Beautiful World

Ugh!! Work time is eating up my blog time. :-(

2009-12-14T22:44:00.011-07:00

Those of you who have asked to be added to the Christmas Carol delivery list will receive your first song tonight. If you're interested in previous offerings let me know. I now have no idea how many days I've been doing this, but I think I started about a week ago.

When I was young, we lived in a place that got reception for two television channels...sometimes. Cable was available, but my parents didn't want to pay for it. And honestly, I've never been too interested in watching television. It requires one to sit still for an extended period of time--not a skill I've ever mastered.

As we had no television to speak of, when Christmas vacation began we spent the mornings sledding and the days playing games, doing chores, reading, and always listening to Christmas music. My parents were great fans of Christmas collections distributed by True Value. We listened to the carols repeatedly, choosing the ones we liked, mocking the ones we thought were stupid. Poor Wayne Newton was ridiculed and mimicked as he lisped through "Blue Christmas", we grunted along with "White Christmas" in our best Louis Armstrong imitations, "Noel" became the alphabet song (No L, no M, no N, no O----, no P, no Q, no R, no S, no T...and so forth until the song finally ended), but the song receiving the most attention from us was "Feliz Navidad."

None of us understood the words. We knew it was repetitive, but it made no sense. So we made up our own words and sang it all day long. It went something like this:

Feliz navidad.

Feliz navidad, perspire when you vacuum the rug.

Feliz navidad.

Feliz navidad, perspire when you dust the bookshelf.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas.

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas from the bottom of my spleen.

Feliz navidad.

Fleas on your dad.

Fleas on your dad, perspire when you set the table.

It was a perpetual tune sung as loudly as possible, and every sister (there were six of us) belted the "I wanna wish you" part because she wanted her chosen internal organ to be heard above everyone else. And if, by some coincidence, more than one of us chose the same body part, it was given an eternal resting place in the song for the remainder of the Christmas season--it had to be said every time the song was sung (which was all the time).

The second year Darrin and I were married we had our own apartment and a tiny Christmas tree. Finals were over, and I was making some sort of Christmas treat. Darrin was home from work and watching television. I was absorbed in my task, when Darrin interrupted me:

Darrin: What are you singing?

Samantha: Huh?

Darrin: You're singing something.

Samantha: I am?

Darrin: Yeah. It's familiar, but I can't figure out what words you're saying.

I paused, thought for a moment, then realized I'd been singing "Fleas on your dad, perspire when you make the cookies..."

Samantha: It's nothing. Just a baking song.

Darrin: No. I'm sure it's a Christmas carol.

Samantha: I don't think so. It's just a good song to sing when you're making cookies.

Darrin: It IS a Christmas carol. I think you have the words wrong.

At this point I was giggling. I said he was mistaken, he went back to his television, and I sang a little more softly. Later that night, two of my younger sisters came to visit. They brought goodies to be combined with my cookies on plates to deliver to friends and neighbors. As we assembled the plates, the song began like a reflex. We couldn't help ourselves. Nor could we stop giggling at how stupidly clever we were as we made up words. Darrin poked his head into the kitchen.

Darrin: You're singing it again.

Samantha: Singing what?

Darrin: That Christmas carol. But you aren't singing the right words.

My sisters began to laugh helplessly. Darrin looked confused. I told him I'd explain later, and the three silly sisters left to deliver yummy stuff. When we were finished, I dropped them off at home and drove to my apartment. Darrin met me at the door:

Darrin: HA!!!

Samantha: Ha, what?

Darrin: It IS a Christmas carol. Jose Feliciano sings it. In Spanish.

Samantha: Not all of it.

Darrin: And you're making up words to it.

Samantha: Maybe.

Darrin: What are you saying.

Samantha: We're just translating the words into English.

Darrin: Sam. My family is from Spain. We speak Spanish. You are not translating.

Samantha: I'm translating it into what I want it to say.

Darrin: How come your sisters know what you're going to say before you say it? Did you make it up together.

Samantha: Sort of.

So I told Darrin the story of "Feliz Navidad". He rolled his eyes at me and told me I was very weird, which was why I didn't want to tell him about it in the first place. Two days later we were with my family for Christmas dinner. Darrin was mashing the potatoes (which became his job that year and every year after that), and I was making a salad. Suddenly I became aware of Darrin humming...then quietly singing...I strained my ears to catch the words...

Feliz navidad.

Feliz on your dad.

Fleas on your dad, perspire when you mash potatoes.

In that moment, I knew I there was no doubt. I would love him forever.

P.S. Still not too late. Let me know if you want to be added to the possibly-illegal-but-I-don't-think-it-is Christmas carol giveaway.

Bleach

2009-12-13T22:13:00.011-07:00

I do not like the way it smells. At all.

I've met a number of women who feel similarly, but no men. AtP, in fact, rhapsodizes about the scent, citing it as one of his favorites. I have yet to meet a man who dislikes the smell of bleach. They love it in varying degrees, but none have told me it smells awful. My current hypothesis is that something in the male olfactory system causes bleach to smell nice to men, whereas a similar but opposite something in the female olfactory system causes bleach to smell nasty to some, but not all, women.

So--because I was discussing this with Tolkien Boy, and he's not sure I'm right, I'm posting a poll in my sidebar. Please vote. Please tell your friends to vote. Don't try to skew the results just because you want me to be right or wrong. I want to get an accurate sampling.

Admit it--you think it's interesting, too.

P.S. It's still not too late to add your name to my email list on the possible-illegal-but-probably-not Christmas Carol giveaway. Tonight I'm thinking about sending Gaelic carols.

Sometimes Darrin and I do not agree

2009-12-13T12:29:00.006-07:00

This morning blessed me with a beautiful sunrise. I don't have a picture.

Last year Darrin asked me what I'd like for Christmas. I told him I'd like a small digital camera. Immediately he began shopping. I'd chosen a few moderately priced models small enough to carry with me without being an inconvenience. I don't like carrying things I don't need, nor do I take things with me just-in-case (those of you who know me also know I do not carry a purse--too much trouble and I don't know how to wear one anyway, in spite of the fact that Ambrosia tried to teach me).

I went with Darrin to a camera store and showed him my choices. He wasn't impressed. I was regaled with the many options of THIS camera, or the assets of THE OTHER camera. He held up many, but all were large and bulky with too many gizmos and gadgets for me to be happy. And he wanted to spend more money than I could justify. We left the store empty handed.

Darrin began shopping online, determined to buy me a camera. Christmas came and went, but he continued his quest. Finally, in August, a digital camera was delivered to our door. I asked Darrin about it. He sheepishly admitted he had purchased it for himself. In his excitement to buy me a camera, he decided I could never be satisfied with a really good one, so he decided to get one for "us" to share. Translation: I didn't choose what he wanted me to choose so he bought what he thought I should like and claimed it for himself.

I'll never forget the first time I asked to use "our" camera. For about three days he decided he just couldn't remember where he kept it. I knew where it was, and so did he, but I went along with the game. Each day I reminded him I needed "our" camera located and he went into a flurry of looking. Finally, on the third day, I asked why he was reluctant to let me use it. He protested for thirty seconds, then finally admitted to a bit of possessiveness and concern that I might break his new toy. Never mind the fact that I have never broken even one gadget in our home (this is mostly due to the fact that I only use a few favorite ones and I actually take care of them). I stared at him for a long time. The purpose of this, of course, was to help his guilt reflex snap into place. And it worked.

Darrin found the camera. He lectured me on its use until he realized I was not listening, then grudgingly handed me his new baby. I snapped the photos I needed and gave it back to him. And then we had an almost-fight.

Darrin: You don't need it longer?

me: Nope.

Darrin: Umm...you can keep it a little longer if you want to. You might want to use it later.

me: That's okay. I don't want to.

Darrin: You don't? Why?

me: I'm finished. I took the pictures I needed. And besides, I don't like your camera.

Darrin: OUR camera.

me: YOUR camera. You chose it, you bought it, it's yours.

Darrin: But I bought it for us.

me: No. You didn't. If it had been for US you would have taken into account my desires and opinions when I told you what I wanted, instead of trying to make me want the one you liked best. I don't want a big fancy camera like that, and I will use it only when I have to. When I can afford it, I'll buy a smaller one, as I wished to in the first place.

Darrin: Are you upset?

me: Nope.

Darrin: I think you are.

me: I'm not. This happens every time I want to buy something other than toiletries and groceries. You're very concerned I won't like what I choose, so you have to choose for me. I've tried to explain that I'm usually very certain of what I want before I ever go shopping, but you don't seem to believe me. There have been a few times when I've told you I WILL buy what I choose (example: our Honda, which I adore), but most of the time it's just not worth it. Things aren't that important to me. They are to you. So--you choose them and they're yours.

