Afterthoughts--May 30, 2010

I was very unhappy when Ward Cleaver announced that he would be leaving blogland. I've never met the man. I only know him from the things he's posted about himself. I know what he looks like because about two months before he left, he began posting pictures of himself. But we were friends. It's possible that he was my closest friend at the time, other than Darrin. I had never had anyone--ever--who visited me every day, expressed interest in my family, career, and personal life, and who shared his life with me equally. Granted, this all took place using pseudonyms in cyberspace, but it became a stable, predictable haven for me as I began a terribly difficult journey.

Ward left because his life was becoming too complicated. He was dealing with personal and health issues which would daunt the strongest person. His psychiatrist suggested Ward had become too involved in the imaginary workings in blogland and needed to invest himself more fully in his real life. Ward agreed, and his blog disappeared. We still keep in touch. Ward emails me occasionally, and I've found him online for a chat once or twice in the last few years. But it's not the same, naturally. We're not friends as we were...but perhaps it was all make-believe anyway. My heart doesn't believe that, but it's easily deceived.

It was completely different when The Late Tolkien Boy told me, last September, he was disappearing himself. My guts twisted and I was angry. I wanted to scream, throw a tantrum, hit something, which was very silly of me. Tolkien Boy didn't even write in his blog anymore. There had been a time when the blog was active and was followed by millions of fans--yes, I was one of those--but for nearly a year it had been mostly dormant. But the blog represented an important chapter of my life and was a symbol of something I cherished. There were a couple of posts in the blog dedicated to me, and a story Tolkien Boy had written for me. Somehow, a part of my soul was invested in that tiny piece of cyberspace. Add to that the fact that Tolkien Boy figured prominently in my own blog and if he disappeared, how would I refer to his real, corporeal person when I wrote about him? It was becoming very complicated.

Fortunately, my friend didn't actually complete his blog demise for a couple of months after warning me it would happen, which allowed me to get used to the idea and stop being angry at him. Please remember, I think logically, but that has nothing to do with my feelings which are completely unreasonable, at best.

I mention these two examples because I believe it's time, at least for now, for me to retire. When I discussed my feelings about TB's disappearance with Jason, he mentioned he might feel similarly if I were to discontinue blogging, and perhaps there are others like him who have become accustomed to my copious ramblings and might be a little bit unhappy if I suddenly create a hole in their blogland routine. And so, I will explain my need to go away.

I realized last week that the place which used to be a playground for my words has become my emotional prison. This has happened gradually and because of, I believe, the intense difficulty of the past 18 months. Recent developments in my life, influenced by some things that are happening in the lives of family members and close friends, have led me to a place where I feel unable to escape. Thursday of last week I hit an all-time low. For those who have been following my blog, you have seen me go through extremely difficult times. Always I have regrouped, bounced back, gathered strength and moved forward. Sometimes that process has taken a long time, but in the back of my mind I've known it would happen when the pain subsided and I also knew I was loved and supported which motivated me to keep trying. On Thursday I no longer cared if anyone loved or supported me, and I no longer have the emotional strength to keep dragging myself up when I'm knocked down. Yes, there was a catalyst to this. No, I won't be talking about it.

As my life became unmanageable this time, I thought about blogging, wishing to draw hope from the encouragement which inevitably comes from stalwart friends who check up on me (by the way, I love you! Thank you so much for helping me repeatedly in the past few years). I thought about, and even attempted to talk with friends. I couldn't do it. Finally, I just sat by Darrin and cried. Nervous breakdown? Maybe. I don't know.

I realized that I, as was the case with my sweet friend, Ward, needed to remove myself from this part of my life for a time. I need to immerse myself in reality--whatever that may mean, however painful it is. I need to laugh and grieve and cry and work, and someday I must sleep again. This is a good decision for me.

Today as I ran, a butterfly joined me--the first one this spring. It didn't fly lightly beside me, occasionally crossing in front of me to flutter along on the other side, but instead it circled me as I ran, nearly touching me with its fragile wings. For nearly a quarter of a mile it did this, occasionally moving to fly beside me, then circling close to me again. I found myself gasping with sobs as memories of the things which bring me joy flooded my mind. I'm still alive--I'm going to make it through this. When the butterfly left and the weeping subsided, I waited for my gasping to regulate itself into my regular running rhythm--it didn't. Finally I realized I was sprinting. I don't know how long I'd been running at top speed, but my first couple of miles happened very quickly. I slowed my pace, allowed myself to find my rhythm and dedicated myself to seeing the beauty of immense stretches of blue sky, vivid wildflowers, new prairie grass, and scuttling insects avoiding my pounding feet.

I've been sprinting for more than four years, aided by the gentle, beautiful butterfly wings of online concern and friendships. It's time for me to slow down, look around me, find my rhythm, and move forward. I may come back here some day. I don't know yet and today is not the day for me to make such a decision.

I don't know if I believe this

Science News

Share   Blog   Cite

Print   Email   Bookmark

Why Cry? Evolutionary Biologists Show Crying Can Strengthen Relationships

ScienceDaily (Sep. 7, 2009) — Medically, crying is known to be a symptom of physical pain or stress. But now a Tel Aviv University evolutionary biologist looks to empirical evidence showing that tears have emotional benefits and can make interpersonal relationships stronger.

New analysis by Dr. Oren Hasson of TAU's Department of Zoology shows that tears still signal physiological distress, but they also function as an evolution-based mechanism to bring people closer together.
"Crying is a highly evolved behavior," explains Dr. Hasson. "Tears give clues and reliable information about submission, needs and social attachments between one another. My research is trying to answer what the evolutionary reasons are for having emotional tears.
"My analysis suggests that by blurring vision, tears lower defences and reliably function as signals of submission, a cry for help, and even in a mutual display of attachment and as a group display of cohesion," he reports.
His research, published recently in Evolutionary Psychology, investigates the different kinds of tears we shed — tears of joy, sadness and grief — as well as the authenticity or sincerity of the tears. Crying, Dr. Hasson says, has unique benefits among friends and others in our various communities.
For crying out loud (and behind closed doors)
Approaching the topic with the deductive tools of an evolutionary biologist, Dr. Hasson investigated the use of tears in various emotional and social circumstances. Tears are used to elicit mercy from an antagonistic enemy, he claims. They are also useful in eliciting the sympathy — and perhaps more importantly the strategic assistance — of people who were not part of the enemy group.
"This is strictly human," reasons Dr. Hasson. "Emotional tears also signal appeasement, a need for attachment in times of grief, and a validation of emotions among family, friends and members of a group."
Crying enhances attachments and friendships, says Dr. Hasson, but taboos are still there in certain cases. In some cultures, societies or circumstances, the expression of emotions is received as a weakness and the production of tears is suppressed. For example, it is rarely acceptable to cry in front of your boss at work — especially if you are a man, he says.
Streets awash with tears?
Multiple studies across cultures show that crying helps us bond with our families, loved ones and allies, Dr. Hasson says. By blurring vision, tears reliably signal your vulnerability and that you love someone, a good evolutionary strategy to emotionally bind people closer to you.
"Of course," Dr. Hasson adds, "the efficacy of this evolutionary behavior always depends on who you're with when you cry those buckets of tears, and it probably won't be effective in places, like at work, when emotions should be hidden."
Dr. Hasson, a marriage therapist, uses his conclusions in his clinic. "It is important to legitimize emotional tears in relationships," he says. "Too often, women who cry feel ashamed, silly or weak, when in reality they are simply connected with their feelings, and want sympathy and hugs from their partners."

Email or share this story:

| More

---

Story Source:

Adapted from materials provided by Tel Aviv University.

---

Need to cite this story in your essay, paper, or report? Use one of the following formats:

APA

MLA

Tel Aviv University (2009, September 7). Why Cry? Evolutionary Biologists Show Crying Can Strengthen Relationships. ScienceDaily. Retrieved May 27, 2010, from http://www.sciencedaily.com­ /releases/2009/08/090824141045.htm

Note: If no author is given, the source is cited instead

"A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls, and small, silly presents every so often - just to save it from drying out completely. ~Pam Brown

Every once in awhile people bond in virtual space. I've experienced the phenomenon more times than I care to admit. While it's happening I remind myself that I've never met the person, and when I do I might dislike them intensely. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the euphoria of knowing this is my new best friend forever. It's ridiculous.

