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. :)

The Power of Pain

It is not unusual for abuse survivors to develop the ability to disregard pain. It's a coping mechanism necessary for them to continue living. I believe some people actually do not feel pain, or they feel it momentarily and then dissociate from it so they feel it no more. My experience is that I'm aware of the pain on some level and it manifests itself in ways other than actual "hurt".

This means that I've never completely lost the ability to feel pain which is, according to Therapist, a very good thing. Pain is important. It tells us when something is changing our beings and needs our attention--and that includes both physical and emotional pain. Notice, I said "changing." Pain involves change. It is impossible to experience pain without some sort of impact. If we disregard or dissociate from the pain, the change still occurs, often without attention which can cause a great deal of harm. This is not always the case. Small injuries can heal on their own, but will probably heal more quickly if we acknowledge and care for them.

You may read the above paragraph metaphorically, should you desire, but today I'm speaking literally.

I've been working in therapy to learn how to feel pain more naturally, acknowledge it, and tend to its needs. And in the past six months I've become wildly successful at this. It sucks.

When one is used to expressing pain as mildly annoying crankiness, feeling the actual physical manifestation of pain is a little shocking and very unpleasant. I have iliopsoas tendonitis. Roughly translated for any who have not experienced this, it means that if I lift my right leg (to put on pants, get in a car, walk up or down stairs--you get the picture--basically anything you have to do every day of your life), piercing pain runs through my groin and down my inner thigh. It takes my breath away. When I told Therapist I was feeling it I thought he would do cartwheels, and then I got a huge speech (while he did a tiny happy dance) about how wonderful this was and three years ago I probably would have noticed something didn't feel quite right, and then I would have gone running. I didn't like him very much in that moment.

The point he was making was that I would most likely have experienced further injury or exacerbation of the problem because I didn't recognize it was hurting me. Pain is good, he says, it helps us get better. I'm not yet on his band wagon.

What I know is that I am getting better, but I'm also feeling a great deal of depression and discouragement. Therapist would tell me that's a wonderful thing, too. Hearing that I understand what I'm feeling and acknowledge it, would send him into another, larger happy dance, so I probably won't tell him. That's just an awkward thing to witness.

But I'm not sure what to do about those feelings. The physical pain is intense, and the physical therapy I'm required to do adds more pain at a different level, but I understand that's all part of healing and it's temporary. I'm still discouraged. I feel powerless and wimpy and out of control. Controlling my body has always been important to me (hence, the years of running and the bout with anorexia). Yielding that control is horrifying and scary. I spent much of yesterday in tears and today doesn't look better.

Therapist would tell me again and again that I'm getting better. Maybe I need him to tell me. Maybe I need everyone in the world to tell me, because I'm sad and afraid and in more pain (emotional and physical) than I want to think about. Sleep is difficult, too, because I have the added delight of that cracked tooth. It hurts a bit, as well.

For a few days I could self-soothe. I would do things that made me feel cared for and loved. That was helpful. I've reached a threshold, however, where I'm unable to do that by myself anymore (read: even more loss of control, more vulnerability, more desperation and discouragement), and asking for help feels so silly.

"Dear Person-to-whom-I-am-reaching-out:
I'm finally doing what everyone else does every day; I'm feeling pain. It sucks and I'm not dealing with it very well. I want to curl up in a ball and die when I get a hangnail. When you're finished laughing at me, will you please give me a hug and NOT remind me that I'm just doing something normal and trivial, and instead pretend that I'm amazing for going through this in the first place? We'll both know it's a sham and most people go through this on a daily basis without doing more than saying "OUCH!" and showing the owie to someone nearby before they finish climbing Mount Everest, and I'm inanely making my own mountain of a molehill, but it would really help me if you'll just coddle me for a moment and tell me I'm going to be okay.
Thanks so much.
Sam"

See--very silly. Still, today is sunny and there's no wind and my leafless trees and shrubs are trying to make leaf buds and the sky is so blue you could swim in it. Maybe things will feel better today.

Time for me to go to the gym and feel a bit of pain. I can't wait!

