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)

Desiderata

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

© Max Ehrmann 1927 (often thought to have been discovered in a church in the 1600's, but this is false. Max is the author.)

My Heart Sings

4:47 pm

There are still good people in this world.  They may be few, but they are there.

As I leave out, bird food chilled in the frig, I have more peace than I thought.  A simple phone call.  Which was not so simple after all.  But the reassurance that it's all okay. 

I'm flawed, but there's grace. 

What a gift.  My face and my heart are smiling.

Trying to Leave Things Behind

August 5, 2013

 

1:53 pm

 

At the mountain house….

 

Well, I’m seven minutes away from the time I planned to leave.  Even set an alarm.  Woke up before it (8:30) and I’ve got another good hour before I’ll be on the road.  Probably not a problem, but not what I had planned. 

 

I just had to turn the fans on for the first time since I was here.  AND hike up my skirt while I stood in front of the largest one.  Dear Jesus.  Part of the deal (or it should be) is that you clean up behind yourself.  With my mild (and I mean MILD) OCD tendencies, I HAD to not just hit the high spots. 

 

The entire time I was here, I had “sugar on my feet”.  Supposedly, that was what I told my Aunt Ruth when I was three years old and was visiting at her house.  Rural Georgia.  Dirt roads.  Country.  Dirt yard.  All to equal dirt on the floor. 

 

But I had lived with my mother.  And I had rarely felt “sugar on my feet”.

 

The “sugar” was sand from the yard.

 

Although that is a story that I’ve been told, not a memory that I have, I still don’t like the feeling.  I know why.  I know where the utter distaste for grit has come from.  And 44 years later, there’s still a neural pathway in my brain that reacts to sand, grit, whatever on my feet and elsewhere.

 

I have to quit a minute to go check on the damn bird food I’m cooking. <sigh>

 

I’m back.  It did not occur to me that it would take a freaking hour for a pot of water with some sugar in it to boil.  I CAREFULLY put the sugar in (none on the floor).  And made sure I was making enough to fill up the bottle in the frig for its purpose (a note on it would be nice, but I can figure things out).  And be damned if I haven’t been cooking for birds FOR-EV-ER. 

 

Why didn’t I do this last night?  I don’t know.  Because now it has to cool before it goes back in the refrigerator.  Be damned if I’m not going to be here….  Wait.  My IQ just kicked in.  I’ll put it in the jug and put the jug on the carpet in front of a fan.  That will cool it more quickly.  IQ.  Common sense.  Who knows?  Getting by and getting home is what I call it.

 

And a funnel.  There are more things in need of funneling here, and there’s no funnel to be found.  Food has to be put into hummingbird feeders (my current recipe).  The recipe has to be put into a jug.  I’ve found the blender and will use it to pour.  But there is a clear need for a funnel.

 

So back to the sugar on the floor.  We were the last ones here.  My oldest son cleaned and cleaned.  I had everyone cleaning at one point.  And I’m as neat as a pin.  So whence cometh the sugar? 

 

I swept the laundry room and kitchen.  I swept the great room and hallway.  I took rugs out and knocked the dust and dirt out of them.  Then, I got out the Swiffer that we’d bought for the cabin just last week.  “Leave it better than you found it” is one of the “rules,” so we bought the house quite a few things that probably won’t be noticed.  One was a Swiffer.  Dry pads and wet pads.  And the wet pad package we bought had two pads left.  That means my son used TEN last week.  Two was all I needed, though.  One in the laundry and kitchen.  One in the bathroom. 

 

Oh my God.  I'll post the pictures later when it's easier to do.  Not from a wifi but from home.

 

Now prior to this time my mild OCD had me not just cleaning up behind myself… (gotta go check the stove)…

 

What a hot mess.  For future reference, blenders are not good for pouring.  Some of the hot sugar water ended up on my hand.  So, I resorted to the coffee pot which worked perfectly.   Except that I’ve already washed it.  Now, I have a pot, a blender, and a coffee pot to wash PLUS the countertop and sink to clean.  AGAIN.

 

Anyway, when I cleaned the bathroom, I CLEANED the bathroom.  Like a woman cleans a bathroom.  My “leaving it better than you found it” even involved cleaning the inside of the shower.  Naked.  Indeed, some men probably would have paid good money to have seen that, but it needed to be done, and I couldn’t stand to leave it that way.  Peace and paradise must be clean.