While speaking with my newest virtual comrade, our conversation strayed, naturally, to personal questions, because that's what new friends talk about. This is normal. Most people like it.

Four years ago, I did not enjoy questions. I was busy dodging, hiding, phrasing my answers in ways that would reveal nothing, if possible. This changed after a couple of years. Suddenly I craved questions; I wanted to know people were involved in my life. I wanted someone to care about me and the things I'd experienced. I wanted the give and take of a balanced relationship. For awhile I fought for this, attempted to foster an environment where I could ask questions and allow myself to answer them honestly, and believed desperately in friendships which always felt alive. 

And then I got old and tired.

I found myself returning to my old habits with New Virtual Friend. I had an opportunity to foster closeness and enjoy that "balanced relationship" I had once sought as I heard stories of his life, aspirations, favorite movies and books and colors and hobbies and... Instead, as he asked me innocent getting-to-know-you questions, I found myself thinking, "Please, let's not muddy the waters with who I am. Let's just talk about playing Scrabble, or reading poetry, or the weather. Let's enjoy who we are today and not worry about who I was a million years ago. Let's pretend I don't have PTSD, that I grew up in a family who nurtured and adored me, and I can't imagine rape or betrayal because I've never experienced it. Let's imagine I'm going to be trusting and emotionally healthy, and I'll never be afraid of you. Don't delve. Believe your first impression is absolutely correct. I'm certain that in the end--because there will be one--we'll both be much happier."

To my relief, New Virtual Friend seemed to read my thoughts. He allowed my light, fun answers and believed them with all his heart. To my surprise, I found myself believing them, as well. For about an hour I was funny, and carefree, and amazing. 

And I don't care if it was honest or misleading. I don't care if two months down the road he wonders why I dodged, and perhaps continue to dodge, all his questions. I don't care if he never knows the real Samantha. I don't care!

Yes. I just stomped my foot.

Because sometimes I really am funny and carefree and amazing, and I like being that person. I think there are plenty of people who know the REAL me--the one who can't make it through one day without wondering which person close to her will betray her--the one who sometimes has flashbacks and nightmares--the one who might never experience a relaxed, beautiful friendship because she seems to lack the ability to do so--the one who goes through each day swallowing the knot in her throat and performing the simple social tasks others do effortlessly--the workaholic--stubborn, argumentative, delusional, exhausted, used up, old...

Dear New Virtual Friend,

This is what I would like you to know about me--believe about me--forever:

1. I have an amazing sense of humor.

2. I notice the beautiful things.

3. I believe the best about people and encourage them to succeed.

4. I love to read, research, learn.

5. I am madly in love with words, flowers, bugs, snakes, frogs, chocolate, and God.

6. Sometimes I walk barefoot in the grass.

7. When I run, there are times when I'm certain I can fly.

8. I adore wearing high heels.

9. I like to dance.

10. Someday, if we're alone and I'm feeling a great deal of love for you, I'll sing you my favorite song. 

And you can believe those things because they're all true, and actually, they're the only things that are important. Everything else is just clutter.

Love,

Sam

Half

I seem to be easily distracted today. I'll blame the weather.

I read half my emails, considered deleting the rest, thought better of it, and closed the page.

I had a teleconference, got bored midway through and decided I needed to go suddenly.

I ate half my breakfast (at 1:00 p.m.), didn't like it, disposed of the rest.

I did half a research survey which I thought was asking me about my cocoa preference. It was, instead, asking about my coffee preference. I believe they're planning on sending me some to sample, even though I closed the survey before I finished it.

I waxed one of my legs, but not the other. I'm wondering if I display the result prominantly, if it will become trendy.

I did, however, finish an hour of advanced pilates. But it was still boring.

I started this post

And if you make it to the end of this post...

So many things to think about.

Yesterday was difficult and I was vulnerable and something happened that should not have happened involving this blog.

This is a global comment to those in the therapy field who read my blog (I'm aware of four now. Each one that I'm aware of has contacted me either in the comments field, through email, or in person by telephone, chatting, or face-to-face): I am incredibly honest about what I feel. This means the picture presented is one-sided and not representative at all of the reality about my interaction with Therapist. He is often my scapegoat and the recipient of all bad feelings--on my blog.

In person, we have a good relationship, although yesterday I was mad at him. I don't tell everything that happens in therapy sessions--I only talk about the things I'm thinking about when I post. I don't discuss the frequency or length of my sessions. I will say, however, that Therapist lives a long way from me and has been available to me through telephone and chatting whenever I have needed him. I often email with questions, which he answers within a couple of hours, or lets me know if there will be a delay. Yesterday he set up an appointment to talk by phone about some of the things that were upsetting me.

I appreciate the things said in the comment by JennVan. I also received an email from another therapist reader. But I realized when I read their words how very little I actually say beyond discussing my feelings of the moment and whining. I also realized that I purposely say very little about what is actually happening in my therapy sessions because I don't always know what I think of them, and I'm not prepared to hear the thoughts of others until I've figured that out. Often, when I do, I have no more desire to talk about it.

I hope those who read who are finding value as I sort through my life here will continue to read and to comment--but please recognize that this is a tiny part of the whole picture, and from my perspective, only. I'm certain if Therapist could put in his two-cents here, there would be a different picture altogether.

Having provided that lengthy explanation, here is what happened:

I'm tired. I'm tired of stress and working and bad things that seem to keep happening. In the midst of that, I'm tired of PTSD and panic attacks and feeling helpless and immobile. Yesterday those things felt overwhelming and aggravating. When I read the comment and email I've mentioned above, I immediately grasped the ideas expressed in them as my next "task". I decided I needed to do those things with or without Therapist.

Then he decided to check in with me.

Am I okay? he wonders. No. I'm not. Do I want to talk about it? he asks. Maybe. We make an appointment to talk in a couple of hours. He finishes early and we end up talking much sooner.

And I become very upset with him. No. We can't work on any of the things I suggest. Therapist has never said no to me before. He has never told me I can't.

me: Why?

Therapist: Sam, we've talked about this. Before we can do any work of the type you suggest, you have to learn to manage the stress in your life. Right now you're in such a state that anything we do will have to be repeated later, and it could actually be harmful to you.

me: I don't understand.

Therapist: I think you do.

me: Help me understand again.

Therapist: Okay. You have Panic Disorder coupled with PTSD. You're not sleeping. You're not eating. You're overexercising. You're under more stress than most people can handle who don't have the other things I just mentioned. Until some of that calms down, we can't do any concrete work.

me: Because?

Therapist: Because things have a way of getting twisted and becoming something they're not when you feel what you're feeling now. On top of that, we could actually undo some of the work you've completed, should your emotional stress level escalate more.

me: So--what do I do?

Therapist: The things we've discussed. Meditation. Deliberately slowing down. Taking time to be in the moment. Yoga. Creative writing. Mindfulness. Using all your senses to help you relax.

me: I'm good at Yoga.

Therapist: The physical part, I'm sure you excel at. How are you at the breathing? The meditation?

me: I suck.

Therapist: That's where the focus should be.

me: Other options?

Therapist: If the time comes that you wish to try medication, I'll refer you to a medical doctor. But you've said you don't want that, and I'll respect your wishes. But unless you're able to get this under control, we really can't do anymore at this point.

me: I think taking a pill would be even more stressful for me.

Therapist: Yes, you've said that before. Again, I'm letting you decide. But Sam, you have to start sleeping--eating--taking breaks from the stuff that's driving you.

me: Okay. But just so you know--all this stuff you're saying is making me more stressed. I think I'm going to throw up.

Therapist: What do you want to hear?

me: The truth--always. So thank you. But could you please tell me, just for now, that we'll work on the other stuff someday? Even if that's not true, I want to hear it.

Therapist: Well, of course, it IS true. We will definitely continue what we've started when you're able to complete the work successfully. Yes, Sam, we'll be working on it very soon, I think.

Naturally, at that point I was gone. I heard him tell me he would refer me to another professional--took it out of context and decided he didn't want to work with me anymore--and he disliked me--and he was tired of me--and I was just fine with that.

I was mad at him the rest of the day and most of the night. I pouted dreadfully.

Thankfully, I have Darrin--who let me spout off and listened with wide-eyes, but never once argued or contradicted me.

