The Busy Time

April is not the cruelest month; February is

2009-02-15T22:49:00.001-06:00

Once upon a time, there was a fairly normal girl who went away to college. And in the fall of her sophomore year, she met a boy at the campus radio station and fell in love for the first time.

The boy and the girl had an enchanted love affair. They talked for hours and hours, they laughed, they adored each other, everyone they met (including themselves) seemed to believe they found their soul mate. Since she rented a room from an elderly lady off-campus, and he lived at home with his mother and siblings, they spent a lot of time walking through parks in the middle of the night, planning their future and listening to the 4am train rumble through their small town. As the crisp October days gave way to cold and snow, they relied on his Delta 88, and kept themselves warm with an old quilt and their plans to marry after college and take WCCO by storm: her in television, and him in radio.

Alas, it was not to be, however. The boy, bewildered and beset with demands from his mother and (unbeknownst to the girl) by demands from a former girlfriend, ended their relationship. The girl fell down the rabbit hole, and her descent only sped up when she learned, three months later, that the boy was to marry his former flame..

She emerged a year later when the boy called her from his army post at Fort Dix. He begged her to write to him; said he'd made a mistake and he wanted her back. She wrote … but the promised letter in return never came. Finally, she confronted him and he confessed that he could not return to her – his fiancée "wouldn't let him." So the girl left, and began looking for surcease from the pain.

Within two months, she had lost her virginity. Within five months, she had gotten pregnant in a one night stand with a nameless stranger. Two months after that, she found herself at a clinic, staring at a poster of a fur seal pup someone had taped to a ceiling in the procedure room. She tried alcohol, sex with strangers, Lutheranism, even what passed for counseling at the time – anything to outrun the pain, but nothing worked.

Eventually, she all but stopped drinking and having sex with strangers, became a Unitarian Universalist, and even married – twice. Despite the divorces, a rebound engagement that had ended most unpleasantly, and finding herself a single parent, she never really felt she had gotten over the boy until she met him (at his insistence in a park where no one could see them) twenty five years later. Despite his balding pate and middle aged spread, his quick grin and his wit and humor recalled to her instantly why she had loved him so. And yet, a continuing sense of bewilderment and inability or unwillingness to take a stand was not as easy to overlook in a man as it had been in a boy, and when they said goodbye, she somehow had the sense that after all this time, some kind of chapter had been closed.

Then, 26 years after she met the boy at the campus radio station, she met a man online. It was hard to meet single men in their 40s, especially since most men either had no children and wanted them, or had already raised their children and wanted their freedom. The man she met had four children – the youngest two close in age to her daughter – and one dog; and the girl, who had graduated to womanhood over the years, had one child and four dogs. The man had a major in philosophy; the woman had a minor in it. They met; he told her he loved her and soon she was able to say the same to him, and they (including the children) began making little adjustments and plans for the life they hoped to lead with one another someday.

It wasn't easy; the man was out of work and needed to find employment that would enable him to continue to have his children with him half time. The woman lived an hour away and had a house and job there she couldn't leave. And she began to wonder, in the back of her mind, if the man was too enmeshed in his own pain over his divorce and his children to look clearly at either her or the future, but she brushed aside those errant thoughts and told herself that with patience and time, they would work through this bad patch and realize the future of their dreams.

Until the day, that is, when one of the man's daughters instant-messaged the woman that her father had had someone else over to the house to watch movies the night before. The woman called the man and he assured her that everything was fine between them. This person was just an old friend, he said, and promised to talk to her more about it that night. But when she called, he didn't answer the phone. On and off, all night long, she tried his number, but he never picked up.

The next day, three days before Valentine's Day, he told her he was leaving her to be with this other woman. And once again, she fell down the rabbit hole.

This time, however, she was aided by her therapist, her psychiatrist, and an outpatient mental health program. Thanks to Lorazepam, lithium and adjusted doses of her regular antidepressant, plus weekly meetings with her therapist, six weeks of outpatient mental health treatment four days a week, and almost five months medical leave from her job, she stayed alive. The man had dumped her right at the start of a membership drive at the public radio station where she worked, so taking time off was not an option. She pasted a smile on her face and swallowed the lump in her throat with gallons of coffee and medication, and after the drive was over, even managed to work her morning shift on the air before heading down to the hospital. She learned that she could put her head down and cry during the songs, sit up, blow her nose, take another swallow of coffee, paste on the smile and key the mic. She could back-announce the music and talk about the weather, then start the next song, turn off her mic, and put her head down on the board again and weep. And no one listening ever knew.

Once again, people told her she would get through this. But this time, they weren't so quick to reassure her she'd find love again. And they didn't say anything about all the wonderful life she had yet to live; they just said she had to be around for the people who needed her. And even though her beloved therapist, who had helped her so tremendously in the years since her second divorce, assured her "we'll get you through this," she started to feel that she had been lied to, manipulated, tricked into staying alive simply to make other people's lives easier and not because there was anything left for her in this life at all.

In her family, a lot of sad things happened in February. She had an older sister who died of a heart defect after four days in 1958, and the anniversary of her birth and death always made the woman's parents sad. There had been some other sad anniversaries in February, too, including the Valentine's Day 2002 diagnosis of her beloved dog with cancer. She had decided, in that first year after the man left her, that if things did not in fact improve, she was going to end her life in February, on the anniversary of the day he abandoned her. She didn't. And now, two years after that fateful day, she thinks she made a mistake.

With the exception of a couple of med changes and the ability to get through a whole month, sometimes, without crying at work, nothing has really changed. And once again, the woman is finding herself choking on rage against – she's not sure what or whom – but rage that she was tricked, tricked into staying alive thirty years ago and tricked into staying alive one year ago – two years ago … and wondering when she will finally, finally let go. Let go of hope, let go of fairy stories, let go of belief … and find the end to pain she's looked for for so long.

The crux of the matter ...

2009-01-11T21:25:00.001-06:00

The crux of the matter is this:

I cannot seem to get over this obsessive need to be loved by someone. A man/partner/friend-and-lover someone.

The longer I am alone and lonely, the more I desire this relationship and the sicker I get.

The more I want it and the sicker I get, the more off-putting I become and the less likely I am to find it.

Even when I am white-knuckling through the days, trying to control my thoughts and impersonate a normal person, there is stuff going on inside my heart that I cannot seem to control.

I "didn't meet" someone at a work function last month, but was intrigued. Became Facebook friends, discovered he was single and his dogs were his life, and sent him a raft of helpful (?) messages when they got out and were lost, briefly.

Wandered over to his building and introduced myself last week; had a 20 minute, very enjoyable conversation about four-leggeds, and he accepted an invitation to tour the new animal shelter Saturday.

For the rest of the week, I did everything in my power to reign in my wayward thoughts, to view them with amusement and let them go when appropriate, and to concentrate on the fact that if I was going to have someone come over, I was going to have to clean the living room and the kitchen and that was A Good Thing, no matter WHAT the circumstances. Confessed all to my therapist Thursday and got some helpful advice as well as encouragement that I was on the right track.