Sometimes I Confuse Me

Loneliness is an interesting phenomenon. I spent the majority of my life refusing to allow myself to admit feeling it, and when it felt overwhelming, I simply refused to look at it. I did other things, usually tasks requiring physical effort or creativity, and extra practice hours were high on the list of distractions. There were moments when I could not deny the piercing loneliness I felt, but they passed. I felt a great deal of power in denying my need for connection with people. I did not want them.

I suppose now I recognize that it takes so much more stamina and self-control to maintain relationships than it does to simply not have them. I know the rewards of being with someone with whom you share love are worth it, but the truth is, relationships are work. They become work because we have expectations of the roles people fill in our lives and sometimes those expectations are not met--in fact, often they aren't. The work comes in recognising whether or not the expectation was reasonable within the context of the relationship and, if it was, talking with the other person and trying to come to some sort of compromise or allow recompense, if necessary, or revamping our perception of the relationship if the expectation was not reasonable.

The work involved is sometimes messy and emotional. I don't like it. I would rather not do it at all, and in the moments when I have to decide if I'll move toward understanding, sometimes I think I'd like to just forget the person and not have the relationship at all. I feel that impulse deeply and I remember the freedom of not having any meaningful ties to people and only needing to take care of myself. I make believe that I easily filled all my needs with my many activities, my love of nature and the outdoors, and time spent with myself. Then I sigh, because somehow the person who shares the relationship has gotten stuck in my heart in such a way that I don't know how to live without them, so the only possible resolution is to do the necessary work.

Fortunately there are benefits attached. I'm not always cognizant of them until I'm in the midst of a panic attack, Darrin is teaching and not answering his phone, my kids are in school or at work, and I remember I can call one of those people with whom I spend time and whom I love. And when they answer, I realize the work isn't really as difficult as I thought it was, especially when I feel loved and validated by someone I love back.

Am I making any sense? I think I'm probably not. But the bottom line is that today is one of those days when I want to throw in the towel when it comes to people. No one has done anything to upset me--in fact, I had a really wonderful conversation wtih Brozy last night and I unblocked one of those people who were causing me stress a few months ago and it didn't bother me a bit. So I don't know why I'm feeling this way. I'm ridiculous.

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this before--but I'm going to again. I once had a friend visit and I took him to a place near my home that is known for its rocky cliffs and formations. I think it's fun to visit because you can climb around on the rocks and jump from place to place and it's novel. However, on that particular day it was windy and stormy, but we decided to go drive there, at least. In the end, we all got out in the nasty wind, to climb the rocks. As we approached one formation, my friend said, "These are amazing! I wonder how they were made." I began to tell him the geological history of the place, but he stopped me, saying, "I don't really want to know. I just want to think about it."

I realized when he said those words that I also have a number of things I like to think about, but I really don't want to know the answers. I'm guessing most people have those if they're completely honest. I'm writing some of my please-don't-tell-me-the-answer ponderings today.

1. Spacing out--I wonder why it happens, sometimes even when we're interested in what's we're doing or the current conversation. I wonder about the nerve synapses that take place when we suddenly fixate visually on something or nothing and have difficulty tearing ourselves away. I wonder if everyone feels the same things when it happens or if people experience it differently.

2. Deja vu--it happens to me often. I remember it happening when I was a child. For a long time it made me very uncomfortable. Now I just try not to think about it. If I get the sensation that I've done something or been somewhere or met someone before, I've decided to just believe that I have--even if I know I haven't. It makes life easier, and speculation about why it happens just frustrates me.

3. Why people like to touch things like soft hair or animal fur--I can't figure this one out, and it's not because I don't like to touch those things. I do. But sometimes I think about how cat hair is covered with saliva, and no one knows where that dog has been, and human hair has sebum and hair product and various other things--yet I still want to touch them. It makes no sense.

4. Why I feel compelled to fold laundry a certain way--and it's not because my mother taught me and I just do what I was taught. There is a specific shape or flatness that happens before I can consider any piece of laundry folded. It drives my children and Darrin crazy because I've been known to re-fold things that don't seem quite right.

5. Watermelon--I like the taste but hate the texture. The color bothers me, as well. In the summertime I cut the fruit into cubes and freeze it, then add it to smoothies. Darrin says it still has the same texture because it doesn't completely blend. I only know it's more palatable after it's been frozen.