Thankfully, I have a friend or two who will chat with me, or talk on the phone, who are able to point out my idiocy and still let me know they love me.

Thankfully, I was at the end of a PTSD day.

This morning I woke up sane. And enormously embarrassed. And I spent 90 minutes thinking. Today has been low-key and peaceful, and I'm still mortified. At some point I'm going to have to contact Therapist and ask him what was really said in our phone call, because right now I only remember that he was mean and nasty (and I know he wasn't) and he hurt my feelings (which is absolutely stupid) and he doesn't want to work with me anymore (which was never said--but I still heard it).

And I have no idea how I let all this happen, but it did.

So for those of you who actually made it to the end of this post, I have a surprise.

Follow these directions exactly:

Combine three cups of chocolate chips in a microwave-safe bowl (You can use any combination of semisweet, bittersweet, or milk chocolate, but be sure it's high quality. I like Guittard semi-sweet the best. My mom prefers to use one cup of milk chocolate to two cups of semi-sweet). Pour in one can sweetened condensed milk (I use the fat-free, which is kind of silly, but I do it anyway) and microwave for one minute on high. Stir and return for 30 - 40 more seconds, until chocolate is completely melted. Stir in a lot of vanilla and a whole bunch of walnut halves. Stir until chocolate is glossy and smooth. Spread on waxed paper and allow to harden and cool. Eat with abandon, preferably after real food is in your stomach. Have a glass of water standing by. Share any leftover pieces with people you love. Or just eat them all.

A word to the wise:

Eating two large pieces of fudge (especially mine which has no marshmallow matter in it, but is serious dark chocolate and lots of walnuts) and nothing else after a six mile run, is a bad idea. Especially for someone who has blood sugar issues and what Therapist insists is Panic Disorder (but I'm not having that--I already have PTSD and that's enough).

Following a morning of incessant shaking and inability to type, I am now eating shredded wheat and peanut butter. I'm not sure why I chose those things, nor do they taste very good, but they are making me feel less light-headed.

That is a very good thing.

Tomorrow I think I won't have fudge after I run. I'll wait until bedtime.

Maybe.

Sigh...

Four years ago my thoughts were clear and logical. I was rarely at a loss for words. The thought of being confused by life was incomprehensible.

Four years ago I was slightly egotistical, confident, and brash.

Four years ago I never cried, emotions were an irritation, and laughing was my response to nearly every situation.

Four years ago I lived in denial, I was emotionally dependent on my husband, and I had no one outside of him who truly knew who I was.

I have spoken with four therapists in four years. Each of them has told me I needed to learn to feel my emotions, to give them space, to honor them.

I didn't understand why. I didn't want to. I didn't feel happy about trying--but I did try, because I trusted them. Well...I trusted Therapist. He said the other three were correct and this was something I needed to do.

And now...

Logical thought often escapes me. It sometimes takes me weeks to figure out the words to ask a question. I rarely understand what is happening in my life.

I probably still act confident, but I'm not. I worry that I'll make mistakes when I'm working on things at which I'm skilled, even expert. I second guess myself all the time--especially in relationships/friendships. There was a time when I would talk to anyone, and if that didn't meet with their approval I talked more, certain that in time they would fall in love with me. Now, even with those who assure me they already love me, I worry I'm intruding, interrupting, unwanted.

I cry often. Sometimes I don't even know why. I find it frustrating and aggravating. My impulse is to head for the nearest cave when it happens, but what I really want is to be held, which aggravates me further because I detest weakness in myself. I still laugh more often than I cry, but I would really like the tears to take a vacation. I let myself feel the emotions, because Therapist said I must, and then I wonder what that was supposed to accomplish. I feel so much worse, sometimes for days.

I'm no longer in denial--but acceptance and acknowledgement has not made me happy. I'm not emotionally dependent on anyone--but I don't really know who I am on my own. There are many who have seen me as I truly am--which has made me feel defensive and inadequate. I have not found peace in authenticity. Instead, I have found vulnerability, and I have no idea what to do next.

Therapist said allowing all this emotional crap would help me. I trusted him. I did everything he told me to do, and I did it thoroughly.

Is this it? Is this the end result? I sort of feel that I invested all I had, and ended up with a mess I can't clean up.

And at the heart of it all, I wonder if Therapist had no idea what he was talking about. I wonder if he just spouted rhetoric at me, and I bought into it. I wonder why I trusted him; why I believed him.

I don't know if I believe him anymore, and I'm pretty sure I don't trust him, either.

Definitions

Tabitha: There's a boy in the seventh grade who's from Mexico. He doesn't speak much English. So Gabriela's little sister has to follow him around and translate for him.

Me: That doesn't sound right. He should have a paraprofessional of some sort assigned to him. 

Tabitha: Well, usually Bishop Rinehardt goes with him and translates.

Me: I thought Bishop Rinehardt was a math teacher.

Tabitha: He is. But he also speaks Spanish.

Me: Really? I didn't know that!

Tabitha: Mom!! He's the transient bishop!!

Me: Yes, he is.

Tabitha: So??? That means he speaks Spanish.

Me: Tabitha, do you know what "transient" means?

Tabitha: Nope!

Me: I didn't think so.

Tabitha

Tabitha: Oh, by the way, Mom, we're having New Beginnings tomorrow night. I have a part on the program. You can come if you want to.

Me: Really? Am I invited?

Tabitha: Yeah. Parents are supposed to attend.

Me: Why haven't I heard anything about this before now?

Tabitha (looking sheepish): Ummm...I'm supposed to give you an invitation?

Me: That would be good. Where's the invitation?

Tabitha: Somewhere in my room.

Me: Okay, nevermind.

Tabitha: I'll find it!

Two hours later I am presented with a somewhat crumpled but still legible invitation. 

Tabitha: You don't have to come if you're busy.

Me: I'll come.

Tabitha: Oh, good. Sorry about the short notice.

Me: What else is in your room that you've forgotten to give me.

Tabitha: Nothing. I promise. Except, I borrowed your black shirt again. And your tank top. And your skirt.

Me: I see. Make sure they're in the laundry by 8:00 tonight?

Tabitha: Deal.

Proof that one needs more sleep

1. Newly invented words like "slusters" and "gental" make complete sense.

2. Mythical creatures appear in one's peripheral vision.

3. "Privacy Policy" looks like "Hokey Pokey". 

I gotta take a nap.

Adam...sigh...

Adam is my child most like me in temperament. There are some physical characteristics that only he and I share, as well: earlobes connected at the base, eyes that squintily disappear when we laugh (and sometimes when we smile), and hand shape (square palms). We have similar senses of humor, but I don't believe the boy shares the tiniest percent of my logic. He has an affinity for both math and language, as I do, and we both are lamentable when it comes to world geography. I'm can guess with a 10 - 15% margin of error, what he's thinking, planning, or doing, which has led Adam to believe that I have some sort of supernatural powers. Perhaps he's right.

Adam turned fifteen this month. He's old enough to obtain a driving permit. He had thought I would just take him to the DMV and allow him to take the test, and then he could start driving. He should have known better.

My children have been raised with the knowledge that privileges are earned and can be removed, should irresponsibility in the area of any specific privilege manifest itself. Adam forgot that driving is a privilege. He forgot that in order for me to trust him behind the wheel of my car, I have to be able to trust him in all areas of his regular life. And he has to show me that he is able to be responsible for himself before I'll allow him to drive--which in essence makes him responsible for the safety of himself, passengers, pedestrians, and other drivers (I know you're all wishing that you had been present for this particular imparting of information in lecture form). It is unfortunate that Adam forgot, because now he has a trial period in which he must show himself worthy of obtaining a driving permit. 

Things Adam must do before I take him to get the coveted item:

1. Get himself up in the morning--fifteen-year-olds who are responsible enough to drive, are also responsible to learn how to set an alarm and get up when it goes off. This item is also accompanied by the understanding that the early morning arousal will be timely enough to get Adam to seminary on time. When he has done this for three weeks, the prerequisite will be filled. However, if at any time after the permit has been obtained, I feel that he has stopped fulfilling this responsibility in a timely manner, the permit will be surrendered and all driving privileges suspended until I determine he has acted in such a way that would prove he is willing to take upon himself the responsibility once again.