 

The hummingbird food is cooling as we speak.  Damn.  I’m going to have to drive like a bat out of hell to get home when I wanted to. 

 

Anyway, I took pictures, mainly to show my son, of the last two Swiffer wet pads that I used.  Now, I’ve been here four nights.   I’ve gone out ONE time.  I am NOT responsible for what I saw when I looked at those pads. 

 

So, now, the cabin is out of sugar.  In great need of a funnel.  And I had hoped to have extra time to drive in to Spruce Vegas (thanks to my college friend for the rename) to the Walmart in hopes that those country folks aren’t attracted to the same color of lipstick that I use (since it seems to be in short supply in Columbia).  Hottie.  That’s my color.  And I’m in short supply.  And I still have to clean up the kitchen AGAIN.  Make the bed (sheets are in a dryer that is afraid to get too hot and therefore takes FOR-EV-ER).  And drag my stuff back down the stairs.  Along with closing up the windows.  Taking out the trash. Turning off the water (ewwww, in a scary place downstairs) and locking up.  That should do it.  Then, me and my newly rediscovered self will head home.

 

Spruce Vegas Walmart will require a trip BACK into this place to drop off what is needed.  Jesus.  Why am I like I am?  I can’t leave it without what it needs!

 

And I broke a wine glass.  I wasn’t planning to buy that from Walmart, but perhaps it would keep me from having to do it elsewhere and having delivered to the owner’s office.  Back where I’m from.

 

I’ve finally quit glowing (I don’t sweat).  I need to fix my hair. Possibly wash dishes again beforehand.  With paper towels so there is nothing left to wash. 

 

And it’s 2:49.  And I just learned something new:  my curling iron cuts off by itself.  Went to fix my hair so that when my husband and I discussed how we were going to “revive” our marriage I’d look like a sex pot (hell, why not), and the curling iron is cold.

 

But the hummingbird food is not.  NOT cold.  NOT cool.  NOT anything anywhere close to anything but still hot. 

 

Damn.

 

Okay, so real-life confessions here:  I haven’t washed a dish, a piece of clothing (to include linens), wiped a countertop, cleaned a bathroom, swept a floor, run a vacuum, or made up a bed in…I don’t know how long.  I seriously don’t remember.  I’ve only been able to keep myself together.  No way could I do anything else.  Am I spoiled?  Hardly.  I’m privileged.  I’m blessed.  I’ve been sick, and the world has gone on around me, and I’ve had to let it. 

 

Curling iron should be ready for me.  Note to self:  Google “how to store hummingbird food”.  

 

3:26:  Sex pot hair.  Check.  Dishes washed.  Check.  Bed made.  Check.  Towels folded.  Check.  Almost all windows closed.  Most of my things in the car. 

 

Damn.  Guest book.  And the valium makes my hands shake. 

 

And the good news is the hot hummingbird food.  Genius IQ comes in handy:  I put it in an ice bath in the sink.  It’s cooling now. 

 

Conundrum:  Spruce Vegas Walmart or not?

 

3:33:  Cleared that up.  Nope.  No need.  Called the office assistant, who is apparently my new contact, and left a list with her.  Forgot to mention the wine glass. 

 

Told her to tell the owner thanks.  Heard it in her voice.  She knows.  She knows my error.  She knows my….  Well, she knows what she knows, and what she likely doesn’t know is that I am just not like that.  That’s not me.  It’s me, indeed, because it came out of me.  But it’s only me because of the damage done to me.  Damage that I always control.  Except for this time.

 

Damn.  Damn it all to hell.  Because that’s where it came from.  And that’s where it belongs.

 

I’m going home to try to fix my broken marriage.  And to try to keep it fixed amongst my broken children.  God help me.  God help us.   

 

As for my broken friendship, I’ve done my part.  And I can’t fix everything.  And be damned if a delivery of wine glasses to the office, even by someone other than me (it would HAVE to be someone other than me) would probably be misinterpreted. 