I suppose I also have to admit that I'm as guilty as my friend when it comes to thinking about those rocks and their origins, and imagining many different scenarios. I've been know to drive there in the summer so I can sit on a sun-warmed rock and read a book, but mostly I'm not reading. I'm daydreaming. So even when I know the answers, I think I still like to wonder a little bit.

The stuff of my life

Once written, I never read my posts. However, this morning I started glancing through them (why? I do not know) and I kept thinking, "When did I become a victim? I'm whiny, and intolerant, and I don't really like the person writing here."

I think it's time for a change of attitude. I also think it's time for me to stop focusing on all the things I dislike and start finding things in life that I love.

So today:
1. I love the fact that I can walk again.
2. I'm very glad that I get to go to the gym and work out this morning.
3. I'm making dinner with bok choy tonight. I've never done that before. I think it will be fun.
4. I'm almost finished with tax prep for the year.
5. Soon I will have new carpet in my house--and since I've been wanting this for more than a decade, it's very exciting.

Wait. I just thought of something else I want to write about.

Yesterday my sister posted a picture on Facebook. It was taken a long time ago and all my sisters were in it. I look like I'm about fourteen, and if my hair was white, I could pose for a barrister in Britain. Also, the clothes were absolutely delightful. I laughed when I saw it and tried to share it (unsucessfully, because my Facebook settings are ridiculous about privacy right now) with some close friends...

If you know me at all, you will understand why this is monumental.

If you know me at all, you will know that I have not shared photos showing me between age 12 to the present. I began showing current photos online about six years ago. And if someone else posted a picture of me taken prior to that, but after I was twelve, I removed the tag and refused to let it be seen publicly.

It had nothing to do with being ashamed of how I looked and everything to do with not being able to look at myself. It made me uncomfortable. My brain would say, "That's you," but I couldn't feel that it was true. The person in the picture was a stranger--a person completely detached from me, and her life had nothing to do with mine.

But my sister posted the picture--and I REMEMBERED! I remembered being that person and having that hair and wearing those clothes. I don't really recall much more about that time, but when my brain said, "That's you," I responded, "Yes! Yes, it is! Look how funny I was! Look at my sisters! That's a picture of me with them!"

And then I cried, of course, because it was a little confusing and overwhelming and sad and happy all at once. I'm pretty sure all this sounds ridiculously trivial, but to me it's enormous because I saw myself and I knew it was me--and I wanted to share that part of me with someone else.

It's a pretty big deal. You can take my word for this.

Listening to "Breakfast in America" because it seems appropriate today...for no reason.

DJ is making spudnuts tomorrow. He invited my brother and family, and Adam to come to his apartment to help with the making and eating. I am not invited.

This is not because DJ doesn't love me, nor because he doesn't want me to come. It's because he knows I don't like donuts. Adam said I could come anyway because it will be fun. I thought about it, then I realized: I don't want to.

Five years ago I would have crashed the party--invited or not. And I'd have helped with the making and even tried some of the eating. Today, I recognize I'm just too tired. While I've definitely been recovering and feeling more like myself, that happiness draining emotional fatigue still lingers. My tolerance for people is not what it used to be. And my ability to give support is pretty much nonexistent. When I'm with people I want to be held and coddled and taken care of.

Yes, I have become that annoying, icky person.

Yesterday I called a friend and cried because I was having a bad day. Did I ask about his day? No. Did I make sure he was having a good day before I dumped on him? No. Did I care? I would like to say, "Of course, I did! He's my friend and I love him!" But probably the truthful answer, in that moment, is,  No.

I'm not sure how I feel about this, what to do about it, or even if I want to do anything about it.

Still, I don't feel sorry for myself when I'm not invited to family things. Instead, I feel relief, so clearly I'm not offended. I increasingly desire alone-ness (which would not tally with the things I told my online chat person last night--but that was then--it's not last night anymore).

This could have something to do with the following:
1. My house is in complete disarray. We had to move all the furniture and box up my studio so that we could have the main rooms painted three weeks ago. And everything is still boxed up and moved weird places because now we're waiting on carpet to be installed. Yay for new paint and carpet. Boo for disarray.