Darrin: Give me one example of when I've done that.

me: Two years ago I was supposed to get a new cell phone. I chose the one I wanted and ordered it. You waited until I went to work, then you changed the order to the one you thought I would really like. I had told you I didn't want it. You were certain I did. I was not happy when the phone arrived, but I've used it because returning it would be a pain, and if something went wrong with the one I chose, you would have taken too much of my valuable time telling me how, if I had just taken the one you got for me, there would have been no problems.

Darrin: I don't do that.

me: Not often, no. But often enough that I've learned my lesson. If I can live with your choices, I do. But just so you know, I always wish I could decide for myself.

Darrin: You don't like your phone?

me: Nope.

Darrin: And you don't like the camera.

me: Nope.

Darrin: But when I tried to help you buy a laptop, you just ignored me. You didn't buy anything I told you to.

me: As I said, occasionally I buy what I wish in spite of your advice. The laptop is my work computer. It is exclusively mine. Therefore, I believe I have final say in the chosen purchase.

Darrin: I don't think I do that.

me: I know you don't.

Darrin: If I do that, it's not because I'm trying to always get my way.

me I know. It's because you believe you know best. But you don't. Sometimes I know what I like better than you do.

Darrin: Are we fighting?

me: I don't fight over "things". So, no.

Darrin: And you're not mad?

me: No. But when I budget the money, I am going to buy a camera I want to use. And I'm not going to ask you about it first.

Darrin: How will you choose it.

me: I believe I will select the color I like best.

Darrin: That's a really bad way to pick a camera! You have to...oh...that's what you're talking about.

me: Yup.

Darrin: Okay. You made your point.

me: Thank you.

Darrin: Sam, you won't really choose a camera just because you like it's color, right?

me: I haven't decided yet.

The camera will probably never happen. That's okay. I'm not someone who takes pictures frequently. But there was another motive for confronting him. In February we are getting a new phone. Darrin has already tried to commandeer my phone since his disappeared with his job and he just likes carrying one. I'm fine with sharing, as I don't use the phone all the time, but phone sharing seems to be unpleasant for Darrin. He has unhappily agreed that because I travel far more often than he, I ought to have the phone at least 15% of the time (which means he knows I need it about 80% of the time), and I know I'm going to be the one using it the most, therefore I AM going to choose it. I've spent two years with Darrin's choice. The groundwork has been laid. The next choice will be my own.

Happy Birthday, Jesus.

2009-12-13T00:07:00.006-07:00

Tonight I'm sharing a Christmas Carol with everyone--not just the people who have opted in to the email offerings.

I love this season.

Taking a brief hiatus from my Christmas Carol walk down memory lane.

2009-12-11T09:33:00.002-07:00

Mostly because in the past couple of days PTSD is becoming a bit intense. Sleep is fitful and filled with unhappiness. Not good for me, as I just began another job and a couple of my current ones just became unexpectedly busy this week. Anyway, yesterday I tried several of the strategies on my list to help alleviate the stress. Unfortunately, I'm not good enough at self-management yet. I still need grounding help from another person, which upsets me. I want to be able to do this by myself (picture me stamping my foot and pouting)!!

Also unfortunate was the fact that everyone else seems to be as busy (or busier) than I am. Darrin was unavailable. I reached out to a few others--all busy. The panic attack could not be kept at bay. It was not pretty. Enough said.

Today I'm feeling the after effects of that lovely experience. Still shaky and on edge; still feeling the panic drifting through me at random moments; still prone to unpredictable bouts of tears linked to nothing in particular; still cranky and feeling insecure beyond reason; still fighting stupid thoughts. Fortunately I'll be working at home today and have nothing pressing. This will all pass soon enough.

In spite of the current state of affairs, I keep feeling as though this is simply "leftover". I feel as though I've been through one of the most lengthy, painful experiences of my life, but it's winding down, almost finished. I'm still rallying, searching, finding out how much is left of me, but I also feel completely certain that the parts that hurt the most have passed.

When I was living in denial, hearing of people who have experiences similar to mine made me angry--not in the way I should have been, but conversely angry at the victim. I had all sorts of reasons that person did not self-protect enough, did not prepare well enough for such an event, should have made better choices, should have told someone, should have screamed or fought or...anything.

Now I understand those judgments had nothing to do with the people whose stories I was hearing. They were self-directed. Through self-accusation and judgment I somehow hoped to make all that I had "forgotten" completely disappear. I'm not sure how I expected that to happen--I just did.

Sometimes I hear others speak the words I used to think, in reference to someone who has endured some sort of domestic violence, or rape, or abuse. My head thinks, You just don't understand... But then I wonder if they do and as I used to be, are trapped between the truth of their realities and the tiny fantasy of superiority which keeps the blackness at bay and grants one more day of sweet denial, and my heart hurts a little bit.

Living with the truth is better, and far more painful. It opens up ugly possibilities most people would like to, and should be able to ignore. The truth brings up questions of self-worth, and human cruelty, and how one can ever develop healthy love and trust for others. Living without the truth, however peaceful and pretty, places walls which prevent those traits from developing anyway, so it's not like one can side-step the inevitable day when one finally confronts the demons and hopes to survive the ravenous depth of despair such confrontation brings.

And when everything has been disassembled, labeled, analyzed, recategorized, and accepted, somehow it has to find a place again. Because the mess belongs to me, I am the one who will assign it a place of belonging. This is the difficult part. So much of my past I wish to discard...and it is not possible. I can't take experiences and randomly make them disappear. They are mine. I must keep them.

For a long time I kept them on a display table. If I had to look at them, I didn't want to do it alone. If I had to believe they were real, I needed others to also acknowledge it. If I had to own those experiences, I wanted anyone who was a part of my life to understand where I had come from, and why occasionally, I might act in ways that seemed a bit out of character--not often, of course, because dealing with a frequently irrational person is too much to ask of anyone.

And now? I'm tired of looking. I know it's there. I know it's mine. I know it's me. I don't want to see it anymore. Perhaps this is what happens when one grows physically old. The body no longer looks the way you remembered. It's grey and stooped and wrinkled. It's yours--it's you--but it feels unlike the person you always were. And maybe there comes a time when you no longer need to look in the mirror anymore. You're just old. No one really looks at old people...not even you...

As I think of this a voice inside me which cannot be stilled cries out. I must not ever stop looking. Young girls and boys endure daily the things I remember but no longer encounter. If I put it behind me, I'll become complacent. I won't do what I can to stop the abuse cycle, or help survivors of rape, or keep trying to manage stupid PTSD, or reach out to those who need to give and receive love--and I need them more than they need me.

At this point I'm not sure what to do next. I think, though, I probably need to wait until I've rested from the current PTSD battle. Everything is all jumbled up right now, and nothing makes sense.

And...my stop talking mechanism just snapped into place, so I guess I'm done.

Just so you know

2009-12-10T23:34:00.001-07:00

If you commented on my recent posts, and I have access to your email address, I'm adding you to my list. At this point, you have to opt out.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

Merry Christmas. :-)

A Christmas Carol; the saga continues

2009-12-10T09:33:00.005-07:00

Darrin and I spent two Christmases with his family the year before and the year after we were married. Then we moved from the Bay Area to our current lovely home, miles away and thousands of feet higher. The year we moved here, it snowed on the Fourth of July. I cracked out the Christmas music.

Darrin: Why did you put in that music?

Sam: It snowed. It is necessary to play this kind of music when it snows.

Darrin: It's Christmas music.

Sam: Yup.

Darrin: Sam, it's July--summer.

Sam: Not from where I'm standing. Have you looked out the window today?

Darrin: The snow will be gone tomorrow.

Sam: Probably. So I have to play as much music as I can right now.

Darrin: Sam--I don't even really like Christmas music. It's fine in December, but not now.

Sam: Did you know that in the National Forests they celebrate Christmas on July 25th. They decorate with lights and play Christmas carols and everyone exchanges gifts.

Darrin: You're making that up.

Sam: I'm not. And I was there. And I participated. And we even made marshmallow balls and had a marshmallow ball fight.

Darrin: I don't believe you.

Sam: Okay, we didn't make marshmallow balls, we just threw marshmallows at each other. But Christmas in July is a real National Forest holiday.

Darrin: Even if that's true, today is not July 25th.

Sam: It's close. And I don't believe it's too soon to start playing Christmas music 20 days before the actual holiday.

Darrin: It's not 20 days. It's 174 days before the actual holiday.

Sam: Not in the National Forests.

Darrin: We're not in the National Forests.

Sam: We're fifteen miles away. That counts.

Darrin: If the snow melts today will you stop playing Christmas music?

Sam: Yes. Until it snows again.

Darrin: Really? You plan to play it every time it snows?

Sam: Yes. And make hot chocolate. And marshmallow balls.

Darrin: I think I need to go to the store or something.

Sam: Christmas shopping? Shall I make a list? And check it twice.

Darrin: No. I'll be back when the snow is gone.

