You can go home

Yesterday I attended a funeral at my former church in Winston-Salem - St. Anne's, once known as the Pizza Hut on the Hill because of its roofline. Now, trees have obscured that detail, and a beautiful community building adjoins the church and day school. My partner helped create the interior of that community building before we moved away. I had returned to that church only once - to bury my god-son, Bill, a Vietnam Vet with COPD and a few years older than me.Now I returned to bury a friend, lost some years ago to Alzheimer's.

I walked into the past. The rector who sped my departure was gone, but everything else seemed the same. A few new faces, but the core remained. Everyone sat in their regular places; the choir sang familiar anthems; the retired choirmaster had returned; his wife played some of the anthems on the organ while the new young organist did the rest. The tri-fold board in the narthex was one that I had made. The music room is named in honor of my partner.

The peace pole has a few new pieces. The river birches are taller. The columbarium is still full of people whose graves I dug and whose ashes I placed. They hold the church secure, and we added one more avant garde lady to that assortment. May light perpetual shine upon them.

I cried. I cried for my own loss. And, in psychological terms, I processed a pain so that I can move along. My spiritual development was arrested when I fled; now I begin to feel the presence of God again. My lack of perception has been replaced with a quiet comfort and a gentle jogging: "Okay, back into the evangelism business, back into the pastoral care business." I call it business - because it is a busy-ness instead of the inertia of fear of being rejected, fear that I have failed.

Yet, yet, I knew that the desert time I had spent was essential. Prayer, theology, laughter with God and Godly people. Virtual pastoral care. Virtual evangelism. Not wasted time, but integrative, creative time walking humbly with my God.

Now the time is near for doing justice, assisting God in making the divine mercy recognized - mercy as the steadfast love of God - hesed in Hebrew. I will walk humbly with my God as I have done before, but I will add doing justice and loving mercy as I am physically and emotionally able. Thanks be to God.

Today is different

Yesterday I was really down. I felt that I had lived all of life that I really wanted to live. I was okay with just dying last night. As I prepared for bed, I figured, well, I'll either wake up or I won't, and I don't want control over which happens. I took my normal medication, did my stretch exercise, knitted a bit, put on my CPAP mas and turned out the light. So, I went to bed, and I woke up today. I didn't die.

Today is different. Today promises the same heat, the same chance of thunderstorms, the same job (which I love most of the time), the same partner, the same bed, the same dent in my nose from the CPAP - but today is different.

Yesterday was sad. Today may be also. But, today's sad will be different from yesterday's sad - and I like different. Most of you know that I'm an eclectic person. I've had so many jobs that I don't remember many of them. I lived in lots of different houses. I have lots of different acquaintances. I've lived with lots of different money situations. I thought I wanted to try suicide once and got rid of everything that could be used to do it (about 25 years ago).

Today, one of my friends has an operation for cancer. Today, I go to work. Today, a yarn rep is coming and I get to see all the lovely new yarns. Today, my partner made my lunch. Today I woke up early. Today is different than yesterday. And, I appreciate that.

So, whatever the day brings, I choose to see it and be it and do it. And, if I'm down again tonight, I'll just eat something crunchy, pet the cats, and go to bed early. After all, tomorrow will be different.

How well do you know me?

Facebook has a lot of these questionnaires popping up now. We who are addicted to Facebook take a lot of quizzes and post the results. For instance, the classic movie star whom I am most like is Katharine Hepburn. Well, who wouldn't want to be like her? I can list my favorite movies (difficult since I don't watch movies much), my heroes, and I can compare these choices with other friends' choices. I can compete in games on Facebook.

Still, "How well do you know sharecropper?" seems a bit presumptuous to me...more than a bit egocentric. But, then, Facebook is egocentric in its concept. Why would I think that others might be interested in what I'm doing at any given moment. The cartoon showing Roland Hedley who uses Twitter to communicate everything is how I once felt about Facebook. And, I can't imagine using Twitter.

How well do my blogger friends know me? I'm tempted to insert a quiz right here, but, unless you have met me personally, you know only what I want you to know and what I let slip or what you can surmise.

You know that I live on a creek and enjoy my jet ski. You know that I have a partner. You know that I like fiber arts and work in a yarn shop. You know that I'm retired and have some deep psychological probings at times. You may know that I was an invalid for a few years and am now getting better. You know that I'm a liberal and more or less a Christian.

You may not know that I cherish each friend who posts a comment here. Or that I pray for people I know (in person, online, alive, dead, otherwise). Or that I thought I knew a lot about computers until I bought a computer magazine and discovered a whole different terminology than I had learned.

You may not know that I spend a lot of time in thought and have gotten very quiet over the years. I once had an opinion about everything; now I'm not so sure about anything. You may not know that I grieve deeply over deaths and resolve to keep those people alive in my heart.

You know, if you look at posting times, that I am awake in the middle of the night more often than I'd like to be and that I take long morning naps to compensate.

You may not know that, while I am very successful in what I do best - love people, I have never kept a job very long and have had such a variety of jobs that I often forget some of the things I've done. I think this just illustrates my insatiable curiosity about the world and how it/we work(s).

So no quizzes tonight - just sleepy-eyed reflections and revelations. And, yes, I am addicted to Facebook as much as I am to this blogging business.

