How can work produce LESS anxiety than home

I'm still in my room, still in my bed, and all I can think about is how to get back to the mountains.  It's certainly reserved for Labor Day weekend.  The weekend next is a Saturday night black tie gala fundraiser for a cause I will not miss.

In just a little while, I can take Valium two of the day and will probably be able to emerge shortly thereafter.  I could have already taken it or something else and work myself into a need for inpatient drug treatment, but I'm too smart for that.  I'm too damn stubborn, too.  Although the hospital, now that I've actually seen the inside of it, appears to be a very lovely place.

Instead, I'm just going to put a few things on here that make me laugh but that may not make others laugh.  There's those handful of friends I could show these to who would "get" the humor and sarcasm.  Because that's all it is.  Sarcasm from a brain that constantly is in motion and that functions at a higher level than most.  One point from genius IQ.  and I believe that was operator error and certainly not the error of the operator of the brain but of the examiner.

It takes more sarcasm and stimulation to keep my brain occupied.    Being stupid would be so much easier.

In spite of the IQ, I can't figure how to post the stuff from the device I'm using.  Time.  Valium and time.

At least that's what the doctor says.

The photos.  Let's see how this works.

Some of my favorites.  Certainly more to come.

The end of today

Rarely do I stay up or out late, and tonight's no different.  I'm late already. 

I made it through.  I fell apart several times only to have a friend call or text or post on facebook an encouragement.  Always exactly what I needed to hear.  Reassurance.  Love.  Admiration.  Things I don't ask for and don't know are there but that my dear friends are abundant with during difficult times.

Once out of the hospital parking garage, I called William.  I knew he'd answer, and always with a compliment that under normal circumstances would put a smile on my face.  "Hello!  How is my dear lady today."  That recognition that it's me.  No sense in wasting time with anything else other than our need to talk.

I managed to get a handful of words out before I began to cry to him, and I couldn't have asked for more support.  He knows.  He knows the struggles first hand.  I've cried to him before.  I've laughed with him before.  I admire him and the dedication that he's grown for me and for my children.  Without being told, he knows my need to be complimented.  He knows when I need support.  He knows when I need to bitch.  He knows when I need to be told what verse in the Bible to go to for comfort. 

And he crowned me today.  With his words.  With his support.  Understanding.  And fearlessness at my vulnerability.  Where in the hell are the men in this world who are men?  Things get dicey or out of their comfort zone and they're automatically putting up walls in places where none existed and where none were needed. 

I'm a strong woman, and I've seen sides of hell that most people have never and will never see.  I've seen them in my own life, in the lives of children, and in the lives of loved ones.  I have the ability to connect with those I don't know who are living in sordid conditions.  And I can do all of that without backing up, without getting scared, without slamming on the brakes. 

But sometimes, I need a man to man up.  William did for me today.  We talked less than five minutes, and I could tell he was in the middle of something, but my calls go straight through to be dealt with immediately by him.  I don't have to wait.  I don't have to translate.  He just knows.  And even though I knew he didn't have an hour to talk, and I didn't want to talk an hour, he gave me just the amount of time I needed. 

And then checked on me again tonight.  It's Friday night.  He's got plenty to do much of which I'm not aware and don't want or need to know.  But he took the time to do what he said he would do. 

That's a real man.  And to be cared for like that by a man like that is romantic to me.  It's not about sex.  It's about knowing how to meet a woman's needs without blinking an eye.  Without fear. Without hesitation. 

I love him.  I haven't told him, but he knows it, and I know he loves me right back.  Is it life changing love?  No.  Is it relationship changing love?  No.  Is it a facet of what I need and what many people in the world need and can't get out of their damn black or white boxes to get?  Yes.

There is so much gray in the world.  And it is in the gray that we find the true things our hearts need.  The black and white gets too complicated.  Too committal.  Too tied down. 

Gray. 

I have green eyes, a very unusual characteristic, and green is my favorite color.  But it's the gray in life that helps to save us from drowning in the muck. 

William. When we met, who would have known? 

Failure

Like most high-achieving individuals, I base a lot of my sense of self-worth on what I do.  Related, I base my own evaluation of my success as a parent on my children's experiences. 

In looking at negative experiences there are, indeed, some experiences I cannot control.  Those are the source of much grief for me as a mother. 

And then there are those experiences for which I could control.  Today, I believe, was one of them.

I took my baby daughter to the hospital and left her there.  I walked in on my own two feet and out on the same feet.  I made the choice to do this, and there is a part of me that feels like it has died inside because I have failed.  I had to do most of this alone because my husband had to go back to work. 