2. I'm doing enormously difficult therapy crap right now. And if you're thinking to yourself, "Is this person EVER going to stop needing therapy? This has been going on for years!" the answer is, I will probably be in therapy for the rest of my life because I'm that messed up and it's 50% due to things that happened to me during my life, and 50% due to just being Samantha. And if you know me at all, you understand exactly what I'm saying. And Therapist said no one works as hard as I do to learn ways to live with being someone like me--whatever that means. Regardless, please don't judge and just remember, I'm trying my best to be as normal as you are. It's not easy.

3. Tabitha is coming home for an extended stay next week. She'll be here for seventeen days. I feel many different things about this, but mostly I'm fighting myself every second so I don't stack up work project to do while she's here because that's my impulse. Make what you'd like of that. I love my daughter. I'm excited to see her. I'm also very stressed about spending that much time with her. I know she's ready. I'm not. It doesn't matter because this is going to happen. Next week.

So today I'm doing things for me. It's selfish and I don't care. I'm going to the library and I'm going to find several books where everything ends happily and maybe I'll read them all today. I will play Chopin and Beethoven and Debussy and Prokofiev until I'm tired. For dinner, I will make fun to eat food that's colorful and delicious. Tonight I will watch one of my favorite movies...or maybe Scooby Doo cartoons...or maybe I'll just play Facebook games.

But first, I have to work. And doing work is a much better option than wandering around my house, wondering what's wrong with me. Much better.

"Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the idea that life is serious." ~Brendan Gill

I suppose it's fair to say that I haven't written for awhile because I've been experiencing some things I would rather not. It's also fair to say that some of those things are just BAD, but others, while they might not feel great, are probably important.

BAD:

1. I had my second set of injections in my iliopsoas tendon (Who knew I had such a thing? And good luck pronouncing it or using it in common conversation with a non-medical person). There was some relief but nothing like what was hoped. Then I started physical therapy--the thing my surgeon was thrilled to have me choose, but also warned me that most people opt for surgery over the PT because it HURTS. He wasn't kidding. Not only that, but after a few weeks I noticed no improvement and marked UN-improvement. I sort of lost the ability to walk more than a few feet and sleeping at night was not happening.

2. I had a tooth crack down into the root. And then it got infected. So I had a face and a half. And a very, very large half of neck. And a fever. And enormous pain. So my dentist gave me antibiotics and took and x-ray and said, "We'll take that tooth out when the infection's gone (which will be in a month), and then we'll do a bone graft (bone graft?) from a cadaver (CADAVER???), and then we'll wait a few months for that to grow into your jaw. Then we'll give you an implant (Does this mean I'll be without a tooth until then? Yes. Yes, it does. So I can grow dead person bone into my jaw)." I'm a lot horrified, in case you cant tell.      

3. I've been struggling with maintaining the integration I worked on so intensely for more than a year. The impulses that drive dissociation keep popping up. They cause me confusion, aggravation, and stress--but mostly I'm embarrassed by them because it seems I've been pretending, post-integration, that the dissociation didn't exist--that this is not a part of my life--that I'm "normal" in the sense that I never used that particular coping device. Apparently, denial triggers unwelcome dissociative symptoms. And please don't even ask me to explain because I don't think I can and it makes me feel even more embarrassed, uncomfortable, and freakish. Therapist gave me some homework designed to help me work through this and promised to call me if he doesn't hear from me in the next five years. Awesome.

Important:

1. I have hyper-mobile joints. There are advantages to this; for instance, those glucosamine and chondroitin supplements that people ingest to keep their joints healthy and lubricated--mine produce that in abundance and keep me from having things like arthritis and joint pain. And I'm freaky flexible even when I'm injured. It seems, however, that this lovely condition of mine is what has been causing my tendonitis--not the repetitive motion exercises (like running and walking) which are the usual culprits. My savvy physical therapist was the person who figured out the mystery and this is why I've not been responding to the PT we've been working on. And it also means that my hip has been out of place for an unknown period of time (because that lovely flexibility allows my stable joints--like my right hip--to become unstable under unusual circumstances--like falling down an large hill and having to have surgery) and today's activity of putting it back into place was more pain than I wish to think about ever again. However, now I have a different regime which includes elliptical training (which makes me happy) and intense weight lifting and other highly uncomfortable and obnoxious exercises (which do not make me happy and some of which I still haven't done today) designed to stabilize the hip and allow me to run again. Yay!

2. My dentist was nice and prescribed a very large amount of sedative/pain pills for me to take at night for the next month so I'll be able to sleep until the tooth is removed and the bone replaced, at which point he'll prescribe a stronger pain killer because apparently this is really going to hurt. Yay!

3. I started the integration maintenance homework and hated every part of it. But I'm blessed with a few friends who don't think I'm a freak and who allowed me to talk about it. They also reassured me that they like me no matter what. I believe Tolkien Boy's words were, "Well, whoever you turn out to be, I like you very much." That's nice to know. I'll probably ask him to say it again. Fortunately, neither of us seems to be annoyed by repetition which is why our conversation has lasted nearly seven years. And Brozy sent me chocolate. All kinds of chocolate. Some was very nice, some was interesting but sort of weird, and one kind was just terrifying. Who thinks of Beef Jerky Chocolate? Who? However, she assures me that chocolate is the best fix for tooth ache and I must admit that even the Beef Jerky Chocolate sounds better than a cadaver bone graft. Yay!

So things are going. Don't ask me if that's good or bad. I don't know the answer.

I Don't Need You Anymore

I know. The title is obnoxious. However, it is also, in some ways, true.

When I began therapy more than seven years ago, I didn't need anyone. I believed if Darrin left me for any reason (and I really did believe he would) that I would be fine. Not at first, of course, but with time  life would continue, I'd find things to fill my time everything would be all right.

One year into therapy I confessed to Darrin that I actually WOULD NOT be fine if he left and he, very surprised that I even thought about that, assured me that he wasn't going to. Then I began to make connections with other people in my life. And as I did so, I felt myself bonding with them in ways that felt essential to my daily living.

Some of those people stayed for awhile, then bowed out of my life, causing me all sorts of aggravation and turmoil. Others stayed longer. A few are with me still.

For a few years (I estimate three or four), I felt that I couldn't manage most of what was happening in my life without having some of these people to lean on, to talk to--I depended on them to help me through most of the stress and agony I was wading through. Each filled a unique and important need even if their time with me was fleeting.

Last year I realized how dependent I had become. And I hated it.

I am actually a very independent person. While I understand how unhealthy it was for me to live for a long time without making intimate connections with people, I also loved the way I felt about myself. I didn't have to worry about how I was treated. I never wondered if someone would snub me or leave me out or abandon our relationship--because I had none. It was an infinitely safe emotional state of being. I found myself longing for a return to that in recent months.

Then I remembered a couple of incidents that brought my reality into focus. I remembered years ago, when Darrin was often gone for long stretches of time for work, feeling a gnawing emptiness I could not identify. And one day, when the gnawing had become all-consuming, I fell to my knees and cried out loud, "I'm lonely. How can I be lonely?" and I experienced in that moment an extremely rare occurrence of weeping. Then I got to my feet and cleaned my house because that's what I did when life felt out of balance, and within hours I was myself again.

I remembered watching small groups of women shopping together and wondering why they were doing that, and I recalled an incident when I was an elementary teacher, watching a colleague as she distributed small envelopes to some other teachers--the kind of envelopes that contain invitations to parties--and feeling a sharp pain inside when I was not included. Then I realized that I was always invited to many parties, showers, get togethers (attendance at which I never enjoyed--but I went anyway and was delightful--because that's what you're supposed to be when attending a social event) and there was no reason for the feeling, especially when I found out later that they were assignments for our next staff meeting. My envelope was sitting on my desk. I was left feeling confused and upset at my irrational reaction.

So as I thought about the dependency I was feeling, I decided maybe it's okay to rely on people you love to a small extent, but it needs to be a reciprocal relationship. I suppose that's what led to the recent discontinuance of a few relationships in which it was clear I needed those people but they no longer had need for me. What I believe is that people who don't need each other tend to associate, but they don't really connect. I need connection.

As I've grown stronger in the past few weeks, I've felt my need for the people I love fluctuating. There are days when I want them with me constantly (no, I don't follow up on this--I'm not stupid), or I don't think about them at all. I believe the times when I don't think about them are a response to my need for independence. I don't see it as a healthy thing, but I do see it as necessary.