Responsibility, Depression, Saying No

Now that we're 63.5 years old, we have developed a sense of responsibility that can get us into trouble. And, we lag along sometimes - tired, out of sorts, me eating everything in sight-partner eating little - refusing to do anything about our depression on the days when we recognize it and forgetting it on better days. Our backgrounds enhance our ability to nod instead of saying no, and we find ourselves over doing, which works along with the depression and the sense of responsibility to produce exhaustion.

So, the crux of the problem is exhaustion. So, I'm going back to bed as soon as I finish this. By the time she gets back from church, I'll feel better. I hope they sing some great music because that's partner's only hope of coming home feeling better.

thanks be to God that it is Sunday and we have little that must be done. We can recover gently from our overweening sense of responsibility (I worked 3 days this week and she's serving for the third time this month), our depression (maybe a jet ski ride late this afternoon) and our inability to say NO (even though we know it is a complete sentence). We have some visitors this afternoon but I trust they will not assume this is KOA and stay too long.

Rest, comfort, rest, and the next week will look better.

Thoughts on the Economy and Spirituality

Our income will be cut by 20 percent in the next few months because of the declining value of our retirement portfolio, which is half of what it was a year ago. Amazing, isn't it, that something so amorphous as a portfolio, which really isn't on paper at all but in a computer bank several places, could affect our lives so profoundly? Paper money has baffled me from the beginning. When they recalled the silver certificates of one dollar bills, I realized that the actual one dollar bill had no meaning at all except that which "the economy" gave it. And, it actually costs more to manufacture a penny than it's worth. You can sell pennies for scrap metal and make more money...except that I suspect the law prohibits that.

Back to our declining income. I admit that "I see, I buy". Usually it's yarn or clothes, sometimes books, occasionally beads. However, I already have so much that I don't need more. My therapist says that sometimes I'm trying to fill the "love tank" because I don't get the responses I need from those who love me - not that they don't love me enough, but I don't recognize their ways of expressing that love enough to fill up my needs.

I know that my partner loves me, and I know that God loves me. Whose love am I missing? Both. Do I fail to see/hear/know God's love for me? How does God show that love to me? How does my partner show love for me? Why don't I recognize it? Why do I feel compelled to do things that "make me feel good" to supplement love?

Of course, you know that I don't have answers to those questions. And, you may be wondering what declining income has to do with recognizing love. For me, I spend money if I don't recognize love...partner's love, God's love, friends' love. In a month, I will have much less to spend, and I will need to be able to recognize that love more and more.

I am minded of Janis Joplin's "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." If I have love, then losing income won't matter so much. We will have enough for our basic needs and more. My concentration could be on filling my basic need for love by perceiving how much I am loved.

My prayer is that I learn to recognize expressions of love and let them fill my heart and soul and mind and body.

The Parish Retreat

I always take several deep breaths before I begin a blog entry and they usually end with a large sigh. I'm confused, ailing, bewildered, angry, happy, but always having some large emotion. Tonight I'm reflecting on the parish retreat of this past weekend.

Large church, partner attends, I don't. She talks about many people, and I have faces for most of them now. But, they seem a generation before me or a world away. Most have grandchildren. Most have been married many years or are widows. Many really are an older generation. But, even the younger ones have families. Many of them still work every day. Most are doing okay financially even in this crisis.

They were pleasant people. The music was good and reminded me of my long-ago Cursillo experience. In fact, some of the music transported me back to that time, and I could lay to rest the discomfort that has continued for so many years. I'm not attending to please the bishop (he wasn't there), I'm not seeking ordination, I didn't have anything to lose at this retreat - only to gain.

The program likened our journeying to an Appalachian hike - the trailhead, the base camp, the decisions about directions, the barriers, the hope, the going forth. I've never hiked, but the symbolism made sense. And, he said several key phrases and words that brought my current spiritual/worshipping self to mind and challenged me to find answers.

We stayed at our condo about a mile from the retreat center, and I slept through the Saturday morning part...a much-needed rest after working three full days last week- three very busy days. The retreat was good for me, but superficial. I was not moved in any deep way.

However, as I discussed it with my therapist this morning, several good things that happened arose in our conversation. My putting away the pain from Cursillo, my not feeling threatened by any hierarchy, my dreams not depending on someone's opinion of how I acted at the retreat. I was present and smiling for my partner.

Contemplative thoughts about myself

Balance, things that bring you joy, fears, etc. That was my marching orders from my therapist last Monday. Now that I'm alone at the beach, I'm spending way too much time thinking about myself (Lee, that's directed thinking. When I'm alone in my mind without direction, I feel like I'm alone with an insane person.)

I've tackled mind mapping about creativity, love and balance. Now I want to work on fears. I've written some notes that ended in fears, but with mind mapping, you jot down words or phrases all over the page and then you link them. And, we're not really talking about fears of spiders (which I'm not) or things like that. We're talking about fear of being rejected so much that you don't do things - you know, the kind of things that therapists like to talk about.

Interesting. When I follow a thought to its logical conclusion, nothing is so bad after all. I always feared being a bag lady because I know how uncomfortable those homeless shelter beds really are...and I hate sleeping on the ground. But, we may all be homeless soon if the mortgage companies keep making idiotic loans; so why worry about just me. We'll all be in it together, and like penguins, we can huddle for comfort...at least until the domino effect happens.

