DragonBlog

There's Hope For Me Yet...

Finally. An explanation for some of my problems. Possibly a reason for the constant fatigue, the problems falling asleep at bedtime, the headaches...

I'm allergic. Highly allergic.

In fact, the nurse was a bit surprised that I'd never had an allergy test before today. While the 106 little "scratches" on my back weren't pleasant, they weren't horrible. And damned well worth it.

The results? For one, I'm allergic to my cats.

Damnit. *sigh*

And, just about everything outside. And a few more things in the house... hang on - Brian is tabulating some percentages for me from the sheet they gave me...

*insert elevator music here*

Ahhh, okay. Here we go:

Of the 106 things I was tested for, I'm allergic to 35. This is 33% of them. All in all, doesn't sound bad to begin with. Until you break it down. The doctor said that, based on the level of allergic I am to the things in question and the amount of them, I'm a 9.5 on a 10-point scale of being Highly Allergic. Sooo...

Of things found outside, I'm allergic to 68% of 'em. That breaks down to 57% of the trees I was tested for, 83% of the weeds, and 63% of the grasses. On the weeds I averaged 3.4 as my allergic "number" on a 4-point scale (with 4 being the worst). Ow. Bad weeds. Baaaad!

Of the indoor stuff, I'm allergic to 31% of it. Of that, I'm 33% allergic to the dust, pets, and other randoms stuff like feathers (although they didn't test for down specifically, and I know I'm highly allergic to those feathers from past experiences with pillows, coats, and chairs), and 30% allergic to the molds found in basements and the like. Not so bad, except that I'm pretty highly allergic to the molds I'm allergic to, and scored a 3 out of 4 on average of the other stuff. And that other stuff is mainly dust, mites, and my cats! I scored a 4-pointer on the cat test. Argh!

Of foods, it was a mere 3% of them. Meaning 1. Meaning, of all things, MILK! To top it all off, I have a mild milk allergy. Not enough for me to really get overly concerned about, but enough that I'm going to bow out of being the example for my kids to drink milk. Brian can handle that role model function for now and it's also possible the kids could end up being allergic too - which meanls I'm going to want to get Jareth tested soon to be sure. I'd hate to be pumping milk into the kid only to make him feel lousy! Meanwhile, I'll just go back to my calcium supplements, which I'd been dosing down due to the milk.

But, despite all the allergies - I actually came away from this doctor's appointment with way more HOPE than I'd expected. Both Brian and I expected them to find allergies. Maybe not so many, but some. And then, I expected that they would go through the routine of trying to figure out which allergy meds I should be on to help compensate for the situation...

What I didn't expect was an offer of a potential cure!!!

In a few weeks' time, I will begin treatments. They will custom-make a coctail that will be administered in two shots per week for a while and then slowly taper them off. By six months I'll be at full strength in the coctail of all the things I'm allergic to. Thus (hopefully) eventually teaching my body to NOT be allergic to them anymore.

Awesome. That is SO freaking awesome.

After that, it might be as much as 2-3 years of getting shots once a month or so (but little shots like the insulin was, so I'm actually not freaking over the needle fear I have either) before I'm "cured" but it will be well worth it if it "fixes" the problem.

So, despite the fact that I feel yucky today from all the scratches of concentrated allergens that were put on my back, I'm feeling pretty optimistic. Because that's ONE of the medical problems with a potential solution on the way. It may take years, but for ONCE they didn't just say "tough deal - live with it" like they usually do when they find something wrong with me.

There may be hope for me yet.

I'll take it. If it means one day I don't have to feel like my skin doesn't fit because I feel so lousy all the time? Hell yeah. I'll take it.

Current Mood: optimistic

The Flowerless Child...

I don't think I've mentioned the "Flower Phobia" on this weblog before. If I have, and you've read it, then hush up while I tell it again. Since there's been context with which to bring it up and all...

It's a totally irrational phobia, based in part off of a memory I have as a child. My grandparents owned a summer home in Door County, Wisconsin for a while. I loved that house! Or, at least, what I remember of it involved wonderful things. A porch-like kitchen. A room that was halfway up the stairs, off to the right as you went up. Rooms upstairs, one of which I got to sleep in. I'd hear the birds and see nothing but trees outside my window when I woke up there. Something about the way the sunlight shafted into the room left an impression on me as well.

There was also a deck outside. From it, you could see the lake, and there is a painting I have that my mom did of that view. There is also a painting out there, somewhere, that she gave away before dying, of the tree-lined roadway leading to that house. I forget who she gave that one to. Like many things I loved of my mother's, I'll probably never see it again. The one of the lake was originally given to a friend of mine, who was like a part of our family. She gave it to me a few years ago, and I've been keeping it safe. I want to re-frame it and put it behind glass so that it doesn't get damaged.

But... back to the house. On the deck, was a hammock. Where I remember my uncle sometimes lounging when we went up there during the summer. It was just such an occasion that brought upon the "Flower Phobia"...

I had been picking the wildflowers on the grounds, collecting up all manor of ones I thought were "pretty" (I was probably maybe what? 5 years old? at the time). Proud of my "bouquet" I brought it up onto the deck to show it to my uncle....

and ALL the petals spontaneously fell off the flowers!

Okay, okay. Before you say it - I know that's not possible. That it couldn't have happened that way. But that's how I remember it. A child's mind can imagine all manner of incredible things, and that what mine conjured up for some odd reason. I don't know what brought that memory to fruition, just that THAT is how I remember it. And thus, I'm afraid of flowers.

It's not ALL flowers specifically. My favorite flower is daffodil, and I'm quite alright with roses and carnations. Although when the petals begin to fall off of the rose, I get a little creeped out. It's the petals that get me. And the stuff in the middle - the polleny stuff? *shudders* And the worst, for some odd reason, is the water they've been sitting in. Especially if it gets "squidgy" in there. You know - mucousy and icky? It makes me gag. Then again, I don't deal so well with most mucousy things, so that's probably another issue altogether. I'm not much good with the messy. Nope. I do keep trying though. In baby steps. My babies' steps, actually. Jareth gave me a little trial by burrito just the other day. He had the bean stuff it in his eyebrows for goodness sakes! I mean ewwww! But I got him clean, nonetheless. Brian was laughing his head off that I can change how many? poopy diapers a week and still get all "eeewww" over a little burrito slime. I see the humor. I really do. But it was still squidgy. bleh.

Anyway, that's the story. All the petals fell off, or at least that's how I remember it, and I've been creeped out by certain flowers ever since.

Another odd little fact to add to the chalkboard of my odd little life.

G'night!

Current Mood: weird

Jigsaws...

Some mention at another blog has recently made mention of jigsaw puzzles. Ironically enough, she mentioned that she didn't used to like jigsaw puzzles, but her life seems to resemble one on a variety of levels, in my humble opinion - a whole lot of uneven pieces are there to make up one beautiful picture in the end. Not all the pieces have been put into their proper places yet thought - she's still a work in progress. Then again, so are we all.

I, on the other hand, have always loved jigsaw puzzles with some relative passion. In fact, I've managed to find a way around most of the obstacles that had prevented me from doing them for many years. After moving out of my mother's house, it seemed that my tendency towards pack-rattage and more recently my cat have prevented otherwise perfect flat spaces in my house from becoming home to the scattered pieces while I put them together. But now, I have Puzzle Master (I actually own version #2, not #4), and I use images of my choosing as puzzles on my computer. I find it nearly as addictive as I did with the thick cardboard pieces in my hot little hands.

So, I gave it some thought today. Why is it I've always enjoyed them so much? I've come up with a few reasons...

1. I am organized when I do puzzles. Something I have a harder time doing in the rest of my personal life.
2. Puzzles have a definitive end point. Once that last piece is in, it is done and you can have that sense of accomplishment.
3. No one has ever criticized (to my face anyway) the manner in which I put jigsaw puzzles together. Nearly everything I ever did wasn't good enough for somebody or other in my life, but not this one silly little thing.
4. The images you are putting together on a jigsaw puzzle can be any range of things - I often picked things I wanted to do or see or enjoy in my real life, so it was a form of wish-fullfillment or fantasy generator for my mind.
5. There's that destructive factor in the end - "I built it, I'll damn well break it if I want to!" - and then it's there to do all over again (after you rotate through some others so you don't get bored with the same image over and over).