Sam: I'll miss you.

Day four of the possibly-illegal-but-I-don't-think-it-is Christmas music giveaway promises to be interesting, if not amazing. Don't forget to let me know if you want to be added to the list. It's not too late...

Don't Miss Day Three

2009-12-09T16:20:00.004-07:00

Still reminiscing about my relationship with Christmas music and Darrin. He just doesn't understand how I can be so horribly well-educated (i.e. Three Degrees of Music), and listen to the mishmash hodgepodge of Christmas music that fills our home during the month of December (and whenever else I want to listen to it because I believe one should listen to Christmas music every time it snows--which can happen any day of the year where we live). Our latest dialogue:

Darrin: WHAT are you listening to???

Sam: Christmas carols.

Darrin: No. Those are not Christmas carols.

Sam: They are.

Darrin: That is MUZAK.

Sam: Yes.

Darrin: Like they play in elevators and stores, only more MUZAKY.

Sam: Yes.

Darrin: Why are you listening to MUZAK???

Sam: Because the CD was on the top.

Darrin: Why do we even have it?

Sam: I bought it a couple of years ago. It was a dollar.

Darrin: That should have been your first clue. One dollar CDs?

Sam: It has a lovely painting on the front.

Darrin: Maybe we could frame it and throw away the CD.

Sam: No.

Darrin: You know--it was just a dollar. We don't have to keep it. We've had it two years--at 50 cents per year (53 cents if you add in sales tax), we've definitely gotten our money's worth.

Sam: I like it.

Darrin: You don't either.

Sam: Yes, I do. It's over one hour of festive Christmas medleys.

Darrin: You timed it?

Sam: No. It says that on the front of the CD.

Darrin: Wait--more than an hour? How long have you been listening to it?

Sam: I don't know.

Darrin: Could we please change it?

Sam: It's my baking music.

Darrin: You bake to muzak?

Sam: I do today.

Darrin: Seriously, Sam--why?

Sam: I don't know. I just like it today. It makes me feel like baking.

Darrin: Don't we have other baking music?

Sam: I have a feeling this is very quickly becoming the only music I'll be able to bake to--possibly all year long, for the rest of our lives.

Darrin: You're telling me to stop bugging you about it?

Sam: Pretty much.

Darrin: Sigh...

It's not too late--just let me know if you'd like me to add you to my email list. Yesterday's offering was non-traditional and Baroque, but even Darrin liked it. Today, however, I'm feeling a great need to share a little muzak...

The possibly-illegal-but-I-don't-think-it-is Christmas music giveaway

2009-12-08T12:38:00.003-07:00

Today is Day Two.

If you're on my chat or email list, and you wish to be included, please let me know. I try to send only the most eclectic, beautiful, or fun music. Yesterday I sent Tolkien Boy an accordion rendition of "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" so he could polka while at work.

Darrin and I have distinctly different tastes in Christmas music. His are strictly traditional. Mine have no boundaries. I'll listen to pretty much anything, and there's no telling what I'll fall in love with (sort of how I am with people, as well), which is not to say I do not have taste...just that I don't always employ it.

An example of a conversation between Sam and Darrin:

Darrin: Bagpipes are not good instruments for Christmas carols.

Sam: They are!! I love them!

Darrin: You're only saying that because I hate them.

Sam: No. That's just a tiny motivator. Besides, don't you think they play carols in Scotland? They do, you know. They've been playing carols in Scotland for hundreds of years before we played them here. On their bagpipes.

Darrin: Only outside. You can only play bagpipe music outside.

Sam: That's not true.

Darrin: How do you know?

Sam: I'm a musician!

Darrin: You don't play the bagpipes.

Sam: No. But bagpipes are historic. They have their roots in Ancient Rome.

Darrin: I doubt it, but even if that's true, what does it have to do with Christmas carols?

Sam: It is true. But the Celts made more use of the instruments.

Darrin: You're making this up.

Sam: I never make anything up if it has to do with music, and I always tell you if I'm prevaricating. Besides, I have a great-grandmother from Scotland.

Darrin: So?

Sam: So I have to play bagpipe carols in her honor. And if you'd like to play carols on some obscure instrument from Spain, in honor of your ancestors, I'm in favor of that.

Darrin: One great-grandmother does not make you Scottish.

Sam: No. But it does make me want to play bagpipe carols.

Darrin: Okay, how about you only play them when I'm not at home.

Sam: You're unemployed right now. You're always at home. What if I just play them quietly?

Darrin: You said it was inappropriate to play bagpipe carols quietly. It was an insult to the instrument.

Sam: That's very true. I'm wise.

Darrin: Right.

Sam: Stop snorting. Okay, how about I only play my bagpipe carols CD once a day, preferably when you're gone or sleeping, not at full volume, and you get to choose the next CD.

Darrin: Deal.

Sam: But when we meet my grandmother, you're the one who has to apologize, because I tried to honor her more often than you would allow.

Darrin: I will. And I'll apologize to the Romans, too.

Anyway, I have yet to choose today's offering, so if you hurry, you can still opt in. I'll be sending until about midnight (MST) tonight.

Please do not look for a logical progression of thought in this post.

2009-12-08T08:23:00.003-07:00

Typically, November and December are temperate months here. There have been Christmases which have been brown. I've harvested broccoli and Brussels sprouts in mid-November. The snow that falls is wet and short-lived. Last week it was cold--high temperatures in the teens. Today our expected high is zero. Someone needs to tell the weatherman that unless the temperature registers above zero, it cannot be considered a "high". He can work a bit harder and send us one measly degree. Fortunately, the ten-day forecast promises ten whole degrees for tomorrow's high, and then we'll swing back into our days of 30s and 40s which feel much warmer because of our abundant sunshine. I might even run outside again before January arrives.

Tabitha helped me make Danish pastries last night. It was supposed to be a family activity, but DJ came home from work and fell asleep. He's having trouble balancing finals and work. I keep suggesting that a bedtime before midnight might be helpful. He just looks at me with glazed eyes and keeps studying. Adam was gone (in a holiday performance), and Darrin had spent the day doing various renovations to our home which all have started well, but will no doubt, remain unfinished once he gets a job, and will drive me crazy until I disassemble all the work Darrin has done. So he was tired, too, and also fell asleep.

So Tabitha and I made Danish pastries--which means I listened to her talk about junior high stuff (including all the "boy" stuff), and agreed with her that life is truly traumatic and fraught with drama, and assured her that she is beautiful and amazing in spite of what that mean girl said about her. By the time we were finished, I was envious of the men snoring in my house, but my daughter thinks I'm wonderful and that will last for at least another twelve hours.

I have a very high pain tolerance. This means I don't notice when I'm hurting, much of the time. If you've cooked with me and I've cut or burned myself, usually I don't react. Sometimes I wrinkle my nose, I'm told, because I'm annoyed that I've been interrupted. I rarely notice a headache until it becomes intolerable. This once landed me in the emergency room because the pain was causing me to vomit and I couldn't stop. Darrin has learned to watch for other telltale signs in me which signal pain, because he does not ever want to do the ER visit again. If we can catch the pain as it begins and medicate it, usually I'm fine.

Such signs include the following:

1. Increased withdrawal, regardless of surroundings or circumstances.

2. Distraction and inability to concentrate.

3. Irritability and irrational responses to small annoyances.

4. Pacing.

When Darrin notices any of these happening, he questions me--asks me if I'm hurting anywhere. It used to frustrate me, because I didn't believe I was. Now I've learned to stop and tune into my body. Usually he's correct. I'm hurting and just not recognizing it. I take pain killer and within an hour I feel much better.

Unfortunately, this same inability to recognize pain seems to be paralleled in my power to perceive stress. I don't notice it until it becomes overwhelming. It's impossible to ignore a panic attack. If I admit I'm under stress, an attack is usually pending. However, I have discovered, to my dismay, that there are other consequences.

In February of this year, one of my best friends lost her six-year-old son in a tragic accident. I loved that little boy. I still miss him. His death occurred when I was going through a number of other emotional complications and working on some therapy projects which left me more vulnerable than I knew. Shortly after this, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and began two consecutive series of chemotherapy which finally ended the week of Thanksgiving. It often fell to me to be a caregiver in this situation. In mid-May I became pregnant, which sapped me of all physical strength and left me in a bit of a panic. I went through a period of suicidal depression in late June and early July. The pregnancy terminated in July, allowing me to experience miscarriage, which was nothing close to what I had expected. I spent August through the end of September trying to rally myself emotionally and physically, and learn to live again, only to be hit by the H1N1 virus which was followed by another virus which also attacks the lungs. And then Darrin lost his job.

By early November, I was finally feeling alive again. One month later I feel completely recovered, which has allowed me to take a look at the aftermath of my year. What I have found is that there are a number of things which became neglected when I was having my year from hell. Things I was certain I had done--things I REMEMBER doing--but I didn't. I remember doing them. I know I did them. But I did not.