And, like most of us, I have always wanted to be loved, remembered and contacted. The internet advertisers and the bulk mailers have shown me how much I am love and how much they remember that I bought something from then sixteen years ago that they contact me regularly asking if I need birth control medicine. Mind you, I'm 63, have had my tubes tied long ago and passed through menopause at least 20 years ago.

Did you know that, although men need prescriptions for their hormonal drugs like Vi...and Cia...., women can get a pharmacist to concoct a hormone cream that stimulates their desire for sex? No prescription needed. And, with all the medicines that we take nowadays (especially anti-depressants) that could be a much-needed service. I have the name in my little red book just in case.

As you might imagine, laughter and humor are two things that bring me joy. So, keep on truckin' friends, Laugh, know you are remembered and loved (or I wouldn't bother writing this blog), and check out your local pharmacies for the hormone cream.

A Reflective Weekend

Yes, dear folks, I'm alone at the beach with the ocean outside the door and supposedly reflecting on the wholeness of me. The past has chiseled away at my well-being, and survival habits that should be extinct are being routed away. I could go on and on and on about how my childhood and the abuses of poverty, emotional abuse, rape, alcohol, aloneness, co-dependency and lots of other things have contributed to who I am today - and I will do that at length if anyone wishes. I still have a lot to say about how this all made me behave and misbehave.

However, my therapist is tired of having me blame my anger, depression and overeating on my childhood. Methinks and she indicates that the adult me must take some responsibility for Life. I've been procrastinating for over forty years. She claims I'm stuck.

Remember the book about "Forgiveness" - well, that was supposed to help me see where my current aberrant behaviors were once survival tactics. And, I was supposed to find alternative ways of relating to the triggers for those behaviors. Well, the list of "abuses" and "unfortunate experiences" was long. I even put it on an Excel spreadsheet and listed who was to blame, what I felt, how I reacted then, what makes me feel that way now, and how I react now. I was supposed to add that column about alternative behaviors - and I sort of did, but sort of didn't. Bleah.

Then, it was "If Buddha was stuck", and I began it, only to realize that I was reading the same stuff in a different cultural mode.

The latest edition of Grapevine was about being stuck. I picked up Joyce Meyer's magazine tonight and read as far as being stuck. Then I turned to a new journal with guided entries and my first symbol was about being stuck. So, there it is. January was stuck month.

February is apparently unstuck month. Really, I've been quite content and lethargic with being stuck. Boring occasionally but basically conserving of energy. Unfortunately, my C-PAP machine, some new medication, a bit of exercise, and I'm feeling more energy. Bye, bye, energy excuse. Today the doctor prescribed antibiotics for what is possibly a long-term sinus infection. Bye, bye health excuse. My therapist promised to bring some new worksheets on Monday about being whole - looking at the big picture - integration - moving forward - coming unstuck.

Sigh. So, here I am. Guided journal in hand. "If Buddha got stuck" in hand. Previous journal in hand. The Excel spreadsheet in hand. And, my hands are full of fork and tiramisu. So far I've eaten three of them today, and a piece of pizza. Oh yeah, and a bowl of cereal. Avoidance? Who me? I'm just using one of my soon to be extinct survival techniques. Pray that 15 plus years of therapy is enough to feel whole and not just to fake it.

Listening

I spend a lot of time listening to frogs and crickets, to birds and waves, to the air conditioner and the air cleaner, to the shower and dishwasher, to the click of knitting needles or keyboards. But, I also spend a lot of time listening to voices - people talking around me. I don't seem to talk a lot any more.

As a friend said last night, I feel like an outsider. I will occasionally share my story, some pain, some funny, but not often. Conversations swirl around me without my really being a part of them. Sometimes they are about things with which I have no experience or knowledge - remembrances of camp or private schools or vacations or friends and playtime. Sometimes, the conversation flows along at a pace that I don't want to interrupt, jumping from one person to another to another with each person spurring their vocal horses to get into the minute piece of silence that signals another person can talk. Getting into those spaces is near impossible for me. So, I ride along on the edge listening to others talk about their lives. Almost a part, yet not really.

Last night I thought about the conversation - dreams of going places, doing things, plans for the future. Others have those - I don't seem to have any plans or dreams. I feel as though I'm just existing for a while. I knit, I've learned to crochet, I work a few hours a week, I do laundry, I clean house a bit, and I will be starting yoga next week. I have no need or use for the things I make. I buy yarn and I learn - for what? I don't even know. I'm just existing here for a while.

I have no desires that aren't fulfilled. I could wish to feel better; I'd like to ride my jet ski more, to kayak more. But, I have no long term goals or hopes or dreams or plans. Life is just flowing along.

Sometimes when I listen to conversations, I feel as though life is flowing around me and gently carrying me along with it like a piece of driftwood that slips along the edges of the river - not part of the current but moving still, immersed in the busyness of getting to the mouth of the river, but not going very quickly. The driftwood bobs along and lets the faster current get their first.

I think somehow in the last few years, I've retired from the hustle and bustle of living. In the process, I've also retired from some essential part of life, but I can't figure out what that is. I've bought things for enjoyment and use, but most days they are meaningless. Maybe that's what's missing - meaning. Like, where do I go from here?

sharecropper to driftwood

Let's talk about fear and sex

My partner is in NYC visiting her son. She was terrified before she left - for several days - about getting from the airport to his office in Brooklyn then to the hotel. She hurt her back rebuilding our deck and doesn't have the energy she once had; so she was rightly afraid of being lost without enough energy to think straight. But, she did all the right things. She packed lightly enough to use a carry-on bag and a small backpack. And, God provided the angel - the native NYCer who said he was going exactly the same way she needed to go. She had the courage to say, "I'm your new best friend." In just over an hour from landing, she was sitting at her son's desk. Thanks be!!