I'm starting to think that there are far worse hobbies to have.

Not to forget - there's also that hand-eye coordination benefit, along with that memory boost (Now, where the hell did I put that piece with the red edge and the blue spot?). I'm thinking I'll have to make sure my large stack of cardboard jigsaws makes it out of storage and back into our house in time for Jareth to enjoy them. I seem to recall that that was one of the few "hobbies" that my mom and I managed to do without being competitive too, so I might even get to do some with him sometimes!

Well, at least I know now that not all my hobbies are likely to be a bad influence in some way on my kid.

*wry grin*

Anyway, that's all for now. I'm going in to work again tomorrow for at least another half-day, maybe more. The end of this temp job is dangling out in front of my, but I can't decide if it's looming there or waiting there excitedly. It was supposed to end today, but I was asked if I was available tomorrow and I'm not stupid, so I said yes. Brian is still on the hunt, but none of the jobs have fallen prey to his wickedly excellent skills as of yet. In the meantime, I'll not be passing up another day's work to help keep things floating around here.

Thus, my beauty sleep is still going to be needed...

G'night!

To Blog, or Not To Blog...

Sometimes I come across things I can't or won't blog about.

Tonight, at therapy, was such a topic.

Thus, I am mulling over stuff I can't put here. And, I do some of my best thinking while I'm writing stuff out too.

Bugger.

That leaves two topics now that I haven't put up on my blog now. Mostly because there are people who could possibly read it that I wouldn't want reading those particular blog posts...

bleh.

Nevermind. I'm tuckered out anyway.

Time for some wind-down and then off to bed. Expect to see longer posts on the weekends while I'm working, as I'm not brave enough to blog from work, despite the fact that I probably could. I'm just not the type to take that kind of risk, and after all - I'm just the temp. Firing me would be too easy.

So blogging remains an at-home thing, although I'm checking up on Quick Shtick Writing during my lunch to see if Brian has dropped his post on yet. That way I can post mine easier when I get home, having had some time prior to that point to mull over what I plan to write.

But tomorrow night I have class. Which, though fun, means I'll have even less time to do blogging.

Oy.

Busy, busy, busy.

G'night!

Drop everything, do all, never fail...

A few weeks back, my therapist asked me to define what "making family a priority" meant. When I came back I had very little that I'd really come up with. Since I overanalyze everything, I couldn't come up with what it should mean, but instead wrote down what I've always been under the understanding that it was supposed to mean:

• drop everything.
• do all
• bend over backwards
• always be there
• never fail

Now, of course, this list is relatively impossible to actually work by. Not everything can be dropped at any given moment. I'm not capable of doing all. I can't, literally, bend over backwards. I can't always be there. And I will, inevitably, fail at some things no matter how hard I try.

My mother, however, was a perfectionist - despite the fact that she was far from perfect. And she considered herself to have instilled "family values" in me. Most of what I learned, I've found, was actually from the examples she set. When my grandmother called, she came. My grandmother was technically the puppeteer in the mythical show we called "family", though often she made others be the ones doing the labor as she sat back and directed. Despite the fact that we all knew damned well that it was my grandfather who had made the money she weilded over us, it didn't seem to matter when lines were being drawn in the sand. Despite all the times my mother tried to tell me I should never rely on anyone else to take care of me, she rarely ever crossed my grandmother for fear she would suddenly find the financial rug yanked out from beneath us and we'd tumble off into whatever public assistance would allow.

Even with my grandmother doling out the occasional cash and my grandfather slipping my mother more when he could, I remember times when we were on public aid, when we had food stamps, and I was on the lunch program at school - getting free lunches. I have memories of several different government offices over the years, where my mom would go to apply for various assistance, especially during the latter years when she was on medical assistance. I've noticed I have a distinct dislike for such offices and absolutely despise filling out any form - even the ones that doctors offices have you fill in at your first visit. I also have a difficult time wrapping my mind around such matters as insurance - it all just baffles me, and I'm happy to let my husband figure it out and all I need do is show them the card and pay the copay when I have an appointment. In many ways, I am dependent on my husband to handle the logistics of our insurance. I trust him to take care of me in that regard. I suppose my mother would be horrified.

But my grandmother made my mother thank her for every penny she "graciously" doled out, and made her pay each one back with time, sweat, and tears - yet never acknowledging that any debt had ever been paid at all. I remember a period of time when my mother did their groceries every week, and my grandfather basically suggested that she pick her own up at the same time and he'd pay for them as well. I doubt my grandmother knew the extent of it, as my mother stockpiled a couple of non-perishable items each week. So much so that I only just finished the last bottles of shampoo a couple years ago. I may still have some cans of soup and other items on my shelves - nine years after she's died. The woman could have stocked the shelves for a fallout shelter on certain items. But if it was on sale and/or she had coupons - she'd grab it. It's amazing I can actually still enjoy macaroni and cheese, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Simply amazing.

My mother also made it clear that any and all crap she took from my grandmother was purely and simply to keep her children in house and home. Although I have to say that I think she was mostly just too afraid to try and make it on her own after having my grandmother tell her so many times that she could only expect to be good enough for a "little job at K-Mart". She never really bothered investing herself in much of anything - most likely out of fear that her mother would be proven right. She had a stubborn streak, but she didn't apply it to her own benefit very often at all.

So, basically - in my mother's eyes - family, as a priority, meant you take whatever gets dished out no matter what, and you do whatever you have to to protect and take care of them. I have no problem with the countless times she drove my grandfather to his radiation for his cancer. The countless trips to Wendy's for "frosty" milkshakes, because my grandmother had a craving, were above and beyond. Not to mention my grandmother was starting to looked like a beached whale in her hospital bed from all those milkshakes, since she didn't get any exercise. The woman took to her bed sometime in either the late 70's or early 80's and that was that. It's not that she was sick - she wanted the attention, and was also a hypochondriac and an addict (alcohol and codeine). By the 90's she was bedridden, although there was one physical therapist who did try, despite the fact that various ailments had set in on her stagnant body.

So, mom didn't exactly set the best example in the "family is priority" sense I guess.

So how the hell is it supposed to be?

What exactly is a "functional" family anyway? (is there such a thing?)

hrm.

Now, mind you, if I needed to drop everything to suddenly take care of my husband for some reason (like an injury, god forbid!), I don't see that as above and beyond at all - that's love. Love is good. And love goes both ways. Brian and I have moments where we disagree, and small problems here and there, but overall we have a partnership. We work things out together and try to support each other. We've been through some rougher spots together and part of what got us through is having eachother to fall back to. I know he's there when I need him, and I want to always be there when he needs me.

And I already drop everything frequently for my son - but that's part of being a mother, which is both something I wanted and something I wouldn't give back for anything. He pays me back with every time I look at him and my heart swells up with joy and pride and what a wonderful, beautiful little boy he is. Every smile, every hug, every giggle - he gives back. I don't feel him taking advantage of me at all. Sometimes I feel worn out - but never used.

So, for those two people alone - the drop everything, do all, bend over backwards, always be there, never fail isn't as bad. I can, and should do some of those - drop everything if I'm needed, and always be there when I can, are reasonable at the very least. They don't require that I do all, although I tend to try anyway (which is one problem), and it's generally not required that I bend over backwards, athough my son requires I bend over often to scoop him up into my arms. I tend to always be there, despite the fact that I ought to seek more time for myself - which I'm working on. It's the "never fail" that can be the real problem though. I'm pretty hard on myself when I think I've blown it - even with the smallest things. I'm not sure what to replace that one with.

And, what about the rest of the family? My own side and my husband's side? How and where do they fit in? I know they don't all require my attempts at perfection, and I know that they will likely still accept me if I make mistakes. Hey - they do still accept me - as I know I've not gone without making a few mistakes. But I still spend my time worrying and trying to make sure I'm what everyone else wants to have around, instead of just relaxing.

One one hand - isn't family supposed to accept you, no matter what?

On the other hand - then why don't they? I've seen too many instances where "family love" can be recalled at a moment's notice.

I suppose, it comes down to a matter of trust. Perhaps I've just not learned to trust that anyone's love is permanent other than my husband's and my son's. Ironic, too, that I should include my son in that, but I've seen looks in his eyes that say nothing but love all over them. My eyes well up with happy tears just thinking about it. For now, anyway, I have my son's love and trust - and I don't ever want to let him down. No matter what mistakes I might make in front of him, I hope to always keep him knowing how much I love him, and how my heart swells up with pride every time I see him smiling.