2. Stop eating in his bedroom. We have two rooms in which it is permissible to eat: The dining room, and the family room. We eat occasionally in the family room if we watch a family movie during dinner, or if we have a snack while we play games or watch television. Once monthly, during group lessons, he is allowed to eat in my piano studio with the other students when I serve food to them. Eating in bedrooms is strictly prohibited for the following reasons:

a) My dishes start to disappear which is a source of incredible frustration.

b) Food trash goes into the bedroom waste basket and begins to decay, causing an awful smell which I cannot tolerate.

c) People identify eating with specific rooms--and when they enter those rooms, they feel an urge to eat regardless of whether or not they are hungry (if you don't believe me, walk into your kitchen right now and notice where your mind wanders--it will immediately wonder what you have to munch on in your cupboard or fridge). Eating should not be associated with bedrooms. Sleeping should be, and homework and relaxation, but not food. While this habit has nothing to do with driving, per se, it has enormous impact on my ability to trust that while he is learning to drive, Adam will not disregard my instructions. If he has difficulty obeying house rules, chances are he'll try to disobey the rules of the road--unacceptable from this instructor who will be riding in the passenger seat.

3. Maintain good grades (As and Bs only are acceptable) and plan to get a job to help offset the cost of insurance and gas consumption, vehicle maintenance and repair. My whole focus in raising my children is to help them learn independence. If they believe Mom and Dad will provide for all their needs indefinitely, that's a step in the wrong direction. If they wish to have driving privileges, they will need to shoulder driving responsibility. This includes fiscal responsibility. 

When presented with these guidelines last month, Adam enthusiastically agreed they were reasonable and well within his ability to achieve. Then the month progressed. Adam refused to get himself up for seminary, his grades overall were fine, but he persisted in getting Cs in health and teetering on the low B edge in English (because he's certain he can do everything at the last minute--bad idea). The immediate consequence for eating in his bedroom is one dishwasher loading for each utensil and dish I find in his room. He currently owes me five loads of clean dishes. 

I tightened the screws this week. I told him that at 6:30 every morning I would be doing one of the following: 

1. Driving Adam to seminary because he was ready on time (on his own steam, not because I awoke him and made him move).

2. Going for a run because I get an extra 10 minutes since Adam chose to stay in bed and not get ready.

He called my bluff this morning. At 6:25 Adam rolled out of bed. At 6:29 I called everyone for prayer. Adam blustered that he still had one minute and could definitely be ready in time. I rolled my eyes at him, said the prayer and got on my treadmill, telling Adam and Tabitha that I'd be driving kids to school at 7:30. 

At 6:40 Adam called, "See you, Mom! Have a good day!" And then he walked to seminary in a snowstorm. I've decided, since he got himself up and made it to seminary sort of on time, that I'll let him count today. After all, I have to make some concessions. I actually do want him to learn to drive.

1969 Scooby-Doo Where Are You? Intro

Today my kids and I spent four hours watching OLD cartoons and eating popcorn. I love Scooby Doo. So glad they have DVD's of cartoons that came out a million years ago.

Moments

I wonder about them. Each day seems to be defined by moments of delight, sadness, anger, fear...

I believe it's time for me to let some moments pass away. I've been clinging to them for a long time. It's difficult not to dwell on them when one is constantly reminded. But too often I have allowed myself to be governed by such memories and I have lost opportunities to enjoy current moments.

Not long ago I would stop in my tracks to take in a sunset. I have not done that for awhile. I've tried--I've even tried to share a sunrise or sunset with people I love. They don't see what I see. And how can they? They draw upon their own moments as they watch their surroundings. 

When I was young I would sit from the moment color stained the sky until it became the brilliant blue of a new day, or faded to the quietly peaceful blackness of night. In moments of despair I would fantasize that I was a part of it, intensifying in color and light until I was swallowed up by a blue or black expanse, untouchable, achingly beautiful, but only visible for a moment.

My daughter asked me once why I love blue flax flowers. I told her I loved the color, and they smelled good, which is certainly true, but my penchant for identifying with things non-human extends to that intense love for the flowers. They grow in the most unlikely, unwelcoming places. They spring up without abundant water, their flexible stems bend in high winds while five fragile petals cling to the tiny stigma. They grow in clusters of intense blue with an occasional deviant bunch of clean white. They survive hailstorms, flash floods, unseasonal snow and frost. But if plucked for a vase, within minutes the petals have fallen and the beauty is destroyed. 

I am like that. Determined to live regardless of the ugly moments. Surviving storms sent by life, enduring the coldness of random loneliness. Bending to adapt and thrive. Exhibiting the natural colors of my species while admitting to occasional deviance from the norm. But I cannot survive being plucked from my stem, moving from the roots of the convictions which sustain me.

I have spent the past two years reliving moments I wish to release. In the process, I have gathered moments of sweetness and sustenance from people I love, from my surroundings, from God. And yet, I talk only of the moments I do not wish to keep, without acknowledging the joy of the moments filled with laughter, embraces, gentle touches, encouragement, sympathy, and love. 

My blue flax is perennial. Some consider it a weed. Year after year it blooms. I've had a couple of barren springs. It's time to prepare to blossom once again.

Oh my goodness! The wind!!

I live in a windy place. I chose it partly because of the wind. I have chemical-induced asthma and living in valleys which trap smog and allow it to stay for days on end results in my being home bound until it finally begins to move out. When we lived in the Bay Area, there were sometimes weeks when I was unable to be outside for more than a few moments, and being indoors is depressing.

So--we chose a place which has perpetual air current, few people, no factories, little traffic...basically, a rural, windy, isolated community in which I could thrive. The result is that I've been free of an asthma attack for nearly fifteen years. My cardiovascular system has become so strong that I'm even able to visit places of poor air quality and I'm fine, usually, for a couple of days. If we stay longer I may have to use my inhaler a few times, but things are back to normal when we return home.

I love the freedom of being able to live without carrying an inhaler. I love clear lungs, uninterrupted sleep, and taking breathing for granted. However, biannually, for about three weeks, the lovely perpetual breeze becomes a howling wind. The first day is exhilarating. Everyone remarks about it and laughs. But by day four we're all out of sorts and wishing for the wind to blow itself out and leave us alone. Unfortunately, it takes longer than four days for that to happen.

Personally, I don't mind the strong winds. They don't usually pick up till around 10:00 a.m. and I've had my early morning run by that time. And they die down in the evening, so I can take a walk then if I choose. But right now the wind blows twenty-four hours, seven days a week. It disturbs our sleep, brings unusual presents into our yard, and is a general nuisance. At this point, the worst part is the noise. The incessant howling is throwing me into a generally bad temper. I've tried drowning it out with music and wearing ear plugs, but I know it's there, which is the same as  hearing it.

So I've been whining about the noise, and the cold, and all the other inconveniences of our windy weeks...and this morning at 7:30 a.m. the wind stopped. It's way too quiet. I detest white noise, and yet I find myself frantically doing laundry and running my dishwasher so the noise of the appliances will temper the silence. 

One would think I would just enjoy the relief. Perhaps tomorrow I will.

Yawn...

I am not a fanciful person. I love to read fantasy and fiction. I like to imagine things. But I'm very certain what is real and what is not. As least...I used to be.

I don't know what it's like when other people have flashbacks. I've heard some say there's a lead up--they can feel it coming. I don't have that luxury. They just happen. I've heard some people say there's a frightening, dreamlike quality to their flashbacks. Mine are not like that. When they happen, I'm there. They only last a few seconds, I'm guessing. But it feels that in those tiny moments I've just relived hours of agony. If  you're with me, you won't know. The only outward sign I give anymore, is that if I'm walking, I might pause and seem disoriented for a moment. If we're talking, I might be silent. I like the camouflage of being in a small group. It simply seems as if I'm listening, or thinking about what someone else just said. It truth, I'm regrouping, reminding myself where I am, who I'm with, telling my body the hurt isn't real, taking deep breaths, waiting for fear to subside.

But at night it's a different story. I've been lucky to have Darrin with me because I have difficulty returning to reality when the nightmares occur. In truth, they're no different from the flashbacks. Same subject matter, same after effects. But the difference is that I wake to darkness, disoriented, unable to figure out where I am  or who I'm with. I'm usually combative, but if Darrin talks to me, within about five minutes I understand that I'm in the here and now. The tremors that follow are more severe and last longer than those I get in daytime flashbacks. But I usually don't cry. It's difficult to get back to sleep, too. I don't want to have another nightmare. Sleep is not restful at that point, it's terrifying.