Got up Saturday morning at 7am. Started in on the cleaning I had begun the evening before. Showered and put on makeup and my contacts (trying to be a normal person but I'm not stupid). Made cookies (ok, I know ... but the house really smelled good). At 10:30a, he called and said he was running late, and instead of meeting me at my house, perhaps we should just meet at the new shelter. Oh, and he had to have a late lunch with a client that he'd have to split for, too, so that shot the idea I'd proposed that we take the dogs out after.

Hm. Why was I surprised? Why wouldn't the Universe LOVE the chance to watch me knocking myself out doing all the things I am supposed to do anyway (although I was doing them for the wrong reasons) and then, snickering, pull the rug out from under me?

Met at the shelter and that new building is absolutely magical, but that is another story. Chatted a bit afterwards and I asked if he wanted to take the dogs out after his meeting. He said yes; agreed he would call by 2:30 or whenever he was done.

Came home, put on MUSIC (!! I haven't listened to music for enjoyment in two years) and finished the house cleaning AND washed all three little dogs. I felt good. Not high or elated; just ... normal, like I imagine other people must feel much of the time. Had some energy to clean the house and dance to the music and get some stuff done.

2:30 came and went ... 3pm ..... 3:30 .... there was that old sick feeling in the pit of my stomach again, that feeling I am so exhaustively familiar with that comes when "he" said he was going to call/come over and there is NOTHING. Should have just done something else, but I was, as usual, utterly unable to do so. As I always do, I finally called and got the voice mail and tried to leave a normal message, breezily inquiring about "what's the plan" ... got a call back that he'd crashed with the dogs and hadn't meant to sleep all afternoon, but that he'd have to skip the walk now because he had some house-cleaning to do.

I confess; I said I was going to see a movie at 4:30 and asked if he wanted to go -- he said he couldn't because he had a friend coming over that evening that was going through a rough spot. The conversation was light and pleasant and it's possible I didn't make as much of an ass out of myself as 1) I usually do 2) I thought I did, but the bottom line is that throughout the day, I did the inviting (over and over again; what an pathetic mess he must think me) and at no time did he reciprocate.

I don't know what's going on in this man's head. I don't know how long he's been divorced or anything about him other than a brief conversation and what he wrote on his Facebook profile. I would welcome the chance to get to know him better because I am attracted to him (I fancy him, as the Brits say) and would like at least ... a chance.

But my sickness (or perhaps my tenuous grasp of reality) tells me it ain't gonna happen. Despite my conviction that it would be just as easy for the Universe to put someone in my path who could/would love me as it is for me to continue without romantic options, the Universe doesn't see it that way. This man is not interested. I am too old. Too unattractive. Too something. Or not enough something else. He's just not that into me, as the saying goes. And in a matter of days or weeks or months, he will start dating someone who, to the outside world, might not be that much prettier or younger or smarter than me, but is somehow better, not intrinsically flawed in the way I seem to be.

My therapist keeps trying to talk me out of that position because, as he points out, where do you go from there? And yet just because it's depressing doesn't mean it's not true. I spent the rest of the day Saturday crying. And today, more or less immobilized. Even with my thoughts firmly reigned in, my heart felt AWFUL and my stomach felt AWFUL and it hurt so badly I cried. What really got me going was knowing that, despite my best efforts, I cannot seem to be a normal person. It is not normal to meet someone you're attracted to, to have casual plans fall apart, and to be suicidal about it. It's not normal to feel this way, it's not normal to hurt this way, and it's not normal to live this way. But I cannot get healthy.

After eight years of trying, I've made no progress. If anything, it just gets worse. I cannot live this way: either in an agony of loneliness or making a complete idiotic spectacle of myself like a junior high school girl. I am too sick to function normally and too sick to want to prolong the agony any more.

Went to church this morning. Had the sense that perhaps it was the thing to do, although I was grateful for the lack of seating that landed me on a chair out in the lobby area. I was doing fine until Gail closed with this all-too-familiar passage from Ranier Maria Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet" and I fell apart and left. I first ran across this quote in the program two years ago -- oh, how I have wanted, needed these words to be true:

"So you mustn't be frightened, dear Mr. Kappus, if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you have ever seen; if an anxiety, like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and over everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall."

But Rilke was wrong. Life doesn't care. It let me fall eight years ago and walked away and perhaps it's about time I realized it's not coming back for me.

Why I Hate New Years and other baggage....

2009-01-04T18:47:00.007-06:00

They say you shouldn't go grocery shopping when you're hungry.

I know better than to take up important conversations after 3pm.

And I should DEFINITELY not undertake a web post when the Vikings have just lost. No more Vikings until September. Nothing to look forward to now until May or June sometime when we can think of camping again. And here in northern Minnesota, where the weather outside mirrors my emotional landscape much of the time (dark, cold, bleak, featureless) ... five months is a long, long time.

I don't think I've been fond of New Year's since high school. College, I remember sitting in my room with a bottle of pills, wondering if I could commit suicide with aspirin.

New Year's Eve 1985, a newlywed of just over a month, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and entered my brand-new husband's home office, dressed in bits of skimpy lace and bearing two glasses of champagne. "I'm working," he informed me, barely glancing up. "I don't have time for that now."

The evening of New Year's Day, 1999, terrified that my second marriage, which had produced a just-turned-one year old baby, wasn't Y2K compatible, only to have my worst fears confirmed three days later.

New Year's, I'm realizing, brings out the very worst of my bad habits. So much of my work with my therapist for the past two years has been about my insistence on ruminating about the past and dreading the future. So an event dedicated to looking back AND looking forward is just tailor-made to plunge me into the blackest places I can find.

F'r instance: between 1985 and 1995, I had horses again and dogs for the first time, got married, got divorced, held six different jobs in six different towns, moved nine times, got engaged, got disengaged, and got married again.

Between 1989 and 1999, even, I realized a dream and bought a farm, although I didn't have it very long. I got my dream job, met the love of my life, visited the west coast for the first time, saw the ocean and the redwoods for the first time, played Josie in "A Moon for the Misbegotten" and had a baby.

But since 2000, the happy changes have slowed down considerably. Between January of 2000 and January of 2009, I've had to learn how to be a parent and a divorced parent at the same time. Believe me, it sucks. I lost the love of my life, ended up in the hospital once and outpatient care once for "nervous breakdowns," lost 140 pounds and spent 14 of the 108 months in alleged relationships (obviously this doesn't include alleged relationships that turned into one night stands). Since I've got the calculator application open, that means I've spent just over 87% of the last nine years alone. (Let me digress to send a big Bronx cheer to the people who say I need time by myself --I've obviously had plenty.) And since this dating has occurred AFTER I lost the weight (I would have figured it out eventually, but "luckily" for me, every man I have gone out with has treated me to a lengthy riff on the "fat chicks" out there and what a turn off they are), apparently pushing 260 wasn't the problem -- my personality is.

Didn't work for Black Beauty ... and it doesn't work for me, either.

2008-12-22T07:35:00.015-06:00

When I was a little girl, I loved my storybook records. I suppose they were the '60s equivalent of the movie version of a beloved book, but I like to think they didn't suck all the imagination out of reading a story the way movies can.

At any rate, I remember listening to my recording of Anna Sewell's "Black Beauty" over and over, long before I could read the book or even the edited version of the story that accompanied the big, bright picture "book" in the album.

One particularly dramatic bit that has stuck with me lo these 40+ years comes when the master of the house has to ride desperately for the doctor in the middle of the night. For some reason, the doctor has to ride Black Beauty, already exhausted, back to the house to save the life of the mistress.

The young stableboy, not knowing any better, gives the horse all the cold water he can drink, brushes him down and turns in for the night. Meanwhile, Black Beauty is chilled and sickened by the cold water and his cooling sweat, nor has he been walked to cool him down. The groom finds the sick horse the next morning, and erupts with anger at the stableboy.

The master -- or someone -- registers a mild protest, observing that it was "only ignorance" that caused the stableboy to act as he did. Then the groom erupts with anger again. I can still hear the fury in the voice of the actor reading these lines:

"Only ignorance! only ignorance! how can you talk about only ignorance? Don't you know that it is the worst thing in the world, next to wickedness? -- and which does the most mischief heaven only knows. If people can say, `Oh! I did not know, I did not mean any harm,' they think it is all right. I suppose Martha Mulwash did not mean to kill that baby when she dosed it with Dalby and soothing syrups; but she did kill it, and was tried for manslaughter."

"And serves her right, too," said Tom. "A woman should not undertake to nurse a tender little child without knowing what is good and what is bad for it."

"Bill Starkey," continued John, "did not mean to frighten his brother into fits when he dressed up like a ghost and ran after him in the moonlight; but he did; and that bright, handsome little fellow, that might have been the pride of any mother's heart is just no better than an idiot, and never will be, if he lives to be eighty years old. You were a good deal cut up yourself, Tom, two weeks ago, when those young ladies left your hothouse door open, with a frosty east wind blowing right in; you said it killed a good many of your plants."

"A good many!" said Tom; "there was not one of the tender cuttings that was not nipped off. I shall have to strike all over again, and the worst of it is that I don't know where to go to get fresh ones. I was nearly mad when I came in and saw what was done."

"And yet," said John, "I am sure the young ladies did not mean it; it was only ignorance."

Of all the rampaging ignorances around, I have to believe the inability to communicate clearly and accurately one's thoughts and feelings to others causes the most heartache. No, let me amend that: the inability to know/understand/identify one's thoughts and feelings and THEN communicate them clearly and accurately to others causes the most heartache. Especially in this part of the world, where we take a perverse pride in being uncommunicative.

I've dated three people this year; tried three times after the bloodbath of February 2007 in which the man who vowed he loved me and with whom I was planning to spend the rest of my life called me out of the clear blue and announced he'd met someone else and wanted to be with her. And in each of these three situations, the men (who I met on Match.com and who were, in theory, serious enough about meeting someone to shell out hard earned cash in order to do so) were not willing or ready to be in relationships. Certainly not with me, at any rate, but actually, perhaps not with anyone.

The first gentleman lived over an hour away. I couldn't come to his house because of his ailing cat and my four dogs, so he came to see me on a few weekends, but couldn't stay because he had to get home to care for the aforementioned ailing cat. Although I lived at least 90 miles from him and had just rented a campsite in Wisconsin an hour in the opposite direction, my inviting him to join us two weekends in a row proved "smothering" and he wanted out. He didn't check with me to see if he'd gotten the wrong idea or if there was a compromise to be worked out: he was GONE.

Gentleman #2 also lived 90 miles away up on the Range. He could/would not travel because 1) he'd grown up in Duluth and hated it 2) he lived on a lake out in the middle of nowhere and home was where the ATV was (and it was grouse season. Then deer season.) 3) He couldn't be away any length of time after it got cold because the wood boiler had to be fed twice a day. So as long as I was willing to drive three hours, be on his turf, do his stuff, talk about him -- and expressly NOT talk about anything I cared about -- everything was a-ok. We probably broke up at the beginning of November, but nothing was ever said because then it was deer season and no conversation of any kind was allowed about anything not pertaining to hunting deer. Actually, I think in the end I was dumped for a black lab, because this man felt he was incapable of having a dog AND a girlfriend at the same time. Since I loved the dog, I found this weirdly palatable. Plus he was anal-retentive and controlling to a fault, not to mention, in the immortal words of my therapist, "a prick." Perhaps the right man for some woman with no life or interests of her own ... but certainly not me.

Gentleman #3 - another fella from an hour or more out (another Ranger - maybe that's the problem) and we'd been dancing around one another on Match for a couple of years. He'd always act interested but not follow up; finally, at the beginning of the month, we had lunch and decided we kind of liked each other. Unlike the other guys, he likes Duluth and gets here often on business, so I figured the getting together thing would be eased quite a bit right there. And I was more than willing to go out and see him on weekends when I didn't have the child. But between work, and his farm, and his family in the southern part of the state, he hasn't been able to get together all month, and I finally said "let me know when you have time for a girlfriend, but until then, quit shining me on - it hurts."

See, I'm one of those funny people that if a man says "I'll take you to the hockey game," or I'll call you tonight" or "we'll see each other this week" or "I want to spend the rest of my life with you." I'm gonna believe it. Even after two failed marriages, a broken engagement and two devastatingly serious relationships that blew up in my face. And no matter how much sweet talk I get, if all I get is talk and no action, I start figuring that I fell for the old bait-and-switch once again: a one-night stand disguised as a potential relationship.

Now no one put a gun to my head; if I want to be the kind of girl who, in the immortal words of Ado Annie "cain't say no," I have no one to blame for that but myself. The hard part comes with the damn stories afterward: the stories about how I am never enough. I'll never forget the man I met online and thought I clicked with until he discovered I had a daughter; said he knew himself well enough to know he was not father material. Got an email from him a year ago and yup, he married a lady with a child N's age.

But beyond my own stories, there is the issue of ignorance. And responsibility. And the kind of behaviour that, as painful as it is when it happens in high school, can at least be excused (maybe explained is a better word) because the participants were teenagers and didn't know any better. But we're talking grown men here; men in their late 40s or early 50s. Pardon my crudeness, but these are men that can't even get it up half the time, so it's obvious (to me, anyway) that just getting laid is not what's driving them. When someone says I live in Duluth and have a ten year old child, why decide AFTER the date that you just don't want to date someone with a kid? If you refuse to leave your house or you hate Duluth, why decide to date someone who lives an hour away, knowing that the interests of fairness will demand that you travel occasionally to see her? If you have a history of women "smothering" you, why go through the motions of wanting a real relationship over and over instead of signing up for Casual Sex.com? And if your schedule is full to the brim with work, home and family committments that take precedence, why pretend to have time to spend with someone when you don't?

Hey, if I wanted to feel as though I was at the bottom of someone's priority list, or wasn't valuable enough to waste time on, I'd still be married.

I know I'm taking this stuff too seriously. I cringe when I realize how I must appear to these people, how I am wearing my heart on my sleeve and no doubt being waaayyy too intense. But as careful as I have tried to be, I still have to explain to my daughter where these people went and comfort her when she bursts into tears about it (I'm not the only one who gets attached too much too fast). I still have to go through the soul-sucking motions of trying to stop the stories and trying not to let the despair overwhelm me. And with every broken relationship, I end up that much more crippled, that much more hung up and that much more unloveable.

"Only ignorance" indeed.

You know you missed your meds when …

2008-12-16T18:48:00.003-06:00

You burst into tears at the commercial for Alzheimer's medication.
You burst into tears at the teaser (the story, too, but you start with the teaser) for the story about the Biden's new puppy
You burst into tears at the photos of Caroline Kennedy and her parents
It's Monday.

I've got a nasty habit of missing a dose over the weekend – all it takes is a change in my routine to throw my whole little world into a cocked hat – so it's not a complete surprise to be a little "off" on a Monday. But yesterday was special, and it turned into a classic object lesson in not doing what Jennifer Loudon writes in Comfort Queen: "I can name what I am feeling and notice it, without trying to change it and without getting caught up in the story that goes along with it."

The child celebrated her 10^th birthday yesterday. I'd already had the meltdown this summer in group when I realized that she's halfway through her life at home and basically, her life is irrevocably messed up and there's no recovering from it now (and people think depressed folk don't have a grasp on reality!) So this particular meltdown included a little of that and a dollop of The Way Things Should Have Been, especially when her father came over with a cake and we all sat down in a very civilized, modern, progressive fashion and had coffee and cake and conversation. Add a soupçon of How Could You Leave Us the Way You Did and It Was NOT Supposed To Be This Way and you've got a pretty good recipe for poking one's depression with a stick. Not to mention getting caught up in the story that goes along with the feelings.

As long as I was wandering up and down these aisles anyway, I stopped to inspect a display of All The Things I Had Growing Up That My Daughter Will Never Have Because I Am A Single Parent, poked through an array of The Wonderful Birthdays My Mother Always Made For Me Which Were All Nicer Birthdays Than I Make for My Daughter, and picked up some I Grew Up In A Clean Lovely House and She's Growing Up In A Pigsty, since I was running low.

I can see where "the story that goes along with it" is really what's getting me into trouble – or at the very least, making things worse. The Alzheimers commercial reminds me that I don't have any idea yet what to get my father for Christmas, and does my inability to think of anything he might want or need or enjoy mean I'm giving up on him?

The Biden's new puppy reminds me that my 15 ½ year old poodle is has just started having some bad days, physically and mentally.

Pictures of Caroline Kennedy and Camelot make me think of families with two parents, dreams of the way things could be, and the way those dreams end, a woman alone with all her family gone, the dreams dead … oh you name it, I've got a story to go with it!

But Jennifer Loudon's comment resonated with me. It's nothing my poor beleaguered therapist hasn't been trying to communicate to me for months, but somehow … I got a little glimmer of understanding this time. Here is the rest of it: "…when fear and overwhelm come to visit, I can choose to put my attention on the feelings rather than the self-talk that accompanies the feelings. I can name what I am feeling and notice it, without trying to change it and without getting caught up in the story that goes along with it.

The combination of the weekend's snow and the looming holidays are absolutely engendering "fear and overwhelm." Yesterday there was no school and no day care, but of course, I had to be at work. I'm worried about shoveling out and the leaky windows and the fuel oil tank without a gauge and the bills to pay and the gifts to buy and the ideas for perfect, thoughtful gifts that I don't have. I'm worried about the two - no, three; no, is it four? doctor's appointments I haven't made because it's just too much for me right now. I'm worried about the handwork piece I need to block, mat and frame for a going-away party tomorrow and treats I should have gotten for my daughter's class and food for this party tomorrow. And how will I juggle everything I have to do at work to be ready to leave for a week and a half with everything I have to do AT HOME to be ready to leave, not to mention I have to pick up my prescription and get gifts somehow and sit down and figure out which bills I can pay and ….

OK – stop. Breathe. STOP. I am feeling afraid and overwhelmed. Period. No story needed. Right now I will proof this posting, make a little supper, contemplate a small floral embellishment to the embroidery if I feel like it, watch NCIS in ten minutes, get to sleep at a reasonable time and prepare to follow my therapist's Prime Directive: breathe … show up … do what's in front of you.

The journey continues …

Today would have been ...

2008-11-29T22:00:00.000-06:00

... my 23rd anniversary. Marriage #1, that is.

Not sure how I feel about that.

Other than sad.

Survived.

2008-11-22T19:56:00.000-06:00

It's intermission.

Our show was third of four, so I am DONE for the evening.

There will be time for post-mortems later; for the time being, all I know is that I survived my ten minutes on stage without screaming, crying, or throwing up, and since those are my default fall-back positions ... that's pretty good.

Anxiety Dreams: Greatest Hits

2008-11-22T12:35:00.001-06:00

I was exhausted last night; didn't think I would have any problem getting to sleep. And I didn't, so not only did the anxiety dreams surprise me, their breadth and scope did, too.

What a retrospective of almost everything: dogs (one of Melvie's eyes was shut and when I went to clean it it was matted with blood and pus), Felix, a lake house (kind of like his cabin) my daughter and I were ostensibly buying to replace the camper (a hand-written note by the absent owner said the price was $600,000 firm), the new Development Director at the station (who is from Finland; there were lots of references to Finland for some reason), sex, alcohol, cell phones (yes, I have a new one), rural highways (2?) and my inability to signal my phone number by holding up the correct number of fingers for each digit.

I made a special point of remembering to take my medication today.

Today is "The Chicken Hat Plays," a strange and fascinating way, devised by my ffriend Brian, to incite anxiety dreams in writers, directors and actors. Writers got their "who," "what" and "where" prompts last night and spent all night writing; this morning at 8:00, directors drews scripts and actors out of hats and it's off to the races. Shows will all be performed tonight beginning at 7pm.

I haven't done a show since 1993; which probably explains why doing my index cards kept bringing back memories of Karen's kitchen table.

I think I'm memorized; am trying to walk the line now between being under-rehearsed and making it tired. We have our blockingg rehearsal in the actual SPACE in an hour ... but I think I will go and look through my cards some more and drink some more coffee and hope for the best.

I didn't have any "forget your lines," "on the air without copy" or "showing up somewhere naked" dreams last night; hope that's not in store for me live in front of an audience tonight.

Mindfulness and Bullheadedness …

2008-11-18T05:08:00.001-06:00

It's pretty simple, really. All I've had to remember in the last five, almost six years since my gastric bypass surgery is go easy on the ranch dressing, no more than a taste of ice cream, and don't schnobble when you bake.

Do. Not. Schnobble. When. You. Bake.

Or you will regret it.

Eating the wrong thing is like depression on speed: you want to die RIGHT NOW instead of sometime, eventually … you lie on the couch praying for death until the dry heaves commence. 'Nuf said.

I made peanut butter bars for Nora last night.

I had to follow up Saturday night's debacle with a phone call on Sunday, and when that conversation was cut short by the vagaries of Wisconsin's cell phone service, followed up the follow up with a message … and then another yesterday.

I suspect Steve is learning something I learned a long time ago: it's easier to be angry than hurt.

At any rate … in the wake of yesterday's bullheadedness … every muscle between my lower back and my ribcage is screaming with outrage … and that other muscle in my chest is letting me know I abused it again, too.

I'll make sure to hum a few bars of "My Way" while I'm hobbling around today …

Digging in my heels …

2008-11-17T20:37:00.007-06:00

It should come as a surprise to no one (particularly my therapist and my father) that I can be a stubborn cuss when I choose to be. I don't think of myself as stubborn, of course; I think of myself as an eminently reasonable person with an unassailable grasp of reality. Which is neither here nor there; the point is, after eight years of stonewalling … it seems a few things might be sinking in.

For the last eight years, almost everyone I know has been telling me to get involved in some volunteer activities that I am passionate about (either the cause or the activity itself). For eight years, I have been resisting. After all, I am a single parent, can't do anything because I have no money and a strange schedule and sole responsibility 24/7/365 for my daughter and nobody likes me and everybody hates me and I guess I'll go eat worms. I plan to go to work and come home and sit in my chair and wonder why the universe doesn't send me friends and lovers and acclaim, and mope when they don't show up. Which, I still maintain, is not an altogether bad plan.

However, the universe has conspired against me. It started with some ideas for a blog I could write for the local humane society. Then our new station manager announced that each staff person would need to select an area non-profit that they were passionate about (her words) and help marshal the resources of the station to assist that non-profit. Before I knew it, I was coordinating an on-air and web campaign for the new shelter they're hoping to open in February, and stalking the group's executive director, leaping out at him from unexpected places trying to get him to look at my "media plans."

About that time, one of my best friends from high school showed up as our church's interim minister. As if a good friend who's going to be in town for two years isn't enough, as if a standing coffee/lunch/ginger-lime- arugula-tea date every Monday at 1:15pm isn't something to look forward too, she's asked me to help her set up her new blog. And since just about anything that lets me fool with computers and pick on other people's spelling makes me happy, this has been a lovely addition to my life. Now my Monday coffee with Gail and my Friday coffee with Jeff make the perfect Oreo -- with the creamy filling of Wednesday group.

The final Bronx cheer arrived in a bizarre confluence of events involving The Child's Father, weekend arrangements, Thanksgiving and my indefatigable friend Brian. Brian has been extending invitations for years to participate in a unique form of theatrical torture called "The Chicken Hat Plays." Saturday, eight directors and a bunch of actors show up, draw scripts and their actors' names out of hats, rehearse all day and perform all eight shows at 7pm that night. So after a 15 year absence from the stage … I'm gonna go back – for twelve hours.

So despite my best efforts, I find myself authoring three blogs (including one of the Ten Best Mental Health Blogs on the Web, not that I'm excited about THAT or anything), assisting with another and plotting my next, just as soon as I can catch Jim in an unguarded moment at Cub Foods. Or his doctor's office. I'm thinking about all the cool things we could do at the station to help the humane society, and I'm feeling an energy and excitement about work I haven't in a while. I still don't have a lot of people to talk to, but I have standing dates with two good friends every week and a chance to hang with the funniest group of depressed people I've ever met in between. And although I won't be doing the full-fledged production of "Hedda Gabler" I used to fantasize about, I'm gonna hang with theater people again and put on a show. Volunteering with causes and activities I'm passionate about and which used to give me joy back in my old life … contributions I can make working from home … the regular delight of time with old and new friends….

Brings to mind the old story of the little boy who dived gleefully into the pile of manure shouting "I know there's a pony in here somewhere!"

As a matter of fact, my saddle is downstairs, resting on a makeshift saddle rack of wedding-dress boxes (that's right, plural). That's right; I did used to ride, didn't I ….

No, it's not, actually.

2008-11-16T12:34:00.002-06:00

I was healthy enough to go to Ashland.

I was healthy enough to see B in her show.

I was healthy enough to see the other kids.

I was healthy enough to know that when their father came in with them and took the seats two rows in front of me, that I wanted to take charge of the initial meeting.

I was healthy enough to walk up and say hello to him in person, for the first time in two years.

I was healthy enough to go back and sit in my seat and notice that my hands weren't shaking too much.

And I was healthy enough to know that the night was supposed to be about B's drama ON stage ... not my drama OFF stage.

And since there would be no way to avoid him after the show backstage ... I fled at intermission and came home.

It's a wonderful life indeed.

You can't be a severely depressed person without wondering if anyone would notice if you were gone. Not only do you suspect that the world would be a better place if you'd never been born, you're pretty sure it would be a better place if you opted out.

I made six calls from the road, trying in vain to find someone I could talk to -- my father was the only one who picked up, and I soft-pedaled the whole Steve thing; he has enough problems of his own without his 47 year old daughter going all junior-high on him.

So that sums that up pretty clearly, I guess.

I was healthy enough to decide against alcohol and/or any of the myriad bars along Highway 2 ... came home, wrote some emails I probably shouldn't have, and then watched TiVo until 12:30 and went to bed.

Today, this is my horoscope:

You may need a day of retreat and there's no reason to deny your wish. Following your desires isn't always the smartest thing to do, but now it could have great significance. Staying in the present moment can be difficult today, for you may still be holding on to habits and beliefs that are already worn out. Be ruthless as you eliminate the past to make room for the future.

So. Probably not going to get any cleaning done ... may not even get any laundry done ... going to practice mindfulness and move very slowly so all the shattered glass inside me doesn't cut any more.

I am so, so tired of ... this.

Highway 2 revisited ...

2008-11-15T16:09:00.000-06:00

If my life got any more ironic, I wouldn't dare get near magnets.

Took the dogs and met the child to have our holiday portrait taken with Santa today -- a fundraiser for the local Humane Society. So since I'm in "full hair and makeup," and gas is almost $2.00 a gallon even ... I'm heading east on Highway 2 ... back to Ashland.

Luckily, I've been back once before since that January day almost two years ago when I drove away from what I thought was my family and was never to return, as it happened. And we spent all summer making the trip between here and Iron River, so I'm hoping I can make the rest of the trip with a minimum amount of trauma/drama.

I'm going to see my almost-daughter in her high school performance of "It's A Wonderful Life," the classic story of a man who is granted a vision of what the world would have been like without him in it, and discovers that he really has made a contribution after all.

I've run that scenario over and over about my own life, and as usual, I'm thinking the only difference would be one more available seat at the show tonight!

But maybe the other kids will be there. And I miss them so; I've seen B since, but not the little kids, and maybe they will be there and I can hug them.

I'd like that.

More later.

So many choices … or not …

2008-11-14T09:10:00.005-06:00

Today is Friday. I'll be on my own -- all alone -- this weekend; the first time in well over a month I haven't headed north when I'm childless.

So, thanks to the choice I made earlier this week, I won't be doing that.

I also get to choose whether or not the following photos illustrate my just desserts for – oh heck, fill in the transgression of your choice – or an opportunity to really dig in and get some serious Home Making done.

I could choose to relax in front of the fire in my living room ...

"Power is the faculty or capacity to act, the strength and potency to accomplish something. It is the vital energy to make choices and decisions. It also includes the capacity to overcome deeply embedded habits and to cultivate higher, more effective ones." ~Stephen Covey

"There may be a time in life when one is tired of everything and feels as if all one does is wrong, and there maybe some truth in it- do you think this is a feeling one must try to forget and to banish, or is it 'the longing for God,' which one must not fear, but cherish to see if it may bring us some good? Is it 'the longing for God' which leads us to make a choice which we never regret? Let us keep courage and try to be patient and gentle. And not mind being eccentric, and make distinction between good and evil." ~Vincent van Gogh

Or curl up to watch a DVD in the sanctuary of my room ....

"Be miserable. Or motivate yourself. Whatever has to be done, it's always your choice." ~Wayne Dyer

"At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice." ~Maya Angelou

"It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." ~ J.K. Rowling

"We find that people's beliefs about their efficacy affect the sorts of choices they make in very significant ways. In particular, it affects their levels of motivation and perseverance in the face of obstacles. Most success requires persistent effort, so low self-efficacy becomes a self-limiting process. In order to succeed, people need a sense of self-efficacy, strung together with resilience to meet the inevitable obstacles and inequities of life." ~Albert Bandura

Or maybe I'll spend some quality time in my sewing room!

"Man is fully responsible for his nature and his choices" ~Jean-Paul Sartre

"Life often presents us with a choice of evils rather than of goods" ~Charles Caleb Colton

"One must, in one's life, make a choice between boredom and suffering" ~Madame de Stael

"When you have no choice, mobilize the spirit of courage" ~Jewish Proverb

"We can try to avoid making choices by doing nothing, but even that is a decision." ~Gary Collins

"You've got a lot of choices. If getting out of bed in the morning is a chore and you're not smiling on a regular basis, try another choice." ~Steven D. Woodhull

Or ...perhaps I would choose, instead, to work my way through this stack ... but that would hardly be considered housework, would it?????

"I chose and my world was shaken. So what? The choice may have been mistaken; the choosing was not. You have to move on." ~Stephen Sondheim

"Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your won presence rather than of the absence of others. Because solitude is an achievement." ~Alice Koller

"If you limit your choices only to what seems possible or reasonable, you disconnect yourself from what you truly want, and all that is left is compromise." ~Robert Fritz

"The way to activate the seeds of your creation is by making choices about the results you want to create. When you make a choice, you activate vast human energies and resources, which otherwise go untapped." ~Robert Fritz

"You and I are essentially infinite choice-makers. In every moment of our existence, we are in that field of all possibilities where we have access to an infinity of choices." ~Deepak Chopra

"It is your own convictions which compels you; that is, choice compels choice." ~ Epictetus

And now for something completely different ...

2008-11-12T18:07:00.000-06:00

Meant to post this a couple of weeks ago ...

Mapquest, revenge, and "Finlandia" III

2008-11-11T21:31:00.006-06:00

~~ Sunday evening ruminations, Part Three

Finally:

We sang a hymn in church on Sunday. I recognized the melody of Finnish composer Jean Sibelius, but we didn't sing the words I was thinking of.

When I came home, I went online and found the words I'd had in mind. Turns out they're Lloyd Stone's:

This is my song
Oh god of all the nations
A song of peace
For lands afar and mine

This is my home
The country where my heart is
Here are my hopes
My dreams my holy shrine

But other hearts
In other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams
As true and high as mine

My countries skies
Are bluer than the ocean
And sunlight beams
On clover leaf and pine

But other lands
Have sunlight too and clover
And skies are everywhere
As blue as mine

Not only is the melody enough to break your heart, but the words really cut right to the heart of the matter: no matter how different we are, we're the same.

Which means that for every snarky blog posting I write about solipsistic people and emotionally-stunted people and Felix Unger-types who go behind your back and take the hand towel from where you slung it and fold it neatly in thirds and place it over the towel bar so that the ends are exactly even … someone else could write the same number of snarky blog posts about people who talk too much and too loudly and are hyper-sensitive and chaotic and Oscar Madison-types who have to tunnel through the clutter just to find the kitchen.

And all it does is add to the general snarkiness of the Universe and doesn't do a damn thing toward moving anyone closer to that ultimate goal of the friend who sees you and loves you and accepts you just exactly as you are.

So. Perhaps the time comes when you're done venting and journaling and bending the ears of friends and therapists … when you're done moving the slider in on everything that went wrong and have finally zoomed out to a place where you have a tiny bit of perspective … when you've put (most) of your revenge fantasies away or at least delegated them to friends with more creative imaginations than yours … when you substitute the wine and the Kleenex for a pile of warm dogs and a slasher movie where the bad guy gets it … then you get to that place where glib doesn't cut it any more and perhaps needs a rest, anyway.

That place where you grieve what might have been … the end of what was … and where the sadness comes, too, from the knowledge that there is no villain. So it's not simple and it's not tidy and it's not glib … and the worst part is, it's not your first time at this particular rodeo and it won't be the last.

So you cry.

Yeah, what he said ...

2008-11-11T19:39:00.002-06:00

Speak harshly to no one,
or the words will be thrown
right back at you.
Contentious talk is painful,
for you get struck by rods in return.

-Dhammapada, 10, translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu.

Mapquest, revenge, and “Finlandia” II

2008-11-11T19:08:00.008-06:00

~~ Sunday Evening Ruminations, Part Two

Astonishing, when you think about it, in a society where we make such a fuss over The Golden Rule, and where the majority of folks are Christians who can quote you Jesus' admonition to "turn the other cheek," how utterly committed we are to the idea of revenge.

We don't even think about it, usually. Getting back at someone who has wronged you, evening up the score, teaching them a lesson; it's the default response.

No matter what warm and fuzzy things we're saying in church and teaching our children when we're doing so deliberately, the minute we turn our backs almost every television show and movie is preaching the gospel of revenge. Seriously. Take a piece of scratch paper and a pencil and watch an evening of network television and see how many revenge motifs you count. It will blow your mind.

So it's not surprising, I suppose, that as I contemplated the appropriate way to formally end this relationship, revenge crossed my mind.

My former minister (that's what makes this story particularly delicious, I think) shared with me a pocket-daydream/revenge fantasy of hers that always cheered her up enough to drop whatever snarkiness was going through her mind: hitting her ex-husband over the head with a grain shovel, complete with a full-fledged Wile.E.Coyote-type sound effect – kuh-WONNNGGGG!

Of course, let's be frank; I don't really have much to revenge. OK, I got an email that I perceived was unnecessarily hostile/rude and really did, as far as I could tell, come out of nowhere. Between commas, it managed to defame the Minnesota Clean Water, Land and Legacy amendment; the arts; the Guthrie; the city of my residence; my blogs (including the one just named by one Perceptive Soul as one of the Top Ten Best in the country); my friend's radio show; and my behavior two days earlier (I asked him to pull over to the side of the road so I could photograph an eagle. OK, I kinda flipped out over it, but still …). But once I decoded the sentence "…Not to mention, the screaming eagle incident, when which I was very much ready to send you on your own way.... If you only knew, how much I did NOT care for your behavior in the slightest!" I have to admit, I got pissed and started contemplating ways to "get him back."

But the trouble with rumination (defined, [weirdly enough, by Merriam-Webster's Medical Dictionary] as "obsessive or abnormal reflection upon an idea or deliberation over a choice") is that your brain doesn't know when to quit. After I'd written and discarded a baker's dozen of Snotty Emails, drafted and performed at least three Dramatic Kiss-Off Monologues, and outlined at least four Devastate-Him-Utterly-And-Leave-Him-Desperate-To-Get-Me -Back phone calls, I was left scraping the bottom of the revenge-barrel for something to chew on.

For example: even if I did deliver one of these carefully crafted messages; what did I want to happen? OK, I was hurt and wanted to hurt back, but I wouldn't be there to observe his reaction. So how would I know I'd hurt him? And if I didn't know, how would that be satisfying? Not to mention in the few instances in life where I actually have hurt someone face-to-face, it was such a dreadful experience I certainly wouldn't want to repeat it, no matter how angry I was.

I've always played certain emotions pretty close to the vest. Part of it is the tiny fragment of Scandinavian-ness (-inity? –viousness?) that's survived theater, speech team and years of therapy, but mostly it's the conviction that if you reveal too much, you're giving the world the leverage to … get you. (OK, so maybe he wasn't the only one who was hypervigilant and paranoid.) The point being, you go out in public with your neckline high enough, your hemline low enough, and your psychosis gagged and bound so you're not showing anyone anything you don't want them to see. And if you're going to go all "Fatal Attraction" on the guy who doesn't return your affection, in addition to incurring the wrath of the ASPCA, you may as well take out a full page ad in the New York Times saying "You broke my heart and I'm an Emotional Cripple."" VERY un-Minnesotan. Hugely embarrassing. And if he's already broken your heart, why give him more ammunition?

If you're not going to get any satisfaction from hurting this person (no matter how much your loyal friends insist he has it coming) and you don't want to give him any more evidence of how truly infatuated/hurt/unstable you really are, what's left?

If you're a graduate of Mrs. Van Zant's Humanities course (I, II or III), you know that the true interpretation of "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" is not revenge. It means that if I take your eye … I must see for you. If I take your tooth … I must feed you. If I hurt you … I need to make it right.

So what obligation do I incur if I lash out at someone with the intent to hurt? I'm not sure … but I suspect I wouldn't like it.

Medea wasn't kidding when she said, "We must not think too much. People go mad if they think too much."

Mapquest, revenge, and "Finlandia" I

2008-11-11T14:00:00.010-06:00

~~ Sunday evening ruminations, Part One

When you put an address in Mapquest and then click on "aerial map," you can use the slider to zoom in and get an up-close, detailed view of your target, or zoom out to put your target in perspective. Interestingly enough, although you can back up almost indefinitely to see your target's relationship to the neighborhood, the city, the state or the earth, when you try to zoom in too close, you get this message: "Data not currently available. Try zooming out or mapping a new location."

For me, being at odds with someone puts me in an emotional space similar to surfing Mapquest -- to be more accurate, an impatient kid surfing Mapquest who keeps flailing about with the slider.

I'd been dating a fellow for about a month when it became obvious that it wasn't going to work out. So the question became who was going to end it and how, further complicated by the advent of (insert genuflection here)... Deer Season.

First I psychoanalyzed every encounter I'd ever had with this man; marshaling every argument and zooming in on every bit of evidence to support my diagnosis of his control issues, his abandonment issues, his insecurity, his rudeness and his inability to punctuate without scattering a handful commas at random in every sentence.

The Guilty Party thus established, I moved on to composing scathing assessments of his behavior, zooming in on his marital status (and the reasons behind same), his selfishness, his inability to even feign interest in anyone's else's life or interests, and perhaps, as the final blow, to offer a few choice examples where I'd feigned interest. Or ... faked it. Call it what you will....

We've all been there. Zooming in to the point where we feel we're trapped in a spider web of thinking and every thought just enmeshes us further. "Data not currently available"? Not really the problem. "Data making you nuts?" That is the question. And "try zooming out or mapping a new location" is not bad advice, for Mapquest OR an obsessing session.

So, madness looming and with no appropriate medications on hand, I tried to zoom back and see The Big Picture. What was the Big Picture again? Oh, right. We were going to have to break up. Probably. Unless he got his act together. Unless he changed. Unless he started treating me with respect and kindness.

Unless I got too lonely and decided we'd just let things go until Deer Season was over.
Sigh.
No, the Big Picture, seeing this thing in the context and perspectives of Life, The Universe and Everything, was we weren't a good fit. Truth to tell, I wasn't any better a fit for him than he was for me, and the Big Picture was not (really) when to end this … but how.

Oops ... I did it again ...

2008-11-05T11:02:00.004-06:00

Once upon a time, a scorpion told me this story. You've probably heard it.

One day, a scorpion looked around at the mountain where he lived and decided that he wanted a change. So he set out on a journey through the forests and hills. He climbed over rocks and under vines and kept going until he reached a river.

The river was wide and swift, and the scorpion stopped to reconsider the situation. He couldn't see any way across. So he ran upriver and then checked downriver, all the while thinking that he might have to turn back.

Suddenly, he saw a frog sitting in the rushes by the bank of the stream on the other side of the river. He decided to ask the frog for help getting across the stream.

"Hellooo Mr. Frog!" called the scorpion across the water, "Would you be so kind as to give me a ride on your back across the river?"

"Well now, Mr. Scorpion! How do I know that if I try to help you, you won't try to kill me?" asked the frog hesitantly.

"Because," the scorpion replied, "If I try to kill you, then I would die too, for you see I cannot swim!"

Now this seemed to make sense to the frog. But he asked. "What about when I get close to the bank? You could still try to kill me and get back to the shore!"

"This is true," agreed the scorpion, "But then I wouldn't be able to get to the other side of the river!"

"Alright then...how do I know you wont just wait till we get to the other side and THEN kill me?" said the frog.

"Ahh...," crooned the scorpion, "Because you see, once you've taken me to the other side of this river, I will be so grateful for your help, that it would hardly be fair to reward you with death, now would it?!"

So the frog agreed to take the scorpion across the river. He swam over to the bank and settled himself near the mud to pick up his passenger. The scorpion crawled onto the frog's back, his sharp claws prickling into the frog's soft hide, and the frog slid into the river. The muddy water swirled around them, but the frog stayed near the surface so the scorpion would not drown. He kicked strongly through the first half of the stream, his flippers paddling wildly against the current.

Halfway across the river, the frog suddenly felt a sharp sting in his back and, out of the corner of his eye, saw the scorpion remove his stinger from the frog's back. A deadening numbness began to creep into his limbs.

"You fool!" croaked the frog, "Now we shall both die! Why on earth did you do that?"

The scorpion shrugged, and did a little jig on the drownings frog's back.

"I could not help myself. It is my nature."

Then they both sank into the muddy waters of the swiftly flowing river.

So the question becomes -- having heard this story and been stung repeatedly by scorpions -- why do some of us keep inviting them to climb aboard? And why are we always bewildered when we get stung?

Attagirls, part 2 ...

2008-11-04T16:41:00.002-06:00

And then I got this email from Therese Borchard. Therese writes the Beyond Blue blog on Beliefnet, and even before she wrote me this email, I thought she was the grooviest. And yes, that's my blog listed there ... number three!

-------- Original Message --------

Subject:	Blog.com's Top 10 Mental Health Blogs
Date:	Tue, 4 Nov 2008 09:24:41 -0500
From:	Therese Borchard

Hi folks,

I've been asked by the blog directory/website, blogs.com, to select the 10 best mental health blogs. I picked yours! I'll send you the link when it's up. Best, Therese

1. Finding Optimism

http://www.findingoptimism.com/

2. Bipolar Beat

http://blogs.psychcentral.com/bipolar/

3. We Must Not Think Too Much

http://wemustnotthinktoomuch.blogspot.com/

4. Furious Seasons

http://www.furiousseasons.com/

5. The Trouble with Spikol

http://trouble.philadelphiaweekly.com/

6. Postpartum Progress

http://www.postpartumprogress.typepad.com/

7. Coping with Life

http://www.coping-with-life.com/

8. Storied Mind

http://www.storiedmind.com/

9. If You’re Going Through Hell Keep Going

http://www.mcmanweb.com/

10. McMan’s Depression and Bipolar Web

http://www.mcmanweb.com/

Attagirls ...

2008-11-04T11:27:00.006-06:00

We all think we should be too old for pats on the back ... but I don't think we ever are. Got a couple of lovely surprises this morning that left me with a little glow of "Hey! I'm ok!"

My efforts to identify the "big brown bird" I saw eating a dead deer this weekend let to a long, chatty IM exchange with my pal Laura Erickson. Said long chatty exchange led to identification of the bird (baby bald eagle) and being the subject of her program today. But the best part was where she identified me as her "dear friend." I know I'm Laura's dear friend and she is mine ... but it still sounded nice on the air. You can listen to the mp3 program by clicking here or on the radio:

My moral life ...

2008-10-31T11:21:00.000-05:00

Just had coffee with one of my best friends, Jeff. He's one of the coolest people in the universe, too: smart, kind, encouraging, enthusiastic, too many dogs (!) ...

Anyway ... I sent him the aforementioned forward from CatholicVote.com and he LOVED it, of course, and sent it along to a bunch of people he knows. But he said that that I should not have asserted what I did in my response, in particular "... i'm utterly opposed to most of what it said morally, spiritually, intellectually and emotionally ..."

"You do not disagree with that video," claims Jeff. "You live a very moral life, you live a very family-centered life."

Now isn't that the loveliest quality in a friend? The ability to see good things in you that you hadn't thought of?

I am counting my blessings.

Oops, I did it again ...

2008-10-31T09:22:00.000-05:00

Ah, the conundrum of e-mail forwards, especially these days.

After weeks of getting red-neck Republican anti-Democrat e-mail forwards from one friend (I didn't realize anyone I knew was rich enough to be a Republican?!), I got a forward from another dear friend yesterday from CatholicVote.com and that, apparently, was the tipping point.

I love this gal; and one of the many things I've admired about her for years is the way she lives her faith and walks the walk. She's one of the best "advertisements" for Christianity going, but she never pushes what she believes on other people. Which is why I suppose it was unfortunate that I chose this email to reply to -- and of course, when I have something to say, I always hit "reply all" ...

So now her brother is most decidedly vexed with me and I have to decide whether to continue the debate of issues with him via email, not reply at all, try to point out that "see, when you feel your deeply held beliefs are under attack, you also feel compelled to fire off an email," or just write him a pleasant e-mail focusing on what a peach his sister is.

I'm leaning toward the latter.

But I'm wondering: some of these forwards (in particular ones I used to get about the immigration issue) strike me as almost as inappropriate as racial or sexist humor. Conventional wisdom seems to be that in the face of "jokes" like that, you need to shut the joke-tellers down firmly and let them know that you find that kind of thing unacceptable. But what about politics and religion, especially in the form of forwarded e-mail? If you take issue with a forwarded message are you risking hurting a friend over nothing more than electronic junk mail? But if you just delete it, are you giving tacit approval to the views expressed?

Ah yes, morality in this grand new century.

One thing I'm sure of though ... it can't be legislated.

(See how I am?)

I can see clearly now ...

2008-10-28T15:44:00.000-05:00

... what my dogs look like ... and they can see clearly now, period.

Melvie Koleen needs to have the hair trimmed out of her poor blind eyes ... but we leave her coat fairly long and augment with sweaters from now until June!

Meanwhile, six-pound Helen will probably end up with a sweater, too ... and she, too, needs the hair trimmed away from HER poor blind eyes...

Maudie the Moose just needed an overall shave. Unlike Melvie and Helen, she and Rosalie are almost always too warm.

We lost the poof on top (Hallelujah! I can see her eyes again!) and had them trim her tail short, too, in case she ends up playing with her new puppy pal in the burrs -- I mean, woods.

And finally, Rosalie the topiary. The object here is to cut her rotund little body short, thus helping to keep her a comfortable temperature. The fur on her little stick legs is left a little longer to help balance out her round little body.

Then she gets a little "moustache" to camoflage her tusks. Rosalie only has about five teeth, but four of them are truly massive canines.

However, there is nothing a little snipping and Rosie's irrepressible joie de vivre can't overcome.

Dogs never lie about love ... but everything else ....?

2008-10-28T11:31:00.000-05:00

Jeffrey Masson wrote a wonderful book called "Dogs Never Lie About Love."

About other stuff, though?

Take Helen Anne, for instance. Friday afternoon, she was on three legs. Still arking happily, still wagging her tiny tail, but holding one of her hind legs up tight to her body.

Since she seemed basically cheerful, and I could ascertain no blood or shattered bone, I decided to give it a few days.

Saturday: three legs.
Sunday: three legs.
Monday: three legs.

So I called the vet Monday morning, made an appointment for 9:45, raced home to bring her in: she's not only on four legs, she's hopping up and down on her hind ones with delight that I'd come home.

As my father used to say, "They don't give Academy Awards for performances in the kitchen."