My therapist says I need to make myself a priority, but I'm not sure I know what that means either. Does that, perhaps, mean I need to trust myself? To believe in myself?

Probably.

I guess that will also need defining.

Why is it that therapy is filled with more questions, when I went there for answers?

*grumble, grumble*

I've still got a week more to work on this before the next appointment.

hrm.

G'night!

Steady Hands and Bare Feet...

Tomorrow morning it will be one week.

My hands are steady. My heart no longer races more than it really ought. I don't sit here at the edge of my seat, sometimes wanting to leap out of it and other times just wanting to sleep. And I think the strange redness on my scalp is fading as well... Which is the main reason I didn't dye my hair today - I'd like to see it mostly gone before I do.

"One week since what?" you might ask.

By this point, my husband will have already figured it out, despite the fact that I haven't yet mentioned it to him. He will likely have said "Aaahh" in that way he does when he figures something out.

One week since I cut myself off of the medication that's supposed to help me keep more emotionally "consistent" so to speak. Although it takes about two weeks to fully kick in, so I expect it will take about that long before it has fully worn off.

I think I'm waking up easier in the morning as well.

I'm just getting terribly sick of "side effects" mostly. And the ends weren't enough to justify the means. So I'm going to try flying solo again for a bit. We'll see how it goes. I survived the pregnancy intact, along with the three months following it, (and so did Brian, mind you) so it stands to reason I can survive seeing how I'm doing without it for a bit. I don't see my therapist until next week, although she's not the one that does the prescribing. But she's going to have a baby in September, which will mean a few months off of therapy at that point, so I figured I'd give this a try while I still have her available.

"Why didn't you tell Brian?" you might ask next.

I've been wondering about that myself, and the best I have understood it is this: I didn't want that justification available just yet. In other words, if I flipped out I didn't want to just fall back on the "I went off my medication" excuse for why I might get upset for possibly no real reason at all. Some things, when I tell someone, it makes them more real - therefore more likely to happen or not happen, depending on what it is. Other things, however, I must keep to myself for a little while so that I don't end up feeling like there is any particular expectation weighing on the results of whatever it is I am working on. I too easily jump to judge myself by other people's standards - including those of my husband - and I'll never learn what my own standards of measurment are unless I start measuring without other people's input. The moment I finish my book, for example, and hand it to anyone else to read - it becomes about the reader at that point, and making it try to measure up to what I think my "audience" for that book will want. Hopefully my experience in attempting to be perfect for everyone else on a day to day basis will at least make it easier when attempting to do so for a book. Perhaps if I can get a book right, maybe I'll start going easier on myself. Although I hope I don't wait that long to at least start heading in that direction. The book is stalled on chapter 12 at the moment - I need to kick-start it again, and I don't know what exactly is holding me back. Frustration, instead, is mine once again.

But for now, I have steady hands again. I can hold them out in front of me and they no longer tremble at the effort. I'm no longer having moments where I feel as if my entire body is trembling slightly.

I like the stillness of it.

Although now, for some reason, I can't keep my feet still and they keep escaping their socks as if they feel I'm confining them. My socks lay in a small heap under my desk as my bare toes roam the carpet...

I shall have to tuck them between the sheets soon instead, when I curl up in bed.

G'night!

Dear mom,

Dear Mom,

I know, I know... I don't call, I don't write, I don't even talk to the jar anymore. In fact I ignored you last Mother's Day. Well, I'm the mommy around this house, not you. Just because I still keep your jar of ashes in my living room, doesn't mean you are allowed to be the center of attention anymore. Perhaps you noticed that when I moved you to a lower shelf. When I realized my spiritual beliefs, it still took me two years to recognize that jar's bookend potential. I'm not so callous that I'll put it in a closet or the garage, but you're not technically in that jar. You and I know that, even if your other daughter and your brother don't understand that yet. They wanted a funeral. Perhaps you only wanted to be cremated because you'd done all the other things they all wanted out of you. Maybe you were rebelling against your brother and your parents in that final act, denying them. Well, you won there - he doesn't have closure, and I'm sure your mom didn't before she died either. But you left your youngest daughter - who you fought so hard to live for - without any closure either. Do you know she spent most of your "party" (instead of a wake) in the bathroom crying?

You're probably wondering where all this is coming from all of a sudden. I'm in therapy now. Trying to get past all the crap you imbedded into my life over the years. The chain ends here. I don't want my son, or any other children I have in the future, to have to try and undo all these stupid problems like I'm having to do. I know you tried your best, and I usually justify everything and look at it logically, based on your own upbringing and the crap your mother threw onto you and then us over the years. Don't even think I wasn't affected by it too, by the way, no matter how hard you supposedly tried to "shelter" me from it. Just because you didn't beat my ass with a belt like your mother did to you, doesn't make you the mother of the year.

My therapist seems to think I need to write a letter to you, expressing the emotional side of how I feel about all the crap that happened over the years. Not the logical side, where I explain away the "whys" and the "buts", but the pure, raw emotional side - the one that hid away in the shell of a person I was when I sat up for two to four hours until as late as 2:00 in the morning while you yelled at me for not finishing my chores in the time you alloted for them, or some other misdemeanor. While you told me how I must not care about you, and how irresponsible I was, and how I couldn't expect to amount to anything if I didn't get my act together. You never approved of me. I was just never good enough. And, after having my father reject me at nine months old, how do you think it felt to have my own mother continue to re-enforce that theory for 21 years until I finally had the balls to move the hell out, when you were actually bluffing when you told me to get out of your house. Leaving was, by far, the best thing I could have done for our relationship.

Speaking of my father, he left you, not me. But, no, that doesn't excuse him from leaving his first child behind in the process. But then I don't think either of you ever looked at me the way I look at my son. I don't look at him like that because he happens to be a "male" child either. I look at him in awe and wonder because he's the culmination of myself and my husband. He is "us" impersonated, and he is the most amazing person I've ever met. I have tears in my eyes just thinking about how much I love him. I'm sure you thought I was cute, and all, but I have a feeling I was more of a burden after I didn't do my "job" of a) being a son, and then b) hold your marriage together. Sorry about that, but it wasn't my job. You fucked that one up all on your own. Yeah, that's right . You. You fucked up your marriages.

Okay, so now I figure that there's two men out there who could feel pretty vindicated by what I'm saying here, but I'm not letting them off the hook either. They are just as responsible, in my opinion, but you liked to take your mother's stance, as if you were the queen and therefore untouchable. Bullshit. Yeah. I say again - BULLSHIT. You were demanding, whining, stubborn, and moody, among other things. I thought I was the only one who couldn't meet your standards, but neither could they. Then again, they were competing against "the one that got away" all along, so how could they have. You were comparing them, even if it wasn't conscious, or I would never even know him in the first place.

At least you were actively trying to have my sister. I was just an "accident" really. You married to move out of your parent's house, and you messed up the marriage. At least I know that you likely made "love" when conceiving me, since I'm pretty convinced that you got pregnant while "celebrating" the divorce. The second marriage to my father was a big mistake, and him leaving us after just nine months of my life is not exactly a "heartwarming family memory."

I got to watch you fuck up the second marriage. I noticed you blamed a lot of that on him drinking, but some days I find it amazing that I'm not an alcoholic. I remember the two of you fighting pretty early on after you married, and you assuring me afterwards that you weren't going to get divorced. I also remember you asking me when you finally wanted to divorce him and me raising the "GO" flag faster than you could finish saying it. Parents staying together for the kids just makes the kids miserable too.

But let's backtrack a bit, shall we? Oh yes... childhood. The "fear of mom". No, I never bothered to fear "God". He wasn't nearly that vindictive. I feel pretty sure that you were taking that resentment of being a single mom out on me there... yep. And threatening a kid to behave so child services wouldn't take them away was probably not the best tactic in the book. There's plenty of historical references to dictators falling because they ruled by making those below them afraid. Hell, look at Sadam!

But, god forbid I make a mistake! If I came home and they'd picked on me at school - there were no hugs or encouraging advice - there was just questions on what I did wrong to make them treat me that way. And getting me to behave around the holidays by threatening to take my gifts back to the store before I'd even received them was pretty mean. I just don't think you should bribe a child with their own birthday gifts. What were you thinking???