Typical me?  Able to withstand anything.  Already withstood everything.  Just another day and experience.

Today, I feel as thought I may not make it.

Logically, I can go through all the shit that tells me I have not failed.  Logic does not apply in these types of situations.  Right now, it's the series of photos and experiences and memories running through my head that matters.  It's the tiny little angel with her first Easter bonnet at age two.  And the way I always made sure her clothes were clean and matched and that although we were living on one salary, I shopped so that she would not look like what she was:  a foster child.  Bows in her hair to match her clothes.  Books to develop that incredible IQ.  A room filled with furniture that MY mother worked and saved her money to buy for me.

I remember when we finally took her out of her crib at age three and put her in a big girl bed.  She was late but the crib was her safety.  But we'd had her long enough that it was time for her to make that move.  From her crib, she would call me each morning to come and get her out.  When she moved to her bed, she continued that same routine even though she could easily get out on her own. 

I remember taking her to the beach for the first time.  She had been burned in a bathtub before coming to us, and although the pool at the hotel was such a draw to her as a child, she was deathly afraid of it.  We worked gently and carefully with her until she would tolerate the water and even forget herself occasionally and enjoy it.  And every time, she would have a bowel movement in her bathing suit forcing us to leave to clean her up.  She had been potty trained quite easily for some time, but her gut reaction was to panic, and her gut responded in kind.

I remember the first time she waddled away from us on the beach in her bathing suit.  She was precious, and I was determined not to let her past create negativity in her future.  I failed.

She is still afraid of water, even her own shower.  She's afraid of being alone, even in her own house.  She's afraid of using public restrooms without someone going with her.  And I just left her with people she does not know in a place she's never been where she'll sleep alone.  There were two other children her age on the floor, and one was being discharged today.  Therefore, she will be there with one other child.  Possibly, eventually, she'll be the only child. 

I forgot to tuck a note in her suitcase telling her I loved her.  Even though I just did what I said I would never do.  What I HAVE never done.  Leave her with people she does not know. 

There are times when I wish I'd never become a parent because of the heartache involved.  Now that to protect my own children and to care for them, I've made myself so sick that it's unclear if I'll recover.  When I think of the things I endured as a child--what made me think I could protect one child, much less my brood, from all that is out there.  Including myself. 

I took my second Valium of the three-a-day allotment more than an hour ago.  This is more than Valium can handle.  This is more than Valium can erase, even momentarily.  And my other children have returned home.  I have to put on the face that tells them it's all going to be okay. 

When I have no idea in hell whether or not it will be.

My children

Tomorrow, we hospitalize our second child this summer.  A psych placement.  I'm doing the unthinkable for me. 

I've been committed to caring for my children at home regarding their mental health needs.  Of course, I would seek counseling and therapy and the like for them. But I would never hospitalize, institutionalize, or incarcerate. 

And I've kept that promise to myself for more than 14 years now. 

I've spent money on elaborate alarm systems to alert me of movement during the night that could end in danger. I've slept tethered to the child who would not remain in his bed, wandering the house to his own detriment.  A ribbon with one end tied around his waist and the other end around my wrist, so that his movement would cause my own and wake me to care for him.

I've lay on top of the child who was attempting to run away in the dark until the child gave up and fell asleep.

I've stood with law enforcement having created a perimeter in the area and a command station in my front yard as a search for one runaway child went on for hours.  In the dark.  I watched as units from neighboring areas arrived to participate in the search.  I agreed with the K-9 officer my knowledge that the dogs were trained to apprehend.  And I've given indication - even permission for the dogs to injure my child should they be successful in their search.  I've prepared with the spokesperson for the sheriff's department for the arrival of the press as the time continued well past anyone's comfort level and into the late, late hours. 

I've watched my beautiful child stand on furniture in the corner of our den and heard that child tell me I was not looking at my child any longer.  But at Satan. And taken that child to the emergency room.  And signed that child out without hospitalization against the advice of eight physicians. 

I've ridden to a hospital in another part of the state where one of my children was taken by ambulance following a series of seizures at summer camp.  Calling the highway patrol on our trip to alert them of our speed exceeding 100 miles per hour and our need for an escort.  I've brought that child home to spend six nights in the hospital under medical surveillance including video monitoring to determine the source of the seizures.

I've driven a child to the hospital, alone because my husband had to stay behind with the others, and had the child stop breathing while in the car seat behind me.  And made the decision to continue rapidly towards the hospital, dodging other cars and running red lights, rather than stop and call 911, having to judge which decision would get my child medical attention the quickest.