But, her fear just about did her in.

Those are fears of current events. I have fears of past events repeating themselves, and my fears sometimes make that happen.

When I was 14, a young man was taking me (supposedly) to the skating rink to meet other friends. Instead, we parked on a very deserted road in rural Mississippi. And, yes, I've probably told this story before...but this is a different twist. We necked for a bit - exciting for a 14-year-old to be with a guy in the service. Then suddenly he was in me and hurting me and I was screaming no no no. Afterward, he was terrified and so was I. At that time in Mississippi, they killed young men who did that to white girls. All I had to do was go to the doctor.

And, my brother had told that sex was the most wonderful accompaniment to love. I should cherish it. So, I made a deal with my rapist. If he would teach me how to have sex lovingly, I would not tell anyone. For the next two weeks of his leave, we made love in many ways. He treated me with kindness, love and gentleness. He defended me to my former friends who had told him I was "fast". Then he left, and I never saw him again.

My first alliance was with a woman who courted me for over a year. She took me to Arizona; she had a lover there and they continued that relationship. She had promised me the sky, the moon, the stars. But, she betrayed me not only by continuing the relationship but in other ways. And, she ultimately stole my car - my beautiful 1963 Bonneville convertible - dawn metallic blue with a blue top. Resentment? Who me? Only 24 years later.

I married 10 years later. The man loved my body and loved having sex with me. But, he also had sex with anyone who would stand still long enough. I began gaining weight as I lessened my drinking (totally sober 10 years, not drunk in 25 years), and when I reached 130, he quit having sex with me. He also became a drug addict and dealer and a thief. After seven years, he just quit coming home and we divorced. A man who promised to love me and care for me until death do us part - abandoned me after mistreating me in many ways for eight years.

Several years later, I married my best friend. We knew the sex between us was terrible, but we thought we could manage, and we truly loved one another. His resentment manifested itself through barbs and quips that cut. Sometimes, he would team up with my Mother for these. They would laugh; they thought they were making jokes. Early in the second year of our marriage he began to talk about leaving, and I would ask the questions: where are you going? how will you get there? what are you going to do that's different? The sex continued to be horrible, he continued to hand out barbs and leaving became a joke. Then he fell in love with the teacher across the hall and broke all the vows he had made.

So, tell me any reason I shouldn't have fear about sex in a committed relationship. The only faithful sex I've ever had was with the man who raped me. He treated me well. The others, those who promised before God to love and cherish me forever, treated me horribly and abandoned me.

Recently, I created a fight between my partner and me just to avoid intimacy.

I'm working on this. Right now, I'm using a book "Forgiveness" by Simon and Simon, 1991. Now I'm making connections and drawing conclusions about what has happened in the past that is affecting the here and now. Ultimately, they claim I will have forgiveness and a different relationship in the now. I sincerely pray that they are right because fear is a terribly debilitating thing.

Music of the Spheres

Today I was reading Harper’s Magazine, June 2008, when I encountered a quote from a musical philosopher, Victor Zuckerlandl, “Hearing a melody is hearing, having heard, and about to hear, all at once. Every melody declares to us that the past can be there without be remembered, the future without being foreknown.” (p 91). I stopped; time is a human construct, and I’ve written about this earlier. God’s time is then, now, someday all at once. Zuckerlandl is saying that musical time is the same as God’s time.

Wow! What a wonderful concept!

The review was of “Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain” by Oliver Sacks, and the reviewer, Zalmen Rosenfeld, also discusses music’s ability to change human emotional states. Now, I’ve known this for years. I am able to dissipate my anger (as generalized as my anxiety) by listening to hard rock music – letting the music drown me in its mesmerizing repetition and loudness. I usually follow this period of hard rock with a softer, more spiritual vocal music whose poetry has meaning for me.

For instance, my iPod has a playlist that includes Free Bird, Cocaine, and some Janis Joplin. This is my hard rock list, and I play it often when I’m on the treadmill, sometimes forgetting how long I’ve been there. Following this expiation of sin and anger comes what I call a spiritual playlist – Enya’s “How Can I Keep from Singing”, Rufus Wainwright’s “Hallelujah”, Sweet Honey in the Rock’s “Wade in the Water”, and other such songs. It also includes the very staccato rendition of “God is Alive, Magic is Afoot” (written by the same composer as Hallelujah) by Buffy St. Marie.

Songs connect with my emotions. I have trouble with lots of music; nothing peaceful in me resonates to the high notes of opera. I cover my ears and feel like cowering in a corner. Does this reflect the parental arguments when I was a child? Perhaps. For Zuckerlandl reminds us that music is then, now and someday – the arguments are very present for me when I listen to opera. Unfortunately, the cowering feeling also occurs when I am amongst much noise. My chest is getting tight just writing about this.

Changing my thoughts to Pachebel’s Canon in D, I can feel the tightness slipping away – or is it the clonazepam that I took earlier?

Still, I recognize in me the connection between music and my emotional climate, between the past and the present and how I perceive the future will be. Music can bring the past into immediacy and stretch it out for several hours or days. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” brings such past into now. I am transported to the back seat of a 1949 Plymouth sedan with Mom and David and me singing, and immediately to David’s funeral, and the loss of my beloved brother is once again unbearable…at least for a few moments. I’m learning to control this “flashback”.