I know you were sick a lot, but would it have killed you to empty your own damned ashtray once in a while? Or how about fill your own water glass while your at it? But no, even getting in the car to drive and get your own cigarettes or bag of ice was too difficult. But having me ride my bike a mile or two with a bag of ice melting in my backpack was okay, huh? The only reasons I did it was a) the fear of mom, and b) it got me the hell away from you for a while!

I think I'm the only kid who didn't make a valiant effort to get their parent(s) to stop smoking while I was in grade school and learned about the "evils" of it. Not because I didn't want you to stop - hell, I wrote a report on it (a subject I chose to use), simply so you'd read it and maybe get the idea. But while other kids snuck their parents smokes off to the garbage or toilet, I knew that something bad would happen if I tried it. I didn't dare, no matter how much I wanted you to quit. And no, you can't justify it by saying that your cancer wasn't smoking-related. It doesn't matter. You still should have quit. Maybe then I never would have started. An act which was purely rebellion against you. It was something that was all my own, and you disapproved of it. But I quit - because I don't want my own kids dealing with second-hand smoke, or even the damage it could have caused while my son was still inside me. I not only want my kid(s) to have the best health possible, but I want to live as long as possible to be there for them. Smoking could potentially hurt that option. But apparently that didn't matter to you, when they started telling us just how bad it really was.

I don't have memories of snuggling in your arms or you stroking my hair. I don't remember you fussing over me when I was sick the way my friends' parents likely did. I remember you paid slightly more attention to me, and were nicer, but never doting. And those moments when you decided to tell me that you "loved" me, but didn't "like" me very much? Thanks. Yeah. Like I needed that.

How about all the times you picked on me, laughing with your friends over the fact that I, as a teenager, had a far more ample bosom than you and your "itty bitty titty committee". I didn't need to be the butt of your jokes, okay? My self image was already destroyed enough, that I didn't need to hate my body as well. I'm still not comfortable with how I look, after all these years. I'm still trying to measure "down" to your petite frame, although sometimes I do see your face momentarily in the mirror. Whenever that happens, I know it's time to dye or cut my hair. I find it terrifying.

I didn't need you telling everyone you met what an awful daughter I supposedly was. After I moved out, I have medical records where you referred to me as your "estranged daughter", who couldn't be relied on to help you. Perhaps if you had treated me like a daughter ought to be treated, I wouldn't have retreated so far away when I finally did. Hell yeah, I screened my calls for a while. I didn't want to talk to you! Although you know damned well that I could have been relied on if necessary. But you were too stubborn to give me even that much credit.

Oh... and there are "chores", and then there is "slave labor". Ahem. I took over a whole lot of "chores" long before I should have needed to. I know I started doing the six to eight loads of laundry every sunday when I was eleven, since you couldn't cope with stairs while pregnant (funny, but my leg kept giving me troubles during my pregnancy, but I still managed stairs). I think I started dishes and dusting around that point too. Oh, but I was "young", so having me do all the yard work, and shovelling, and floors, and carpets, and whatever else needed cleaning was fine, since I had my youth... No wonder the dust in my house is like an inch thick - you wore me out! Considering you were a stay-at-home mom for the majority of the time I was growing up, you sure managed to never do any real housework. Based on my own schedule - watering the plants and cooking most of the meals does not constitute a rigorous schedule. Oh, but wait - I don't have plants, so I must not understand how it was... right?

Oooh... and while I'm at it - telling me I'd be sorry when you were dead, while you were actually dying, was just mean! Who the hell did you expect me to be anyway? One minute we were supposed to be "friends" (because you needed "adult" contact), and the next I accidentally crossed yet another line I didn't know existed - and suddenly I was "bad, bitch of a daughter" again, with you the "always perfect" mom. And, by the way, nobody is perfect. Period. Live with it. Oh, wait, too late huh?

And, expecting a teenager to know the right things to say to "help" you through a rough time like dying of cancer is expecting considerably too much! Damnit! I tried! The countless times you told me I obviously didn't give a damn if you lived or died or were in pain (usually because I tried to slack off on a chore, or actually wanted to get together with a friend once in a while) was a fucking lie. If I hadn't given a damn - I would have had a life! I let you pull me out of everything, all my extracurricular activities, my freshman year of high school because I came home a half an hour late one afternoon and you happened to have had a post-lung surgery problem that day. You knew where I was, and what I was doing, and I ran home at breakneck speed afterwards, trying not to be late. But you spiked a fever at some point between when the nurse left and when I got home, so "bad Amy" was required to pay for it. I went nearly two years before I was allowed to get involved in anything again.

Also, you didn't believe me that I'd tried to get home in time, and that it would only be that one occurance! There were no second chances in that house. Of course, I'm no longer surpised since you didn't believe I tried to kill myself, and said as much while standing in the ER. Oh no - it was just a "ploy for attention". Well fuck you! You weren't the one who spent the night puking up aspirin and other nasty stuff that refused to stay down. And you were the one who taught me to be the type of person who wasn't going to leave a mess for the hotel staff (just a dead body, but no puke or untidiness), so of course I puked into a garbage bin and then rinsed it out! I wouldn't want to get into trouble for making a mess if I failed to die!

Oh, and just because you hated your piano lessons as a kid, didn't mean I was going to a) hate mine, or b) not do my practices. I would have loved taking part in the music lessons offered in grade school. They even offered loaned equipment, but you still said no. You also said I could have ballet lessons when I was very little and wanted them - and my grandparents said they'd pay for them - if I did my foot exercises (for my flat feet) religiously. I remember imagining myself doing pirouettes as I did those stupid exercises that hurt my feet to do. But you decided not to let me do it after all, saying it was just a phase, and I'd get bored with it anyway, so it would be a waste of money. I know you think you were protecting me from failing - but you never let me try to succeed either!!!

And, I was very proud of that one poem I showed you that you helped me "rewrite" to "make it better". I was very proud of a lot of poetry I wrote - especially in high school and college - did you ever wonder why I never bothered to show you any of it? Because, when it was good enough for the teacher, and good enough for the other students, and good enough to be put into a stage performance - I knew it still wouldn't be good enough for you. I was never good enough for you.

Well you know what? You weren't good enough for me either! There. How does that feel?

I'd spend two to four hours at a time, sitting up 'til two in the morning (too late to be up on a school night), pulled up into a little ball, my arms hugged tight around my knees, on the chair while you yelled at me - pointing out all the ways I wasn't good enough - just because I dropped something and broke it or came home a few minutes late from something "fun" I did that you weren't a part of. Every little minor infraction was subject to a huge penalization by you. By the end of those two to four hours, I no longer knew what I was in trouble for - and you always demanded I give you an apology at precisely that point. After two to four hours of not being allowed to say anything in my defense without making it worse, I felt broken. I'd have said damn near anything you wanted to hear at that point. I was sorry, alright - Sorry I'd been born at all.

So, for all those "good" memories I'm trying to put down on one of my other blogs, To Our Children's Children, this post is one of the balance-makers. Because I'm having a much harder time writing a lot of those and focusing on the positive aspects of my childhood, than I am writing this little piece. I want one of those little cell phones to be able to reach you for a little while. I want to know you're listening. I want to know that you have to listen, while I do all the talking this time...

Can you hear me now?

Good.

Because I'm making a declaration here, and it's important.

Your opinion doesn't matter a n y m o r e.

I want to be good enough for my own standards now.

Just as soon as I figure out what they are.

And by the way...

I loved you mom, but I don't know that I really liked you that much most of the time...

So thanks for keeping me fed and clothed all those years, although I know my grandparents helped with that too. And thanks for the occasional laugh and good moment...

But I can't help but be glad you never had the six kids you said you wanted to have, since I know you messed me up pretty thoroughly. And I know my sister didn't come out unscathed either. Talk about pressure - you kept trying to live for her. Apparently I wasn't important enough to live for, although you should have been trying to live for you, don't you think. But then you never really did live for you, did you?

Well, I'm gonna try to learn how. Then maybe I'll be able to give my husband and my son that much more as a result. And it won't take a life-threatening disease to make me want to live either. Because you never lived, mom. Not really. You stayed in your safety zone and hoped for the best. And resented it so much that you pushed away all the chances you had to go further - to be more.

On January 14th, 1995, your life here ended. Wherever you are now, I hope you are finally living.

Love (whether you choose to believe it or not),

Amy

Stealing Treats...

The summer after I graduated from high school I finally got my driver's license. It wasn't that I failed the test, I never bothered to take it as we couldn't afford the insurance to add another driver to the policy. But I got a job that summer, and they told me I needed either a state I.D., or a Driver's License for them to photocopy for their files. My mother decided that I could try for the license, and if I failed the test we'd just get the state I.D. for the moment instead. Although we were already discussing the logistics of me getting a car to get to and from my new job.

I did pass the test (which is a story in and of itself), and it didn't take long before we'd secured a small loan from my grandparents to buy me my first used car. It was an offwhite Buick Skyhawk I think, and it was mine. Shortly afterwards, my grandparents decided to be kind, and decided to make a graduation gift out of it, instead of making me pay back the loan. So it was really mine. My car. My sacred sanctuary. My mother didn't go into my car very often, as she had her own and loathed being a passenger, it seemed. So it became the place where I stashed all the secret treasures that I could never have had in the house. Cookies - if I ever I brought sweets into the house, it generally meant sharing with my mom, so hoarding cookies and other yummy things was the first thing. My mother also had frequent cravings for those syrup and ice drinks known to many as "slurpees" from the local 7-11. Once I had a car, I was more than happy to run get them for her - to spend time in my little car, eating my forbidden cookies. It was a similar thing when I started smoking too - the car was the place I smoked the most - at the time it made me feel as if I was grown up finally, despite how I felt whenever I was back at home.

Needless to say, the car was one of the harder places to deal with when I quit smoking almost two years ago (July 11th!).

I've gone beyond the car now - I have my own house, with my husband of course, and I have my corner of the family room where I can sit in sanctuary and write or play or eat chippy or chocolatey things as I so desire.

Or, rather, I find myself "stealing treats" still, after all these years. The "treats" this time, however, are moments of time - "me moments", where I'm not doing anything productive at all, but instead I'm doing something "frivolous", like playing a computer game when I should be doing laundry instead, or ignoring the fact that my living room carpet desperately needs vaccuming (long-haired black cat, yeah that decision was not made on logic) in order to steal another moment to read a couple entries of another person's blog.

And, as I'm one of the "good" girls, if I steal something - I feel guilty for it.

In fact, I'm finding I'm doing a lot of things out of guilt, which makes me depressed, which makes me unmotivated to get things done, and when I don't get things done - I feel guilty about it. It's one of those nasty downward spiral thingies again.

Well, shit. If it isn't bad enough I judge myself by everyone else's standard ('cause I still don't know what the hell my own standards actually are!), now I find I'm giving myself guilt trips left and right because I can't actually live up to everyone's standards!

*sigh*

More to ponder on. But, in order to bring symmetry to the day, I'll just say it...

It's rubbish. Guilt I mean. No, really. Rubbish.

And no, for those who happen to read little.red.boat, I'm not trying to alter my style of writing to one like hers. It's just fun to throw the occasional bit in like that. I like her style. But if I tried to write like she does on a daily basis, I'd be exhausted just coming up with things to talk about. My life is just not filled with "fucktard" mice and small toads named Little Boris Johnson.

Nope. My life is rubbish instead. And I feel guilty about that too.

*wrinkles nose*

Oy vey.

G'night!

One day away...

By this time tomorrow, my husband should be back at his folks' house with his dad, possibly eating dinner about now with his folks, his sister, his son, and myself...

HOORAY !!!!

*does a happy dance*

And, his father's day/"you da writer now!" gift arrived today, so all I have to do is wrap it up and he'll get it tomorrow like I'd hoped. I opened it up and peeked at it - it looks all tiny and techy and cool - yes, I am jealous. But I shouldn't be - I'm the one with the laptop that never goes anywhere. Doh!

I use the laptop as my work machine. I had my main computer crash twice in as many months, making me suddenly unable to do work for my boss for the duration I was trying to fix it. Not wanting that to ever be an issue again, (I nearly lost everything on the hard drive!) I transferred all my work files over to my laptop and set it up so that it's only a work machine. I technically still do the work on my main computer, and transfer files over the little network I have here, but if my main goes down all I need to keep working is on that laptop. It's a safety net, really.

I've spent a lot of time thinking this week. Some of which I've shared here, for those willing to read my rantings, but mostly for myself. For me, the act of writing it down makes it real. It's like etching it into stone. I can't take it back once it's out there. And I don't want to. It helps cleanse me of some things, and makes me take a closer look at others.

I find it interesting that the routine I've settled into by the end of this week is different in a few ways than the routine I usually have when my husband is home. For one thing, writing this blog during the day, I've noticed, has lead to me spending the time after my son goes to bed writing. I'm on chapter four now, chapter three was long. Last night I was working on chapter three at about 11pm. I noticed the clock at midnight and figured I could stay up for another hour, since I was absorbed in what I was writing. The next time I looked at the clock, having finally moved into a beggining for chapter four, hours had passed and it was 3am. By 4am I was finally trying to get to sleep, after a brief stop to calm my son, who'd woken up crying for some reason.

I overslept again today. My son's schedule and my own are completely shot, not to mention that my husband's iguana must be confused by all the different times of day she'd been fed at this week. I expect I've gained a couple of pounds instead of jumping back into Tai Chi and losing a few. And I haven't been doing too well at getting up at 8am, like my therapists told me to. I imagine I'll look rather guilty going into my next session on Wednesday.

But, on the other hand, I've made some decisions.

For one, I think I need my husband to tell me that he doesn't expect me to be a "breadwinner" of this family right now. I'm not going to quit doing the work I've been doing so far for my current clients, but I'm not going to bother actively trying to make a business I could care less about work. It's not what I ultimately want to do, so I'm not motivated to do it. I've got the stupid web site up for it, but I haven't advertised anywhere at all, so no one knows where to find me anyway.

He's taken on the role of "provider" money-wise in this family for now, but I've been carrying around a lot of guilt about being the one at home. I've been sitting here waiting for something to happen that would free him of that burden. Hopefully, with his writing, he can free himself instead. And I am still interested in pursuing the idea we've had to open a coffee shop/bookstore one day. I think we'd both enjoy that. But it's not going to happen if we don't start kicking it into gear.

I want to write. I want to feel that I am "allowed" to write, and that it's not some frivolous thing I should only indulge in my "spare time". Although I have to admit that my husband managed to write almost all of his first draft in his "spare time" - something that we shall have to adjust, so that he's got more time available to work in.

I also want to take an art class or two. I keep having images in my mind's eye that I want to draw, or paint, or sculpt, but I don't have the skills necessary to transcribe what I'm seeing onto canvas or even paper. I've spent years and years trying to encourage and support the "artistic side" of the people around me...

I forgot to encourage myself.

It's amazing what a week with only a one-year-old for company can do to a person. When the only outlet I have to talk about the various things I think and feel throughout the day is through the words I put down on this blog.

There are other things I enjoy that I'd love to do, but they are entirely impractical at this point in my life. For one, my Associates degree is primarily based in Theatre. I'd love to get involved in it again, but the time needed for that is far more than I want to be away from my son and my husband. I also have a deep connection to music, but the piano classes I once took seem to have made it entirely clear to me that I cannot seem to grasp the ability to read music. And I don't feel as if I have some unwritten masterpiece inside me that just needs to be properly composed for all to hear. I sometimes do feel that way with writing and art. And, even if they aren't masterpieces, I'm at the point in my life where I wouldn't mind producing something that someone could say is "not half bad", at the very least. The only masterpiece I feel sure I've created so far is my son, and I have to share credit on that one. Especially since he's the spitting image of a once-smaller version of my husband.

I enjoy this blog as well, and reading other people's blogs. I've had more time this week to catch up on a few I'd fallen behind on, and I found a couple of new ones in the process. I need to weed out my blogroll a bit though, so I can separate my "dailies" from my "weeklies", and "web comics", and my "not blogs at all" links. I'm probably going to pay for a proper blogroll subscription this week. And I'm not going to ask my husband permission to do it, like I did with getting my own domain name and web space.

I'm getting very tired of asking people for permission to live my life.

It's not that my husband expects me to ask him - he's never been like that, so don't get me wrong - but I always have. Nearly everything I've done in my lifetime has been because someone else allowed me to do it, from the moment I was born.

I think my husband and I are in for a long, long discussion once he's back. And I know that he will have spent some of his time in Canada, mulling over his own life, and his own choices for the future. I have a feeling he'll have plenty to say himself.

And, if there's one thing that has always made our marriage work, it's because we communicate with one another. Sometimes we're not on top of things, and they simmer a little first, until some silly little thing uncorks the bottle and it all comes out, but we always end up talking. Not screaming, or yelling, or breaking things. Talking.

I've been standing at the crossroads of my life for an excruciatingly long time now. It's time to decide which direction to go. And if the only true strength I can strongly identify in myself is "creativity", then I have to follow where it leads.

*deep breath*

Oh, boy. This ought to be interesting.

Later!

Loneliness & Learning to Live...

As usual, Father Jake is influencing my posts again. So much so, I'm even posting mid-day. My regular readers know that I usually make my posts sometime between 10pm and 2am...

In a comment on a recent post of mine, he said "The problem, at least for me, is trying to learn how to live instead of just survive."

I get that. I have spent most of my life just "surviving". Possibly all the way up to the point when I said "yes" to my husband one Christmas morning when he officially proposed. From that point on, I've needed to do more than just survive. Now there was another person involved, and I had made an active choice to allow that person deep access to me. Trust has never been an easy thing for me to give anyone. And, in many ways, in the journey towards that proposal, I put him through some relative hell as I unconsciously tested him to see if he could be trusted. It still amazes me that he not only passed with flying colors, but stuck around afterwards too.

You'd think, after a year wandering around the country in a motorhome, I'd have "found myself", so to speak. I did live during that time, seeing and experiencing things that will be cherished in my memories forever. I think half the reason I've never taken up painting or photography in earnest has to to with the feeling that I'm utterly incapable to put to canvas or film the magnitude of some of the sights I saw. Trite as it might seem, the Grand Canyon was one of the most pointed examples of that - this massive crack in the earth left me standing there at it's edge with a slack jaw and unblinking eyes - even words escape me when I try to put what I felt down on paper. Photos can never compete with the actual experience. I breathed in the world around me as we traveled.

But did I live? I don't know. I wanted to. I searched for myself out there, and I think I found pieces of me, but perhaps not yet enough to complete the whole. And, the manner in which our travels ended crushed some of those pieces, bringing me back into the reality that most of the world lives in - where money is God, and God will forgive most anything if you just show that you have enough green paper "faith" in your pockets. No matter what the songs say, you can't actually just live on love in today's world. The people who have the money, but not the love, will beat you senseless if you try.

And yes, I'm a cynic. No matter how hard I try, I still have a hard time believing in the goodness of the world. Anytime I've started to, someone has been willing to step forward and slap me back into place again.

If I'm going to "live" properly, I still need to find the rest of the pieces of "me". Not to mention iron out the ones that Ford crumpled when they explained that the warrantee on our brand new re-built motorhome engine became invalid the moment it was put into a class A motorhome.

I expect, however, that those pieces of "me" are just quietly following along behind me, waiting for me to turn at just the right moment and catch sight of them in the corner of my eye. I just haven't found the right moment yet, so I'm not sure what all they contain. Although I guarantee it's not dishes and laundry. Yep. Pretty sure on that count. *nod nod*

Father Jake also talked about loneliness on his site today, and expressed curiosity in thoughts on the topic. Seeing as how that's the primary focus for much of my blogging this week, I'll just answer here instead of leaving a chapter of comments over on his blog. Besides, he likes to quote stuff on his, so I'll quote him on mine. Mwahaha! *grin*

The following are snippets from his post, with my commentary about them, if you want to read his whole post, click here.

I suspect that loneliness is a state of being that is much more prevalent than we might think. Few of us will admit to suffering from it, either to ourselves or others. It sounds weak, even pitiful. Yet, I think many decisions and actions, especially during our free time, are driven by our attempt to escape this dark place.

Yep, yep. I try to escape that place probably at least once per day. Weak? Yep. Pitiful? Yep. I so need a life. Or at least another grown-up or two to have actual conversation with. I've already figured out most of the translations of the word "Ga!" as my son uses it....

The feelings that we identify as loneliness don't only bubble to the surface when we are alone. We can feel lonely in a crowd. These feelings are very similar to the longing for that elusive "something more" that I have spoken of previously; the feeling that something is wrong with us, and if we can just discover that something "out there," and get it "in here," we'll be fixed. Often, this longing is quite natural to us all, and can even be a positive motivation for personal growth. It does have a shadow side however, which would include addictive and compulsive behaviors.

Okay, I'll come back to the "crowd" comment later. I'm not sure how addictive and/or compulsive I am, although I will say that this week, with my husband away, I've consumed a rather unseemly amount of sugar for my usual diet. I thought for a long while that I'd found my "something more" in my husband. And my son has filled another emptiness I didn't realize I had, but there is still this empty spot. Where I'm supposed to be. I don't see it as something "wrong" however, it's more a feeling that there's just something not quite right yet.

We sometimes call this "longing for something more" by the term loneliness because that is the situation, or the symptom, by which such feelings are either triggered or identified. We notice the feeling of emptiness when alone, or when feeling somehow isolated from others by some invisible shield. If denied, and not met with some kind of counter action, such feelings can continue to allow us to fall even deeper into the dark pit of self-loathing and depression.

Oooh! Oooh! Dark pit! Self-loathing! I'm so there! Oh. Wait. Damn.

Let's talk about what we can do when we seem overwhelmed by loneliness. Let's begin with the situation of actually being alone, due to job or family situations beyond our control.(snip)

1. Make friends with yourself. This means you have to accept yourself just as you are, and even begin to like yourself. Sometimes this means forgiving yourself for the things you have done wrong in the past. My experience is that replaying the past for too long when alone is usually deadly. This might also mean that you have to recognize that the negative messages you get from those around you about who you are, and your value as a person, are most likely wrong, or at least incomplete.

To entertain yourself, or as the cliche goes, to "be comfortable in your own skin," you have to accept yourself, warts and beauty marks together. Until you learn to be comfortable with yourself, you'll continue to be self-absorbed, and find it difficult to connect with others. Being comfortable in your own skin will allow you to get out of yourself; to engage with others, which is the obvious, and most healthy, cure for loneliness.

In my case, those messages have always dictated who I was supposed to be. I spent 21 years of my life with someone explaining to me that anything that went wrong must have been to some mistake of my own, and that I didn't deserve any notice or approval unless I did something absolutely perfectly to her standards. Breaking the habit of trying to be what everyone else wants me to be is not the easiest thing to achieve. Old dogs + New tricks = Hard! Hence - therapy.

2. Use your imagination. Before being confined, I loved television, especially movies. I loved stories. After the isolation, at night in bed, I used to strain to hear the TV in the next room. Eventually, I gave up on that, and started playing out my own stories in my head until I fell asleep. The next night I'd pick up the story where I left off. I sailed the seven seas, discovered magical islands, won many battles, traveled into outer space, fought off monsters, saved more than a few damsels, built a few inventions, flew from treetop to treetop, and, of course, was elected President and saved the world.

When my own imagination seemed difficult to access, I fed off the imaginations of others. I discovered books; specifically novels, although the volumes of the encyclopedia I smuggled home from school were quite helpful as well. To this day, my primary self-description is that I am a reader. That's what I do. Can this become simply escapism? Yes, it can. Anything in excess can be harmful. But it can also stretch us and inform us as we begin to manifest some pieces of those imaginary worlds into concrete realities.

Writing things out is another good expression of the imagination. Keep a diary, or a journal. Don't worry about style or content. Just dump it all out. Be disciplined. Do it every day.

One note of caution regarding the imagination; I have found that reliving scenes from my past, and changing the script, is usually not a healthy use of my imagination. The "what if" game seems to feed the darkness.

Well, at least I have that one covered. I've been "daydreaming" for most of my life. I've started several stories based on the ones I cook up in my imagination. However, I have to worry that the amount of time I could spend just sitting somewhere and daydreaming wouldn't possibly be healthy. Some escapism can be a good thing - it breaks the monotony, but a person needs to live in the real world on a daily basis. And the real world rarely lives up to the ones in my imagination.

3. Talk to God. That might sound terribly corny to those who are not spiritually inclined, but I don't want to dress this point up with fancy theological terms, or even cloak it in the more respectable attire of "prayer." I can't recall a time in my life when I wasn't aware of the existence of something, or someone, beyond myself. Maybe this is delusional, like having an invisible playmate. I really don't care. This belief has served me well, and has helped me get out of myself many times, so I think I'll hold on to it.

As a child, during times when it felt like I was disconnected to everyone and everything else, I'd talk to God. No, I didn't kneel and fold my hands. I didn't use KIng James language. I just talked. And back then, God used to talk back to me. This was before I became "sophisticated" enough to know that I wasn't supposed to admit that God talked to me, unless I wanted to end up in a straight jacket and injected with Thorazine. My memories are of lots of laughter, and gentle words that seemed to caress me and hold me close until I knew that everything was going to be alright.

Anyway, it has worked for me over the years. Keep in mind that you have to put empty places in the conversation, and sometimes wait a bit for your own stuff to quiet down before you can hear God's part of the conversation. And don't always expect words. Often, it seems more like a communication through feelings; "spirit crying out to spirit" kind of thing. And don't get hung up on "the right way" to do it. Just do it. If an eight year old boy, who hadn't been to church for many years, could do it, I imagine just about anyone can.

Well, my spiritual beliefs lean a little differently, so talking to a simple, singular, "God" is just not gonna happen here. However, I do get that warm, fuzzy feeling when I think about my own beliefs and the connectivity to everyone else that comes with that. Long, long before my epiphany, when I was just a little girl pressing her ear up against the cool glass of my bedroom window, I heard angels though. Or at least that's how my child's mind interpreted it at the time, as that's what I needed. As for talking to "God", in my version it's not a "he" or a "she", but "us" instead. We are God, each of us, individually, are part of the infinite unity that could be called "God" for lack of a better term. In our current existence we need to put our beliefs in little boxes in order to better comprehend them, so we might make "God" into a very nice man with white clothes and a deep booming voice, just to fit into a pattern we can understand in our current form. It's not an easy thing for most people to grasp infinity - this lifetime has a beginning and an end, and that, in and of itself, is part of the experience. But I digress.

4. Care for a pet. I can't emphasize this enough. I happen to prefer dogs, but I've had cats, birds, hamsters, fish, and even a culture of protozoa! Besides the comfort of having another living being around, a pet demands that you get out of yourself. They have to be cared for. They have to be loved. Beyond that, pets can teach us beings with oversized brains a few things. An animal is not consumed with regretting the past and fretting about the future. Pets reminds us to live in this present moment. Which is a critical thing to remember; the only thing that is real is that which is contained in this present moment. And usually, in this moment, even when alone, all is well.

Pets are good. Got a cat. She helped a bunch when I was home alone and trying to get a doctor to take me seriously and find what inevitably turned out to be my gallstones giving me pain. I also have a long history of having conversations with inanimate objects. At least that's how people who once went to school with me remember me generally - the girl with the long scarf who talked to her locker. I get it from my mother, who named and talked to her plants. Yes, she needed a life too.

If possible, force yourself to engage in social events. Join a club (or even a church!), or a support group, take a class, or just get together with friends. Being alone for too long can cause us to become more and more passive in our response to life. Sometimes we have to make ourselves be pro-active. There is nothing wrong with being inclined towards being an introvert. But complete isolation is unhealthy for most of us.

You know, I'm not inclined towards being an introvert, it's just how things seem to have worked out. If found in a social situation, I'll frequently burst out of my shell, but I'm not the type to just jump in uninvited. I keep wanting to sign up for a mommy-kid class, and meet other mommies. The problem is, most of my best friends have been guys in the past - I have little in common with most of the women I meet. As for getting together with friends, at this point 80% of the people I call "friend" are living in other states. And the 20% here in Illinois are either married to me (which doesn't count in the same way), or are busy with lives of their own. I don't like to intrude on my friends' time, so I tend to wait for them to make the first move. As a result we tend to be out of touch for a while and then start having less and less in common. I know where my "not wanting to intrude" comes from too - self image. Somewhere along the line I unconsciously decided I wasn't worth their effort, or at least that must be the case, since they rarely put forth any. I bend over backwards to be what people want, and then they continue to expect me to do so as a result. Backfire!

Where does one go to meet new people anyway??!! There are plenty of options available for people to go to "pick up" someone, but what is the acceptable locale for two people to meet up and just be friends? I don't go into an office to work. It's generally not acceptable to just start chatting someone up in the grocery store... Maybe when I figure out what it is I actually want to be doing, I'll find some activity that complements it where I can meet people with similar interests, but in the meantime I'm at a loss. Friends 'R' Us anyone? Pffft.

For some, feelings of loneliness can be a symptom of severe depression. This is a condition that can't be dismissed lightly. Those who do not suffer from it cannot understand it. They will compare it to their own periodic blue funks. Depression can be the result of a chemical imbalance; a malfunction of the neurotransmitters, and can be relieved with the proper professional help, which may include medication. If loneliness is a condition that seems to be becoming life controlling for you, seek professional help.

Yep, yep! Got the fun drugs. That "being lonely in a crowd" thing is part of the tipoff that lead me to consider that avenue a while back. My depression can get pretty down into that "dark pit" mentioned earlier when I'm not on something. It's a light dose, but it helps. I also don't get severly panicked in a crowd the way I used to. Although I still have trouble in a packed movie theatre and in the mall at Christmastime. Although I think anyone could get a panic attack during the mall at Christmastime! The only trouble with being on something is the side effects - the one I'm on right now makes me jittery, and I have trouble holding my hands perfectly still. But so far that's better than the loss of clarity I suffered on others I've tried. I don't generally like anything that messes with my abilities to concentrate and think clearly. Not that I don't have my own "one too many" stories, but that's for an entirely different blog. *guilty grin*

Mind you, I went off of all meds during the pregnancy - I'll just say again, for the record - my husband is a saint. LOL! It's quite possible that it's a very good thing I didn't start blogging until after I gave birth. You might think I'm neurotic for a week while my husband is away (or you might just think I'm neurotic all the time), just imagine what I was like with all those motivated little hormones going ape-sh*t during a pregnancy! Actually, no. Don't imagine that. I don't want to scare you off when I hopefully get pregnant again next year.

Somewhere, at the beginning of all this, I had a point. I know I did. But that was over an hour ago, and it's been totally lost now.

But yeah, I've been lonely while my husband is away. It's hard to go through the day without my "security blanket" husband coming home in the evening and wrapping his arms around me, instantly improving my day tenfold. It's hard having your only meaningful conversations being either one-way (on this blog), or with a 1-year-old and his barely two word vocabulary. Part of who I am is "Brian's wife", and that's always been one of the best parts of who I am. That, and now being a "Mommy". But that's the problem. Brian wants me to be myself. I want me to be myself. And I want to set that kind of example for my son.

But, at the moment, nobody's told me who that's supposed to be!

And I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to figure that out.

Damn.

Can I get a second opinion?

If someone could just tell me what I like so that I can start doing that maybe?

Shoot.

Okay, yeah. More therapy next week. Which reminds me, I still haven't done the "homework" she gave me. What am I, in grade school?

Actually, no. I never had to do pie charts in grade school.

One day, I'll have a life. A real, honest-to-goodness life, where I do things I truely enjoy and share my joy with those around me. One day. Once I figure out what the hell those things actually are.

Oh, well. It's all good.

And, as for this week, I'm definitely over the halfway hump. It's much easier when there's less days left to wait for him to come back home than there are days he's been gone.

But I'm still lonely.

Can you tell?

Sure you can - I just told you!

*grin*

It's all good. It's all part of the experience that is my life.

Until next time. (can't say G'night, 'cause it isn't yet, and G'afternoon just sounds silly!)

Hunger, Clocks, Pie Charts, and Giggles...

First off, in my internet travels today I came across a cool web site. Gear That Gives, is a site where they are apparently making use of buying wholesale + internet selling to raise funds for five different causes: hunger, child health, breast cancer, animal rescue, and the rainforest. Cool idea, actually. And they have stuff in the "handmade & fair trade" section that I'd love to have - some of the Shona statues are wonderful! Like most organizations, they are probably only benefitting a certain group, but it's still a clever way to raise non-for-profit funding. I will most likely do some shopping there, at the very least around Christmastime. Thanks to Father Jake for sending me over in that direction off of his weblog.

