getting better." I nodded. She said, "I don't know what to do." I felt my heart break as I said, "I'm sorry, Tabitha. Neither do I."

I think in that moment, I felt I had completely lost my daughter. I could do nothing more to help her. I had failed.

I remember the feeling of being beaten down, time and time again. I lost my job because I was unable to concentrate. The insurance denied all claims in regards to Tabitha's care and hospitalizations. People who know me would ask about her and when I would tell them of our desperate situation, it was too much. They would express sympathy and quickly close the conversation. My siblings and parents became overwhelmed with health and family problems of their own. Some of my support people outside of my family became busy with their lives and less available to me. I felt abandoned and hopeless.

Today is better. There are still nightmares and minor panic attacks. I have found out which people stick with me even when my life is messy and desperate. But I'm getting the help I need to heal. I feel optimistic while being realistic, which is normal for me. I'm in the process of cleaning up the financial mess created by Tabitha's problems. I no longer feel intense longings to dissociate. I also have to acknowledge that all of the positive movement has come at an incredibly painful price.

I don't know what the future will bring. At some point I will need to finish my emotional healing. Based on past experience, I'm fairly certain what I need for that. I'm also fairly certain that it will never happen. So I'm looking at my current state of being and wondering if it's "good enough." I think, maybe, it is.

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." ~Albert Einstein

I can run again. Somehow, because I'm blessed or lucky or whatever, I was paired with a physical therapist who misses nothing. She has found the cause of every problem I've encountered in the past three months, and given me the solution to solve those problems. It's possible that I will love her forever.

When one does not experience pain in a "normal" way, one becomes very judgemental toward people who live with chronic pain. Yes. I'm talking about me. Fortunately, Therapist has guided me through a series of exercises designed by both of us to help me learn to recognize pain naturally. Consequently, I've felt a great deal of it in the past year. More than I wanted to, or wish to experience again. Ever.

However, I've also developed a great deal of empathy for those like my father who live daily with pain. He has done so for most of his life. His journey with the pain of Post-Polio Syndrome began about thirty years ago. I don't know how he does it.

I found myself not wanting to sleep--because sleep was painful physically and emotionally (too many nightmares). And in the morning, I found the pain had worsened to the point that getting out of bed was nauseating. And dressing made me scream (nope, not kidding--my poor, poor family). Coping with the pain sapped me of strength during the day. Simply sitting at my computer to work, or walking to my classroom to accompany was a hideous chore.

I learned that people in pain are not slow or lazy. Yes, movement will help alleviate the pain, but the mental and emotional exhaustion required for that movement is difficult to combat. I learned that I was intolerant on a level I had not known about--and I am humbly repentant today. Any person who has not experienced daily, chronic pain for an extended period of time has no idea what it is like and it would be a very good idea to reserve judgement.

I further learned that pain affects my ability to control my stress levels, panic problems, and overall feelings of wellbeing. I was unable to do the exercises I put in place years ago to help control the dream sequences I went through at night. As a result, I felt myself groping for past coping devices--the unhealthy ones. I wanted to do anything possible to block the pain I was feeling.

Which brings me back to my physical therapist, who added new depth to my current pain and made me want to punch her--except the next day I felt fabulous, so I knew it was working. At this point I still have intermittent pain but it's tolerable, and some of it can be alleviated by massage and stretching.

And I can run again.

I know. I said that all ready. I don't care. I woke up the day after my first run with every muscle aching and barely being able to walk up the stairs...well, barely able to walk. Period. And I didn't care. I understand that pain. It means my muscles are waking up and getting stronger, I will sleep more deeply at night, deal with stress in healthy ways, and become the person I've always been--but whom I've been unable to find for a couple of years.

Also, it's spring. This year I will probably plant things in my garden, and volunteer at our local soup kitchen, and take long walks, and notice everything, because that's what I do.

All this is not to say that I don't still have enormous amounts of crappiness to process. Therapist told me it would be impossible for anyone to go through the things I've experienced in the past two years without feeling it somewhere. I told him I would like to feel it in the Bahamas...preferable for at least two weeks. He didn't laugh. Sometimes Therapist has no sense of humor.

When the water backs up...