I've taken one child to nine neurologists in an effort to discover a diagnosis. Botox injections in the calves.  MRIs with sedation.  A horribly painful spinal tap.  And watched that child daily for eight years not knowing whether that child would live or would shrivel up and die a horrible painful death from a disease that would not reveal its name.

I've sat at the feet of one child during a forensic physical exam where it was determined that the child had genital warts and had been systematically and repeatedly subjected to anal penetration. 

I've sat alone with my child in the hospital pre-op while waiting for the anesthesiologist to come.  Walked with that child to the door of the operating room and watched that child's behavior mimic instant death as the anesthesia was administered, my child's eyes fluttering and body falling backwards onto the gurney.  And caught myself before I hit the floor from the very raw emotion that was uncontainable at such a sight.

I've nurtured a child who was beaten until both eyes were blackened, one swollen shut, and at 12 months of age weighed 15 pounds.  I fed that baby meal after meal and bottle after bottle around the clock until the child was unrecognizable two weeks later except for the yellowing under the eyes from the bruises continuing to heal. 

Tomorrow, I will take the child who was sodomized before coming to us.  Who was burned in a bathtub at 18 months old.  Who had prenatal drug and alcohol exposure, and for whom we were the fifth set of caregivers - our first child - and walk away from the hospital without that child for the first time ever.  I will leave that child in a place that appears to be safe while I worry always that no place is safe for a child like mine. 

And I will go a week or longer without this child sleeping in the room above me.  With an empty seat at the kitchen table.  With an empty seat in the car.  Without the sound of this child's voice echoing through my home as it has for my entire parenthood.

When I look at what I've lived through with my children, I wonder how I could trust the care of any of them to anyone else.  And I know that I'm no longer able to do for this child what is needed.  I had to go to a place where I could no longer care for myself to admit that I could no longer care for all the needs of my children.  

I can logically see, as I will be led to do, that few have traveled the path I have and made it as long.  Does that assuage the guilt I will feel when I lay down tomorrow night knowing my child is alone?  Cannot get to me if needed?  That I could not stay the course until the end?  That I gave up on my child because I finally gave up on myself?  That this child asked me at age two to protect her from the sodomizer.  And I did.  But when it got tough, I did not continue to put my child's needs before mine.

Will I smile this week without shame?  Laugh without guilt?  Be capable of movement?  Or go down with the ship?  Enjoy watching my other children swimming knowing that one is without us, watching the clock, knowing where we are? 

Will my heart that is already so wounded from all I've seen my children endure continue to beat?  Or will this be the final blow to a heart that has seen more than its share of the pain life has to give?

The Invitation

The Invitation
By Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting
Your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
For love, for your dream,
For the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
If you have been opened by life's betrayals,
Or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain,
Mine or your own,
Without moving
To hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy,
Mine or your own,
If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
Without cautioning us to be careful, realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself,
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can be faithless and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty
Even when it is not pretty every day,
And if you can source your own life
From its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure,
Yours and mine,
And still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,
Weary and bruised to the bone,
And do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
In the center of the fire with me
And not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
From the inside
When all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
With yourself,
And if you truly like the company you keep
In the empty moments.

Sultry, Ashton, and Mickey Spillane

Tuesdays have come to be my favorite days of the week, for it is on those days that I spend time with my friend.

Today was Tuesday. 

A typical Tuesday totals tremendous trust and tribulation (I LOVE alliteration). 

Allow me to start again...  THAT sentence was just to send one particular reader reeling, trying to figure out if it's time to count syllables, or what he is to do now.  He will either (1) ask me the meaning of alliteration the next time I see him or (2) have looked it up himself in some old dusty, real dictionary (why trust Google to take seconds when you can spend ten minutes looking it up yourself?), or (3) he will have an alliteration planned for me and my enjoyment and will do the equivalent of "performing" it for me just to prove that I can't get one over on him. Or, in his recently learned language of "the times," just to prove that he's "The Bomb". 

I look forward to any of the three.

God, I love him!

Again, a typical Tuesday has me in the last appointment of the day and will last as long as is needed.  I like to think it's because I'm special, engaging, and/or intriguing when it truly could be because it takes him longer than 50 minutes to figure me out.  There has to be the introductory banter between the two of us.  This is enjoyable to me because it's enjoyable to him.  I like -- no, I crave being enjoyed. 

That is followed with a series of what I characterize as compliments to which, after almost a year and a half, I'm growing more accustomed to.  Should I say anything other than a resounding, "THANK YOU!" which is the equivalent to me of, "I KNOW I'M GREAT!", I am sufficiently scolded until I answer somewhat closer to expectation.  So, I become coy and reluctant, and try to match the level of enthusiasm expected.  If I come close, I get it repeated for me by him trying to match my voice, my facial expression, my eyes  --  whatever it is he happened to notice.  Then, I get asked to repeat the same expression.  Doesn't he know I can't?  It's natural.  It's me.  It comes out and you'd better catch it then because you may not get it again. Nah.  He doesn't know that.  He's just enjoying me. 

And just recently, I was informed that these were not compliments as I have labeled them in my mind for some time now.  "They are truths," I am told. 

Does one say "thank you" in response to a truth?  On Tuesdays, one'd better do it or suffer the scolding of someone who will persist until I acquiesce. As though my arm had been bent behind my back and I was to say, "Uncle".  Instead, it's "thank you" with sincerity that better be as close to real as I can get it to look.

I think I'm supposed to believe what is being said to me  -- this compliment or "truth".  That is still a work in progress.

Today was NOT a typical Tuesday.  I was NOT in the last appointment of the day, but instead was a 3:00.  Meaning two things.  First, there was someone in the waiting room waiting to get into MY seat before I was finished with it.  Second, there was an office assistant (aka "wife") chomping at the bit and sending odd sounds to ring through the iPhone as someone else tends to lose track of time when I'm in the room. 

Today, with one hour rather than two or more, I had to get down to business.  I had to use my teacher voice and mannerisms on occasion and even hold up one finger to stop someone from interrupting so that I could get from point A to Z in that one hour.  Generally, I allow for some processing, some questions, some advice.  Today, the questions had to be five words or less.  No advice.  Basically, a "shut up and listen".

I am not at fault for how I had to handle today.  I created this blog as a way to communicate some things and even directed my friend to this blog via the iPhone.  However, I needed to be extremely specific as in, "This is a blog.  A blog is a .....  I wrote this blog.  You should have this read before you see me next." 

I sometimes think that when there's the same level of intelligence and wit that there's the same level of understanding of the unspoken.  In other words, I often .... this is going to cause a chuckle, but I often forget that my friend is a male.  As a disclaimer, there is nothing feminine about him.  He just cannot read my mind like my girlfriends can do. 

Today, Lord have mercy, I nearly threw the entire time off track when I described a recent event as "sultry".  A lover of words like me, I swear he tried to spend a full five minutes on the word "sultry".  "Where did I get that word?"  A:  Out of my head.  "I haven't heard that word in many years."  A:  Yes, so..... "Wait a minute.  Do you know who Mikey Spillane is?"

I could literally hear brakes squeal in the room right then.  Do I know who Mickey Spillane is?  Seriously!?!  Do you realize that you did not (again) read my mind via my text which has put us inordinately behind, and I've already done a public speaking stint today and I'm on my game, and I've got one hour to get from A to Z, and you want to talk about Mickey Spillane!?! 

I agreed to Google Mickey when I got home which I have done.  The most interesting fact is one that could give away my location.  But the whole road to Mickey Spillane came from the word "sultry".  Mickey Spillane must have written about "sultry" women. I have no clue and had to set about describing what sultry meant to me.  And because it might not be entirely obvious to my small audience, I've inserted a video of the song and the singer.  Perhaps one should read before watching the video.  Perhaps one will do whatever IN the hell one wants to do and would be O-ffended at being told how to navigate a blog.  In spite of the fact that one doesn't know what in the hell a blog is even thought he's looking at one right now.  Am I correct?  Indeed, I am.

Sultry, defined, for me, involves some props.  "The shoes," which will require another post another time, are sultry all by themselves.  In fact, my friend and I have all but given a stronger definition to the shoes.  But I digress.  This time, I was barefooted and sultry.  Windows open.  Alone.  Working on a great bottle of cabernet.  Losing my inhibitions.  Short shirt.  Sitting in a club chair sideways while I cross my legs, kick my feet up, throw my head back.  Sipping the wine.  Skirt riding up.  And listening to Diana.  Getting up, walking through the room on my tip toes with just a little swing to my hips.  Singing along with her because I know the words in my sleep.  And repeat.

Mickey Spillane?  Hell, I didn't need anybody named Mickey to be sultry.  To feel sultry.  I can get there all on my own. 

So don't plan for me to give a dissertation on Mickey Spillane next week.  I Google him.  I find myself and Diana far more sultry than Mickey. 

Our Deepest Fear

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness
That most frightens us.

 

We ask ourselves
Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.

Your playing small
Does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine,
As children do.
We were born to make manifest
The glory of God that is within us.

It's not just in some of us;
It's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,
We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we're liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

 

By Marianne Williamson (often mistakenly cited as a Nelson Mandela poem)