 

So, I’ll just have to owe this place a wine glass.  I hate that, but I guess the lesson learned for me is that not everything that is broken gets replaced by the person who broke it.  I was broken and left that way.  I had to fix myself.  And to be honest, I’ve done a damn good job considering the circumstances.

 

Post.  Then home.  Home sweet home.  Going to make it that way with a man who worships the ground I walk on (minus a few incidences).  The man who thought I was beautiful even when I was fat.  The father of my children.  The man who has loved me through so much.  Now, I’ve got to love him back again.  And try to put away this brokenness that keeps me from fully investing in a relationship that is 17 years old.

 

God, please help me. Can’t do it alone.

So this was the product:

This was the result of the kitchen.

 

This was the result of the bath!  Ugh!

Enemy's Schemes, Where I Am Today, Who God Has Made Me, Encouragement, Ashton, My Faults, Ed, Mountain House, Prayers

Sunday, August 4, 2013

 

12:15 pm

 

Disclaimer from the author:  I write under a long-ago created pen name that has no connection to anyone I know.  It is a name under which the “real” me could never be discovered.  And I write to save my very soul.  This is raw.  This is me.  This is the kind of honestly that one could never get from conversation with me.  This is my vulnerability spelled out, word for word, and at times, it’s still surface-level vulnerability.  If I’ve led you here to read this, I either know or pray that you would spend the time to fully understand what I’m writing.  And to ask me questions if you don’t.  And to know that there is so much more but there are only so many hours in a day…

 

--from Arm Yourself Against the Enemy’s Schemes by Beth Moore:

 

“Beloved, your feelings of hopelessness and helplessness come straight from the enemy.  They are lies.  Surrender yourself to God, withholding nothing, and ask Him to do what seems impossible.  Humble yourself and receive the help He will send as you seek it.  He who called you is faithful, and He will do it.  (See 1 Thess 5:24)

 

“Everyone described a mental bombardment.  Excessive thinking is a clear sign of a fierce demonic stronghold.”

 

“So why does God allow someone with wholehearted devotion to Christ to get caught in the snare of demonic seduction?  Because, not unlike Peter’s case, something in our lives needs removing, sifting, or changing that an intense encounter with the kingdom of hell would best accomplish.  ….it is congruent with Scripture.” 

 

“Beloved, are you being sifted?  Has God permitted the enemy to launch a full scale attack against you?  God knows what He’s doing.  He isn’t looking the other way or being mean. Maybe this is the only way He can get you to attend to the old so He can do something new.  Grab onto Him for dear life!  Give Him full reign to remove in you anything that needs to go.”

 

“And, finally, remember that the Lord is always in charge.  You will never face a storm in which He is not willing to help you.  Be encouraged and sift, Beloved, sift!” 

 

“Beloved, you cannot get through the restoration process wholly on your own. You need members of the body of Christ.  Our brothers and sisters in the Lord are partially responsible for our restoration to Him.  Their job is to fervently lift us up in prayer that we might find healing, freedom, strength, and the determination to develop hearts and minds dedicated to living under the guard of God’s Word.”

 

WHERE I AM TODAY

 

I’m so blessed to still be in this mountain house TODAY -  this morning (afternoon already).  The wind is blowing, and it’s the first day there’s been a steady breeze since I arrived.  The occasional sound of chimes ring through my soul.  I feel a sense of my mother here today.  She would have loved this.  Getting up the stairs to where I am would have been nearly impossible for her, but she would have done it, and she would, like me, not want to leave.  Unlike me, she would worry about home and getting back there.  I thought I’d not gained her immense sense of worry, but it did finally jump on me. 

 

But it’s worry that is unnecessary.  It’s scriptural that all worry is unnecessary.

 

I’m ready to get back on track with the roles God has given me.  Wife.  Mother.  Friend.  Teacher.  I’ve spent countless days and nights in the past year or so isolated.  Literally under the covers in my bed.  When I wasn’t there, I was awake in the middle of the night battling insomnia.  But mostly under the covers, blanket over my head, for days on end.  Life going on around me.  Kids and husband bringing me food occasionally to the bed.  Me, who previously could not even nap, sleeping endlessly to escape the pain.  Literally shrinking and becoming someone unrecognizable from who I previously was (one positive in the middle of all the negative).