This month will be spent discovering the reality of my faulty memories and accepting the consequences. Darrin has decided I need to let him know when I first begin feeling stress--not when it becomes unmanageable. He's been taking over many of the household duties to allow me to sift through the mess I've created.

I'm at a loss. I can't believe I didn't do the things I remember doing. Darrin says, given the things I've dealt with in a rather short span of time, it's understandable that I might forget some things. But I think I've gone insane. I hope this isn't irreversible.

"...there is a lot of funny stuff that happens in life..." ~Jeannette Harrison

2009-12-06T07:54:00.004-07:00

PTSD...back with a vengeance. But it's different this time. Much different.

I've been asked on several occasions to describe what happens when I feel those symptoms. I've tried. I'm lamentably awful at describing the things that hurt the worst. I'm far more likely to make the attempt and end with a feeble, "Well, it's really not that bad and it's temporary. I'm just making a big deal out of nothing."

I'm not, though. It is a big deal. It's monstrous. And the thought of sharing it with anyone else sends me guilt and even more agony. I can't share this. I don't want anyone to know or understand because that means, if they love me, they'll feel it a tiny bit, as well. No one should feel this.

The above paragraph is how I feel when I'm dying to talk about what's happening, but PTSD puts a muzzle on me. If I push the barrier and try to talk, the symptoms increase to the point that they immobilize me, invariably ending in an unmanageable panic attack. Sometimes people will ask me how I'm feeling. Occasionally I begin to tell them. ALWAYS I'm finished before I began. I can't do it.

Today the PTSD cycle is in its second day. Yesterday had rough spots.

The difference, however, is that I feel lucid. I am divided. An immense chasm looms between Samantha-sane and Samantha-bonkers. But I believe for the first time, I can describe the feelings without intensifying them.

1. Sadness. In the past the feelings cropped up randomly. I find myself overwhelmed by the fact that not only do I live with the things that have happened to me, but millions of children are abused daily and there is nothing I can to do stop it. The weeping begins and I cannot stop. It can happen at any time--I might be driving, or practicing, or teaching a class.

Today, however, the sane part of me sends the reminder that I have done something to stop it. I'm doing something every day. I did not repeat the abuse cycle with my own children. I have siblings who have repeated it. My choice was to stop the cycle and try to become the best parent I could. I have tried to help others heal from abuse and other hurts simply by loving them whenever I had the opportunity. That's not really stopping the cycle, but neither is it perpetuating it. And even though I'm feeling the sadness today, it doesn't defeat me. I don't feel weak and overcome. This is new.

2. Loneliness. When PTSD looms I could be surrounded by people who love me and I would still ache with loneliness. There have been moments when someone has been able to interrupt this symptom layer, but as soon as they leave the reprieve is over. Part of what makes this so vexing is an underlying core belief that it is right and proper for Samantha to be alone.

Today I am hearing Samantha-sane telling Samantha-bonkers to remember I need people. The loneliness stems from the need to talk, coupled with a certainty that talking is not only wrong, but there is no one who truly wishes to listen--both of which are faulty conclusions which I have disproved repeatedly over the past four years. I'm a bit surprised that Samantha-bonkers seems to be listening for the first time.

3. A firm belief that I am worthless, which leads to a belief that I am detrimental and filthy. This is one that makes me feel incredible pain. Lucidly, I believe the sum total of Samantha is not comprised of what has been done to her. Irrationally, I cannot escape the belief that I am forever ugly and used up.

Today this feeling is mild. Samantha-sane is reminding me of my own feelings toward abuse and rape survivors. The things that have happened are events which harm their victims, but do not change the integral worth of those who survive. For the first time, I find the irrational part of me wishing to believe this.

4. A need to isolate. This is certainly related to the last part...well, all the other symptoms, probably. It becomes all I'm able to think about, eventually; the panacea for PTSD. I lose the desire to chat with friends and stop answering my phone. I don't go out except for work. I stop caring about life.

This symptom surprised me by popping up at the onset of the symptoms during this cycle. It usually comes later. The timing of it seems to be advantageous since everyone I might talk with seems crazy-busy, and I am, as well. The strength of the feeling is more intense than usual, but less constant, but the lingering effects seem longer lasting.

The stress and panic which stem from the above symptoms seem less intense this time. It's still early, and past experience tells me those could increase. But I don't feel helpless, overwhelmed, or fatalistic this time. Peace intertwines with turmoil and beneath it all is a lightness born of knowing my life is good. I feel inherently weak, but also know I have strength building in my reserves which will come to my rescue.

Things that are missing this time:

1. A need to ask everyone who loves me to tell me so.

2. A desire to be rescued.

3. A constant need to be held and comforted.

4. A belief that my life has no purpose, meaning, or even right to exist.

5. A fear that I will not make it through this cycle.

I'm finished charting my progress. It is what it is. Hopefully, this time I'll emerge less exhausted and weepy. If not, no doubt I'll receive another chance to try again. PTSD seems to have no intention of leaving me alone. It is, if nothing else, completely reliable.

And everything in-between

2009-12-03T23:40:00.008-07:00

I've been blogging less often for a few reasons:

1. I'm working too many hours and it's difficult to rally my thoughts some days. We're still waiting to hear about the job Darrin was offered. He met with the hiring committee on Monday and they requested his transcripts dating back to high school. The high school transcripts had to be requested by mail and will, in turn, be delivered by mail. It could take more time than I wish to think about to put all the paperwork in place--and then the job might not even happen. Sigh...I need this to be easier. In the meantime, I'll continue to add as many contracts as I can. Tomorrow I'll spend the better part of my morning arbitrating for a client with the IRS, then enjoy a training meeting, then watch video clips while I index them, then play my violin in our Messiah performance. At least I have a large variety in all that I'm doing.

2. Obviously, it's performance season. Any spare moments seem to be filled with personal practice hours, rehearsal time, and performances. I accompanied a couple of choirs during a gala concert Tuesday night. The choirs performed about one hour into the program. I sat in the audience to listen to the other groups perform...and woke up about forty-five minutes later. I had no idea I'd been sleeping. I'm just glad I woke up before I was supposed to accompany. Hopefully, that won't happen again.

3. I'm thinking. A lot. Things are happening quickly inside me. I'm not sure how much is permanent change, so I'm just watching for now, and hoping for the best. I believe I have finally moved through all the grieving I'd put off for many years. I've looked at my situation from nearly every angle, carefully scrutinized the agonizing parts, allowed myself to feel the emotions which have frightened me, and felt entirely too much pain. For nearly eighteen months I thought I had descended into a place from which I could not return. I felt my personality changing, my outlook on life darkening, my hope disappearing. It was miserable.

Finally, about mid-November, I noticed a change. It was subtle but profound. My reactions to PTSD symptoms had become different. The symptoms, as always, were frustrating and aggravating, but there was a resiliency in my reaction to them. I hated the feelings which had no basis in reality, but I understood they would soon pass. And reaching out to others for help and reassurance seemed a logical step, rather than a shameful act of weakness. Interestingly, in spite of that recognition, I didn't find myself asking for that help often, and when I did it was brief. I'm not sure why.

The snowball effect of this culminated in a beautiful Sunday this week. For the first time in a couple of years I felt completely whole and happy. This state of being has been present in my life in nearly any circumstance. Even when I've felt sadness or been abused, within a short period of time the underlying assurance that life is beautiful has asserted itself and I've drawn strength from it. Not having access to it in the recent years has led to hopelessness and aggravated suicidal feelings. Those seem alien to me now. I am having difficulty comprehending such depth of pain in spite of the fact that it was my own.

In the moments between PTSD influences, I've spent my time rallying, preparing for the next period when the symptoms are overwhelming. The knowledge that the reprieve is temporary has been depressing. Today, even knowing the symptoms will return at some point, I feel hopeful. Each day presents a beauty I've been missing. Everything seems worth noting and joyful. Today our high temperature was four degrees. But the sun was shining, and the snow sparkled. Breathing created thick, white clouds, and when the the breath caught and froze in my throat before I could pull it inside, I wanted to laugh just because it happened and I'm alive.

4. At some point this blog will no longer be necessary. My purpose in writing is becoming less clear, and I'm not sure I have anything left to say. There have been times when I wrote because reader comments were often uncensored and unsympathetic. Those who read my words responded with a variety of personal thoughts and ideas which in turn, spurred me on to new discoveries. I didn't care if their words seemed uncaring or even scathing. I was only interested in finding a variety of ways to view my situation.

There have also been times when my pain has been intense and real. Occasional commentors have been willing to offer support and empathy even when they didn't know me. I needed that. Knowing other people were aware I was hurting seemed important, somehow.