I will never think that my choice of music is random, and now I know more about how to use music in healing my emotional wounds, transporting me into more people-friendly moods, and preparing me for whatever I face.

Therapy Plus

Just as growing old is not for sissies, therapy is not for sissies, especially therapy for post traumatic stress syndrome. Many years ago, a therapist at her first meeting with me told me that she thought I needed to work on PTSD about my brother's death. I fled and never went back, using a very flimsy excuse. I couldn't think too much about that then.

Now, with the emotional flashbacks, I have no choice to but to think and, worse, to feel. Last week after I had carefully enumerated how I had felt abandoned by various important people in my life, my therapist said that I needed to write down the feelings I had at the times of those abandonments.

The first was my father, and I don't recall the event of his leaving to go back in service and returning home only two weeks a year (he had to go somewhere). I can't put any emotions to that event except an intellectual knowledge that Mom, Brother and I drew much closer together.

Now, I realize that my brother played the role of father in my life even though he was only six years older. He was left to drive the tractor and help make the crop that my father had planted before he left. He was left to do the heavy work around the farm that my father had done. He was only 13, but he took on the father figure.

And, truly, he had been the one to take care of me most of my memory. I went everywhere with him - even to school occasionally. I have often wondered if others had siblings who occasionally went to school with them, but the people who would know are all dead; so I can't ask.

So, this brother of mine was father, brother, friend, confidante, teacher, and very handsome even at 13. And, I adored him. He was mine. I was his. No hanky-panky. No fooling around. I just knew that Brother would take care of me always.

Always lasted until he got a girl pregnant and married her at my mother's insistence. Then he moved her into the house with us and went off to work as a welder's helper on the pipeline. When he came home, I was no longer primary in his life. And, I hated his wife.

He died following an accident during at storm on an oil repair barge in the Gulf of Mexico. He actually died on the operating table in Morgan City, Louisiana, two weeks after my 16th birthday. Always didn't last very long.

And, I have finally re-created the emotions of that abandonment - both his marriage and his death. Let me tell you, that's not fun. I feel as empty as I did then. I feel as angry, as fearful, as hurt, as whatever as I did then. I cry occasionally. I stare a lot. I play a lot of computer games. I can't even knit much. My brain has shut down for the moment except for the this re-creation of those times.

And, it's hell. Intellectually I know that we have laundry to do, the floors are getting filthy, things need putting up - but I just cannot do anything except feel and re-member.

Okay, so now I have those feelings. What do I do with them? I am tired. I am useless right now. I am crying. I am feeling. This is not fun. And, I don't know the next step. I see my therapist on Monday afternoon. Maybe she'll tell me what to do next.

Meanwhile, as my online buddy Lindy says, just do the next right thing. Since it's 3 am, maybe going back to bed is the next right thing.

Someone chided me today about not posting - soooo

Tomorrow I get to see my psychiatrist and my therapist. I haven't had my bloodwork done as a baseline for the psychiatrist; so I'm not excited about seeing him.

As I enter into a deeper kind of therapy with my counselor, I have filled out innumerable pages of information about me and my family. the last three pages are divided into little sections - one for every five years of your life. You are supposed to note everything that was important to you in that five years - in less than 2 inches of typing paper space. I don't usually write small. Ha!

And, How do you remember what happened of importance when you were 36-40 when it's twenty-two years later? I completed this section and laid the paper aside. As I thought of important things in my life, I wrote between the lines and in the margins. I don't know if she'll be able to read all the jabbering, but she will have a fairly good picture of my life...well, except for some childhood years when I remember very little - and there's lots of space left to write in those blocks.

And, why does this matter?

I've been having emotional and mental flashbacks to bad things that happened in my childhood. For instance, we were eating our usual Sunday evening supper of bacon, eggs and biscuits (sometimes pancakes), and I remembered as I chomped on a good piece of bacon that I didn't particularly like eggs in my childhood. We always had eggs; somebody in the neighborhood had chickens even after we got rid of ours. And, I always had biscuits, bacon(sausage or ham) and molasses for breakfast. However, some mornings we didn't have meat - some evenings we didn't have meat. And, Mom would offer me an egg. I don't like eggs without meat. Bleah. So, I'd eat my biscuit and syrup and catch the schoolbus.

Okay, this memory took about 10 seconds or less. And, I jumped into wondering if we were that poor - and, yes, I remember Mom buying me a new dress so that I would look like everyone else at times when we probably didn't have meat. She wanted us to look good even if we were dirt poor. Then I realized that I must have gone to school hungry sometimes. A biscuit and syrup isn't really enough breakfast for a schoolkid. But, I don't remember being hungry. And, how many other families were as poor as we were. I could think of only two that might have been.

Then I jumped from there to other times when Mom tried to keep up appearances. Dad was a drunk...a very talkative, and, by the time I was 13-15, a very verbally abusive drunk. He had hallucinations and delusions by then. And, he would declaim in a loud voice right after supper that he had seen me in some juke joint having sex with some guy or in a car by the juke joint. Places that he might have been at some time in his life, but long ago.

So, Mom would give me her car keys (a little 49 Ford named Freddie) and tell me to go away and come back after he was asleep. That was usually around 9 pm. So, I would drive the back roads of Quitman County, Mississippi, from about 7 until 9 - just to avoid my father's verbal abuse. Fortunately, I discovered that others were in similar situations - not people in my school, but other schools and other ages. We often gathered on the side of a road to shiver when it was cold and to talk and laugh and avoid talking or thinking about why we were there. But, sometimes, the roads were long and lonely, and I felt very homeless.

In the space of less than 30 seconds, I went from enjoying Sunday supper to crying and being afraid of being homeless (not likely to happen now - not sure about then).

There are other less graphic times of flashbacks when a word, a look or tone of voice triggers the emotions of "then" and I respond in "then" not "now". I'm getting better at recognizing some of these times, but mostly they catch me (and often my partner) unawares. And, they hurt. The feelings I feel hurt, and the way I respond hurts my partner. And, I want them to stop.

So, I've tried to write the important events of every five years of my life down on paper. And, I've cried a lot. I've hurt a lot - for me, my brother, my sister-in-law, my cousin, and my Mother. I don't know what pain they had. They are all dead except my cousin. I can't know what caused Mom to be as she was about appearances, but alcoholism wasn't really a word then - My Dad was the town drunk. He wasn't sick. No one knew about Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and what World War II might have done to him. They only knew he was drunk. And, that was shameful.

That shame is punching me in the gut occasionally. It hurts as much now as it did then, and I want it to stop.

So, if I'm silent a bit, I'm just working on getting better and not hurting.

He thinks too much

"Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look; he thinks too much; such men are dangerous." Dangerous not only to others but also to themselves. Those of us who are alone so much tend to think too much. We live inside our minds, and minds are notoriously irrational. Just think about your dreams. Some dreams we can interpret easily - they relate to events of the day, concerns of the week, a recent happening or what you ate for dinner. Other dreams are bizarre and seem to have little relevance to anything. That's where we can go astray when we live in our minds.

Just thinking about God and praying silently in our own words can distort our perceptions of God until something jerks us back into the reality of The Other. We tend to anthromorphize God just as we do with animal stories. The reality of God is we don't know a whole lot about God. We do know more about how wishes us to act and live - and alone and in our own minds isn't it.

When I read the beginning of the "Big Book" in Alcoholics Anonymous, back when my father was trying to get sober and failed, I was amazed that the way to their "salvation" was to find another drunk and try to help. To seek out others, to put self behind the needs of others. Jesus said, "Inasmuch as you have done to the least of these, you have done to me." A maxim that's difficult to follow.

For the past three years, I have been living in my mind. Yes, I have contact with others on a regular basis, but not much. I am not "out there" doing things. In consideration, I have been quite ill. Now that I am better, I realize that I've been living in the mind of a crazy person, which is dangerous. My thinking is skewed to think only of me. And, I leave myself wide open for all the cantankerous and disturbing memories of bad events in my life. They were mostly in my childhood. I haven't acknowledged or taken responsibility for the bad events since then. Not my fault - all because I was emotionally abused as a child. Yeah. Right.

I've been depending on medicine and medication to lift me out of my quagmire of mind and body and deposit me on sane, happy and populated ground. Realizing this, I snort-laugh. How dumb can I be? How blind am I to all that I know and feel? This quagmire isn't going to get drier or smoother without my help. I can't sit here and knit and expect to be transported to another state of mind.

And, God. I've had what I thought were lots of conversations with God, times when I spoke, and times when I listened. It's possible that what I heard was my own voice from deep inside my mind telling me to wait, do nothing now. And, it's possible that God was working inside me to ready me for this moment of realization that now is the time to act. Not solve all the problems at once, but to inventory the situation and work toward resolution of the snags and peek through the doors that I've closed. I'm not ready to give up my isolation, yet. However, I think it's time I entered the world again...slowly. I'm fearful of doing anything too quickly...might be just my crazy mind steering me down the primrose path again.

Today is the first day of my new exercise program. I will get on the treadmill every day for at least 10 minutes. For me that's a quarter mile right now. I'm winded and breathing hard at the end.

Today is the first day that I will read prayers from a written prayer book every day.

Next week I may make more changes in my routine, but this is enough for today. Oh yeah, I recharged my iPod again, and music definitely helps. And, another thing - I just saw the osprey returning to the next across the creek as I was on the treadmill. Yahoo. Spring is here!

New Medicine

New psychiatrist, whom I like very much. New medicine added, Cymbalta. One medicine discontinued. Began taking cymbalta on Thursday. Now Sunday, am experiencing the jitters and inability to focus and hand coordination. I've been trying to learn some new knitting stitches and I keep dropping the needles and shaking when I try to knit. So, I thought I'd write about this.

I seem to be highly sensitive to SSRIs; so maybe the depression is not treatable that way. I also tried Wellbutrin with this same effect. An increased does of Prozac (currently 10 mg) did the same thing.

My insides feel as if they were shaking.

Other than that I feel pretty good right now. It's a beautiful sunshiny morning. Partner has gone to church; so it's very quiet. The creek emptied yesterday with some storm activity just offshore, and we had about 10 feet of sand from our seawall to the water. The stump that give us the gauge of how deep the water is was completely on land and additional stumps could be seen poking out in a line near the channel. At least we know more closely where the channel really is. The shoreline around the cypress trees was littered with logs and branches.

This morning the water is up some. Only half the stump is visible, and all the little pokies running out toward the channel are underwater again. As you might imagine, boating on a creek is an iffy proposition, but these little fishing boats just zip around. Of course, they have almost no draft at all - like our jet skis. But, the kayaks are best for poking into the nooks and crannies of the creek. You do have to watch out for snakes in certain places, and I've had some tell me that snakes have fallen out of the trees on them. I would think the snake would be as scared as me if it fell out of a tree. We have cottonmouth moccasins here. I am certainly cautious of them.

I do look forward to the water getting warm again. Our kayaks are the sit-on-top kind and have holes in the bottom for drainage; so I don't kayak until the water is warmer. A cold bottom is not my idea of fun. But, I have been known to jet ski fully wrapped in ski mask, hat, coat and long warm pants. Soon, very soon.

UPDATE: Am seeing psychiatrist tomorrow. Jittery symptoms better today.

Shadow Syndromes

Now that I'm about over this bout of depression - still a bit down at night, I read an article that I think came from Nina at Dancing Through Doorways. John J. Ratey teaches and researches in psychiatry at Harvard, and his article and book, Shadow Syndromes: People with Mild Forms of Serious Disorders, is reviewed here. As a result of new developments with echo planar magnetic resonance imaging (what a mouthful), researchers can watch the "mind boggle". I suddenly have a picture of all these lettered dice being jumbled around inside my skull while someone watches and tries to predict how they will land.
An MRI image
Anyway, the conclusions drawn so far indicate that when we change the chemical action in one part of the brain, other parts of the brain are affected also. And, sometimes the changes in the other parts of the brain return to change the area being medicated. For instance, he says, Prozac immediately raises the serotonin levels in the brain, but several weeks may pass before the depression lifts. So something else is happening here.

He says that timing and the geography of the brain and what he called recursivity (the feedback to the original change) are being investigated. He mentions that the biology of our brains are not fixed at birth; the brain responds to environment, for instance, traumatic incidences can "cause" post traumatic stress syndrome. We acquire dents and scrapes along the way even if we don't acquire such traumatic scars.

Lately, however, neuropsychiatry is discovering that genetics, brain structure and biochemistry heavily influences those mental/emotional diagnoses found in DSM IV. And, the thinking is that we really can have a touch of schizophrenia or bipolar or obessive-compulsive disorder without being much out of the ordinary (if you can define ordinary).

So, I presume it's like having a slight cold. The virus is there, but it's not affecting you much. So, I might have a touch of bipolar syndrome to go along with my ambient anxiety and together they may manifest themselves as depression. Or the depression and the panic may manifest as manic. Or some of one at one time and some of the other at another time or various stages in between. Not a very far out idea. We look at ourselves as being somewhere along a spectrum in many behaviors, beliefs, and choices, from insane liberal to middle of the road to insane conservative. And, each of us fits in different places along that particular spectrum at different times. And beliefs affect politics and politics affect compassion and ....

So, environment does shape heredity in that the environment (say a traumatic incident, and I've had a number of those) can affect brain chemistry in one area that filters through to other areas and eventually changes the functioning in the brain. Age, apparently can do the same.

No one is normal. There is no Jane Doe against which to compare ourselves. There may be a median or a mean or even an average on some spectrum of behavior or function of the brain, but nothing that even remotely qualifies as normal (and I challenge you to define either normal or ordinary). Ha!

I'm sitting here using the back of the Yale Alumni Magazine as a mouse pad, and the picture on the back cover is Bill Gates and Warren Buffett on a business jet. Gates is laughing and Buffett looks as if he is telling some tall tale with slight upturn of his mouth. He even has laugh lines. But, I'm wondering where does each fit on the spectrum of schizophrenia, bipolar, OCD? And, if you're not near the mean, median or average, are you at a disadvantage? Or, did being OCD have a positive affect on their financial success and fame?

If we give up or medicate away our end-of-the-spectrum behaviors, how will it affect our creativity, endurance, persistence? How much medicine is enough, and how much is too much? Too many new medicines on the market haven't seen long-term testing. And, I'm taking some of them...a number of them. I'm taking medicine that affects my serotonin levels, my dopamine levels, and whatever that is in panic disorder. I use area specific steroids to help my breathing. How are they interacting? I strongly suspect that no one knows. Drug manufacturers test for trace chemicals in urine and blood, but what about how those trace levels that stuck in my brain are combining to form a different me.

The question I used to ask my therapist is, "But, will I like the new me?" Sometimes, I do. Sometimes, I don't. And, I still throw tantrums, jump for joy, get fed up with stuff and dislike secrecy....among other traits along some of those brain spectra.

We thought I might have sleep apnea until we realized that A: I was taking two medicines together that make me sleepy and tired in the daytime, and B: the cats were walking all over me at night and waking me up. So, I changed the medication times and kicked the cats off me; now I'm doing well, thank you.

Still, the depression kicks in sometimes. Therapy helps. Medicine must be continued even though I don't want to take anything. Music helps. Activity helps. "Acting as if..." helps. "Pretend you're happy when you're blue...."

And, all of it may be some complicated recursivity from taking my medicines at the wrong time, or the synchronicity of memory triggers and dopamine/serotonin levels, or the alignment of the stars.

That's it. I'm going for the alignment of the stars - and my stars are more in alignment now! Thanks be to God.

Depression update

Slowly passing depressing with occasional bouts of laughter and joy. Daytimes better. Finding out that our renovation is going to cost even less than we had thought is great. Found some bright colored jeans at Wal-Mart for $13 or $17. I can wear them to work. Ate lunch with partner. Got a good haircut. Found a wonderful new snack - Wild Things Crunch cereal from Kellogg's - had a picture of panda on the front so I had to buy it. LOL. And, it's only 100 calories for 3/4 cup with some fiber - crunches so good.

My cable scarf is coming along nicely. I will have to get one more skein of yarn tomorrow because I'm running out, but I am so thrilled with it. And, I made more yellow squigglies from the sleeves of the yellow sweater. I balled some of it, but I put the ends and bits in a blue pottery bowl and it's so pretty.

Life is good. Tonight may be not so good, but basically, everything is getting better. This, too, shall pass.

thanks for all the prayers and hugs.

Depression Snuck Up On Me

When I wasn't paying attention, depression snuck up on me. Yesterday (Thursday) I bottomed out with apathy, lethargy, crying, no appetite (something's really wrong with me when that happens), and anger. I wanted to not be. Being was painful - life hurt. And, no, nothing drastic has happened in my world. Everything seems to be flowing along smoothly, except me.

I do have cyclic depression that seems to occur regardless of the medication I take. My new psychiatrist started me on Lamictal during a recent bout of short term cycling. And, that helped.

I've felt this one creeping up on me. Several days ago, I said to my partner, "I feel like I'm getting sick." Well, I was right, only it wasn't a cold. It was depression.

While I know that many times, this depression cycles itself right back out the door it came in, I decided I had to "do" something to alleviate it. So, I got dressed and went to Weight Watchers - gained two pounds. No big deal. i lost two last week. So, I'm pretty stable.

Partner, friend and I decided something to eat might help me. We left the meeting and went next door. Before we got next door, I burst out crying. Partner put her arms around my shoulders while I cried. I sniveled a few more times, and we proceeded to eat. The food was okay - I usually love it, always order the same thing.

Called my therapist. She had a cancellation. Had to kill time. Went to thrift shop. Then went to the yarn shop where I work and helped the owner unpack and price an order that had just come in.

Therapist helped. We looked at what had been going on with me emotionally for the past few weeks (not involving the move) and various relationships I have and my anger, irritation, bafflement, resentment, ... you know, all those things you don't want to admit that you have but seem to come pouring out of your mouth when you feel in a safe place with a safe person. Brimming full of it and spilling over. Heard her say that maybe what I was feeling about others was really what I was feeling/seeing/believing about myself. Took a good look at self. Not pretty. Good looking hat, but the inside was rotting. Set another appointment soon.

Came home. Talked with partner about issues. We use the "talking ball" to help us through tough discussions. When I am holding the ball, I get to talk until I am through. Then I give the ball to her and she gets to talk until she is through. And, back and forth until we can leave the ball still between us and be silent or discuss solutions.

Made some very interesting discoveries. Like, what I thought she was thinking as not what she was thinking at all. Amazing. I couldn't read her mind. Nor could she read mine. Probably a good thing both ways. But, I really need to stop projecting what I think she is thinking or feeling and check it out with her - and vice versa.

Also discovered that we think differently. Some of the ideas I discussed were so foreign to her that she looked at me in bafflement. Like finding pleasure in things. For her "things" are mostly utilitarian. She finds pleasure in doing and in being with others. And, oh yes, did I mention that we both have control and abandonment issues? LOL

And, I am/was having problems with other relationships like my godchildren. I just don't want to talk with any of them any more. I can't resolve their problems, and I just don't want to hear about it right now. Later, much later. So, I play passive in the passive/aggressive game - no, I didn't get your message. I don't know where my cell phone is. When did you call? Oh, dear. That's a lie. I saw who was calling and hit the silent button because I just couldn't talk right then. And, later, I forgot or maybe I still didn't feel like talking.

And, I'm tired of putting away things. Fortunately, most of the boxes are gone and we can open all the outside doors but one. It still has empty boxes leaning against it. All the packing boxes and paper are going to be listed on FreeCycle next week. Gone to someone or to the recycling place.

And, if it ever gets warm enough, I'm going to the garage and put away the Christmas decorations...etc.

Okay. So last night I slept in exhaustion. I haven't done too much today - a few loads of laundry - have about four more to go what with the bedding and towels. Can't wash much with a king-size mattress pad.

So that's where I am. I still have little appetite. I've been knitting, and, so far this evening, I've knitted six rows and taken out nine or so. It's still not right; so I quit and came in here to gripe about it all.

The cat is whining, my stomach is churning. I feel like I want to throw up and get it all out of my system. Not just the food, but all the bad stuff inside me. Just throw up and flush it away. Gone. At least for a while.

And, yes, I talked with my psychiatrist today. She doesn't know me well because I don't trust her. So, that discussion was pointless but probably cost me money. Continuing on the same medication as before.

And, I feel like a paving roller has flattened me into the road. I want some loud music and driving. On the other hand, it's cold outside and I haven't bothered to dress today; so I'd have to work to make that happen. And, what would my driving be like? Probably not so safe.

Bleah! I know tomorrow will be better, but this is just blasted miserable right now. Like the two people in prison looking out the bars into the night sky; one saw the mud and the other the stars. I'm the one looking at the mud and bars right now. Just need to tilt my head up a bit. But, that will come. More than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning (Psalm 130).