 

And when I could not sleep, taking Xanax so that I could.  Escape.  Running in place.  Not reading.  Not communicating.  Doing nothing but thinking, even in my sleep. 

 

The breeze today is intoxicating.  Like it’s blowing away all the things that need to be blown away.  Like standing at the bow of the Titanic, arms outstretched, regaining my power. 

 

WHO GOD HAS MADE ME

 

I AM powerful.  I AM strong.  I AM a survivor.  I AM brilliant.  I AM attractive.  I AM engaging.  I AM valuable.  I AM meant to be on this earth at this moment.  I AM NOT meant to leave this earth by my own means.  

 

I have been a wonderful mother and though I have stumbled, I AM working to get back to where I need to be.

 

I AM a wife and though I have stumbled, I am where God wants me to be, and I AM working to get my heart steadied and committed. 

 

I AM a gifted and teacher talented like few, and I will survive another year giving all I have to my students while ignoring the flack and fluff of the adults around me.  I will have my eighth year of “healing” one of my students.  I will have yet another student test from being intellectually disabled to having a typical IQ.  I’ve done it seven years in a row, and I’ll do it again. 

 

I WILL love and encourage the mute to talk.  I will support and love those children who think they cannot do.  I will create an environment where school is inviting, relaxing, fun, and where children are motivated to learn.  Where they find the intrinsic value in hard and steady work.   Where they don’t say or feel defeat unless it is momentary.  I am gifted at my work, and I was created to do what I do.  God will handle the obstacles to that.  He will not allow me to be hindered.

 

I will continue to shine light where it needs to be shown.  For in the dark, there is isolation, fear, and the things that should not go on continue.  Light exposes all things.  Makes all things seen.  I will shine that light fearlessly.  I will not ignore or give up on those causes that have been put in my path.  God put them there because he made my heart. He made it to understand and feel for the disenfranchised.  He made it to believe that I can heal the sick.  He made it to believe that I have the power to make a difference like no one else can.  He made me to be sensitive to the civil rights of others.  He made me to be an expert in my area.  I am standing back up.  Straightening myself and holding my head high.  And I will do right when no one else will.  I will do right when others are fearful to do so. 

 

ENCOURAGEMENT

 

“Don’t let someone dim your light just because it’s shining in their eyes.”  The world does not gain when I shrink.  The world gains when I know my worth.  When I know the value of my abilities.  When I do the right thing no matter the cost. 

 

“After a while, I looked in the mirror and realized….  Wow, after all those hurts scars, and bruises.  After all of those trials, I really made it through.  I did it.  I survived that which was supposed to kill me.  So I straightened my crown… and walked away like a boss.”

 

“The real challenge is not to survive.  Hell, anyone can do that.  It’s to survive as yourself, undiminished.”  -- Elia Kazan

 

ASHTON

 

I am extraordinary.  I AM extraordinary.  I AM EXTRAORDINARY.  Ashton has told that me at least 50 times.  I believed that HE believed that.  I could logically look at my accomplishments as compared to my defeats and see that he would find me to be extraordinary.  The missing factor was that I did not feel extraordinary myself.  Ashton felt it and I appreciated what I felt was an exceptional compliment.  The key is that I have to accept my own power, my own extraordinary-ness.   Otherwise, his words to me are compliments that wash over me and hold me together until the next time I see him. 

 

He has held me together for some time now.  Tuesdays have been a gift, a blessing to me.  I would not have made it without my time with him.  His generosity, his strength, his absolute belief in what he says to me, his enjoyment of me, and his willingness to tell me all that he sees in me and believes has been glue that has held me together.  His fearlessness when my mind tried to sexualize his commitment to me, and his willingness to forgive and move on without making me feel so much as a bump in the road from him – I could not ask for more.  What a dear friend he is.  Indeed, I pay him, but I know that when the time comes (should it ever) that he retires, he is still going to be there for me.  He is still going to be a rock, a part of my foundation.  And even when he’s gone, the thought of which kills me even now, his gifts to me will not leave with him.  I will hold them forever and remember him forever and know that I would not be who I am -- I would possibly not even be here today were it not for him. 