But now I don't know anymore. After all that has happened in the past four years, I'm still battling reluctance to allow closeness in relationships. I'm still finding myself hoarding moments when I can be alone and quiet. Interestingly, in the past those moments were completely solitary. Now I find myself recognizing that there are some people with whom I would share those moments. I understand they have no interest in that--but the recognition that I do not have to always be alone is unexpected, and it is concrete enough that I can even imagine being with someone else in those moments. For the first time in my memory, the thought of their presence does not feel intrusive or unwelcome.

I feel a need to redefine my life expectation--and I don't even know what that means. I'm confused when I realize my needs are real, and sometimes those needs can be met. After four years of scrutinizing every part of my past and present self, I have no idea who I am.

So I'll blog when I have time, when I feel the desire. But the time when I needed to blog seems to have passed. I have advertised all the parts of me that I felt were shameful and loathsome and found in the process, exoneration and acceptance. I have passed beyond the veil of anonymity with many whom I've met through this blog--and some of them still like me. This place has offered me freedom to express what I have suppressed, and allowed me to find a voice; to honestly state my history and feelings.

I am nowhere near the endpoint I predicted years ago. Tolkien Boy would tell me the reality is much better than the future I projected. I don't know if I agree with his imagined comment, but as there seems to be nothing I can do about it, I'll hope he's correct. I am here. And maybe someday I'll figure out who I am. For now, though, I think I'll bake more cookies.

"My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I'm Happy. I can't figure it out. What am I doing right?" ~Charles Schultz

2009-11-30T14:43:00.003-07:00

Yesterday was happy. Really happy. Buoyant, delightful, joyful...the way I used to be, always.

A million years ago I joined with about five other people to help start a charter school in our district. I had good reason for doing so, beginning with the fifth grade teacher who handed my DJ an advanced math book and told him to go ahead and work out of that while the rest of the class did "normal" math. No instruction. No guidance. Just, "Here you go!!" Of course, DJ didn't do the math. He was ten, after all, and not very good at self-study. Instead, he read--all day long. And his teacher let him. So, I found other disgruntled moms, thought about home school, and eventually threw my momentum in with the tiny group of people who would bring about the first charter school in Wyoming.

I was remembering this because our task was not easy. We were met with opposition from many sources, not the least of which was our own school district. We were ridiculed, assured we would never succeed, and beaten down whenever the opportunity arose. I thrive in such an environment...something must be wrong with me...

Following one of our meetings, I was chatting with our fearless leader and she said to me, "You are a naturally happy person. I've never met anyone quite like you."

I've never forgotten her words because they're true. Happiness is as natural to me as breathing. Even when things in my life were miserable and terrifying, in the daylight I found solace and joy in the beautiful surroundings in which I lived. Simply watching things grow gave me pleasure. I was hurting and sad and often in despair--and yet life still seemed beautiful . With the exception of a nine month period following my cousin's departure, I have never known prolonged depression and I emerged from my harrowing experience damaged but intact, and I learned to smile and laugh again.

It has been a difficult year. For a short time I lost that natural happiness on which I've relied for most of my life. Yesterday it emerged once more. Today it stays with me still. I am happy. And there is no one quite like me.

Waiting

2009-11-27T09:53:00.002-07:00

Darrin received a provisional job offer last week. The college is waiting on his transcripts to be certain he's completed required classwork necessary for him to teach. We have no idea what specific classes they'll be looking for so we don't know if he'll qualify. Still, he was told he was the top candidate and offered a very nice salary/benefits package contingent on qualification, so just knowing he's capable and wanted was very good for his ego and emotional health.

And now every sentence passing his lips is prefaced by, "If I get that job..."

Yikes! I'm getting stressed. I'll be glad when next week comes and we know the end result.

Sometimes kicking and screaming just don't help.

2009-11-26T16:49:00.002-07:00

It's Thanksgiving. I hate Thanksgiving.

Not the gratitude part, just the holiday.

I am trying to remember this is just part of the past.

Thanksgiving meant spending time with my mother's family. It meant making mounds of food I never really liked. It meant lots of people and loud noises and someone--never the same person--always in trouble.

One year my cousin Jeff and I hid in a cupboard and played Speed. It was the best Thanksgiving ever. Our families forgot to call us for dinner, and with all the people milling about we weren't missed. We had a flashlight and Jeff had managed to sneak pieces of turkey, rolls, fruit and salad (those were for me) into our tiny hiding place. We listened to the growl of the large crowd seated at a table in the other room, ate our feast and played cards. No one noticed we were missing until Jeff's mother brought out a coconut cream pie. Jeff, who later became a chef, had made it. My aunt wanted him to cut it. He was with me--invisible.

Jeff and I received dish duty as a punishment for not being present at dinner, and for taking food into our hiding place. We didn't finish our chore. My dad came to help us, saw the glazed look on our faces as we stared at the pile of cutlery and plates, and suggested a walk might do us good. We were gone before he finished the sentence. I don't know what excuse was made to my mother, who extended the original punishment. Today it hardly matters.

I never see Jeff anymore. He became an alcoholic and lived in an abusive marriage for many years. Last spring he finally entered rehab. I wonder if he remembers a time when I considered him the only person I trusted.

My cousin, David, was always present at Thanksgiving. This lent a surreal air to the celebration: Yay! We're eating too much food and giving thanks for our wonderful lives while I sit next to the person who raped me last year, or the year before, or the year before...

Probably one of the reasons I hate the meal so much is because I associate it with the feeling of being trapped at a family gathering where I was afraid to speak. Always, the week of Thanksgiving, my nightmares become unmanageable. Maybe I wanted to tell everyone, to stop pretending everyone loves everyone... Yeah, that would have been inappropriate, I guess.

I read all the beautiful notes of gratitude on my Facebook homepage. It makes me feel horribly inadequate. Everyone is THANKFUL. I am Scrooge.

I'm thankful that the cousin who visited me with his family every year at Thanksgiving, didn't try to rape me after I turned twelve. I'm thankful that my mom didn't scream at me while company was present. I'm thankful there was a cupboard to hide in with someone who felt safe...

Darrin made the turkey this year--and mashed potatoes and stuffing and gravy and salad and pecan pie. My sister made enough yams to feed the entire world. My mom made rolls. My brother made cherry and pumpkin pies.

I want to feel happy on this day. I want to stop remembering. I want to post my list on Facebook--if I'm ever able to make a list.

I'm not ungrateful, really. I'm just not finished figuring things out yet, I guess. I'm not finished remembering and being churlish about not having a golden childhood. I'm not finished pouting...

I hate Thanksgiving.

"Joy is what happens to us when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are." ~Marianne Williamson

2009-11-25T09:45:00.004-07:00

I'll be honest--I'm ready for this year to end.

I've posted so many times about the things that have been difficult for me in the past twelve months, I think it's about time I talk about the things that are wonderful:

1. I'm not pregnant anymore. Yay!!

2. I have all my physical strength back after miscarrying and surviving H1N1. I feel healthy and strong.

3. My pansies insist on blooming in spite of blizzards, daily temperatures that peak at 30 degrees, and freezing winds. And they're colorful spots in the white snow beneath my front window.

4. I'm playing my annual violin gig in Messiah. We perform a week from Friday. I love this experience and the people who come to play and sing. This year our choir has over 100 members and our orchestra is, of course, amazing (mostly due to the second chair violinist and cellist--we never miss a note--ever).

5. I've been able to spend lots of time with Darrin, which hasn't happened for awhile. He makes me smile.

6. In spite of major setbacks in the friendship department, I find myself surprised by the knowledge that I have a long list of people I'm missing who will spend time with me online or in person. And among those are friends who have been close to me for more than three years, which is forever in Samantha time.

7. I got to teach my favorite class at the university this semester, and I ROCKED!! Well...I sucked at grading assignments and getting them back to my students in a timely manner, but I gave them Tootsie pops, and they smile at me, and one of them followed me down three Walmart aisles until I noticed her and said hello, so I think she likes me.

8. Someone told me last week that every time he sees me, I'm smiling like I have a wonderful secret. I wonder if he's right.

9. I've had numerous experiences in the past three months which have helped me learn and grow. Not the kind of learning and growing that you do when things are horrible and there's no other choice and you want to punch the next person who tells you you'll look back on this time and be grateful for the things you learned, but beautiful, peaceful experiences which have reminded me why I'm the person I am.

10. I made almond risotto with raspberry sauce AND chocolate mousse last night with the help of three beautiful young ladies who giggled and talked far too loudly and made me glad to be alive.

11. I had lunch with Sister Pottymouth, and visited with Mr. Fob and FoxyJ, and Jason and Leslie, and Edgy and Dec, and Ambrosia and Bawb (and got to enjoy spending time with the adorable children of the aforementioned couples).

12. People I've never met continue to visit my blog, email me, and check up on me. I'm pretty sure I forget to say thank you, and sometimes I don't even respond, but just so you know--there have been days when a comment from one of you has reminded me that life is beautiful and you can love someone you've never met.