We've had plumbing issues for a week. After dumping gallons of environmentally unsafe chemicals down the offending orifices, we finally called a plumber. He's coming today in about fifteen minutes. My regret: It's not George, so I can't ask him if he'd like to pay me to be his answering service for all the wrong number calls we get.

Ah, well...chances are our pipes will back up again someday and maybe when that happens, George's Plumbing will be the business of choice for our landlord--which means opportunity will be knocking for me. Yay!

Spring

Spring has been a long time in coming. This week I noticed leaves on my currant bushes and the grass is no longer brown. I'm busy, as I usually am, with additional rehearsals and performances that come with this time of year.

I didn't teach this school year. I will do so in the fall. When I look back at the past seven years, I realize that while I went on a journey to discover myself, nothing has really changed. I still have anxiety problems and panic attacks. I still have no idea how to navigate people or relationships. I don't know why the people who are present in my life continue to stay. But I suppose at some point most people take a good look at who they are and learn to accept that person. I have done this. I don't like it. There are so many things I wish were not a part of my past. It remains to me to decide how I will live in the future.

I can walk again. I thought, for a little while, that I wouldn't be able to do that again. With Therapist's help I have learned to recognize pain. It's not something for which I'm grateful, because I'm in nearly constant pain now, but it's real and it belongs to me.

For awhile now I've been reliant on other people to help me through emotionally difficult times. That has to end. I choose now as the time to work toward independence in this area. I have often said that people are beautiful and wonderful, but the have lives that take precedence over me, and while I believe that is appropriate and right, there are definitely times when I wish I didn't have to be alone. However, being alone won't kill me. One thing I have learned after all that has happened in my life--I will be fine.

As I see signs of springtime approaching I wish I had a plan or a goal for this year. I don't. Recovery takes precedence over wanting to DO things. And I don't know what will happen when Tabitha comes home. I'd like things to be better, but there really is no guarantee that they will be. Also, Tabitha has chosen to have my brother contacted and notified that a report against him has been filed. I can't even speculate about what he will do to retaliate. I suppose it doesn't really matter. If he becomes threatening or dangerous I will file a restraining order against him, my family interaction (such as it is) will become  infrequent if he is invited to gatherings, and life will go on.

I have moments now when I am happy again. I believe those times will multiply simply because that's what I want to have happen. And if it doesn't, I'll live with what occurs. It's difficult to feel anything about this.

My life has not unfolded as I planned or as I wished. Still it's mine and I'll take it as it is--there really is no other choice, and I'm okay with that.

"Organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it is not all mixed up." --A.A. Milne

There are days when I feel I'm really starting to get on top of things again. Then I have days like today.

There are a bazillion boxes waiting to be unloaded. They were packed more than a month ago so that we could have paint. They remained packed so that we could get carpet. They are still packed.

It's not like I don't need the contents. I've been teaching in a studio without the resources I usually have. I just say, "Okay, I'll look for that (whatever it is I need) during the week and have it for you at your next lesson." But it's been two weeks and the boxes remain packed and I made the same promises again this week. I did make progress. The boxes are now out of my spare room and reside in my living room.

I'm sitting at my desk surrounded by paper. All my organizing stuff is also in a box. And I have no excuse for not using it. The box is 24 inches from my right elbow just waiting for me to unpack and get organized.

It just seems overwhelming.

However, I did pay bills today--except for the gas bill because the site was down. I'm hoping it comes up today because I'm not sure I'll be in billpaying mode after 24 hours have elapsed.

I have to say, though, new carpet is very nice and definitely worth the hassle. And Darrin hasn't started hanging pictures yet, which makes Adam and me very happy. We love bare walls. They're soothing.

Maybe tomorrow I'll put the books back on the shelves. Or the next day.

Sometimes I sweat when I run...does this make me less feminine?

Also, I ate the last of my chocolate Easter bunny for breakfast because I wanted to. It was made of Lindt chocolate which means it is appropriate breakfast food. And while I'm talking of food and chocolate, Kozy Shack makes a lactose free chocolate pudding that I was living on and loving until I came home from Utah and found it completely gone because Adam has been using it for tortilla chip dip. Sigh...I can't have anything nice.

There is a car in our neighborhood very similar to the one we purchased for Tabitha and Adam to drive. It's a 1985 Toyota Tercel (hatchback, red). I'm pretty sure the only two running specimens of that particular make and model live in our neighborhood. However, they aren't twin cars. Ours is a four-door, and the other is a two-door. This is not a readily apparent difference when one is passing each other, unfortunately, and to the consternation of the two-door owner, Darrin and I wave enthusiastically each time we see an ancient red Tercel approaching us. We are, after all, supposed to be embarrassing our children at every opportunity.

Today, as I drove home from the gym, drenched in sweat with really great hair, I saw a red Tercel approaching me and I waved with gusto, as is my tradition. I noticed that the poor boy who drives the two-door, now ducks a bit and refuses to look at me as I pass. This causes a bit of concern as he turns completely sideways to avoid looking at me and often swerves all over the road. So far we've only met in the sparsely trafficked neighborhood in which we live, but I have no hope for a jogger who might be in his path as he pretends I don't exist.

So when I got home I called Adam to have a powwow:

me: Adam, will you be offended if I don't wave at you when I see you driving?
Adam: Mom, don't you want to go shower?
me: Yes. Shall we continue this conversation in the bathroom?
Adam: NO!
me: So? Will you?
Adam: Will I what?
me: Be offended?
Adam: You woke me up to ask me that?
me: It's 9:30 a.m. That's hardly the crack of dawn.
Adam: But I was sleeping.
me: Yes.
Adam: I think you should go shower, and I should go back to bed.
me: Does that mean it's okay if I don't wave?
Adam: I won't see you anyway. I'll be asleep.
me: While you're driving?
Adam: What are we talking about?
me: I have to admit, I don't really know anymore.
Adam: So can I go?
me: I suppose so.

I'm very glad our communication improves after noon.

April is the cruelest month...

Especially where I live. April can never seem to decide whether or not to allow the warmth of springtime to seep into the world or to blast us with one more blizzard. The past two weeks, April has chosen the blizzard thing. Sometimes the wind would stop and large, sleepy snowflakes would float down. It was lovely--but I think if we're going to have this much snow, we should also get Christmas again. Today the sun is back, but it will be windy and cold.

The birds don't quite know what to do. It's too cold to nest and the snow gets in the way, but they seem very happy--and noisy! Yesterday a flock of blackbirds covered my leafless crabapple tree, singing with such gusto I was certain they were inside the house. They left when I opened the door to go to a rehearsal and haven't been back again. I'm hoping they'll visit today.

I have been riding an emotional roller coaster for too long. There are moments when I feel I'm in front of the roller coaster, trying desperately to stop its motion, only to be run over and at the last moment, flung into a seat--usually in the back where the motion will feel most intense and I can't see what's ahead. Nightmares are, as usual, fairly unmanageable. There have been moments when I've wanted to give up or give in--to just allow the feelings to dictate my life to me. The problem is that many of those emotions are old, created long ago and then ignored. They no longer have relevance. I don't feel the same way today, but the ancient memories clamour for expression still.

Today, however, I have no time for sentiment or validation of those past feelings. And, quite honestly, I'm tired of them. I've given them space and credence and allowance for more than five years. I think that's quite long enough. It's likely that for the rest of my life counterfeit emotions will present themselves. They may be strong enough to cause me tears, or make me feel at odds with life for a moment. They may interrupt my day or confuse me a bit. I may be resentful of them when they come, but I refuse to spend more time than necessary on this. I have a life to live.

A tiny bird is sitting on the rose bush near my window. Its song is a far cry from yesterday's chorus in my trees. It points its tiny beak skyward the softly rounded body quivers as the bird warbles. I wish to borrow from my visitor the ability to live in the moment, to sing because that's what I wish to do, and to allow that song to fill my whole body until it quivers with sound and joy.

Dear PTSD,

I've learned much from you over the past few years. Now it is time for you to learn from me. You came to me uninvited. You may stay as long as you behave yourself. If you misbehave, I will train you to act differently. You are a part of me, but you are not me. I will live my life as I choose. You might disrupt that life occasionally, but understand this: Interruptions are rude and unwelcome and will be dealt with swiftly and quietly. Please feel free to enjoy our time together, but remember your place. You are a byproduct, not major part of who I am and I have a great deal to do with the rest of my life.

Love,
Sam

My life has been as Cruel April for awhile--spots of sunshine and warmth, interrupted by unwelcome storms and frigid temperatures. It's time to prepare for growth, to leave behind the parts that keep me painfully shivering. I'm ready for the flowers to bloom.

"The longer I live, the more beautiful life becomes..." --Frank Lloyd Wright

I have two friends. Each of us has a daughter near the same age. Each daughter has spent time in an extended care facility because of suicidal depression brought on by bullying and other childhood traumas.

And today those young ladies are alive.

I don't know what the rest of their lives will bring. As parents, none of us will enjoy retirement--those funds, carefully put away to provide for us when Social Security will bring in an income that places us in poverty, have gone to pay for the $10,000+ per month price necessary to keep our daughters alive. I was able to procure help from the church when we were sunk so deeply in debt that we had no other option, but even that came with an extremely high emotional cost as Tabitha was required to endure more testing and interviews with people who wouldn't accept the years of medical records as evidence that she was in dire need. And for awhile there was talk of rescinding the funds after two months because that was determined to be the amount of time necessary for her to become whole. Had the funding been rescinded, I have no doubt that Tabitha would not be alive today. It was only after twice that amount of time that she was able to divulge to her therapist that she had been molested by my brother.

I spoke with my friends recently. None of us cried. No one bemoaned the lengthy, agonizing, horribly painful days of wondering how to care for our distressed daughters. No one talked about the emotional toll the experience had taken or how we still deal with our own extreme anxiety.

My daughter was present during the visit. We watched her talking, smiling, just being beautiful.

My two friends and I have nothing to offer one another. We are completely spent. Only understanding and sympathy remain and we feel dreadfully, incredibly old and tired. Our husbands stood next to us, sharing their own brand of exhausted empathy.

So we smiled and laughed a bit because what else can you do? Then we talked about how people ask about our daughters and we smile proudly and tell about how they've been working so hard to get better--and they ARE better--and we're very glad for that. But no one asks about us. No one wonders how we survived trying to support and help our daughters as they cut themselves up and tried to kill themselves. No one talks about our nights of wondering what we did wrong, or begging for help from a family member who told us everything was fine--she was just a difficult teen, or being so exhausted we wished for our own lives to end.

The final truth is that our daughters are alive--and they will continue their lives in a society that is sick and decayed. One in which children are allowed to brutally batter each other physically and verbally and emotionally until they finally end their lives before they've lived even two decades. One in which adults use children sexually and then discard them, and sometimes the children use other children in the same way because they don't know how else to express the anger and frustration and confusion and pain. One in which, statistically, our daughters' daughters (and maybe their sons) will be bullied or raped or harmed in some other way by people who should be protecting them and helping them learn to become healthy, well-adjusted adults. And no matter how much people like me try to keep that from happening, in the end, unless we keep those children with us 24/7--nothing is 100% preventable. And it is healthy for no person to be in such an overprotected situation.

I don't know what to do with that truth.

My blog is now read by my dear friend, Ambrosia, and two Google bots, so what I say next will reach none but them. But maybe Brozy will tell someone who will tell another. And maybe the Google bots will find one person browsing blogs who will read this and share it with someone else--so I will write the following words today and hope they will help someone:

Take care of your children as if they are the most precious gifts you have ever been given.

Cherish the moments when they try your patience and have embarrassing tantrums in the store and scream every time you strap them into their car seats.

Remember that you don't know everything about the lives of family members and trusted friends. Check on your children frequently, even when you believe they are safe.

Teach your children that you are strong and that nothing they tell you will hurt you--even if someone scary threatens you or them if they tell. Teach your children that you can protect them. Help them understand that if someone does something to harm them, the first thing they must do is tell you, and if/when they do, make certain they understand the steps you are taking to remedy the situation and make them a part of it. If the event was traumatic, don't be silent. Remind them regularly that the danger is past and that they are safe. Don't ever let them forget that you are there for them.

Tell your children daily that you love them. Hug them. Read to them. Give them snacks. Make sure some of those snacks have chocolate in them.