In other news, I had another therapy session tonight. I did add a couple of entries to my list, but they weren't solid. Sometimes my stubborness and my dependability/reliability can be assets, but they both bring about some nastiness as well. I also made up a "schedule" of my day, using the patterns from a "good" day instead of a lousy "I woke up late" day like today was. After some consideration, we've decided to start me on some new "patterning". Do I get cookies? No. Apparently we're past the treat stage in Pavlov's theory, and moving directly into the purely "ringing bell" stage. For some odd reason, I'm not drooling...

Oh, and I'm supposed to exercise right after getting up! ACK !!!!

I'm not good for anything right after I get up! Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Until I've sucked down at least one Diet Mountain Dew or some decent coffee, I qualify for the zombie category.

And now, I'm supposed to hop out of bed and turn off the alarm (which she told me to move across the room. At least my husband moved his too.), turn it back on again (no excuse that the "alarm didn't go off" the next morning - damn!), and then cheerfully head downstairs and exercise.

Okay, she didn't say I had to do it cheerfully. The very idea of me doing anything cheerfully before 10 am is foreign to me.

*grumble, grumble, grumble*

Nevermind that it was my stupid idea to get up at a reasonable hour in the morning in the first place. Silly me, going and telling my therapist what I'd really like in life... what was I thinking!!!

So, tomorrow morning I should actually be "awake" a good couple hours before my son gets up. On purpose. As part of a starting ritual. Eww.

Nevermind that I've been trying to work on this stupid "waking up earlier" thing for a long, long time now. But I think I'm calmer than I used to be. The last time I tried putting the clock across the room, I think I had to replace the clock. One morning it went off and I was half asleep and couldn't find it. Once I finally found the darn thing - I flung it. That was a bad day. Usually I would just try answering the phone instead, and wonder why it kept making that odd "ringing" noise once I'd picked it up...

I'm also supposed to do some comparisons on where my time goes each day now, and where I'd rather it be going. That ought to be interesting. She wants pie charts. I can do pie charts. What I can't do, is time management. I actually really suck at anything organizational the moment it gets personal. If it's an office - I can organize it. If it's my life - it's in piles on the floor.

Of course, if money wasn't an issue, I imagine my daily routine would start something like this:

8:00 am Wake up to the sounds of my computer being booted up for me, the housekeeper gently calling my name as she sets out a comfortable outfit for me to change into for breakfast, and the smells of Pierre's cooking wafting up the stairs...

Poop. I haven't even gotten to eat my breakfast yet and I'd already be bankrupt from paying the hired help. We hadn't even gotten to the "pool boy" yet...

Ah, well. Until I magically win that lottery I never buy tickets for, I guess I'll just make do with what I've got.

Which reminds me - when we say "giggle, giggle, giggle" to our son, he sometimes responds with a close approximation - "giggle, gurgle, google, giggle". It is so adorable!!! The tricky part is going to be getting a sound file of it. I've got some cute ones of him from several months ago, but I need a new one - he sounds different now. Eventually I'll just burn them to CD - Jareth's Greatest Hits, Vol. I.

Then I'll pop it into the player when he's older and has a girlfriend over.

*wicked grin*

G'night!

Exercising my Right To Be Me...

Because apparently it needs it. My Right To Be Me (RTBM) is so underused it's apparently been wasting away in the background for some time now. Like, since childhood. So it's time to dish out the protein and some limited carbs and put my RTBM to work. Get some muscle on it. Maybe even expose it to sunlight. That closet was pretty dark. And dank. I think maybe my RTBM could use a shower too...

Therapy can be an interesting adventure once you're ready to take the plunge. The first therapist I was seeing didn't work out. She was working on finding out the background, the wheres and whys of my "issues". And, since self esteem was one of those "issues", she was bolstering it along the way, perhaps trying to smooth the road ahead.

But I've spent 30+ years learning where my problems stem from and why. For some, I'll never know the real answers of why certain things happened. The story of what really broke up my parents and why my father didn't really try to keep in touch may never be revealed to me. I'll likely never know why my mother's mother took to pills and alcohol, or why they adopted both of their children. And I'll never know where my grandfather found it inside of him to hold the family together by a thread without ever raising his voice in my presence. No matter what anyone else might say, it was really him who held the shattered pieces of our family in his hands, quietly putting things right, over and over again. Of all the members of my family who've passed on, I think he's the one I would have liked more time with. I know I could have learned a lot from that man.

The new therapist I'm seeing is taking a different approach - one I was looking for. I'm wanting to look at the 'here and now' and figure out how I can get rid of the various pieces of baggage I'm dragging along so that I don't hand it down to my son, or any other children I might have in the future. I'm a 'mommy' now, and my whole system of priorities changed the moment I realized I was pregnant almost two years ago.

But, apparently I've been missing one vital thing all these years - my RTBM. Right now, I'm "wife" and "mommy" with a handful of "handyman", "housewife", "redecorator", "remodeller", and others tossed in for the occasional change of pace. But none of that defines me. This is the beginning of some of the information we're gleaning off of the "list" I made of the things I want to "fix", which really turned out to be a bunch of questions I jotted down with the occasional phrase or comment tossed in. It was written by hand and not very list-like, so I didn't bother posting it up here. It was also rather depressing, and I'm not wanting to be constantly posting depressing stuff, or it might just depress me while I'm reading it later... You know - vicious circle stuff.

But now I've been given a different assignment. And, I've only got one week to come up with it. It sounded really, really simple at first. But it's proving challenging. And, I suspect, it may be some of the launching pad for defining who I am, and what I should do about it.

The assignment? To write down five positive qualities about myself.

Five? Normally that's such a small number...

But right now, it feels like she might as well have asked for fifty of them with the way I'm struggling. Because these really ought to be a) stuff I feel sure about, and b) stuff that doesn't really relate to anyone else.

The entire drive home last night I thought about it. During that time the only thing I could come up with that met those two specifications was that I like my eyes. Somehow that didn't lift my spirits a whole hell of a lot. And, if you look at the most recent picture of me, I think my eyes look tired:

What? Did you expect the entire picture? It was one of the better ones taken of me recently, but that didn't make the me in it look any better... I think, since puberty, I've maybe had two pictures of me that I've actually liked.

When I got home, I posed the question to my husband. "Help me figure out what to put down?" I asked. Okay, so I know that's probably cheating, but I was feeling the need for a pick-me-up about then. He poked me in the chest, pointing his finger at my heart, and said, "There's your compassion for others..." And then he cheated and did that smiling thing he does that makes me all melty inside.

The only other possibilities I've come up with are a) Creativity. I know I'm creative. The applications I use it in are rather hodge-podge, but there's an "artist" of one form or another (writer, painter, sculpter???) just bursting to be let out. And b) Intelligence. Oh, I figure there's likely someone out there who will beg to differ with me on that point, but just 'cause I've got it doesn't mean I use it every second of the day. I can be "smart" when I want to or need to, and I figure that's got to count for something. Besides, I did one of those online IQ tests not long ago and it put me well above the average mark, but sadly not in the genius category. So, at the very least I know I'm not stupid. Brian and I have a saying in our house - "we're very smart, we're just not always clever."

But, even if I use all the ones above, including the "gimme" from my husband, I've still only got four!!

And, it's really frustrating the hell out of me.

Oh, and in other news, I did all the white paint today. It looks like I might be able to get away with only one coat too. I was going to write a post about how refreshing it feels (almost like a smudging in and of itself) to paint something and see it clean and white afterwards. Almost like creating a clean slate or canvas. And in a couple of weeks this room will become a canvas when we start with the clouds. But for now, tomorrow I price compare sander rental. Among other tasks I have set for myself.

And, 24 hours later, and my son still won't let the puppy out of his sight. I think it's been out of his arms for feeding and changing (him, not the puppy!), and one instance when he threw a fit and literally threw the puppy as a result. He was hungry, but dinner wasn't ready yet. I recovered the puppy and gave him a few crackers to tide him over. But, oh, such a pout and big, fat, teardrops! This kid so needs a sibling, because as it stands right now he owns me! I am such a pushover and I fear he's going to be spoiled as a result! Eep. The "terrible twos" may be terrible indeed.

Ah, well. It's all good in the end.

G'night!