 

I remember the very moment when he asked me who told me that I was extraordinary.  I stared at him speechless.  I was 46 years old.  He pressed on asking who in my past life, in my childhood, could he talk to who would tell me the moment that I realized what I was.  And I remained speechless with tears in my eyes. 

 

I was told that I was extraordinary for the first time in my life by him at that very moment.  Before that, I did not know.  I was unaware.  I thought myself to be so very different from everyone I knew – that others knew a “secret” to life that I had failed to learn.  As my mother said, and Ashton loves to remind me of this, “Don’t forget that you’re not like those other people.”  She meant it to keep me down, in my place.  She did not know that it was a prophetic statement.

 

MY FAULTS

 

I have stumbling blocks that I have to either move or learn to step over.  I have to learn not to sexualize attention from all males.  Mainly, I have to learn to discern which men ARE intending and desiring that “sexualization” (I just made up a word) and which are not.   I’ve messed up some potentially good relationships with that behavior.  God, I hate that I do that.  Damn the past and the circumstances that brought me to behave in that way.  Damn them.  I didn’t deserve them.  I didn’t ask for them.  I was not responsible for them.  And I will be able to grind my foot in the face of the devil himself when I get to heaven because of all that I suffered.  I faced the devil himself regularly as a child from as early as I can remember.  While those who should have known did what was best for them and not for me. 

 

My responsibility now, though, is to let go of that and to not allow it to seep into my current life.  Although it was so long ago, it lives subliminally in my brain (thanks, Lenard Mlodinow).  I’ve never let it go.  It is a filter through which everything passes.  I don’t know how to let it go.  I don’t know IF I can let it go.  One thing I can do is realize it is there and that it is false and destructive and I have to fight against it.

 

God did bring good from my situation (Genesis 50:20). Several people did what was best for them and let me suffer at the hands of the devil himself.  From that, an extraordinary part of me was created.  The me that does right no matter the cost.  The me that puts children first.  The me that advocates for the best and the rights for children.  The me that adopted six children.  Six broken children who, like me, can turn their brokenness into a gift to this world.

 

I just need the strength to get them to that place.

 

ED

 

I am concerned about a recent relationship that I sexualized.  I did it subliminally, unintentionally, but it does not lessen my responsibility.  It does not lessen my guilt.  I’ve apologized, but I have not had word directly from Ed that he’s accepted my apology.  At least that’s what I’m feeling.  I’m left to talk to Christy, his office assistant.  She’s precious, sweet, and I so pray for my own embarrassment level that she doesn’t know what has happened.  Or if she does, that she understands.

 

But I mostly pray for Ed to understand me, forgive me, and to trust me again.  Without reservation.  And to let me know that he does.

 

My phone tallies texts up to 400.  As comparisons, I’ve texted 400 times with Rex, Marlee, Elizabeth, and Robert.  Amy is 318.  Tasha is 339.  Jo is 63.  Ashton, 331.  Danni, 230.  Holley, 196.  Amanda, 175. 

 

I’ve texted with Ed 214 times between July 21 and yesterday.  Two weeks.  I took comments from him such as, (1) “I’m a night owl” and (2) “I have enjoyed our conversation.  As Leonard Cohen’s song goes, “when it’s broken, it’s how the light gets in”!” 

 

As I looked up Leonard Cohen on You Tube, his songs were … sexual in nature in many ways.  Was I being led to view things through that lens?  Was I being encouraged to do so?  The song, “Secret Life” had me entranced.  It was what I was seeking.  Being in a situation that, to get out of, would cause more damage to damaged children is something that does not fit within me – within who I am.  But, late at night, to hear those words and see those songs – I wanted that. 

 

Also, (3) “Sometime I will have to tell you about my life’s journey and would like to hear yours?”  (4) And, “Got to go to bed early.  Well, we accomplished a lot.”  “I am so tired.  Hope to see you tomorrow.”  He hoped to see me. Really?  He hoped to see me.  I hoped to see him as well.

 

However, there’s also, “I can’t do that this weekend, already have concrete plans.  But in Columbia, it doesn’t have to be a date!  (5) We can just relax and I am (sic) still be the same person.  To be honest with you, I don’t think I would need to put myself in that vulnerable situation even if I could.  (6) However, I can be here for you being there any way I can.”

 

The  most honest and wise comment of all, “Vulnerable to me means you get so emotionally engaged and then you have to come back and deal with reality and sometimes that does not help of salvage reality.”  That is one of the truest statements I’ve heard recently.  But I missed it, or dismissed it, because I was viewing through my dysfunctional lens. 

 

“You need all the right support you can get especially with all I hear about your situation – husband and 5 children?  (7) And I want to be the right support for you to move to another place whatever you visualize that place to be?”

 

And then the offer to rearrange his schedule to have lunch with me. That was (8).  And out of order was a wonderful 35 minute phone call when I HATE to talk on the phone. (9)  And the offer for me to come by the office before coming to the cabin to pick up CDs including Leonard Cohen’s. (10)

 

Ten concrete things that I described as an “undeniable connection”.  God sent me a gift in a person like Ed, and there WAS an undeniable connection.  But it was not a sexual one.  And he was wise enough and generous enough not to take advantage of my vulnerability.

 

So, I sit here at HIS cabin.  I’ve written for more than two hours now.  I’m a writer, and I’ve lost the ability to write, but I’ve regained it here.  It’s a part of how my soul works.  It’s how I figure things out.  It’s how I figure myself out.  It is my only … (oh, the breeze is absolutely heavenly)…it is my organized way of working things through my brain and making sense of them. 

 

I haven’t written since shortly after finding out about Nicholas.  What a gift it is to be able to do it again.

 

I am fearful that in not moving that DAMN lens that clouds my view I have lost a valuable friend. I’ve likely scared Ed away.  When I go back to look at the 1 – 10 that I noted above, there’s absolutely nothing sexual in those actions – in those words.  There’s openness.  There’s connection.  There’s a recognition that I am hurting and in need of nurturing.  There’s evidence of a heart that wants to help others.  There’s generosity.  There’s evidence of the soul of a man who is a genuinely good person.  There is evidence that my company and my conversation is enjoyable.  There is evidence of someone who would not take advantage of me.

 

Why would I screw that up when that is what I want?  When that is what I need?  When Ed could be a valuable and dear friend to me and me to him?  I have so much to offer as does he.  We share a common bailiwick, and we could make some positive change in the world while we both maintain our current relationships with our “significant others”. 

 

Dammit!  How do I fix that?  What do I do to convince him that I “get it”?  And I was wrong.  And to convince him that in his generosity and desire to “help” me, he saw firsthand one of my vulnerabilities that is clearly in need of being extinguished. 

 

In his generosity, I get another day here at this cabin.  I cannot even describe what a gift that is.  How much I needed today.  How much I’ve needed the past few days to process through some issues that have locked me up.  That have tried to squelch me. 

 

WORK I’VE DONE WHILE AT THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE

 

In the past few days, in my mind, I’ve gone back to my house in Nashville on Setliff Place.  Where I lived alone.  Where I was on my own schedule.  Where I nested and healed and recovered.  Makes me want to redecorate parts of this house.  Rearrange the furniture at least.  And that’s a joke which may not come across in print.

 

I used one of the past few nights to get drunk.  Brought an excellent bottle of cabernet with me that has been waiting on me in my pantry at home.  And I’m a happy drunk.  And I was walking on my tiptoes through the house, playing Diana Krall on the stereo loudly, feeling like the woman that I am.  Beautiful.  Brilliant.  Fun.  Engaging.  Sultry. 

 

Several days later, I feel those things without the alcohol.  I’ve discovered those traits that Ashton has been feeding me.  I don’t need the alcohol to go there.  And some of those traits are reserved for my husband.

 

I’ve texted Rex about staying this extra day.  He generously understood that I needed to.  I told him I want to go to dinner tomorrow night and talk about getting our relationship back on track.  Marlee will keep the kids at her house. 

 

I’ve been convinced for some time now, at least a year, that he was not the man I was meant to be with.  We’ve been together for 17 years.  Our anniversary is September 28.  We met and were engaged in less than three weeks.  Married in 2 ½ months.  And are the parents of six children who need both of us at our best to get them through their trauma. 