Take your children outside. Show them the grass, butterflies, make pictures with the clouds. Talk about the good things bugs do. Help them see each unique snowflake shape. Climb trees and roll down hills with them. Sing songs and teach them poetry.

Make cookies with your children and let them eat some of the dough because that's the best part--especially at the beginning before the flour is put in, when it's just brown sugar and butter and vanilla.

Let your children know that you appreciate them. Help them make good choices, set healthy boundaries, and deal positively with disappointment. Celebrate who they are and look forward to who they are becoming. Give them age-appropriate chores and responsibilities. Help them learn self-esteem as they learn to care for themselves independently.

I know. Who am I to dish out advice? My daughter lives in an extended care facility, so clearly I am not the world's success story when it comes to parenting. But I have one more tidbit left to impart.

Understand when a situation has exceeded your ability to provide help and support. Recognize that sometimes things happen that are beyond your control. Believe that you must always do what is best for you and your child, even if that means allowing someone else to teach her the things you wish you could teach her yourself. Let her go, even if you miss her like crazy--because that might make the difference between her life or her death.

Finally, before passing judgement on another parent, reach out a hand to help. You never know. You might be giving them hope when they believed none was left. You might be allowing them to rest for just a moment. You might be allowing that parent to remember they're human and sometimes bad things happen, but they're not alone.

I started this blog a very long time ago. And before this blog, there was another one. And there were many in-between. Each blog served a purpose. I don't know exactly what that purpose was, but Therapist does.

Therapist believes that these blogs of mine served to assuage my need to fragment. Even though thinking of this makes me cringe and ache and want to scream, I know he's right.

I have spoken a few times about dissociation. I understand it's a necessary tool for many who experience extreme trauma. I have never viewed myself as one who experienced extreme trauma. I lived in a household where I often felt unwanted and where abuse happened, but I wasn't molested by my father, I don't carry physical scars, and who can say if emotional abuse is extreme trauma. I've never believed it was. It made me unhappy. There are worse things than unhappiness.

I was molested as a child by strangers. It happened twice, that I remember. The first time I was so young that I barely remember what happened and I don't attach any feelings to the incident. The second time I was almost 8. I remember it vividly. I acted appropriately. I screamed and kicked and ran. More traumatic than being molested by a stranger was the feeling of abandonment by my father as he ran to take his anger out on the man who touched me. So I wasn't held or comforted. None of this is extreme trauma.

I had a cousin who touched me inappropriately when I was nine, and later raped me when I was not quite twelve. I think that was traumatic. It caused me a great deal of distress over a long period of time. I became depressed. I had moments when I wished to die. But I lived and I grew up and I became Samantha--and in becoming Samantha, I left behind the person I had been. I became fragmented.

Time and therapy have shown me that this was not the first time I had allowed that to happen. I suppose that's where my confusion comes from, and perhaps my shame. I don't understand why the other times happened. They seem minor in comparison to the abuse experienced by so many other children. I wonder if I was born unbalanced and the slightest discomfort tilted the scale into insanity. I see the need for others to use the dissociation coping mechanism. I find no reason for me to do so.

When I research it I feel overwhelmed by shame and defiance. I don't understand where those come from. I want to feel happy that I was able to experience some success in integration. I want to look at what happened and say, "It's okay. Clearly I needed something to help me live, and this did the trick." But in the back of my mind there is a voice that says, "Hey, Sam, don't you think you're overreacting a bit? Isn't dissociation a little extreme? Maybe you're crazy and none of this is real, after all. Maybe one day you'll wake up and you won't remember anymore." It's a little upsetting. It's more upsetting when a second thought comes unbidden: "I wish I could forget."

I don't know what I want to forget.

I have spoken briefly of the mass exodus from my life by people who used to have interest in me. These include close friends and family members. I suppose I have only one thing to say about that: I don't blame them. I suppose that's what dissociation is all about, really. Leaving someone behind because they have become (or their lives have become) too difficult to cope with, and I completely understand why people leave. I wish I could leave me, too.

But Therapist says I need to remember that I have other ways to cope now. Healthy ones.

I remember. I don't want to, but I do. And I'm not having extreme trauma--perhaps I never have--so I don't need to leave Samantha behind. I need to be her even when it hurts.

Happy Easter. :)