13. AtP manages to say hello to me nearly every day. We never get to talk as long as I'd like, or spend enough time laughing together, but maybe someday that will happen. Four months from now, we will have been friends for four years.

14. Tolkien Boy listens to me whine several days a week and never tells me to stop. And usually he says something that makes me think. Probably I'm not thinking about what he intended, but that's just because I'm being difficult. In spite of that, he doesn't hide from me very often, which I deeply appreciate.

15. Dj and Adam continue to make me giggle with offhand comments such as:

"I really like folding underwear." (Adam)

"Dude, you really gotta stop wearing so much cologne. Seriously, you're gonna kill someone." (DJ)

"That cloud looks like the Pink Panther on steroids riding a unicycle and eating cotton candy." (Adam)

"I make lots of money. I wish I knew what I did with it." (DJ)

"I'm going to The Fray concert. I hope it's better than their music." (DJ)

"I look amazing in dress clothes." (Adam)

"Don't tell Tabitha!!!" (Adam and DJ)

It is more blessed to give than to receive...

2009-11-23T13:57:00.009-07:00

I spent time with Sheila last Friday. One of the reasons I love Sheila is because she says whatever is on her mind. Friday, I was the topic of thought. She decided to recount to me how she felt when we first met. Apparently she felt drawn to me--I was warm, friendly and funny. Sheila decided we should be best friends. Usually when she makes this decision, the best friend bonding happens and everything falls into place delightfully. This was not the case with Samantha.

I met Sheila when she had been married about two years. Tabitha and Adam were three and four, respectively. Sheila and her husband were Adam's Primary teachers and I was the song leader. We had other interactions because Sheila and I both have music degrees. I often accompanied her when she sang. She and I attended the same social events.

Sheila told me that she thought things were going along swimmingly in the Sheila/Samantha best-friendship, until she hugged me one day. I recoiled. On another occasion she sat next to me in a concert, put her arm around me and stroked my arm. I stiffened and slowly moved away. About two weeks later she was excited about a piece we had performed together that went very well, so she hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. I smiled and disappeared about five seconds later. Sheila didn't understand why I rebuffed her efforts to get close to me in any way, but was more confused that I seemed to hate to be touched.

"You're not that way, though. You love to be touched." This was Sheila's comment on Friday. She's partly correct.

I don't hate to be touched. I enjoy, even crave certain types of touch--mostly non-sexual. But because of the ways I have been abused, I need to be approached carefully. Darrin calls it non-sexual, emotional foreplay, which makes me cringe but is sort of accurate. I do not welcome intimacy of any kind from strangers, nor even from people I know well but with whom I have not developed some semblance of trust. I also do not wish to have any kind of meaningful interaction with someone who will disappear from my life.

Today Sheila cuddles with me, hugs me, holds my hand, walks with me arm-in-arm, kisses my cheek... I have known her more than ten years.

"But you still try to push people away. You don't even know you're doing it. I think it's a reflex. You still do it to me." Sheila was describing the careful way I greet her. I do not initiate physical contact. I don't kiss her back. I will accept what she gives, but I do not offer the same.

Sheila is the youngest of a dozen children. She was petted and spoiled by both parents and all her siblings. She's never known a time in her life when someone wasn't cuddling her, holding her, kissing her. She does not understand me. At all.

I tried once to explain to her what my childhood and teenage years were like. I glossed over the physical beatings I received. I briefly explained the loneliness I felt as I watched my mother hold one of my siblings, or cuddle them next to her as they read or sat in church. I touched lightly on the isolation and pain I endured after being raped by my cousin. I couldn't tell her everything--not even a tiny part of everything. She cried for me when I could not, and the thought of my life causing her pain seemed ugly and unacceptable. I wasn't ready to understand that empathy is not necessarily agony.

There have been two people besides my children who have received prolonged touch initiated by me. One is Darrin.

I'm happy to receive that which Sheila offers. Her willingness to offer physical, non-sexual touch in a public arena fills a void I've had for a very long time. It has taken me a decade to allow it, though. She is, after all, a woman. The woman who should have filled those needs, instead spent my formative years teaching me that I was not worthy of loving touch, and that touch offered by me was repulsive and unwanted. I'm very careful about offering touch now.

Someday Sheila will tell me this, "Sam, I think you need to kiss me back." And she'll offer me her cheek as she laughs at me for hesitating. She doesn't understand that such a gesture is not easy for me, that the cost of such affection is very high. It hurts to take a risk that might be rebuffed or misconstrued. The few people who receive that salute from my lips are warned in advance and allowed the opportunity to decline.

Once, a long time ago, a friend went with me to see the man who raped me. The three of us had lunch together, chatted like old friends, and then the rapist left. My friend stayed with me as I made an idiot of myself, sliding down the wall of the lobby because my legs suddenly lost strength and the urge to throw up became overwhelming. He walked with me in a park I would not remember a year later, and that afternoon in my motel room, he held me while I slept because I'd had no sleep for nearly three days previously (it is very stressful preparing to meet one's own personal rapist).

I didn't expect him to stay. I don't think I even knew that I wanted him to. My impulse was to be alone so that I could be sick and maybe try to cry a little bit. He didn't ask what I wanted--he didn't ask me to take him home, and since I probably wasn't capable of driving at that time, it's good that he stayed.

When I finally took him back to his family home that night, there was no way to thank him for what he had done for me. While I recognize now that this statement is true partly because I would never allow anyone to do so, no one other than Darren had ever given me the kind of time and tenderness I had received from my friend. If he had asked permission to give me what I needed, I would have said no. He didn't ask.

I told him thank you--how horribly inadequate. I gave him a hug--still, not enough. So, knowing that I would probably contaminate him for life, but having nothing left to express how very much I loved him and was grateful to have him there that day, I said, "I'm going to give you a kiss on the cheek." Then I waited for him to laugh at me, or push me away, or say, "Thanks, but I'd rather chew on gravel, if it's all the same to you."

He stood still and waited, and after I gave my tiny salute, he held me close and said thank you. And there's a good chance that he escaped lifelong contamination, in spite of me.

My children have grown up enjoying spontaneous kisses and continuous hugs. On one of our frequent shopping trips, Tabitha gave me a random kiss on the cheek before dashing off to look at t-shirts. An acquaintance of ours witnessed the event, walked over to me and said, "Your daughter is very sweet--and the two of you have a lovely relationship." This is true much of the time, and I'm grateful my daughter does not feel the same constraint I do when it comes to sharing a physical expression of love. I wish I knew how she does it--how Sheila does it--how anyone does it naturally without even thinking about it, simply because it feels normal and right.

Because it's late and I just want to.

2009-11-18T22:02:00.002-07:00

Top 10 Chewbacca quotes:

10. Gggggaaaaaaarrrrr. Arrrrhhhn. (Star Wars)

9. Arrrggghhnnn. Grrrhn. Gahr. (Empire Strikes Back)

8. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhrnnn. (Star Wars)

7. Rhhhnngggnn. Garrrrr! (Return of the Jedi)

6. Ggggr gaarrr grrn rrhnn. (Star Wars)

5. Rrrrrrr rrrraaaahhh rrrrrrggghhhhnn. (Return of the Jedi)

4. Gggggggrrrrrn. (Star Wars)

3. Aaaaaarr Ggggaaaaaarrr. (Star Wars)

2. Gggggrrrrrr rrrraaaahhh rrrrrrggghhhhnn. (Empire Strikes Back)

1. Aaaaaarrrrr rhhhnnn gggggrrrrr. (Star Wars)

Sigh...

2009-11-14T23:25:00.006-07:00

There are some people who just don't get it.

Well, they just don't get me.

Honestly, this used to seem funny. I would answer emails, tongue-in-cheek, hoping to discourage more judgmental correspondence. It didn't matter. These were strangers. Why should I care what they think of me...I've never really cared what anyone thought of me...

Then Sully happened. Someone I loved with my whole soul. I didn't want to love him at all. But I saw him hurting, I knew he felt incredibly alone, and I knew I could ease some of that pain. So I did. I loved him. I welcomed into my home and my life. We talked, and laughed, and took long walks. And for awhile he loved me back, but in the end, he judged me a hypocrite because I would not explain--not even to him--why I live and believe as I do. Because I would not join him on his path. Because in his mind, no honest person can be as I am.

I won't change. I don't explain myself to anyone. If Sully, after four years of watching me and knowing me, can judge me in the way that he has, and leave me in silence for what is quickly approaching one year, simply because he wishes me to be what I am not, then in my mind he never knew me in the first place.

Darrin says that's unfair. I don't allow people to know me. There is always another piece to discover--something I have hidden carefully away for no real reason--simply because it's a habit to conceal what is really me. He says after living with me for nearly half his life, he still continues to discover new things and he expects he will die without knowing who I really am. This doesn't bother him, necessarily, he tells me, after all, boredom is unlikely to set in and most of what he discovers is delightful and beautiful. And that is why I love Darrin forever. He is determined to see me at my very best, in any and every situation.

I am digressing.

Once again someone has visited me, scanned my archives, read my FAQs, and done some rather complicated computations in which 2x +5y + scrambled eggs and mango chutney = rose petals and asphalt carpet fibers. In other words, they believe as others have before them, that I cannot exist. If I am married happily, I am not gay/SSA/homosexual/whatever. And if I am gay/SSA/homosexual/whatever, I'm living a lie, forcing my husband to live in a sham marriage, and raising children destined to live with broken hearts, disillusionment, and a skewed view of marriage and intimacy.

Judgment.

I used to believe, before Sully, that those who made such judgments were simply ignorant, and that if they met me, they would understand that I am all I profess and I have no reason to lie. Now I recognize that people believe what they believe, and if I don't fit into that paradigm, it is I, and not the paradigm that is flawed. I have no desire to debate with them. I am content to let them believe what they will.

Tonight, though, I will share something. It will not explain the contradictions of my life. It's simply on my mind because of the recent judge/jury email. It's not an answer to the sender, for I feel no compulsion to provide an answer to him. I am who I am. It doesn't matter whether my existence challenges his whitewashed world of prejudice.

Throughout my life I have been overwhelmed with questions. I have studied religions with fervor. I spent a number of years reading the words of atheists and I have the greatest respect for their writings and their thoughtful views. In the end, I decided what I believed--which only increased the volume of questions filling my head.

I'm quite certain the Lord plays Solitaire while we talk. No doubt he needs something to do while I ask my incessant questions. For years I have asked--sometimes the same things repeatedly, but occasionally a new query creeps into the lot. No doubt, God sighs with relief when he hears something new. Which isn't to say he answers my questions. Sometimes he does, but often I'm allowed to ask indefinitely with no response forthcoming.

I remember recently, feeling frustrated. I didn't think The Big Guy was listening, and if he was, he was ignoring me. I felt defeated about a number of questions I thought were extremely important, which remained unanswered--and I had done the "study it out" thing, and the research, and the fasting, and all that I could, in the hopes that I might receive direction...

As I sat fuming, feeling shunned by that One who promised he loved me, I realized something. It didn't answer the questions, or solve the problems, but it was something I had not thought of before. The answers, to me, make no difference. While I want to know, and I believe one day I will know, receiving those answers will not change the course of my life. I decided long ago what I believed, how I wished to live my life, and what kind of person I wanted to be, and I have pursued the course of action I believe will bring about the results I am seeking. If the Lord withholds the answers to my questions for any reason, it does not shake my faith. I know who I am and where I am going. And sometimes the quest to find the answers is more important than the answers, themselves.

What does this have to do with my most recent email naysayer?

I'm beginning to understand why some of my questions have been left unanswered. They were born in pettiness or small-minded judgments. And I think the Lord knew that even if I had been given the answers, I might not have accepted them--just as I know, if I answer my emailer it will make no difference in his judgment of me. He has already decided how things ought to be. Nothing I say will change his mind. I've experienced, on occasion, that same state of mind as I inquired, oppugned, and interrogated the Lord. I wanted the answers to fit into my tiny perspective--I did not want to hear what the truth might actually be.

I don't expect I'll ever stop worrying The Big Guy with all my questions. I claim that right as his child. But I believe, as he continues to play his rounds of Solitaire, while my voice drones in the background, that he listens with half an ear and one day when I'm ready to listen, he'll talk with me. Perhaps one day my emailer will be ready to hear what I have to say, as well. Until then, I believe I will allow his questions and accusations to remain unanswered. Silence is golden.

Dinner Conversation

2009-11-11T19:20:00.005-07:00

Adam (to Tabitha): When you go to English tomorrow, you should take Mrs-English-Teacher-That-I-Had-Last-Year's big pencil and just put it on your desk.

Tabitha: Okay, I will.

(Long pause)

Darrin: What's this "big pencil" thing about?

Adam: It's about...

(he pauses, picks up the bread knife and holds it horizontally, extending his free hand four inches beyond the tip)

Adam: ....this long.

(short pause, then we all erupt into laughter and Adam looks completely confused)

Adam: What? WHAT!?!?

Me: Don't worry about it. I think you just had to be there.

Just one more reason I love my dad:

2009-11-11T18:46:00.004-07:00

I don't know which presidential candidate received his vote. I never ask--it's a private ballot--it's none of my business (and if you ask who I voted for, I'll let you know it's none of your business, either). But I love how he tries to support the candidate who wins.

So many times people in our country try to sabotage our leaders through pettiness and idiocy. It's one thing to recognize when a president makes bad decisions--but even when we had an abundance of those over the past eight years, it's still not helpful to try to undermine the leader, especially when he's so good at digging his own grave.

Since Obama's inauguration, my dad has been the recipient of emails and letters listing hundreds of inane reasons our current president is unfit for the office. Dad finally reached the end today. After receiving an email about how Obama's welfare policies (and seriously, since when can one man take credit for the legislative process of our country? I thought we had things like Senators and Congressmen/women who help make those policies and laws...if they don't, we sure pay them a lot of money for nothing) were allowing welfare recipients to use government funds to buy cell phones, and how we all ought to be outraged and DO SOMETHING!!!!, my father responded to the sender and the numerous other recipients in this way:

Please take my name off from the "bash Obama" list. I am growing weary of the senseless, unsubstantiated rhetoric.

I am praying for our national leaders, including President Obama, as our prophets from Joseph Smith to Thomas Monson have counseled us to do. I invite all who believe in our prophet's words to consider doing the same.

I wonder what our country would be like if more people were like my dad.

If you have a moment...

2009-11-11T08:27:00.004-07:00

I've had a visitor to my blog in the past couple of years who has blessed my life. Her name is Debbie Haughland Chan. She is the author of the book, Searching for Love. So many times the things she has said here or in her own blog posts have touched my heart or helped me feel added love and support.

I do not know her, personally. I have never met her. But she is my friend.

On Monday, Debbie's 24-year-old son took his life. If you have a moment today, remember her, please. Think of her, pray for her, lend support to one who is grieving. And if you feel you can, stop by her blog to let her know she's not alone.

From what I've learned about Debbie--I know she would do the same for you.

"Your life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change." ~Jim Rohn

2009-11-10T21:38:00.005-07:00

I've had lots of visitors since my last post--but no helpful ideas, thoughtful criticisms, or even blatant ridicule.

Sigh...

I know. I shouldn't have asked. This is my project. But now I'm at the really difficult part and my idea well is running dry, so perhaps I can be forgiven for asking for help. Maybe.

I realized yesterday that I had been at my computer most of the day on Friday, Saturday, and Monday, but had accomplished very little and had no desire or motivation to do so. This is an inopportune time to be nonproductive. Darrin is jobless. I need to be making money. But...I just couldn't seem to make myself do the work.

After a brief self-examination, I realized I was depressed. It felt different because I was experiencing it sans PTSD symptoms. The feelings were there, but so much less intense that they are when tainted by PTSD that I was having difficulty identifying them. This brings a whole host of new problems because my impulses and behavior seem out of character, and I don't really know how to combat the feelings of depression.

I cleaned--which always makes me feel better. I think I mentioned it to a couple of friends, but I don't remember. And if I did, it was at a time when they couldn't be of support to me anyway, so probably I should have said nothing. Too late now. :-)

This morning I took a walk with Darrin and we talked about the problem. It's not easy to admit to him that I'm feeling this way. He's also feeling stress. Looking for a job in this economy is difficult. Having a depressed wife is not helpful. We talked about reasons I'm feeling sad. Some seemed incredibly silly--but still real.

I'm supposed to see Therapist next month. Darrin wanted me to try to get in sooner. I said no because:

1. I'm trying to learn to manage my life without relying on Therapist, and if I need him, I can always chat with him or call him. I don't think I need him to get through this.

2. I have no idea when I would go. I have five performances in the next three weeks (all of which will have dress rehearsals), I'm teaching classes at the University which I cannot cancel, I'm working non-stop to keep the Stevens family in the money--well, at least out of the poor house.

We talked about my schedule and realized I'm booked solid until the third week of December. I have a niece getting married on Dec. 29th, and I was going to try to plan all my Utah appointments around that. Darrin pointed out that if I do this the therapy visit will be ineffective. I'll be distracted by thoughts of spending time with my family--always stressful, trying to juggle appointments and visits with clients and friends, and I won't really be able to concentrate on the things which will help me get through the next three or four months successfully. He suggested that for my sake, and the sake of our family, I needed to make my visit with Therapist a priority, do it earlier than the 29th, and let my family know I'd be at the wedding if our finances would allow. After pondering this today, I believe he's correct.