Today I realized that I feel more level. I'm no longer vacillating between "AHHH! Don't leave me! I need you!" and "Go away, please. I don't want you anymore." I also recognized that I don't feel stressed when no one is talking to me. I'm not waiting for someone to come online or call me or send me a text. In fact, I'm not waiting at all. I'm just doing my work, playing Scrabble, singing randomly, and thinking about things that make me laugh.

So....I really don't need you anymore, at least, not in unhealthy ways. I think I'll always have needs that only certain people fill, and when life becomes crazy I'm sure I'll need to talk with the people closest to me and ask for their support and love. Right now, however, I'm okay just spending time with me.

That being said, interruptions from the delightful people who share my life and love are always welcome.

"The great thing in the world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving." ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

The birds are migrating through out town once again. They pause in my yard to eat the old crab apples and rose hips and the noise is heavenly in a cacophonous way. It reminds me that spring is coming, although I still must wait at least six weeks to see any signs of it.

I have been unceasingly cold this winter. Adam gifted me one of his heavy sweatshirts to layer over my own, which is good because without it our heat bill would become enormous. Darrin says it's because my metabolism slowed when I stopped running every day. He's probably right, but that is definitely not something I want to think about. I just want to be warm.

During the past year I have been fighting a number of things in my life I don't remember encountering before. I've been increasingly disinterested in most everything--even things that ought to be alarming or upsetting. I've felt no drive to work or create or do anything beyond getting up in the morning. I've had days filled with exhaustion. But the worst has been the feeling that I might not be good enough or smart enough or skilled enough to complete the tasks I've done for years. These all feel odd and uncomfortable. I'm unused to any of them and I don't like them.

In November I began feeling stirrings of needing to work more hours. For me, this is not necessarily a healthy thing, but it's also normal. I recognized that some of my stamina was returning. I had told my tax clients I would not be preparing taxes in 2013. I had trimmed down my jobs to only two part-time (approximately 10 hours weekly), and I had only five piano students.

When my strength began returning, I changed my mind about tax preparation and registered to take the necessary IRS exams. This meant studying through December and taking the exams the Saturday before Christmas--and I was still very tired. The stress of this caused me some uncomfortable moments when I was visiting friends prior to Christmas, but I survived, and I took the exams, and I passed.

I also applied for an online job similar to the one I lost in August due to my inability to concentrate and complete productivity/quality requirements. The new job required me to read and ingest information from their 200+ page guidelines, then pass two very long (oh--so long) exams. Again, passing the exams and remembering the information was a struggle, but I did pass and land the job.

In January I contacted five students on my waiting list and added them to my studio. For now, 10 students is enough. Last week I contracted to teach a class at the university in the fall.

It sounds like I'm doing the workaholic thing again, and there is definitely an element of that. But for me, what this says is that I'm getting better. I'm excited to begin teaching my class in a few months, and I finished all my corporate clients' tax returns last week (and the deadline isn't until March 15th!), plus a few non-corporate tax returns. I'm enjoying my online job--it's not causing me stress. I love my new students and am enjoying the accompanying jobs I've taken. I've actually worked with the clients in the finance business I share with my dad (Bless my father! He took over everything a year ago and has continued to allow me to draw a salary while doing very little--and he's never said a word to me about not coming to the office or being late on some commitments I've made to him. He's amazing and I adore him!), and finished up several tasks I had left behind last year. In short, life is beginning to feel like life again.

This week we'll go visit Tabitha for her birthday, and I have painters coming on Thursday (I'll be gone, but I have to make sure the house is ready for paint), so I've crammed my work week into three days. Four months ago this would probably have made me comatose. Today it feels fine--notice I'm blogging this morning when I have a bajillion things waiting for me and I'm not having a panic attack.

For the first time since August, I'm excited to see my daughter without the added anxiety I've experienced in the past months. It feels simple and uncomplicated and also for the first time, I've found myself making mental preparations for when Tabitha comes home. Prior to last week, the thought of having her come home made me incredibly stressed and panicky. Today it feels natural and right. I believe in the coming weeks, I'll even experience anticipation for the time when she returns to us.

I will admit, even recently there have been long stretches of time when I didn't believe I could ever return to the person I was. It seems I was wrong. This is one of those rare times when I'm very glad to be wrong.