A Few Truths

    What I've learned from my current life situation--not to spend as much, fewer material items.  I would rather use my money for adventures than more stuff to clutter my home area.  Home should be home and not only welcoming for self but also for others to visit.  People/time with friends matter more than having a place to store a bunch of stuff.

    When I got sick January 6th, 2021, my world as I knew it flipped upside down.  Add a pandemic onto being so ill that I was often surprised to wake up in the morning and you will find my recipe for emotional well-being disaster.  Previously, I had a Reiki studio in my home--I got rid of that with the pandemic since the last thing I wanted during a pandemic was people coming into my home.  I also got rid of my "living room" in lieu of a space better suited to what I needed at the time and I essentially turned our living room into a giant closet.  No couch, no chairs--just clothes racks.  My home went from a space that invited others in to a space that purposely kept people out.  I am still living in the "cluttered", unfriendly space.

    Being ill and living through a pandemic, the only "adventures" that I had from January 2021 through October 2023 were going to doctor appointments and medical testing.  As a result, those were also my only times to dress up and to allow my creative side to emerge.  I happened to find a shoe company that made "fun", comfortable, patterned shoes that matched the skirts that I made and began collecting them.  As a result, I soon needed a space for these shoes, my skirts, and corsets which I also collected.  I decided that due to our home's lack of closet space and wanting a fun way to "show off" my collections, I turned my living room into a space resembling a boutique so that dressing up for doctor appointments and medical testing became part of the fun and its own adventure.  A side note, I still worked throughout the pandemic and my illness, but all work was completed from home--no trips to see clients, no office visits--everything I did happened online and by phone--no need for ever leaving pajamas. 

    Another pattern that had developed during my physical illness was engaging in frequent retail therapy as a mental boost.  Since costuming for appointments and testing was important, much of my finances went in that direction as well.  Now that I have quit working and am healing, I find that I have less need for the boutique energy and desire spaces in my home for greeting friends but I feel stuck since I have no closet spaces that I can redirect my shoes, skirts, and corsets into.  I've also stopped my medical testing and reduced my doctor appointments from four a week down to once a month.  Long story short, my home space needs have changed but I'm stuck where I am with items.

    I've found myself feeling overwhelmed with what my space has become but alternatively also don't want to let go of the shoes, skirts, corsets, and accessories that I have collected.  It has led to a lot of negative internal banner for allowing my space to be overrun as it is now.  What I seem to forget is that this space saved me during some very low, hard times and did what it was meant to do when I needed it most.  I need to give myself grace and not badger myself for doing my best during a very hard period of my life. And I also need to take the new lessons learned from it that material items shouldn't be the outlet now--now is the time to use these collections for true adventures--be they steampunk, cons, or other fun events.  The house will come together with time and it will be okay.  Until then I need to relax, stop beating myself up, and be kinder to my former self--she was doing her best during a scary period of life and she managed to emerge through it on the other side.  In the long run, it will be fine. 

More Endings

    I recently quit my job.  I quit one week before my eighteenth anniversary with the agency.  In all of my years there they never acknowledged any of my milestones, so even though I tried to hit that eighteen year milestone for myself, that was as close as I could get while maintaining my sanity.  After twenty-five years as a therapist, I think I am taking a break from the field, if not leaving it all together.

    I have no idea what life holds next.  I am blessed with the opportunity to take a break and I know that I have to do this to heal.  The past four years held so much work trauma that I barely escaped with my life.  I am hoping that I may start blogging more during this break as writing helps me figure out my path and I have lost so much over the past four years.  Between work, being ill, the pandemic, and just the world in general, I have been a mess.  I've lost my coping skills, my hobbies, and my passions.  I'm not even sure who I am at this point.  I'm in a very transitional place and I need some help figuring out which direction to take next.  Hopefully writing more can help me figure everything out.  Stay tuned!

Reasons for the Breaking

I recently had it explained to me that my dad feels that when my mom was murdered in January 1993 is when I "changed" and that I have been "broken" ever since then.  Or maybe he defined that as when I went "crazy", when I became "no good", when I became "defective".  Essentially, since then, he feels that I am a different person and not in a good way.  I can't argue this.  Losing my mom at 19 did change me.  Living with her and her murderer at various times July 1991-November 1992 changed me.  The combined trauma of living with them and having her murdered was extremely damaging to my heart and soul.  Becoming motherless and losing the one human on the planet that understood me and loved me was very damaging.  I don't think this is abnormal or makes me flawed, though.  I think it makes me human.  I think most people would end up with some scars, some changes, some sign that they had such significant life events occur.  To my dad, I apparently should have bounced back and been fine.  That I didn't return to my former self apparently makes me a bad person.

I think there is more to look at during this time frame though.  I also lived with my father during this period of time, having moved in with him shortly after I turned 18.  My two younger brothers and I moved in with him the summer of 1991.  People thought I was his girlfriend and that my brothers were my children because they had no idea that our dad even had kids--that was unfathomable--he had never been seen with children, talked about children, or had any signs of having children in his life.  His parenting style was also very different than our mom's and it was admittedly a hard adjustment.  We went from having our mom daily and seeing our dad one afternoon every month to three months (holidays) to not seeing our mom at all and living with a man we barely knew.  He worked a lot and seemed to always be angry and disapproving during his moments at home.  I was expected to be the mother, the maid, the caregiver, and whatever other roles were needed due to his work schedule.  It was a very hard adjustment for all four of us.  I managed six years living this way but eventually I broke and had to leave.

My dad and I were oil and water.  I was sensitive and easily hurt.  His parenting style with me would best be defined as "break the spirit".  He didn't understand me and let me know regularly that I was a "freak" and wasn't born a freak, so why was I one now?  No matter what I did or how I did it, there was no approval but regularly met scorn.  This was true before we moved in with him, too, but definitely became more problematic upon more exposure to each other.  With my middle brother, he could seemingly do no wrong and when he did, as the oldest that was also my fault for "setting the bad example".  I was basically the rotten apple spoiling the bunch.  My youngest brother fell somewhere between the two of us and wasn't as terrible as I was in my father's eyes, either.  Years after I moved out and my father remarried, my youngest brother left a soda can on the coffee table and that was still my fault--he was actually forbidden to interact with me over the soda can incident because I "programmed him to leave the can on the coffee table to destroy our stepmother".  Even at 20+ miles away, I was still the problem.  I couldn't win no matter what I did.

I don't think it was just my mom's death that changed me and our relationship.  I wonder if he ever considers these things when he looks at what "broke me" and what "happened to me". A person can't have their parent constantly putting them down, criticizing them, telling them that they are no good and always emerge with no scars and be fine.  I think it's probably the minority of folks that end up being okay through that sort of treatment, not the majority.  I think for most of us it does damage.  So I guess when he says that it was my mom's death that ruined me, I wonder how much these other factors influence whom and what I became?  Not that he would consider these issues, but they do weigh on my mind since this is when he considers me becoming damaged, flawed, and worthless.  I'm sure others with similar family dynamics understand this, as well.  To say it was only my mother's death that hurt me and made me this way is flawed to a degree.  Those six years of being mentally beat down should probably be considered, too.  Just my thoughts--they aren't for me to dwell on, just getting it off my chest.

745 Days. 2 years and 15 days. 24.5 months. 106 weeks and 3 days...

I've debated since January 6, 2021 whether to share any of this here or not.  I've debated starting a new, even more anonymous blog elsewhere and still may.  January 6 marked the beginning of a new journey, a new loss, it belongs here, too.  My first major loss occurred thirty years ago on January 10, 1993 when I lost my mom.  Despite what my father says, I am not broken from it--I experienced complicated grief related to the trauma of having my best friend and mother murdered, which is what many people would have experienced.  No, despite what he may say, I am not broken.  I experienced grief.  My second major loss occurred on April 22, 2010 when I was forced to remove my father from my life and the resulting loss of my paternal family, which was all I had left for family.  I was forced to separate from my family and the grief that followed is described frequently in this blog, already.  I don't need to describe it further.  My third loss over the past two years has been the loss of my health.

I’m not yet ready to tell the beginning of the story, but that may come. Right now, I'm sharing where I am now, two years into the journey.  I've spent the past two years fighting to be heard, being gaslit by the medical community, and fighting my own body.  I've been told that my problem is just anxiety, just menopause, just being female, just in my head, fibromyalgia, and a slew of other incorrect suggestions from medical professionals unwilling to really look at me, hear me, or see me.  It's been unbelievably traumatic and frightening every step of the journey.  I have no mother.  I have no family.  All I had left was me.  My body.  This has been the third hard loss of my life.

Currently I'm having odd regression in numerous areas (loss of my gross motor skills, legs heavy, arms not lifting, loss of fine motor skills, etc.), and while I am super nervous about it, if my liver masses aren’t cancerous (the MRI for those happened 01/20/23—only 16.5 months after the masses were first identified on 09/08/21 and after the ultrasound on 09/07/22 that showed increase in mass sizes), and if I can get over my fears of its side effects, HUMIRA injections may be happening soon for some of the other pain issues—which remain immense, at this time.  Unfortunately, when they did the MRI of my liver, it showed a bit more than expected--including lesions and a hymangeoma on my spleen.  This means more MRIs and CAT scans to follow before determining if I can do HUMIRA or not.

I guess one lesion on the liver is fairly normal for women who have taken birth control during their lifetime--two, not so much.  My blood markers were elevated as well, so they also aren't ruling out cancer yet--which also means no HUMIRA yet.  I am so mad.  All of the abdominal pain and issues I have been having and they only looked at my liver lesions.  I am beyond angry... Our local healthcare monopoly is the absolute worst.  Now I wait for MORE MRIs and CAT scans--more missed work, more vacation time lost--all because I am 49, female, and it's easier to blame anxiety and being overly dramatic than admitting there may actually be something wrong.  In the meantime, I'm so over all of this.

I think the hardest part is when I start feeling the slightest bit better, mentally or physically, I get my hopes up and think I am getting better only to crash back down.  That false hope followed by crushing defeat, over and over and over is taxing.  I am so uncomfortable physically (and have been)--sitting through my work sessions is the devil, laying down hurts, sitting to sew is hard--there is nothing I can do.  Sleep is a brief escape, but even that doesn't last long before my body wakes me back up.  Mentally, it is taking a toll.  This body has felt like a prison for two years now.  It's too much.  I'm over it. I'm not suicidal, but I wish I had an escape from this.  I haven't had a symptom free day yet--I can't even read or watch a movie to take my mind off of it. There is simply zero relief.  The medical community and doctors are either minimal help or have made things worse through the journey.  It's been a nightmare. So much of the past two years has been being gaslit by the medical community or being outright ignored. 

The day of my MRI marked 745 days since this "adventure" began--24.5 months.  It marked 499 days (16.5 months) after the masses were first identified on 09/08/21 and 135 days after the ultrasound on 09/07/22 that showed increase in mass sizes (4.5 months).  It's really hard not to give up.  I am at wit's end. I was at wit's end two years ago. I never imagined this would be my life. I hate it.  The doctors, the medical testing, the thousands of dollars, and the time from my life lost--and for what?  At what point will they start listening and help me?  I'm guess I'm upset because the MRI was supposed to be for my entire abdomen and to identify pain sources. I waited over four months for this MRI and that was "fast" for them, it's been 16.5 months since they identified the masses on my liver.  How long will it be for this next round of tests?  I'm not getting better, I am in extreme physical pain, and they are just so slow and ridiculously incompetent here.  It's maddening.  And I needed to vent.

I'm still unsure how much of this will actually be shared here.  I do believe mental and physical health are connected.  I do believe in holistic healing.  But I'm still not sure this is where I want to do this.  We shall see, I guess...

Windmills and Musings

"Last night, as I sat beside a fire, staring at a busted windmill, my first thought was..."It's fucked".

My second thought was, if a windmill were to represent my life, this would be the one. How tragic it must have been to lose its once free spinning spirt... just to sit idly by now, busted, broke and motionless, destined to one day fall completely apart.

Finally, It occurred to me... while it won't be easy, both could probably still be saved..."

~Photo credit and quote by a high school friend~

As I have shared in past posts, here the broken things find homes and new purpose.  My property, like most that have had humans inhabitants for a century and more, bears the scars of humans dumping and burying their garbage and "broken things" over many decades.  Mostly it's stuff like old rusted and disintegrating chicken wire, old carpet, and similar junk that I have spent the past 16 years carefully removing and properly disposing of.  I'm convinced that there are several complete vehicles buried in the surrounding woods, maybe a few bodies, and just a lot of complete garbage.  As I am digging it out though, I turn a lot of it into odd yard art because it all has a story to tell. And I love discovering those stories and histories--new items often lack soul and character--I like the pieces that have survived and bear scars.  Somehow over these 16 years at my home, as friends have been tossing out broken things, they find their way here, as well. Waterlogged bowling balls, angels with missing wings, broken arrows, ruined dolls, cracked statues--things destined for landfills have found new purpose here and give my yard an interesting flair.  I like these things the best because of their character, their uniqueness, their stories--they have so much more to say than something fresh from Walmart or Lowes.  Here, that busted windmill would be one of my favorites and a star of the show.   

My favorite people will always be the ones that have fought hard to survive and that are still fighting.  When I look at the people in my life, many of my favorites have the darkest pasts, the deepest scars, the hardest challenges faced.  The stories they share and have given me glimpses into are sometimes so immense that I wonder how they have survived, how they are still here, how they keep going, and then I thank god that they do.  They are my own inspiration to keep moving forward--to keep going no matter how overwhelming the darkness feels--when I see them I am reminded of how amazing human endurance truly is.  I have also lost many that just couldn't fight anymore and I carry the deep scars that they have left me with.  Their story is now part of my story and I wish beyond wishes that I could have them back instead--I know it isn't easy and that sometimes the weight is too heavy--but the pain of losing them never leaves, either.   And I have so many loved ones struggling right now that I am beyond worried about.  It's hard when our thoughts spiral in these challenging directions--that darkness would swallow us whole given half the chance.  I agree--it's beyond challenging to move from being that free spinning spirt to being busted, broken, and motionless.  In windmill terms, I think I may have about one blade left at the moment, but it's still catching the wind and moving when it can.  I just keep trying to clear out the vines that would tangle it and try to be mindful of fixing those cracks as I discover them...  I needed this message today and am beyond thankful that my friend allowed me to share what he wrote and his picture.  So many in my world need this message right now--perhaps you were one of them--if so, I hope that you, too, will find a new sense of purpose and reasons to keep moving forward.

Mending

“As for mending, I think it's good to take the time to fix something rather than throw it away. It's an antidote to wastefulness and to the need for immediate gratification. You get to see a whole process through, beginning to end, nothing abstract about it. You'll always notice the fabric scar, of course, but there's an art to mending. If you're careful, the repair can actually add to the beauty of the thing because it is a testimony to its worth.”  ~Elizabeth Berg - "The Art of Mending"~

I haven't read this book, but I love the quote.  I love this concept, in general--whether it is mending clothing, household items, vehicles, or even relationships--if it has worth, value, and there is still love there, is it not worth trying to save it? Through no fault our own, we live in a throwaway society. We have been groomed to this place where we toss aside what would have once been fixed and repaired generations ago. Sadly, most items aren't made to last and can't even be fixed, these days--which adds to the challenge. Additionally for many, what we purchase and how often we purchase it is how success is defined--the newest phones, bigger TVs, name brands, clothing labels, new vehicles, bigger homes--we always want more, bigger, and better.  Sometimes to repair something, clothing especially, somehow it is met with meaning one has less and is thus avoided in favor of the new.  This makes me a bit sad--learning to mend can lead to great creativity and problem-solving skills, in addition to the obvious--less waste and the extended life of items already owned. 

I grew up with very little. My clothing, being all hand-me-downs, was frequently stained, torn, ill-fitting and even in elementary school I was expected to hem my own clothing and do my own alterations--all by hand. Much of what we had in our home (and the homes themselves), my mom had to transform from broken to usable. It was our reality and while I hated it then, I am now grateful for the lessons and skills that I learned during those years. It's broken, torn, stained, has a flaw? No problem! These are challenges I am always up for and I enjoy problem-solving how to fix them.  Sometimes they come out great, other times not so much--but most often I am able to find a way to make it work and for it to still be beautiful.

Sometimes the brokenness IS the appeal--throughout my yard you will find angels with broken wings, statues full of cracks, dolls that were discarded, broken arrows, waterlogged bowling balls, forgotten and unloved toys, items that were once buried on the property due to no longer having value--they have all been transformed into art. They all have purpose, meaning, and a story here.  They also make my yard interesting and fun--I enjoy these items and their uniqueness--I wouldn't change any of these things.  They don't need mended because their damage is what gives them character and life.

As for mending relationships, this seems to be as much of a lost art these days as mending clothing.  Be it romantic, with a difficult family member, or a friendship--this can be tricky. Relationships have changed significantly over the past decades--we aren't as forgiving or tolerant of differences as we once were, we walk away sometimes with little reason, and in many ways, relationships with others are often viewed as replaceable, as well. Much like anything else in life, it depends upon the quality of the relationship as to whether it can even be repaired or if the attempts to repair it will be unsuccessful because there aren't enough strong fibers left to work with or there wasn't a strong foundation to build upon in the first place. Sometimes they can't be mended and sometimes maybe they shouldn't be mended. Sometimes the healthiest choice is to allow the relationship to dissolve, for the wellbeing of one and sometimes for the wellbeing of both parties. Other times, mending the weak points strengthens the original bonds and makes the relationship stronger.

Perhaps communication, forgiveness, and love are the best materials for mending relationships. However, I think sometimes relationships can essentially "dry-rot", as well--if they have been neglected too long, a small tear can rip the entire fabric of the relationship and sometimes the damage is irreparable. It depends, too, upon both parties--is one person expecting the other to overlook the damage done or to pretend it doesn't exist? Is the person that made the tear willing to try to repair it or do they expect the other person to do all of the work? Mending a torn relationship takes work from both parties and if one person ignores the tear, that tear will likely continue to rip until there is nothing left to work with--no matter how much love there once was or how much the other person tries to fix it. Or worse yet, when the tear is one that both sides blame the other for and they choose to rip the hole wider, instead of working together to repair it--often there is no coming back from that, either.

I know it is said that relationships are like plants, that they require regular watering to flourish--even that cactus that needs so little may eventually wither after too long without water. Attempts at mending after too much damage has been done is similar to overwatering a nearly dead plant--it's often too late. 

Sometimes no amount of love or mending can fix things. Perhaps sometimes, the trickiest part is figuring out when to let go and when to keep mending...

Wisdom from Nadia Bolz-Weber

I adore Nadia Bolz-Weber and almost always appreciate her outlook and wisdom regarding life, the world, and the realities of the human heart.  I love her blunt, yet still somehow gentle, approach to living in the world and trying to maintain sanity during insane times.  This is an older one, but a friend sent it to me today and as always, it came exactly when I needed it.

I know that the past years have seen me slipping further and further away from being the friend and the support that people are used to, need, expect, and want me to be.  I have missed birthdays, messages, important posts, important life events, and have been absent when people needed me most.  The truth is that being sick this past year has taken more out of me than I had to give.  I try to make it through my work sessions, but even that wipes me out. I don't do phone calls, I don't do texts, I am lucky to get through half of my private messages and then I am done again.  I'm spread thin, I am keenly aware of that, and I apologize to each of you.  My stack of unsent Christmas cards is still sitting to my right, along with the letters friends have sent that I read, loved, but still have not yet responded to.  Birthday gifts that are still unsent from January 2021 through the unsent Christmas gifts of 2021 are still waiting for me to get them wrapped, packaged, and mailed out.  There are now large boxes everywhere that have friends' names written on them--the boxes get fuller and fuller as I collect more gifts that I wish to send, yet somehow I can't get that far.  

I'm not trying to make excuses, garner sympathy, or any such--each one of us is struggling hard and has been for far too long. I know that. I'm also not pledging to do better in 2022--while I wish that were the case, it isn't fair if I make such a pledge because I cannot yet live up to the expectations of others--I know that.  If anything, I will likely be retreating even further from the world as I try to heal myself. I applaud each of you that is still functioning like a well-oiled machine and that is managing to maintain the same level of energy that you had a decade ago--you need to be bottling that stuff and sharing it! For those of you that are struggling to pick yourself up and move forward--I see you.  We are living through a timeline that none of us are enjoying and it is exceedingly challenging no matter which side of this great divide you are on. It's ugly out there from every direction that I can see. 

At any rate, this was my first time seeing/reading this one.  It was exactly what I needed, today--I suspect a few others could benefit from this one, as well--so I am sharing it here.  I had a very similar conversation with one of my clients yesterday and realized how much, as I was saying it, that I needed to hear it, too. We are all fighting unseen battles in addition to living through a timeline that none of us want, like, or is enjoying.  Take time to refill your own buckets and go lightly when you discover others are trying to get through their own days with empty buckets. We are all struggling--be kind--not only to others, but to yourself, too.  Few of us are equipped for the amounts of stress we are carrying. 

"I just do not think our psyches were developed to hold, feel and respond to everything coming at them right now; every tragedy, injustice, sorrow and natural disaster happening to every human across the entire planet, in real time every minute of every day.  It’s not an issue of values, it’s an issue of MATH.*"  SO. MUCH. YES.

If you can't take in anymore, there's a reason an essay on circuit breakers, empty buckets, and the shame-show of social media