I told Darrin I'm feeling a lack of interest and support from family members and friends (this was one of the "silly" things). He wondered if the feeling was stemming from my physical separation from them. I've spent no in-person time when I was allowed to discuss the things that are causing me stress with anyone for nearly six weeks now. And while I've talked about some of what's bothering me with those closest to me, I've been very careful not to talk about the things that make my guts twist into knots. I have to be able to function, and sometimes talking about what makes me anxious is actually worse than ignoring it.

Darrin could be right. I can't decide. The reality of this is that I'm not always going to have people who want to hear what's on my mind. Or perhaps a more fair statement would be--they don't always have the time to listen. Given the workload I'm dealing with now, I completely understand that. I want to lend a listening ear, but often the timing is wrong. Others probably feel similarly--and it's also possible that my quota of vent-time with others is all used up. It happens.

Weird. That last sentence makes me feel a bit sad. That's never happened before.

I am nearing the end of the quest I began almost four years ago. I'm emerging weaker, more emotional, more vulnerable. I have a name for the "thing" that used to immobilize me, sending me into isolation, forcing walls between me and all other human beings, inducing occasional irrational behavior followed by incredible guilt and regret. Am I better?

I don't know. I'm different. Life seems less funny and a little bit more cruel. Sadness is a real possibility I can't run from or avoid anymore. Honesty about my past, present, and future has become more important than posturing and proving to anyone watching that I'm in control and completely fine--always.

In the process of this, I have allowed people besides Darrin to have access to me. I've spent time with them, built friendships, confided in and listened to them. It doesn't make me feel safer or more confident--the opposite, I think. But it does create an added dimension of joy in my life. I'm not as afraid of people as I used to be. And I'm slowly learning that I deserve to enjoy the depth of experience made possible through the richness of human interaction, I'm not going to poison anyone's life simply by being in it, and I don't have to protect anyone from me.

Perhaps "better" was never the goal.

Thinking Again

2009-11-07T21:47:00.007-07:00

It's been almost a week since I've posted. I got tired.

I've been working about fifteen hours daily since Darrin lost his job last month, and normally this wouldn't be horribly taxing--I like to work--but I've been sick with a couple of viruses, too. This week I needed to regroup a bit.

Even though I haven't been posting about it, I'm still working on therapy crap. I can't stop until I've resolved, or at least addressed, everything in my head. Thank goodness Therapist lets me email and chat with him.

Because I'm feeling more fatigue than I like, rather than try to explain the next thing I'm working on, I'm simply posting my email to Therapist, and his reply. Comments on the topic are welcome. I have no idea yet, how to go about accomplishing my newest task, and thinking about it without input from others is wearing me out. So if you have any bright ideas, please feel free to share. I may not respond right away, which means I'm thinking about whatever has been said, not that it's been ignored or disregarded by any means.

Hi Therapist,

I've been thinking a lot about something you said during our last session. Naturally, I believe it was a cop out and that you should be using all your past education and vast intelligence to help me figure out every question in my head, so, "I think you're going to have to find the answer to this on your own," does not sit well with me. I also understand that if you give me the answers, chances are I'll ignore them anyway until I've done enough research and questioning that forces me to draw the same conclusion, so it's probably good to just cut out the first part and let me get on with my information gathering--which I have been doing, of course.

This time, however, I'm not researching on the internet, or asking ceaseless questions of anyone to talks to me. I'm researching me, myself. I've finished countless graphs and flowcharts, and made lists, and written blog posts (some of which are published and some which are not), and in the process have drawn these conclusions:

1. I've learned to talk about things I wish were not true.
2. I've met with the people who have harmed me, one on one, and seen them as they are.
3. I've established a daily regime which, if followed religiously, will allow me to cope with PTSD symptoms, or at least allow them to happen without my feeling a need to throw myself off the top of a very tall building.
4. I've maintained the closeness of my relationship to Darrin while allowing it to become less emotionally dependent. We have easy, open communication and a wonderful marriage.
5. I've given up the impossible task of being able to change my past and am learning to live with what is real.

This list could go on forever because, after all, I've been working incessantly for three years, but the point of this is that I've accomplished a lot and I recognize that. And I think I'm ready to do one more thing, but it will take a lot of prep time and effort and I'm not going to waste my time if it's not going to help that much--but I think it will help, and in ways that I have yet to discover.

I think I need to learn how to feel safe. I am safe--I know this. I have been for a number of years. But I've never felt safe, which is another thing altogether. I would like to be able to acknowledge that the world I live in is potentially dangerous and constantly changing, that people are largely unreliable and often cruel, and that there is always a physical, emotional, or spiritual possibility that I will be hurt every day--and still be able to feel safe. Because the truth is that I know how to protect myself from the dangers of the world, some people are unreliable and cruel but not all people (and some people are actually kind and loving and want to help me feel safe), and hurt can be healed and is not necessarily a statement about life, or people, or even about me. My head gets this. My heart does not.

I think many of the PTSD symptoms I've been experiencing are based on this inner belief that I can never be safe--not in my home, my marriage, my friendships, in the church, my community, etc. I have a sincere belief that I am always in danger. I think this causes intense stress which I've felt, obviously, but been unable to alleviate.

So--I am currently working on how to teach myself that I am safe--how to accept that I am not in danger. I'm not sure yet, how I will do this, which is why I'm sending this email. I have two questions for you:
1. Do you agree that I'm on the right track? Or am I simply making up another project to fill my loads of spare time because boredom is a swear word?
2. Do you have any suggestions that might help me achieve my goal? (Naturally this question is moot if the answer to the first is that I'm wasting my time.)

That's all, I guess. When you have a spare moment, please let me know what you think?

Thanks,
Sam

P.S. Please don't tell me that the Atonement will take care of this problem for me if I'll just hand it to Christ, because in my world that is a process, not an event, and I'm making steady progress, but Christ has me penciled into his appointment book for a later date. It's not going to happen right away--of this I am certain.

Hi Sam,

Your emails just make me smile! Of course, it's always easiest for me to respond to the last part of your message, rather than the first part.....'cause I'm a simple person, and it's the most recent thought in my mind. I digress.....

You are absolutely on the right track, I believe. There are times when you leave my office that I can see you actually, physically (and emotionally) GEAR UP to go back outside. I've recognized it and not been able, really, to put my finger on it. I think you described it perfectly. It's that battle that wages within you - between your heart and brain - "I know I should be safe, but I don't feel safe."

At any rate, that would be an exhausting battle. I think it's great that you want to tackle it. I think it's valuable, and I think it will help you. I DO believe your relationship with Christ has something to do with this, but no more of a 'thing' than where you've been, previously, with the things you've been working through. I agree with you completely - that 'handing it over to God' is NOT an event, but it is a process. Ultimately, I believe God wants all of his children to feel safe and secure - it's not in His plan for his children to not feel safety, but He has been fully aware that it would occur. Hence, Christ has been through humiliation at a deep enough level that He understands it. I think He's there whenever you are ready. :-) And yes, again, you're right - that's a process - not an event.

The PTSD symptom that you've described is "hyper vigilance." Study in this 'safety' area could center on what that term is all about. I worked with a missionary who was shot while on his mission. One of the most hyper vigilant people I've ever met....and that's NOT AT ALL his personality. It was important for him to find a new reality - to find how this new issue in his life could be folded into his current personality and for him to make this a strength. He found a way - it was truly remarkable. It had to do with him finding out how to use the positive parts of always being 'on guard', etc... It was a very personal journey for him - just as yours will be specific for you.

Of course, all of this starts with identification of the thoughts and feelings which are behind the hyper vigilance. It starts with admitting the issue, embracing the good portions of it, and training yourself out of the unhealthy parts of it. Training, in my mind, would involve you taking on a situation which your brain deems to be safe and your heart says otherwise. A situation which you KNOW is healthy. You did that very thing when you chose to meet the perp....face to face.

I hope it gives you some ideas. Most of it, you probably have already done. Mostly, I just wanted you to know that this IS a worthy goal - something very healthy to work on.

Let me know if you have questions.

--Therapist

I'm Irresistable

2009-11-02T15:14:00.002-07:00

The only problem: I'm pretty sure Faithful Alexy sent this lovely note to more than just me. Still...it's not every day one receives passionate spam.

Hi there!

Love is the master key that opens the gates of happiness. If only you knew how my heart overflows with love for you. If only you could see the way you feel my hopes and dreams. You are the owner of my heart, the ruler supreme, no matter that we still did not meet I am faithful to you already. Even in the dark night I’ve only to think about you to feel your loving light and from this world I drift feeling as if I will never touch the ground again. If only you knew. If only you could guess how I hear your voice when others speak. It is you whom my soul seeks in every face. If only you could feel how just your image has the power to heal. I am willing to give you my all and expect nothing in return xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx (web address that I'm not posting on my blog)
But oh how I yearn for you. If only you knew...

Au revoir
Alexy G.