 

I don’t know that he’s the man I was meant to be with.  I sometimes feel as though I was meant to be alone.  But, I’m going to try to revive this relationship.  For the sake of 17 years and six children.  If it’s not possible, Ashton assures me we’ll work it out where everyone will be okay.  I don’t want to heap another trauma on top of the stack my children already have endured.  So what I have to decide is whether or not the trauma is in our inability to be in a relationship where we are married and living together but doing it anyway.  Or if it’s in separating and working it out somehow.  I haven’t given it everything I have to try to revive it, and at the least, it deserves that from me.  If my all can’t fix it, we’ll work it out.

 

MY PRAYERS, HOPES, AND WISHES

 

Two and ¾ hours have passed since I began writing.  It’s time to rest my mind and turn it toward my “to do” list.  But I have some wishes and hopes that I have to write.  That I have to pray.

 

I pray that Ed can somehow forgive me in spite of my brokenness.  That he can trust me in spite of it and be who he said he could be to me.  And I pray that somehow he lets me know that so my spirit can rest.

 

I pray that my marriage can be restored.  I am tired and do not want to do that which I never planned to do.

 

I pray that the strength and peace I’ve gained in this mountain house in these few days remains with me once I return home.

 

I pray that my children, dear God, would become easier to live with.

 

I pray that I can shut out the negative from the world and surround myself with my children and my students and be who God meant me to be.

 

I pray that light is shown in the darkness, and that those things that should be revealed are revealed for the sake of the safety of my children and others.

 

I pray that this damn lens that trips me up will shatter. 

 

I pray that my to do list shortens tremendously.

 

I pray that Ed allows me to come to this mountain house again.  Right this minute, I don’t think my life will be as rich or as healthy if I can’t. 

 

I pray that I win the lottery (note to self:  play the lottery) and Ed would SELL this house to me.

 

I pray for internet connectivity in this house.  Lasting internet connectivity.

 

I pray that Ashton lives to be 100.

 

I pray that the hatchet that I can see on the ground outside the bathroom window here at this house does not become a real life nightmare before I leave.  (What IS a hatchet doing lying outside anyway?)

 

I pray that the hair that was in my food last night at the Chalet Restaurant at The Little Switzerland Inn was my own.

 

I pray that my “Handy Randy” gets the French doors installed as soon as possible so I can move Rex out of MY office and have the space back to myself.  (And I pray for forgiveness for my selfishness.)

 

I pray that I can find an inexpensive landscaper to do some minor work in the yard to make Rex’s life easier. 

 

I pray that Rex gets the job with the pay raise that would allow us to install an in-ground pool.  (Oh, dear God, please, for the sake of family peace and activity and for Rex’s self-esteem.)

 

I pray for Robert, Amy, Amanda, Jo, Jeff, Tasha, Marlee, Mitch, Ed, Linda, Ashton, Danni, William, Elizabeth, Diane, Betsey, Holley, Randy, Audra, Calandra, John, Rick, and all the people in my life who keep me and my family afloat and who make my life richer.

 

I pray that my extended family is restored and will accept our children as they are.  That they will want to spend time with them.  That they will not try to sow isolation between me and my father.  And that my father would see their schemes for what they are.  And that our relationship would restored as it was.

 

I pray that somehow I can accept that my father has taken up with the… with Paula.  And to learn to tolerate Paula better than I do.  And that if possible, Paula could find a boyfriend her age and be less of a constant figure in my father’s life.

 

I pray that my son does not tweet ever again and that no one shows up at our house for the free sex that he offered.  And that I can get the SSI application filled out for Matt.  And that we can get him to be more independent.

 

I pray that my daughter will stop her need to control adults (her lens from the past) and be happy, peaceful, and successful.

 

I pray that my son will be closer to normal when he comes out of the hospital.

 

I pray that my son will overcome his PTSD from his assaults and realize his abilities and not be afraid to try to succeed.

 

I pray that my son will manage his stress and his outbursts and will have peace and success.

 

I pray that my daughter will realize her intelligence, her Duke Tip Scholar-ness, and become whatever God intends for her to be.  Because I know he has great plans for her and all of my children.

 

And at 3:14, I’m going to get out of my nightgown and into my clothes.  And start my day. 

 

Thank you for this day.  In no order, God, Ed, Marlee, Rex, Ashton, Christy  --  all those who made this day alone possible for me.