But now Darrin is gone. And he'll be gone for a long time. I had hoped, maybe, I'd be able to use the process I once relied on to direct my dreams--but I can't seem to. At this point I'm doubting that it ever worked at all--although I know it did, I'm just discouraged. Last night I awoke from a nightmare. It took me nearly half an hour to become cognizant of my surroundings and then I was still very afraid. I tried to call Darrin (it was about 11:00 p.m.). He was sleeping, probably, because he didn't answer his phone. I felt silly for trying to bother him, and tried to sleep again. Miraculously, I did fall asleep, only to have an encore session of the nightmare. This time, when I finally became coherent, it was 11:30 p.m. That's not very much time between scenes of terror. I should learn to space them better. 

I couldn't go back to sleep. I waited to calm down. It didn't happen. I tried to read, walked on my treadmill, folded laundry--all the while haunted by the things I see in my sleep. Finally, around 12:45 a.m. I thought I'd see if anyone was awake. I texted a couple of people in a different time zone, hoping they might still be up. No answer. Then I sat down and felt thoroughly sorry for myself because they were all getting the kind of rest I needed, but I couldn't go back to sleep. I knew what was lurking there. 

So...I worked. I'm still working now. And even though I'm very aware that nothing that presents itself in my head is real, that doesn't mean I want to look at it again. So I'm not sure that I'll sleep tonight, either. Darrin gets back on January 30th. I'm thinking I'll go to sleep then.

Sigh...

At the request of a persistent person, I've agreed to add labels. It may take me ten years.

Are you happy now?

It's not rocket science...more's the pity

This paragraph has nothing to do with my post topic:
Last night I was at a gathering with so many people I love--some of whom I haven't seen for awhile and only talked with sporadically over the past year. I've missed them--so if you were one of those with me last night, and I kept hugging you, just know that I'm making up for not being able to do it on a regular basis, and I love you. I also got to meet the parents of a friend, and they, Darrin, and I stayed up way too late talking and getting to know one another--I love doing that. Oh, and Danish Boy, I adore you, but I just have to say that picking me up off the ground when you hug me does not enhance my belief that I am Wonder Woman--in fact it makes me feel a bit less than super-heroine-ish, and it can't be good for your back. However, for one of your hugs, if that's a necessary component, I suppose I can sacrifice my all-powerful delusions for a few seconds. But I'm still worried about your back.

I was talking with Therapist a couple of months ago about some of the problems I have understanding people's motives as they interact with me. I'm suspicious when they're kind. I wonder if they're trying to hurt or deceive me in some way. These are not conscious thoughts, but feelings rumbling beneath the surface, and they usually only come into play when I don't feel in control of the relationship. I asked if I was a control freak. Therapist said no, I'm feeling the effects of PTSD, which often inhibit human interaction and relationships. He said that even though I seek out and allow intimacy in friendships and love relationships (and I do that, in his opinion, as a stubborn insistence that I will not allow myself to be controlled by a condition induced by my past), I still feel the symptoms such actions incite. That's beyond my control. And as as a result of feeling uneasy, I find myself acting in uncharacteristic ways sometimes.

I think he's probably right, but I asked him why I continue to have a core belief that I have nothing to contribute to any relationship. I've tried to rid myself of it, and all evidence points to the contrary, but it persists. Therapist believes this stems from messages I received as a child, and the sexual trauma I experienced sealed that belief in my heart. Low self-esteem and feelings of worthlessness are not uncommon in those who have experiences similar to mine. But the only place I feel those things are in interpersonal relationships. In the professional world, I feel powerful and capable. Socially, I don't worry about interacting with strangers (unless they touch me). But in times when I allow closeness with people I love, an inner battle takes place as my heart reminds my head that it's not good for them to be with me.

Obviously, I'm not listening to my heart, because I continue to seek out those I love. But I told Therapist that I don't understand why they stay. It makes sense to me that they would leave after awhile, but they don't. I recently visited a friend I had not seen nor spoken to for more than eight years. She told me she had missed me, asked why I disappeared, called me a liar when I made up an excuse, and listened to my labored explanation of what I've been through emotionally for the past decade. Then she insisted I hear of her harrowing experiences with an unfaithful husband, ugly divorce, molestation of one of her children (by a brother-in-law), and subsequent growth, blessings, and remarriage. Then she said, "Sam, don't disappear again. I needed you and you weren't there. I'll never not need you. I think, when you go through hard things, you should tell me, not stop talking." How about that. She forgave me for not being around when she needed me, then she invited me to stay in her life. Why?

I told Therapist I don't understand why people endure touch with me--especially Tolkien Boy who has had greater opportunity than others for such an experience. Therapist said if they don't draw back within sixty seconds, they're not enduring the touch, they're enjoying it. I told him I'm having difficulty understanding how people can enjoy touch from me. I even feel this in my interactions with Darrin. Any physical contact beyond holding his hand, kissing him briefly, or having his arm about me, is usually preceded by some sort of verbal "Is this okay?" from me. It's not that I feel I need permission to touch my husband, I just can't seem to make the leap into the belief that he actually wants and needs my touch and close proximity--even though my head knows he does.

I understand that I'm not explaining this well. I have difficulty verbalizing many of the dichotomous feelings and beliefs that live inside me. But Therapist knew what I was talking about, as he often does. He said, "I think you'll never understand why people want to have contact with you unless you ask them how they feel about it." I hate it when he says that. And I refused to do anything about his suggestion for nearly two months, although I made the attempt occasionally, got freaked out, and backed off sometimes to the point of not talking to anyone for a day or two.

But my need to know never goes away. And I finally got to the point where I had to know--and naturally, Tolkien Boy was my target because I talk to him often, he probably touches me as much as anyone else (excluding Darrin, of course, who should and does touch me more than any other person), and because I thought he might tell me, maybe. But I spent forever trying to ask the questions for which I wanted answers, and it was difficult. When I finally got to the point where I was coherently framing words, I believe what came out was something like this: "Why do you stay with me?" meaning, when we're physically together, why do you hold me when I'm upset or sad, or sometimes, neither, but just because we are together? He gave me the answers I knew he would...we're friends...he loves me... but I wanted more.

I said, "No. Why do you stay? What are you getting out of it?" That came out a bit more belligerently than I intended. But this was important to me. I had to know. His response was, "What are you getting out of it?" I was sure I'd told him on many occasions how I've been able to make connections, learn things about myself, and recognize that I could be empowered in intimate situations simply because he has taken the time to allow prolonged touch with me--the type that is uncolored by neediness, or sexuality, or haste. Just simple physical connection that endures longer than a brief hug. But he said I hadn't told him any benefits I gain from being with him in that way. So I began rattling off everything of importance to me that I gain in those circumstances--especially the amazing feelings of security, and being loved and valued just because I'm me. And when I was done he said simply, "And can you believe that those things you feel from me, I also feel from you?"

Therein lies the problem. I have difficulty believing that. I desperately want to, because then the relationship feels healthy and balanced. I can no longer feel that I'm not giving back, but simply taking selfishly. But as he always is, Therapist was right. Asking the question is the first step in learning to believe. And as is my tradition, I will ponder this for awhile. Tolkien Boy doesn't usually lie to me, nor I to him, unless we're classifying animals and I feel the need to giggle. So I have no reason to think he might be making something up to keep me from talking incessantly about this latest obsession. And he sounded as though he was sincere, although there's a part of me that's aggravated because he made me say all the reasons I enjoy being with him and he simply copped out by concurring. In spite of that, my head believes him. I'm still working on that obnoxious heart of mine.

Darrin is astounded that I feel even an iota of self-worthlessness. He points out that I interact with people all the time, many of whom seek me out. He wonders how such feelings can persist as I am confronted with daily evidence that I am loved and valued. 

I guess I just need to keep hearing the words. I have so many words from my past that I need to replace. Each time Sully tells me I'm important to him, every time AtP pops up with an "I love you" in my chat box, the fact that Ambrosia and others allow me to impose in their homes when I'm in traveling, my frequent interactions with Tolkien Boy and eternally long phone calls with Jason, as well as many other messages of love and acceptance are taking their toll. Someday, who knows? I might just learn how to trust all those things. And when I do, a large part of PTSD will no longer be bothersome or persistent. 

It's going to take some time, but I still plan to win. The difference today is that I'm understanding that I won't win alone. But just so you know, Therapist, even though I'm admitting once again that you're right--it still ticks me off. I really wanted to have a solo act and you've proved I not only need back-up, but I'm going to have to share the limelight with lots of people. And I suppose, in the end, I don't even get to choose who they are. It has to be a mutual decision. I believe, dear Therapist, you are a tyrant.

Dinnertime

Adam: I don't want to go to France, ever. They have those weird squirt-bottle toilet thingies.

Darrin: You mean bidets?

DJ: They have real toilets, too. You don't have to use the bidets.

Adam: Why would anyone use them anyway. You just end up with a wet butt.

Darrin: There's usually a towel hanging nearby.

Me: And everyone uses that towel? Eeewww.

Darrin: What? Their behinds are clean--they just washed them.

Silence at the table as my children and I exchange horrified looks.

Adam: Well, I'm still not using them. Besides, what if someone put molasses in them? Then your behind will be all sticky.

Darrin: That's not possible. How are you imagining someone could put molasses in a bidet?

Me: WHY are you imagining someone would put molasses in a bidet?

Tabitha: Is molasses a plant?

Adam: It could happen. Someone could put it in the bidet tank, and then it would squirt out when you uses it.

Darrin: They can't either. The tank fills up from the same water supply used for drinking water, showers, everything.

Adam: They could put it in the whole city's water system.

Me: Molasses is not a plant.

Darrin: No they can't. It's not possible. There's not that much molasses.

Adam: I think they could.

Tabitha: What is it?

DJ: It's really thick syrupy stuff.

Darrin: Why would anyone do that?

Adam: It would be a really funny trick.

Tabitha: Is it made from Maple syrup?

Me: No. It's made from sugar cane.

Tabitha: Oh. So it's not a plant, but it's made from one.

Darrin: It wouldn't be funny.

Adam: Why do we have molasses then? No one really uses them.

Me: People actually do eat molasses.

Adam: Wait--molasses is a food?

Tabitha: Made from a plant. Yes.

Me: I think I'm going to go make brownies.

Darrin: I still want to know how you think you'd get molasses into the water system.

Adam: Can you put molasses in brownies?

Me: No. But you can put it in molasses cookies.

Darrin: Adam, you didn't answer my question.

Adam: I can't. I'm helping Mom make molasses cookies.

DJ: No. I want brownies.

Tabitha: Why were we talking about France?

DJ: Because that's where Dad went on his mission.

Darrin: That's not why we were talking about it. And we weren't really. We were talking about bidets.

DJ and Adam: We have to go now. Mom needs our help in the kitchen.

Tabitha: I'll stay and we can talk about bidets.

Darrin: No. The moment is gone.

An Email: Mine--with responses in red from Therapist

Sam: My thoughts in Red below:


Therapist--
I know you're online, and I could just chat with you, but it's New Year's, so you're at home and I don't want to disturb family time. So there's no hurry to answer my questions, I just want to send them now, while I'm thinking about them.

But before my questions, some background info:

First--as you knew I would, because I'm too desperate not to try every possible venue, I allowed Tolkien Boy to stay with me on Monday while I went through the nastiness I save up after each flashback. He sat with me and held my hand while my stupid body shook and I cried and I felt like a complete idiot. By the way--notice I let him hold my hand and I didn't even throw up, or feel like I was going to which is my usual reaction when people touch my skin following a flashback. Weird. And after everything was over I was too tired to care about feeling like an idiot, so I took him home, drove to a friend's house and went to sleep.

Second--I talked with Darrin about ways he can help me in similar circumstances. He suggests that even though he'll be gone this month, I should still call him after a flashback. He can talk to me when I'm not able to talk, and at least I'll have some connection to him. So we'll try that. I think I've been very angry that he'll be gone when I need him. I don't feel as angry about that today. Darrin also suggests that if he can't talk to me when I need him, I call someone else. I said I'd think about it.

Third--On Sunday I allowed a friend (female) to do that thing girls do constantly when they're together (except I never do)--I let her "scratch my back" during Relief Society, which in girl talk translates to just a very nice caress over the shoulders, upper, and middle back. And I wasn't afraid or threatened or nauseated by the touch. Granted, it was a very good friend who understands my silly phobias, and she asked permission first, but I would normally have said no--but I didn't. And some odd emotions manifested themselves. I felt triumphant that I was allowing normal "girl" touch and actually enjoying it in the way it should be enjoyed. I felt really sad that I've spent so much of my life not being able to participate in this part of female interaction without the sexual component getting in the way. I felt "normal."

So now the questions:
1. Is it too much to hope for to believe that some of the nastiness I've been carrying around is finally subsiding to the point where it no longer colors all my interactions with others--Nope, not too much to hope for or believe. It's actually what I expected to see happen as you started to break through some of this. especially interactions which involve casual physical touch? ESPECIALLY these interactions. Casual physical touch is something I know you have been terrified about for some time. When you start making break-throughs with it (doesn't have to be good EVERY time, but at least from time to time), then your gonna feel and experience lots that you haven't felt before. It DOES mean electively allowing some of the nastiness, but the difference is this - you will begin to feel more in control of those experiences. That's what diminishes the flashbacks and the intensity of the physical experience of them.
2. Why, after the things I've experienced this week, do I still feel crazy stressed and all mixed up? It's all about too much emotional / sensory overload. You've been all over the spectrum from pleasant physical touch (new) to the same old horrible crap (old) and a body can only handle so much of that at one time. I think you are still feeling the exhaustion of it all. I think it would be wise to find time to "take a break" - get your mind and senses off the issue for however long it takes to disengage. I know you want to get through this quick ( :-) ) but it would be wise to take breathers from it from time to time. The more you will be able to pick and choose where / when, the more control you will feel, the better it will become.
3. In addition to the above question, why do I feel absolutely peaceful about everything--especially my relationships with others? It makes sense there would be a lot of peace right now. It's headed in the right direction and I think God's tender mercies are those pleasant physical touch experiences that happen from time to time. It's a reflection about the direction things are headed. This feeling began on Monday, when I allowed Tolkien Boy to stay with me, and has increased daily from that point. Cool.

Okay--I actually have a million more questions, but I want to think about them some more before I actually ask them. Welcome to my bizarre life. :-) When you have time, please share your thoughts about the things I've discussed.

Thanks so much! and Happy New Year!! Happy New Year to you too!

~Samantha

Odd Conversation

(Note: This chat has been altered to include vowels, punctuation, and complete sentences on behalf of the chat person. It has not been altered for content. u hv bn wrnd )

Chat Person: You're not a lesbian.
me: No?
Chat Person: You're married to a guy, you have kids with him, you have sex with a guy on a regular basis. You're not a lesbian.
me: Well, I suppose if that's the definition of a not-lesbian, then I must be one.
Chat Person: I'm not being rude. Just real.
me: I'm all about honesty. Thank you.
Chat Person: You still think you're a lesbian.
me: I believe I'll keep my thoughts to myself.
Chat Person: Why do you think you're a lesbian?
me: I'm fairly certain I said I'll be keeping my thoughts to myself.
Chat Person: Why don't you want to answer my question?
me: It seems that you've already decided the answer to your question. Anything I say will be subject to debate. I finished with that long ago. I only answer questions when I know the person cares about my opinion. You don't.
Chat Person: You're pissed.
me: I rarely get mad at anyone. I'm not mad, just logical. I don't enter into a battle I have no chance of winning.
Chat Person: Okay. I was rude.
me: Yes.
Chat Person: So, I want to know why you say you're a lesbian when everything in your life says you're not.
me: Perhaps we could talk about the economy. Or...have you noticed how much snow fell in Utah last week? or...you could tell me about your family--do you have siblings?
Chat Person: No. I just want to talk about why you think you're a lesbian.
me: You're quite tenacious.
Chat Person: What's tenacious?
me: Never mind. I honestly don't want to answer your question because I don't think you can understand.
Chat Person: I'm not dumb, you know.
me: It's not about dumb. It's about seeing another person's point of view.
Chat Person: Okay. I'll try.
me: I think I need to go now.
Chat Person: You're going to block me, aren't you.
me: Probably.
Chat Person: You keep talking on your blog about how you're trying to get better from being raped. I think the real problem is you think you're gay and you're not.
me: You know best, I'm sure.
Chat Person: Most of the stuff that bugs you is because you're not honest about who you really are.
me: No doubt you are quite correct.
Chat Person: You know who you are?
me: Most of the time, yes.
Chat Person: You're like a real mormon person. You just don't want to admit it.
me: I have no idea what that means, and I really dislike being rude, but I find you overbearing and opinionated and I'm tired of you. Good night.

I honestly never thought I would have such a conversation. I don't know whether to laugh or be sad about it. However, the truth is, in about two weeks it will never enter my mind again. It's remarkable only because it's obnoxious. 

On the off-chance, though, that Chat Person decides he can actually read, here is the answer to his question:

I consider myself gay/lesbian/ssa/homosexual/whatever because if I walk into a room full of people, the only ones I'll remember are the women. As a general rule, it takes me about a year of regular interaction with a man to actually recognize that he has a face, let alone other parts. Which doesn't mean I don't have friendships with men, I simply don't view them as sexual entities. If I find myself feeling attraction to a person, without question it will be a woman. 

I have, even quite recently, had full body contact (clothed) with a man-not-Darrin. It was very nice. I'll probably do it again. It will never be more than very nice. I don't have the hormonal inclination to make it more--nor does he or any other man-not-Darrin with whom I would allow such contact.

As I am married to Darrin, I will not have full body contact with women. My hormones would very much like to make more of that situation, and I will not allow them to do so. I hug women I care about. I sit beside them. If I trust them and am not attracted to them, I allow girl-touch (although this is a fairly new development). It is all very innocent and within the boundaries acceptable to Darrin.

I have sex with my husband. Probably it's a little more complicated than that which a heterosexual couple might experience. I have to concentrate, think about the deep love I have for my husband, remind myself that this is an expression of love completely unrelated to the abuses I experiences a long time ago, remember that his body is a part of what makes him special to me, and stay entirely in the moment. The pay-off is completely worth it--and I'm not talking about orgasm. I'm talking about becoming one with a person I love with all my soul, trusting him as I trust no one else, allowing him to love me in a way only the two of us share. I'm talking about leaving behind natural impulses to be with the person I have chosen, forming a bond with him physically and emotionally, expressing my love for him in a way that will bring him pleasure and joy--because I want to.

I am not, nor have I ever been physically attracted to men in the ways I have heard described by other women. I have experienced emotional attraction and attachment which is the avenue I have used to become physically intimate with my husband. And quite honestly, should I ever choose to become intimate with another man, using that same venue, I could. I won't, obviously. It's a lot of work, and I have my chosen mate, so why would I?

If, Chat Person, in your opinion that makes me a not-lesbian, I will be the last person to argue with you. It might have something to do with the fact that I've blocked you, as you said I would. After all, in the words of my good friend Shakespeare (yes, I'm that old), "The better part of valor is discretion..."

Someday I will live in Normal, Indiana.

I had a long conversation recently in which I made the statement, "Sometimes I just want to live life like a normal person."

I've said this many times. Before I'm allowed to express what I mean, the listening person invariably makes some disparaging comment about "normal", or launches into the excruciatingly long lecture which reiterates the following points in several different ways, none of which mean anything to me:

1. No one is normal.

2. All people have things in their lives that make them feel "different".

3. One should celebrate being unique.

4. I'm no different from anyone else.

By the time the four points have been restated at least six times, I'm no longer listening and sincerely regretting my attempt to share something personal. There is only one person I will interrupt in such a situation, and that's Darrin. I usually say, "You didn't let me finish again! I'm trying to tell you something, so please be quiet and let me talk." And he apologizes, lets me explain what I mean and I feel better.

I keep hoping someday others I care about will let me tell them why this is important to me, as well, but it seems they are sincerely in love with the "No one is normal" lecture, and not particularly interested in my opinion on the matter. 

But as this is my blog, no one can interrupt or lecture me here. So, I will now explain why I say,  "Sometimes I just want to live life like a normal person." (except my return key keeps sticking and I have to keep backing up when I hit it--very annoying)

1. I would like to enter a restroom without feeling panicky, trying to finish as quickly as possible, having to stop and breathe slowly--thus thwarting the hurrying part, and feeling compelled to wash my hands fifty times and use an entire bottle of hand sanitizer.

2. I would like to never feel afraid of my teenage sons who love me and would never hurt me. 

3. I would like to go to a physical exam without having flashbacks, shaking, and spending the next three hours crying.

4. I would like to not bleed when I have sex with my husband--which occurs frequently enough to remind me that my body doesn't always recognize the difference between loving physical expression and being raped.

5. I would like to allow friends (male or female) to have their arm draped across the back of my chair in a church meeting, and enjoy that closeness, not worry about whether or not I'll be able to get away quickly should the arm come into contact with my shoulders.

6. I would like to ride elevators with more than one other person without feeling I might throw up.

7. I would like cry because I'm sad or happy--not simply because I'm tired and/or need a stress release.

8. I would like to be able to chat online with people who love me for longer than fifteen minutes before I start wondering how that person would like to harm me in some way. 

9. I would like to be able to look at the naked male form without feeling attacked, nauseous, afraid beyond reason, and immeasurably sad. I would like to be able to use Tolkien Boy's words, "It's just a body," and mean them.

10. I would like to stop feeling the need to find safe places and recognize that I am always safe and have been for many years.

11. I would like to shake hands and feel casual about it. 

12. I would like to touch someones skin and feel it a pleasure and a privilege, not shrink from it and feel afraid.

While I recognize that there are some who will identify with the things I've listed, these are the items I view as "normal", by which I mean the majority of people don't really think about doing them, nor do they attach any sort of major importance to them.

I understand that each person has things that make them unique. I'm not trying to be like everyone else. I just wish to enjoy certain healthy human interactions and everyday occurrences without attaching unnecessary significance to them. I don't think that's asking too much, nor do I think that will change the qualities which make me singularly Samantha.

I sat by Boo in Relief Society on Sunday. She asked me if I minded if she scratched my back, which in girl language means a very nice caress across the shoulders, and middle and upper back. Some interesting things happened in that moment:

1. I said it was okay. I never say that. I'm not sure why I did--but probably because it was Boo, and I trust her. 

2. My feelings went haywire, because I was amazed at myself for allowing a person other than Darrin or my kids to touch me in that way, I was happy that I wasn't afraid or panicking, I was incredibly sad that I've spent so much of my life missing out on that part of human connection--and touch is extremely important to girls. They do it all the time--except--I don't.

3. I felt almost normal.

So now you know. And should I ever mention the wanting-to-be-normal thing to you, don't worry about making certain I understand no one is really normal--I do understand that. And please withhold the lecture, because even though no one loves the sound of your voice more than I do, I'd rather hear you talk about the things that make you sad or bring you joy, or maybe we can just discuss the process of photosynthesis, or name the stars, or talk about how much we like chocolate.

You know, things normal people do...

Protection

I had an interesting therapy session on Monday. As often happens, I don't recall with clarity much of what we discussed. When I am talking about things which upset me, I often check out mentally--usually, unfortunately, while Therapist is imparting great pearls of wisdom. I try without success during the subsequent weeks to recall what he's said. Aggravating.

I believe my entire conversation with him consisted of three sentences:

1. "This makes me so MAD!!"

2. "This makes me so MAD!!"

3. "This makes me so MAD!!"

Although there might have been an occasional screaming of "THIS SUCKS!!!!!"

Yeah. I was eloquent. And even though Therapist was in awe of my command of the English language, and had to pause occasionally to look up the more difficult words in a dictionary, somehow I still managed to figure something out during the session. Probably I figured it out because Therapist said it, but I took it and decided I learned it all on my own, but that's beside the point.

I have been protecting people forever. Usually from things from which they had no need to be protected, but it's what I do anyway. I've been trying to figure out when it began and I think it actually started when I was very young. I remember saying and doing things to purposely direct my mother's anger away from my siblings and toward me. It wasn't altruistic--it was self-preservation. It hurt more to watch a small person being abused by a larger person, one who should be loving and protecting the small person, than it did to endure the abuse personally. 

That impulse has never served me well. In fact, it's a stupid impulse and one for which I will probably pay as long as I live. I still do it. I can't stand it when someone innocent is hurt by another person--especially when the person inflicting the hurt believes there is a rational, excusable reason for hurting another. I usually say something which gets me in trouble. And the person I perceive as the "victim" is angry with me, as well. As I said, a stupid impulse.

I have spent my life protecting people I love from me. I still do it. Even in this blog, where I am supposed to be able to express anything I wish, I protect those who read from knowing the things I believe will somehow harm them--which is why I had to create my stupid super secret blog. The thoughts/memories/feelings still needed expression, but in my mind, if I allowed others to know them I would be inflicting abuse on people who read my words.

I protect Darrin from feeling anger about my past experiences. I say I don't tell him everything because I can't deal with his feelings when I'm dealing with my own, and there is a modicum of truth to that. But mostly, I just don't want him to feel negative emotions to anything connected to me. I don't want him to see me weak, victimized, scared, sad. I don't want to acknowledge that he, of all people, completely understands that I am human and he loves me in any circumstance. I want to be strong and capable and beautiful in his eyes. It's all very silly because he, more than anyone, sees me at my worst, knows my weaknesses, and comforts me when I'm wretched. He will watch me grow old and lose each vestige of youthful beauty. He will buy me a recliner when I can no longer run, place his matching one beside it and hold my hand as we watch "The Price is Right." I have no idea why I'm trying to protect him from me.

For a long time I believed that if I shared with anyone the truth of what was done to me as a child, they would stop loving me. They would feel sorry for me, certainly, and then they would go away because it was too much--too horrible--I was used up and they had no more need for me. I was wrong, of course, but I think I might be excused for lacking faith in human nature. My experiences haven't always built faith, obviously. But even beyond that feeling was the belief that if I told anyone, somehow they would be hurt by what I said. That by giving them such knowledge I would be responsible for harming them. I would rather be abandoned by someone I love than bear the guilt of hurting them. 

When I actually said the words to someone, it was a person newly met--one I had never met in person. I spoke the words in a "hypothetical" setting. A "so if I tell you this, are you going to say you still want to be my friend?" type of conversation. And even though he said he did, I completely expected to be added to his "blocked friends" list before nightfall. In truth, I ended up calling him within an hour of telling him, simply to thank him for letting me say the words. I wanted to hear his voice. And I wanted to make sure I hadn't somehow damaged him with my story. 

Naturally, in time, I allowed others to know, which was largely a positive experience. But part of me still believes that I must not share certain things about myself with others. Especially the things that hurt me regularly. For the past eight months my flashbacks have become irregular and unpredictable. I've learned how to let them happen without showing any outward sign. I wait until I'm alone, then I allow the stress buildup to manifest itself. I usually have body tremors and physical pain. I hear myself whimper and feel aggravated that I'm weak. I cry--not because I'm sad or hurting, but simply as an after-effect of too much emotional overload. It feels similar to the random crying I experienced when I was pregnant--linked to nothing in particular, not accompanied by any feelings, simply a stress outlet. Depending on what I experience during the flashback, I'm usually finished with the after effects within an hour.

Therapist said I'm not going to be able to learn to manage the flashbacks if I continue to do this in isolation. He said I need to involve other people. I'm certain he gave me reasons for this, because I always ask him to explain himself--especially if I disagree with him. But every part of me rebelled against his premise and I wasn't listening to the explanation. I was dealing with the revulsion I felt at the thought of sharing this part of me with another person. So probably there's a completely logical reason to do so, but I missed it.

I am Samantha. I like to win. I am very strong. I'm bright and talented. I make people smile. It is not natural for me to tell others when I feel sad, angry, or lonely. It is rare for me to be with anyone else when I am weak or vulnerable. 

As a result of the stress I felt Monday, I had three rather intense flashbacks. When the last one was finished, my body required me to brush my teeth with such dedication that I missed saying good-bye to a friend at the airport--which still makes me so angry I want to scream.

Okay. I'm still not ready to talk about this. 

But I will just say, even though being with someone made me want to throw up, I wasn't alone in the aftermath. I let someone stay with me. Because Therapist said I can't do it alone, and at this point, I'll do just about anything to learn how to predict and manage the flashbacks. They're painful and exhausting. 

But sometime very soon I have to remember why Therapist said it was important to let others help me. 

Christmas Eve

I'll admit I've hit a wall. I've "discovered" something which alternately makes me weep with frustration and seethe with anger. I've felt immobile and mute for nearly a month now.

Today was extremely busy. I traded phone calls with visits, shopping, and very late Christmas mailings. In one of the many conversations, someone told me I made him feel joy when we talk. I don't know if that's unique to him, but there are few things I would like more than to bring joy to the people I love--and even to perfect strangers.

I don't know how to resolve the current "problem" that haunts me. I don't know how to stop feeling bitter, even hateful. But it's nice to know that in the midst of hurting over this, I'm still able to bring joy to the life of at least one friend.

Darrin held me last night as I chatted well past one o'clock a.m. I keep wondering when he'll say he's had enough--that I'm too much trouble with all my baggage and emotional crap and stupid past experiences. He doesn't say it, though. He just holds me and tells me he loves me.

The truth is that I'm very angry at God right now. I'm not sure why I've chosen that target, but I think it has something to do with the fact that he allows me to tell him how angry I am, but he doesn't go away. When I rage and cry, I feel his love piercing through me, letting me know it's okay for me to feel these things--that probably I should have felt them long ago when I was too young to understand why people who should have shown me love, protection, and respect, were hurting me repeatedly.

I wonder how long this will last.

Tonight, though, I realized that I celebrate Christmas each year because it brings me hope. I hope my Savior will love me when I feel unworthy of love. I hope he will guide me when I can no longer see my own path. I hope he will teach me to care for my brothers and sisters. And in the end, when I have done all that I can to resolve my hurts and transgressions, I hope he will heal me and make me whole.

Perhaps I am naive to place my hope in a person I cannot see or touch. Perhaps I am superstitious to believe in a miraculous conception and birth. Perhaps I am foolish to base my life decisions around that which I believe he would have me do.

But I've tried to walk alone. It's miserable. I much prefer the company of the one who loves me unconditionally. And tonight, I'm very happy to celebrate hope.

Gender Issues

DJ (sitting next to me at the computer--very grumpy): I am the WORST wrapper in the whole world!

Me: I don't think so. Have you ever heard me rap? I'm pretty awful at it.

Long pause....

Me: You're supposed to laugh. I made a funny.

DJ: I know. I'm ignoring it.

Me: Why?

DJ: It ticks me off that my presents are ugly!

Me: The paper is just going to be ripped off. Really, this is not a problem.

DJ: I just want to be able to make pretty-looking presents!!

Me: Huh. I've never really cared about that.

Long pause again...

Me: Are you sure you're a guy?

DJ: Are you sure you're a girl?

AtP

I just have to say one thing about him:

He always makes time for me. 

With other people, I sometimes feel I'm an afterthought, or that they'd like to see me if it fits in with everything else going on in their busy lives. AtP makes me feel that a visit from me is special--no matter how often it happens, even if we do nothing but drive around in my car and listen to me talk crazy.

Sometimes I really want to see people I love but I feel I have to chase them down, that my appearance is an inconvenience--this has been the case with some of my family members and I've experienced it occasionally with friends. Not often, of course, because I'm not likely to repeat a visit when I feel unwelcome. 

I've never experienced this with AtP. He's even arranged his work schedule around the times when I'm visiting. He's come with me to therapy sessions and waited for me in the waiting room. He's chauffeured me wherever I needed to go following those sessions since I'm usually too upset and distracted to drive. 

I guess, for a defective friend, I think he's pretty amazing. 

And AtP, if you happen to read this, I love you.

That's all.

The 12 Gays of Christmas

Thanks, Zannah!

Just a brief notice

A couple of very sweet people have sent emails, and some other friends have left sympathetic comments relating to my last few personal posts. I appreciate your love and concern. I have, however, entered a new phase of existence that is ugly and nasty--and I'm finding myself reacting to it by being ugly and nasty to people who are dear to me. Therefore, until further notice, I will not be posting anything of a personal nature here until said phase goes away. 

And I hope it goes away very, very soon. I'm tired of it already.

Still Laughing

I do not hate cats

but this makes me laugh: