The remains of the former brewery, Henry Weinhards, that they tore down to “revitalize the Pearl District”, here in downtown Portland. Certain parts of that brewery are on the historic registrair, so they were required to leave them.

My cousin has moved from Australia to LA. He flew up last weekend for a visit and took my son Nathan back down with him Tuesday. Nathan will be spending a week there and from what I’ve heard from him he is loving California and wishing we would move down there. Even though I spent a great deal of time preparing for Nathan to leave I was still in a panicked rush the morning of his departure. I realized that I hadn’t really been properly preparing; I had just been worrying. I have never been able to turn off that part of me, the part that can never seem to calm down enough to enjoy the now and to stop spending so much time fretting. I had several moments of sadness over my son leaving, although I knew he would have a lot of fun and would be well taken care of. There’s just something about him being 16 and knowing that his life plans don’t include living here with us forever.

Polly is fine. She has started the full fledged whining about boredom now that August has arrived. I found some sites online where she could practice Algebra as that is the subject she struggles with and she actually did homework, in the summer. I have tried hard to organize activities for her to keep her busy but it’s never enough. I don’t remember my mom entertaining us as children; that was our job.

Tina asked about how I deal with the fact that I don’t drive and the subsequent questions. I will write more about that later, but those of you who suffer from anxiety issues and/or depression please remember what it took me too many years to learn: Your accomplishments may be different from other peoples, but they are accomplishments nonetheless. I went from having a case of agoraphobia so severe that I couldn’t check the mail because it seemed impossible to be able to open the front door to slip my hand in the mailbox. Now I am holding down a full time job and traveling around Portland by bus no problem. Never give up hope and keep trying.

I need to catch some sleep before I work tonight so I’ll head bed ways and try not to feel bad about the fact that I can’t spend as much time here writing as I want to, and the fact that I am behind on my email . Please know I am reading your comments and emails and they all mean a lot to me.

This might come across like reading my twitter, if I had a twitter, but here goes anyway.

I absolutely loved reading your comments and I am not just saying that. I always get very excited when you lovely people comment and I read my comments over and over. Feel free to diagnose me accordingly ; today I am feeling rather good. I had my first appointment with my new psychiatrist yesterday. In case I didn’t mention it, or you forgot, my primary care physician insisted I see someone and then told me she would no longer prescribe psychiatric medications for me, just to give me some “I’m out of Klonopin!” nerves and “I’m running low on Paroxetine! Side effects of withdrawal will be hell!” jitters. I was surprisingly not angry with her for this. I know she knew it was the only way I would go and she used it and I say well played, if her intentions were good, and I think they were. Anyway, I was originally unhappy because there were so few psychiatrists accepting new patients so I got stuck with a man when I had asked for a woman. Now, I love men. I usually get along with them better than women, truth be told. But I have had male doctors in the past and I thought I would be more comfortable with a woman. Plus, this guy’s office is far away from my house and after I wrote down his name and the appointment time Alex googled him and he got his degree from the University of They Have Universities in That Country!?!? I know that sounds horrible, but if I named the country you would know what I mean, as it’s associated with dire poverty, starvation, and death. Angelina Jolie is expected to swoop down in her private jet and adopt a child from that country any minute just because it’s that bad there. Plus, I was worried that he would have an accent I wouldn’t understand and then I’d have to either tell him, “I’m sorry. I am only catching every third word here.” or I’d have to shoot for context and just nod and hope my responses were correct. I don’t have the best hearing and it has become increasingly clear that I need to get a hearing aid or at least a Miracle Ear implanted but I haven’t even wanted to deal with any of that.

I spent yesterday morning fretting and filling out the forms they sent weeks ago. I actually had to attach another sheet of paper to list all of the medications I take. When I got to the family history part I was worried because the first thing on there were the questions about my parents, their ages, are they living, and if not, cause of death. I actually considered lying about my Dad. I feared that as soon as I wrote “Father, Death in 1985 at age 57, Cause: Suicide” that would be the primary focus of the appointment.i went ahead and told the truth, figuring it would be in my medical records anyway. My mom offered to drive me. At first I resisted, but she had a compelling argument; she’s only seen me once since she returned from Australia, and she knew I was going to be taking a bus to a hospital I am not familiar with and she has been there several times. I agreed and when she insisted she would wait until my one hour appointment was over and drive me back home I asked if she would like to go out to lunch, my treat, and then maybe visit a plant nursery. She was excited about the nursery idea, and she knew one that she thought I would like in the vicinity of the hospital.

When we arrived at the hospital and found the wing that contained the doctor’s office I started to have a panic attack in the elevator up. I didn’t say anything but I was considering reaching for my last few Klonopin and popping a couple when my mom reached out and squeezed my hand and smiled. I knew then that she wasn’t there because I was unfamiliar with that part of town, or that hospital. I felt like a big, dopey kid trapped in the body of a thirty five year old woman. I decided against the pills, partly because I thought it might be beneficial for the doctor to see me in the panic state I live in most of the time, but mostly because I was almost out and what if he didn’t give me any prescriptions?

My mom lead the way off of the elevator, knowing somehow the exact ways to turn, as I followed carrying racing heart, churning tummy, and a dizzy head. After I’d checked in with the receptionist I looked through the stacks of magazines and pulled out some that I knew my mom would enjoy. I stared down at my dirty clogs and realized that I should have cleaned the dried flour off of them before I came, but I hadn’t thought of it. My mom read bits and pieces aloud from a magazine, some article about saving thousands at the grocery store. A dark skinned man in a well cut suit entered and walked through the waiting room and through the door. My mom was excited like a school girl, bouncing in her seat, “That’s him! That’s your doctor! He’s so cute! Isn’t he handsome? Oh my!” I felt awkward sitting there in jeans and a T shirt, clogs still dirty from baking at work, my face free of makeup, my hair pulled into a ponytail with bobby pins slipped onto the sides of my head to catch those wisps of hair that always slip out and curl around my face.

When he came to the door and called my name I stood on wobbly legs and followed him. We made out introductions but he didn’t shake hands. He led me into the smallest office I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a closet, seriously. There was enough room for a desk and two chairs and that’s it. I had brought a water bottle with me and when I asked if it was OK if I sat it down on the corner of his desk he said, “Yes, it’s OK, I will be drinking my coffee”, and then motioned to his Starbucks cup. I realized that he thought I was asking permission to drink and I smiled and said that I didn’t want to leave a white ring because of the condensation and he just waved that worry off, not the type to bother with coasters I suppose.

He asked for the history of the meds I have taken in the past and believe me, I had to pull out notes for that one. So many years, so many different pills. He asked the history of my depression and anxiety and a few other general questions. Happy marriage? Good kids? Work history? Etc. The only things that gave him pause to question me further were the facts that I admitted I have no friends, the fact that I don’t know how to drive, (he thought that to be absolutely stunning and questioned me in depth about how I’d managed that), and the fact that I admitted to worrying more about my daughter than my son, (he said he felt like I was projecting something from my own childhood onto my daughter). I imagine that I am not the only one who worries more about my teenage daughter than my teenage son (people help me out here, have you experienced this?) but I didn’t argue with him about it. He questioned the fact that my Mom was in the waiting room and took notes about the fact that she drove me there, but whatever.

There was a moment in that hour somewhere where he let an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. I wondered if it was a test to see how I’d react. I sat in silence for some time as I looked around the closet room and then I finally asked him, “So, I am guessing you don’t treat many claustrophobics ?” He looked confused for a few moments until he looked around his office and laughed large. I felt better because I always try to make my doctors laugh at least once and for damn near 200 dollars an hour he’d better find me funny every so often, or at least fake it.

Mostly he talked about anxiety and how much harder it is to treat than depression because anxiety is a normal human emotion and then he went into medications and an in depth account of how they work and although I have done a lot of reading about this myself over the years I didn’t want to interrupt him. He said that he would be happy to provide me with my prescriptions and wrote them out and told me to make a follow up appointment with the receptionist. Basically it was much easier than I had worried about and he gets mad props for not making me tell the whole story of child abuse and my dad’s suicide because I didn’t want to and I was afraid he would say he needed to see me three times a week but nope, just once a month.

Afterwards my mom and I went out for Mexican food even though my mom has this “If it’s wrapped in a tortilla it’s crap” opinion. She selected the restaurant. I ignored the margaritas even though I really wanted oneand we had a nice talk. When we were finished we went to a nursery where I bought a bunch of plants for my garden. When I got home Polly and Nathan came out and helped me plant them, and that my friends was the best therapy of all.

She had the most amazing ass I’ve ever seen in my life.

I was surprised that I noticed this. It is not a habit of mine. I was walking in my usual head down manner, IPOD headphones in ears, eyes alert to any broken lifted pieces of sidewalk that might trip me, and as I thought with amazement that I still like the Violent Femmes as much as I did in high school, I reminded myself to look up occasionally. She was about half a block in front of me. Her pants appeared to have been custom tailored to her body, hugging her hips and allowing the roundness of her backside to take center stage. Her pants were black with a thin yellow pinstripe; the pockets on each cheek had a flap and a button.

I wondered at what point my own ass had flattened, widened and dropped until it become more like a part of my thighs than a separate body part. I imagined it must have been after childbirth but really I can’t remember that time, age 19; I was thinking of other things, caring for Nathan 24/7.

Her long blond hair hung down her back all the way to the top of where her backside stuck out. It was perfectly highlighted in the $120 and up range. I became aware of my own highlighted hair; ends dry and crisp because I am in desperate need of a trim; roots of a dark blond color that have grown out three inches; my scalp felt itchy all of a sudden.

She wore black boots with chunky heels; her gait was strong, determined, and confident. Her shirt was black as well, tight and clingy material. Her hair swung side to side as she moved. She had a black portfolio under her arm that appeared to be made of leather and the tiniest purse I’ve ever seen, gold in color, matching the stripes in her pants. I wondered with my own breed of strange curiosity what her purse held. Was it a key, a tube of lipstick, a credit card, a twenty dollar bill folded into a rectangle, a single condom? If you had a purse smaller than your own hand, what would you choose to put in it?

She was eventually forced to stop at a light to let the cars pass. I caught up with her. We both stood at the corner staring at the sign with an orange palm glowing its do not walk warning. The wind picked up and there was rain in the air. I’ve lived long enough to feel it coming. I snuck a glance at her face. I’m not sure if my face registered my disappointment. She was a victim not only of the foundation turning her face a horrible orange color but of the not knowing my personal makeup mantra to blend blend blend. She had forgotten her neck. It was a pale ivory like mine, holding on top of it the orange mask, the streaks of blush, the overpowering blue eye shadow.

Flashback Sequence in Italics

For a second I was transformed back to the girl I was in eighth grade; 1986, the girl who was on a personal mission to beautify those around her by teaching them how to care for their skin, to placing towels over their heads as I gently eased them down over a steaming pot of boiled water with herbs floating in it. No food in the house was safe as I smashed bananas and whipped honey and lemon juice with a handful of oatmeal into facial masks and spread it on the faces of my sisters, my mom, my aunt, and my two cousins who were living with us at the time. I told them that I had secret recipes that I had read somewhere that would beautify their skin. Truth? I hadn’t read anything; I made everything up as I went along. I went grocery shopping with my mom, who hated it with such a passion she had completely stopped going when my dad died. I wrote lists and clipped the coupons from the paper, watching for sales. She thanked me for taking over, said she couldn’t handle shopping or cooking anymore. I felt useful for once. I slipped boxes of hair color into the cart when she wasn’t looking, not that she seemed to care about anything anymore. I asked her questions but she was far away, grieving for her husband, dealing with her guilt. She stared off at nothing, not hearing me when it was time to pay. Sometimes I had to grasp her and give a gentle little shake. Sometimes I would come up behind her and wrap my mom in my arms and she would come back from that place she went to and she would let the tears come. “I’m sorry I killed your dad”, she would whisper to me and I would try to say no as I pressed myself against her body as hard as I could while trying to gently squeeze her back together, to make her whole again.

I dyed the hair of everyone in the house save my brother. I instructed those with oily T-zones to powder their noses. I turned the kitchen and dining area into my own personal beauty salon. Everyone sat in my special chair except my brother; he complained to my mom that all of the good food in the house was being spread on our faces or placed into one of the pots I kept simmering on the stove. My mom hushed him with a smile. She said, “Tammy might be a cosmetologist!” I searched the yellow pages for beauty schools, glad to have found my calling. My Mom told me tales of working as a manicurist in Sydney ,NSW. The drag queen clients were her favorites and I imagined them coming to my salon when it opened. Little did I know that less than a year later would find me deeply immersed in the gay and lesbian community here. Little did I know that they would be the ones to sit me in a chair as they shared their beauty secrets with me.

One day, sitting alone, enjoying my cigarette, I envisioned the strangers. I thought of the people I saw on the sidewalks everyday. I imagined them coming into the salon and me having to dye their hair, scrape their feet. I felt sick. I realized then that I couldn’t touch strangers. I was only having fun because it was family I was working on. The various bowls of facial concoctions I had in the fridge developed a sickening impenetrable crust. Everyone ignored them until they were eventually thrown away. I was done.
******************************************************************************

The light changed. She took off like a wind up toy that had been made to wait by the hand of a playful child. I walked slower, nowhere to go in a hurry. I dipped into my medium size purse and extracted a cigarette and lighter. The rain came. The wind picked up. My hair flew about, wild and out of control. The pinstripe girl has ducked into a phone booth. I stop, turning away from the wind and trying to cup my hand around the flame. I have a callous on my thumb from turning the wheel. The pinstripe girl is looking through her portfolio filled with photos of herself. She looks to be 18, maybe 19. She is nervous. The pieces come together in my head right there on the sidewalk. I continued on, inhaling, exhaling, finally arriving at my bus stop.

I watched her, the young pin stripe girl. She tried to smooth her hair, her clothes. Her large breast stood up tall and full. She either had a great bra or she hadn’t experienced the effects of gravity yet. The building she stands in front of has mirrored windows where she checks her makeup, opens her mouth (is she checking her teeth for food and/or lipstick?) she practices her smile. I talk to her in my head. “Don’t worry; you won’t need that portfolio of glamour shots in there. They won’t be examining your face long enough to see your lack of makeup application skills. You will enter a room. There will be a man there, behind the desk. He will ask you to undress. Perhaps he will have you turn in a slow circle. It doesn’t matter if you can’t dance. You will get the job.”

She stood up straight and tall against the wind and rain as she reached for the handle of the door with the No Minors sign. I imagined she took one more deep breath before she pulled on it. I inhaled with her and then slowly exhaled as she passed through the entrance. She is gone now.

Attached to the side of the building is the sign that stays there 365 days a year.

DANCING GIRLS WANTED!

NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY!

AUDITIONS DAILY!

This is Portland, Oregon, strip club capital of the USA. Welcome.

I have been asked, countless times now, to describe my depression. I was never able to articulate it. Today I was thinking about it as I loaded yet another load of soiled clothes into the washer and I remembered that line from John Irving’s amazing book “The World According To Garp” “Beware of the Undertoad”. It sums things up quite nicely. I feel as if I am being pulled under water. Sometimes I fight and fight when I feel this horrific sadness, this horrible weight wash over me, and still other times I just submit. There is comfort here anyway, in this sadness, in this fatigue.

I appreciate everyone who took the time to comment on my last entry. The one part that I left out was that the cousin I mentioned was this one, the one I had been so incredibly close to. I emailed him and he hasn’t answered back, although he wrote my mom to thank her for her hospitality. I think that if I was being completely honest with myself I would say that as much as I have missed him, I don’t want him to see me, not like this.

For those of you who can commiserate about the tendency to hide I am sorry. I wouldn’t wish this on another person. For those of you who thought that I wouldn’t be obviously mentally ill in person I guess it would depend on the day. I go up and down.

Jane asked about whether or not I was reluctant to work on my phobias and the only answer I could give is I am tired of working on it. I have had three doctor’s appointments in the last week alone. I am on a few more prescriptions so now I have an even longer list and I am starting to forget the names of the pills. I just make a little pile in the morning. I quit going to my psychiatrist awhile back. He was a nice man, but he spent most of the sessions telling me stories about his life and his mental illness. I was appreciative that he was open and honest about his life but he soon started to tell the same stories over and over and I would sit on the couch listening. My insurance pays for 20 visits in a 24 month period and I am afraid that I wasted them telling a man that I understood why he freaked out that one time and whipped his dog. I really didn’t understand but I didn’t know what to say to that one. I need to go through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy again. I did it in the 90s and I need to do it again, never mind how much I hated it, it helped in the end.

Spring break is over today and I dread waking the kids in the morning. I think they had fun. Nathan spent the majority of his time hanging out with his girlfriend, asleep, or on the phone. Polly went to a variety of sleepovers, as well as having a few girls stay the night here. That involved meeting some moms I hadn’t met before, and although I dreaded and fretted I made it through those meetings and they let their girls stay the night in my home so I must not have done too badly. I’ve noticed that I don’t know what to do with my hands when I am talking. I need to remember to wear something with pockets because sometimes my hands shake and seeing them shake makes me even more nervous.

We had Maggie spayed this week. She is recovering nicely. Except for her shaved belly and the strip of fur missing from her arm where they put the IV in you wouldn’t know it to look at her. The first day she was sore and very sleepy and now she is back to chasing cats and birds around with glee.

The 23^rd anniversary of my dad’s death passed on the 27^th. Unlike last year I didn’t write about my feelings. I did talk with him in my mind, but I do that everyday. I used to be so angry at him for leaving me. Now that I understand more how sick he was I will ask him how he made it to the age of 57, ‘cause I am 35 here and I don’t know how to keep going. I think though that I am selfish and egocentric. I want to create at least one masterpiece before I go. Just one.

When I first started this site I imagined that it was going to be my way of reaching out to others who were living with depression and panic disorder. I thought that having lived with these illnesses for so long I would have something to say that might help others. I quickly realized that in order for me to cope, to function, to move on, I couldn’t spend a lot of time focusing on my symptoms. I needed to get busy doing other things or I would exasperate my symptoms and trigger new ones.

One of the side effects I haven’t really been too keen on divulging to anyone is the guilt I feel at my inability to function properly in social situations. About a week and a half ago my mom called to let me know that one of my cousins would be stopping in Portland for the weekend on his trip around the globe. She also told me of some friends of the family who currently live in New York who would be here in April. Before the weekend, which has since passed, I began to fret. I first started fretting about my appearance. I imagined that I needed a haircut and something had to be done about my fingernails with the ragged cuticles and torn hangnails. Then I began to fret about my clothes. I pulled out my skirts and dresses from where they hang forgotten and dusty and tried each one on, fretting over dry cleaning and ironing and oh my god I am going to have to wear stockings and I need a new pair of shoes because my best pair is caked with mud because I am always outside with the dog, in the rain.

After I had perused a few websites looking for shoes I can’t afford I came to the conclusion that I also needed a new dress because everything I own is black, and I realized my cousin’s visit fell on Easter weekend and I wouldn’t look very spring like.

I found the perfect dress and the prefect shoes. I found a control undergarment that promised to flatten my not so flat belly and I started to calm down imagining myself entering the door of my mom’s house dressed in the pastel hue of a freshly dyed Easter egg with my hair freshly trimmed and my makeup carefully applied.

Later that evening as I was undressing for my shower I glanced in the mirror. My roots, they are so grown out. I realized then that I wasn’t going to be able to go until I had my highlights touched up. As I lathered myself in the shower I tallied up my mental purchases and came to the staggering sum of 500 dollars needed for me to feel comfortable enough to be seen. It was only when I was faced with the dollar sign that I knew I needed to step back and look at what was really bothering me.

What I came up with, after much personal reflection, was I was afraid to be seen by someone who hadn’t laid eyes on me in so many years not only because I have low self esteem about my physical exterior, although that doesn’t help, but because I have never been able to shake the suspicion that people can tell that I am mentally ill just by looking at me. I fear that they will know that I am in the midst of a panic attack. I fear loss of self control, creating a scene, having to flee the party but having no way to get out because I have arrived in someone else’s car.

I have heard countless times that when you have panic disorder your fight or flight response is skewed. I understand that, but my flight response only kicks in when I am away from home. My number one response is TO HIDE.

I tried to calm myself down in the days to come. I finally called my mom and told her that I would not be going. She protested heavily and ended by telling me that if I changed my mind I only had to call for a ride. As Saturday, the day of the party, approached my phone started ringing constantly. I let everything go to voicemail. My mom called and tried to convince me to go. Maria called and said, “I am here if you need someone to talk to.” I cried as I listened to her message because I knew she really meant it, but I didn’t call her back. Monica called and offered to come over and pick up my kids and take them to and from the party. I took her up on the offer because I didn’t want my kids to miss out because of me.

On Saturday my kids went and I stayed home. It was a beautiful day and I imagined everyone eating outside, my younger nieces and nephews running and playing in the grass. I spent the day with my puppy and my guilt. I thought about my sisters. Between them, they have been married three times. I missed all three weddings. I thought of the Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners I had avoided, of the birthday parties, the graduations, the school performances, the funerals I had skipped. I let myself think of all of these moments that I had hidden from and I let the shame wash over me. This is me, who I have let myself become.

When my kids came home clutching the gifts my cousin had brought with him from Australia Polly was filled with words about the day. She told me all about who was there and what they ate. She said over and over, “You should have come. It was so much fun. Why didn’t you come?” I couldn’t explain it to her in a way that she can understand now, at 12. She told me that everyone kept asking her where I was and why didn’t I come and it was then that I realized that by not coming I had brought more attention to myself than I would have by going.

I really wanted to be honest when I wrote this, even if I am opening myself up to ridicule. Yes, I know that my inability to function affects my children, my marriage and my extended family. I understand that my fear of driving has resulted in my family always planning on taking turns picking us up and dropping us off when the location of a family gathering is not bus friendly. I know all of this and so much more because even though I try to hide it way down deep I think of these things daily. I carry this shame and it is mine; I own it.

Thank you for your responses to my latest query. I saw a little of myself in everyone’s comments. I especially enjoyed the vision of Cynthea’s husband carefully selecting his coins for each day.

I realized lately that I can learn a lot about where I am presently at with my anxiety level based on which bag I select to leave the house with. I have a large Timbuktu messenger bag that holds everything I need and then some, a medium size Kipling bag that holds everything that I need but not some of the stranger things I feel that I must have when I am particularly panic ridden, i.e. a complete change of clothes, a large water bottle, several different choices of reading material etc., and a small purse from The Sak that is tiny but if I am feeling very good and not so dependent I can tuck in ID and bank card, cash and coins, lipgloss (I have a thing for lipgloss, especially the sets. I can never have enough varieties and when I flip through the Sephora catalog I go crazy with lust for the sets of different colors), keys, cell phone, cigarettes and a lighter. I am Goldilocks and the three bags, but it depends on the day which one is just right.

Basically my number one security item is the Klonopin tablets that I photographed for the header of this site, although the pills pictured are .5 mg and I am now carrying 1mg. tablets; they are green. I always carry these in the pill holder Alex bought me and I keep them in my pocket. I have had my purse stolen three times ,so when I select a purse for purchase it must have a long strap so I can wear it over my head. The purse snatching might sound alarming but the first two times it happened were a direct result of me being out in public and under the influence of death-be-awaiting quantities of alcohol and drugs. I was wasted to the point that people were able to rob me and I didn’t notice until later. I blame myself for those incidents.

The third time I was preparing to leave the house for the first time with two children instead of just Nathan. I was a bit daunted by all that I had to carry for a simple trip to the store. I had Polly’s diaper bag packed; Polly was in her infant carrier; Nathan was ready to go. I carried out the diaper bag and my purse and set them on the swing on the front porch and then went back inside to get the kids. When I came out my purse was gone. I was so stunned I sat down on the front steps and just stared at the sidewalk as Nathan ran back and forth asking when we were leaving. Not even 15 minutes passed before a young man approached my house, looking from my ID card up at the numbers on the houses.

The man spoke. “I was walking by the empty lot around the corner and I saw a purse with things strewn out everywhere. I collected the items and followed the address to return the purse.” His voice seemed shaky and I felt bewildered until he said, “I, um, saw your, um, things, um, everywhere, and I, um, picked them all up for you.” I was confused until I realized that I was still bleeding from Polly’s birth. I had shoved a large quantity of pads into my purse and he felt uncomfortable calling them by name. He probably felt uncomfortable picking them up too, but he did it. I felt embarrassed that he knew. I thanked him and smiled, relief washing over me as I realized I wouldn’t have to replace all of my cards. I wondered if I was supposed to offer him some sort of award or something but he just asked me if I was OK and walked away when I said I was.

That morning when I was getting ready I had shoved $200 I was planning on bringing with me to the store into the pocket of my jeans. I don’t know why I did that because usually I placed it in my purse. This was 1995, before Alex and I started relying on debit cards and only carrying small amounts of cash. The thief had gained about two dollars in coins for their efforts. I imagined this person throwing super sized maxi pads around in anger. I gathered my things and went to the store as planned. I never felt the same about my front porch again, realizing that someone could and would travel the fourteen stairs to steal something from me in less than two minutes. I imagined them waiting, watching for me to slip up again, but I didn’t know where they were hiding. I just knew that they were out there, somewhere.

Yes, I removed my last post because I wrote it in a fit of anger and when I was able to look back at it I found it served no purpose at all. I was reacting to my daughter’s school sending home countless newsletters and then complaining over the fact that they are constantly short on copy paper. At the beginning of the year I brought 1000 sheets to the office, as instructed, and within two months they were begging for more. Meanwhile, half the crap they send home is useless. They sent home a note last week asking parents to “reduce their carbon footprint” and “feel free to help us reduce ours” so I granted myself audience with the principal and explained how they could reduce theirs.

1) If a family has more than one child in the school, just send the newsletter home with the eldest child instead of sending multiples to the same house.

2) Print on both sides of the paper (their copy machine does have that function) using a smaller font than the size they have now, which is set for the legally blind.

3) Consider having parents sign up to receive the newsletter via email to save paper.

4) Eliminate messages to the entire school that are only relevant to one classroom. i.e. “SHHHHHH! Teacher Suzie is having a surprise birthday party next week. Please join us in the cafeteria for refreshments and gifts!!!!!!”
I said, teacher Suzie already knows about your surprise party, she doesn’t need more apple paperweights, and I honestly don’t care because I don’t even know who teacher Suzie is, as she is not my daughter’s teacher.

5) Consider printing out a half dozen pages with reminders of upcoming events such as PTA meetings and tape them to the windows on the doors where parents can see them during pick up and drop off instead of printing off 1000 sheets saying “PTA Meeting ! 6 p.m.”

Anyway, the principal was not receptive to my suggestions and I left in a shitty mood. O.K. I entered in a shitty mood. When Polly and I boarded the bus home it was almost full. There was a man sitting across from us who was visibly intoxicated and he leaned over and asked me if that was my daughter. I am used to this comment, as Polly and I hear it from many people, and I replied, “Yes, she’s my daughter.” I expected him to remark on our resemblance. Polly was gazing out of the window by then, her headphones on her ears, and the man began to go into graphic detail about what he would like to do to my daughter, sexually. By then the bus was packed with people who were standing. I felt this rage come up from my core into my mouth as I rose to my feet , certain that I was going to kill this bastard with my bare hands. He rose to his feet, rang the bell, and then started yelling to the driver, “I need to get off here!” He pushed his way out the back door and I sat down, my heart racing. Here I am walking with a cane now, when I can walk, smaller than that man, and for that instant I was blinded with my emotions. It was frightening in several ways.

It has been almost two weeks since I injured my back and I have acted horribly at times. I know about the pain = rage connection, but I have spent so many years of my life trying to swallow my anger, always equating it with violence. My inner bitch has been here all too often lately, and I feel ashamed.

My kids were so afraid when I fell off of the couch on the evening of February 19th. I was trying to get to the bathroom. I couldn’t get back up so they took it upon themselves to call someone. My mom was at the beach with friends, so they were debating between my two sisters, my brother, and 911. I begged them not to call anyone, especially not my brother who doesn’t even know where we live, to be totally honest. I tried to tell them I would be fine, it was just my back (again). They ended up calling Maria who has three kids under the age of nine. She said she would be right over. I begged for the phone and Nathan handed it to me. I called my sister and told her not to come, explaining that there was nothing she could do. I explained that our insurance doesn’t allow us to just show up at the ER without an ambulance ride unless we call our doctor and get approval. She told me to call my doctor and I promised I would. She waited for me to call her back.

The doctor on call was not someone I knew. She told me to put ice on my back, take 2400 mgs. of Ibuprofen, and call if I wasn’t better in 48 hours. I called my sister and told her not to come.

The next day I was in even worse shape.The pain was absolutely unbearable no matter what position I was in. Alex had two days off so he could give me a hand, and I still couldn’t walk which made trying to get to the toilet an issue. Finally, around six p.m., I was able to speak on the phone with my own physician who told me to get to the hospital immediately. I was going to call for a cab, but I didn’t know if they would be able to assist me in and out. I thought about it for too long before calling my eldest sister, Monica. She works full time as well as college but her kids are older and I figured it would be easier for her to drive me since she doesn’t have the babysitter worries. She said that she would, but she had to work late that night as she had patients coming in after five o’clock. And it would be late when she got to my house. She suggested I call an ambulance but I was afraid insurance wouldn’t cover it.

I called Maria again and she tossed her kids into car seats and was at my house in a flash. The kids were all crammed in the back and grumpy from a long day at school and daycare. They all competed for my attention by yelling out their important news and I managed to pat each one’s knee and say hello. Then the two little ones started hitting the eldest boy, Evan, in the head with the toys they were holding. Maria remained focused on getting me into the car.

The look on Maria’s face as she got me into the car reminded me of her face when she stood by my side while I went through labor and delivery with Polly. The pain in her eyes was so staggering that I apologized for having her there in the delivery room. It’s been almost 13 years since that day and I felt this need to explain that emotion to her and to apologize for having had her witness that pain. When I see my pain in her eyes I can only think that it would be easier for us to change positions. I couldn’t explain it.  She understood. I cried for a minute and she fed me pink tissues as she headed out into rush hour. Maria has been studying to become a licensed Acupuncturist. It’s funny, my sisters are so different; one works in Eastern medicine, the other has a career in Western medicine.

Maria told me about school and what she has been up to. She is taking Chinese lessons so she spoke to me in Chinese, which oddly made sense at the time. I knew that she was filling the spaces with words to distract me, the same way she and Alex tried to do crossword puzzles out loud during my labor. I can remember Alex asking for a five letter word starting with  S for indifference and I yelled STOIC! during a contraction. It’s funny now, not so much then.

She expressed to me during the ride that she had always wanted to see me doing something that I loved, something that would bring me great fulfillment. She asked me if I had ever felt as if I was really good at something. I told her that someone had once told me that I could become a millionaire as a motivational speaker, like Tony Robbins. I have no idea where that came from; I haven’t thought about that in years.

I glanced at her, her face contorted in confusion, and she blurted out, “Who the hell told you that?” “Um, Chaz.” I felt really stupid for a second and then we both started laughing. Not bad, it only took me six or seven years to get his sarcasm. I had almost forgotten the way she laughs with her whole body. When she laughs really hard she cries, huge warm droplets running down her face. We both laughed for the rest of the drive even though I begged her to stop because every movement was excruciating.

Evan started demanding that I tell him how an Etch-A-Sketch works and I had to admit that I wasn’t sure. I promised him I would find out before we saw each other again. I peeked at him turning the white dials carefully, shaking his head in frustration if he didn’t get it just the way he wanted it, shaking the lines away before trying again. I remembered how much I had wanted an Etch-A-Sketch as a girl and how my Mom couldn’t afford to buy me one. It’s funny how material things can seem so important for a time and then they slip away. I remember buying Nathan one before he was even old enough to use it, determined he wouldn’t be deprived of that all important toy. Neither of my kids seemed to like it much. They were too busy playing with their Magna Doodles.

Maria got me to the admitting counter at the ER and offered to stay with me. I looked at her standing with her little ones and knew it was their turn now. As much as I wanted her by my side, I had to be a big girl and ask for help alone.

This weekend was crappy. One teenager in a shitty mood sucks, two will find me thinking of leaving on a Greyhound.

The weather was nice, however, meaning no rain for a change. I got a lot done despite the door slamming by the aforementioned spawn. I even cleaned my house in my wedding dress Saturday due to a lack of clean laundry. It was a perfect mood lifter as the neighbors were all out and every time I took the dog for a walk or the garbage out they commented on my appearance. It almost made me want to paint my face and wear a pair of fuck me pumps as well.

My weekend was brightened by a present from a woman in California.

Maggie is nine months old now. She is no longer my tiny puppy, but she still crawls onto my lap. She asks that no one notices the fact that she brought yet another rock in from outside, leaving this one beside her on the couch. She’s had a thing for rocks since I first got her, and I don’t need to hear another scary story about that friend of your sister whose dog had to have a rock surgically removed from its body and it cost $10,000. I’ve already heard that story several times and now I fear not only rocks but my savings account balance as well.

Itty Bitty is no longer so itty. Now I can call him Big Bitty, B. Bitty , Puff Bitty, P. Bitty etc. I hope he starts a successful rap career soon. Note the very light sprinkling of catnip on his head. He has just discovered the joys of the herb. I blame peer pressure from the older cats.

I awoke Sunday morning to Maggie’s cold nose gently prodding me, this is her way of saying, “Hey get up! I need to go pee.” It was around 6:30. After she had been outside and I had brought her in to prepare her breakfast I remembered that I was out of coffee filters. I was thinking about using a paper towel and cursing myself for not buying one of those reusable coffee filters when I realized that it was so cold in the house I could barely stand it. I went and turned the thermostat on 68 and eyed the couch. Maggie jumped onto it and curled herself into a circle. I decided to join her with a blanket and snuggle up until the house warmed up. Of course I fell asleep.

A few hours later there was a furious banging on the front door. Maggie was barking and spinning in circles and in my confusion I thought that it must be the mailman delivering a package. I always think that I am getting a package, even on Sundays, because I am self centered that way. I stumbled to the window to peek out; I am a paranoid sort who doesn’t open the front door often. I saw my next door neighbor with her two little girls. At this point she was screaming, “911! 911! 911!” I opened the door and she yelled, “Our house is on fire! It started in the basement and it’s spreading to your house. Evacuate now!” I don’t remember what I said to her. I slammed the door in her face and ran to Polly’s door and pounded at it yelling for her to get dressed and get outside. Next I ran to Nathan’s door and did the same thing.

My kids used to ask me if there were a fire in our house and I could only rescue one of them, which one would I rescue. I hate questions like that; there’s no way for a mother to answer them. I always stated that I would rescue them both. The truth was I always knew that it would be Polly who would need to be rescued and she proved that yesterday morning by following me around the house asking questions. “Why do I have to get out of the house? What about the cats; where are the cats? What is happening?” Nathan listened to my instructions clearly without questions. I ran upstairs to wake Alex. He had worked the graveyard shift the night before and was fast asleep in our bed. “Get up!” I told him, “The neighbor’s house is on fire and they say it’s heading for our house!”

He mumbled, “Why do we have to live next door to such stupid fucking people?” and slowly rose from our bed and sauntered out of the room. I was confused and having a panic attack and I literally spun around in a circle trying to figure out what to wear. Not in that “I have a job interview way”, but in the “I am wearing a nightgown what should I do?” way. I pulled on a pair of sweats underneath my nightgown, thinking that was faster than taking everything off and starting over. I grabbed my coat and saw Alex peeking out the window. He was quite literally sauntering around. I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t running. “You need to calm down”, he said. I grabbed my purse thinking it had everything I needed, money, bank cards, cell phone, cigarettes, tampons, lipgloss, medication for a major panic attack…

We all ended up on the sidewalk in front of our houses, waiting. Alex looked around for flames and sniffed for smoke. My neighbor is chatty under any circumstances; a fire is a whole new world of talk. Speaking a mile a minute she blurted out that she loaded her dryer, turned it on, later smelled smoke and went to her basement to see that her fuse box was on fire. I reassure her that she did the right thing. Her mom walks out of the house, comments dryly on the fact that the fire engines are taking so long, saying, “It’s a good thing the house isn’t on fire or anything.”

I laugh, too loudly. I wonder if it’s OK to smoke while the neighbor’s house is on fire. I finally break down and pull one out. My neighbor sighs, “Oh thank god. Can I have one?” We all light up, except the kids.

The fire engines finally pull up, no sirens. Maybe sirens are reserved for those who live in nicer neighborhoods? Once things are clearly under control my neighbor apologizes for beating on my door like that. “I really thought that it was going to spread to your house!” “It’s OK”, I try to reassure her.

Back inside my house Nathan goes back to bed. Polly goes to pour herself cereal in the kitchen, and Alex is wide awake. Waking up someone who works graveyard is always a difficult call, but I thought that this time was easy. It didn’t even occur to me not to wake him. He asks me, “Did you look out the window before you woke everyone?”

Of course I didn’t! I was thinking that time was of the essence, for fuck’s sake.

Alex asks me if the neighbor’s husband was home. “No, he wasn’t” I remember her mentioning that he was out of town. “If he’d been here, none of this would have happened. Women blow things so far out of proportion.” Alex claims.

Now I am pissed. I tiptoe around all day so as not to wake him. I really believed that this was an emergency.

As he heads back to bed he says one last thing.
“Next time wait until the flames are licking the house to wake me.”

Oh don’t worry, I think. Next time I’ll wait until they’re licking your feet, and then I’ll think about it.

Is this a gender issue? Did I overreact? What do you think?

I haven’t been writing about Nathan much, have I? I have been waiting, and watching him quietly lately. He is doing much better in regards to keeping calm when he is angry. He is excelling at his new school. I never thought I’d see the day. I almost feel bad admitting that, but I had given up hope that he would make it through school. I just kept trying to find a place that would work for him, and we did. I told him that he would succeed (even when I didn’t believe it anymore) and that I would never give up on him for as long as I live.

He loves his teachers at the new program. His grades are so high and his test results are outstanding. I always knew he was smart, but I couldn’t get him to believe it. Now his teachers have told him and he believes them. He is making plans for college. He wants to be a pharmacist. I have no idea where that came from but I am still sitting in awe over the changes from this time last year. He talks about his future with a positive outlook.

The other day he walked up to me and just wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly. I was feeling a little down and he sensed it. He is taller than I am, a mustache growing on his upper lip. I was blinking back tears when he let go of me and he asked me what was wrong. I told him that I was happy. He rolled his eyes and said, “Girls”.

Over the years, with both of my children, it has been a series of them holding on to me and then learning to let go. I used to call it the ,”I hate you; hold me” stages. I find myself wondering if it continues on as they become adults? I find myself wondering who I am, besides a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister.