“If you want something that you’ve never had, you must do something that you’ve never done.”

I’ve had this quote in my head for weeks, maybe even for months now. I have been trying to use it as a personal mantra of sorts as I deal with the anxieties that going to college have stirred up in me. I don’t know who to attribute it to and I’m certain that isn’t the point.  I’ve spent my entire life believing that if I just worked harder I, and therefore we, would make it. I still think that there is a truth there, but what I am trying to change is what I am working harder at. I’ve had moments this summer,sitting in my math class staring at an algebraic formula on the board in front of me, when I’ve thought, “I was a really good baker. I should just go back to that.” I have to remind myself that my back isn’t going to make it another 30+ years in the food service industry. I have to remind myself that after my last job as a baker I ended up in a nuthouse. My mom hates it when I refer to that time of my life in such a way. Somehow psychiatric hospital is okay with her, but nuthouse, or looney bin is not. I tried to explain to her that I needed to look back on my past with a sense of humor.

The last time that I was called up to the board to solve a problem in front of a class it was chalk I held in my hand. I could sit here and blame my brilliant mathematician father for creating a math phobia in me so deep that certain words my teacher uses trigger panic attacks, or, even better, the feeling that I am going to shit myself. That’s how much math scares me! It’s tied into my goddamn bowels, not that I’ve shit myself yet, but my stomach gets sick. Blaming my dad, or wearing the victim t-shirt, as I’ve come to think of it, hasn’t gotten me very far in life at all.

Defining courage is relative, but for me this summer it has been continuing to go to class everyday. It has been studying when I feel like crying, or napping, doing my homework even when I think I am writing down the wrong answers, and resisting the urge to run out of the classroom in the middle of a test.

If financial aid and possibly a student loan pan out I hope to be able to attend full time in the fall. I have ideas as far as what program I wish to get a certificate in, mostly careers in the medical field that have a high demand, decent pay and benefits, and a reduced potential for continuing to exacerbate my back problems, if that’s at all possible. A lot of these programs are already full of students who got their asses in gear earlier in the year than I did. I’m just going to continue to enroll in classes that will be applicable as prerequisites no matter which path I choose. In that new agey way of speaking I loathe, I believe that if I just keep trying I will find my way. Also, just to brag slightly because I want to, my math teacher told me that I was at a B+ the last time that I checked in with him, and since then I’ve handed in one homework assignment that I got 100% on, and taken an exam that I got an A on, so that puts me at, hell I don’t know, now. I’m doing fine is my point.

I am recovering from bronchitis. I just thought that I had a cold until I went into the doctor with an earache and he xrayed my chest. I hope the antibiotics help. I feel so drained, as if I need to just drink water and sleep.

My son is back from Canada now. What stressful hell. I’ll just say that I won’t be speaking to those family members up north again and leave it at that.

Nathan found a job already at a nearby store and seems to be happy just doing that right now. Yes, we wanted him to go back to school, but he doesn’t want to right now and I can’t push him, as he always goes the opposite direction.

Polly currently has a 3.8 GPA and is preparing for finals now. I am so proud of her, as I know how hard she worked this year. Last year she flunked so many of her classes and didn’t even care. This year, as a freshman in high school, she realized that she would have to take the classes over again if she failed them. Ah, the reality of consequences.

I am enrolled in a couple of college classes for Summer term. I have my books. I am scared. I must let my fear motivate me instead of allowing it to stop me in my tracks. I start at the end of this month.

I feel like a different woman lately. I long for friends, love, companionship. I’m tired of being isolated and lonely. I need to get out there. I want to travel the world, first heading to the east coast and then to the UK. My thoughts and dreams are different. I want to stand up tall and strong and proud.
I love you all for caring so much. I will not surrender. (Repeat as necessary.)

I kissed the top of his head last night, the only spot above the neck where he doesn’t feel compelled to wipe my kisses away immediately. “I wanted to thank you for taking care of me when I was in so much pain.” He rolls his eyes, doesn’t believe me, continues to look at me as he waits for me to finish. “I know that I’ve been angry and mean these past few weeks, but I realize that you took care of me the best that you could.” He waits a second to see if I am finished, nods, turns the volume on the TV back on.

2002: We sat together on a bench on our back deck, silently smoking. I am crying because he is moving out, even though I asked him to go. We have lived together since 1988. “I don’t make you happy.” he states. I open my mouth to argue but it’s true. I exhale loudly. He continues “That other man that you are in love with, he is going to step forward once I am gone, and you two will be together, you’ll see.” I deny being in love with that other man and he forces me to meet his eyes, “I know you better than anyone and I can tell when you’re in love. It’s okay.” Being that transparent doesn’t feel okay. That other man I was in love with never stepped forward and so I tried unsuccessfully to forget him. I visit Alex at his new apartment where he seems so different, so happy. He mixes me a gin and tonic and he a martini and we fuck so hard on his couch that it flips over. Laughing, we realize it’s almost time to pick up our kids from school. We walk together. He loses his job months later and it makes no sense to try to support two households and have me paying for childcare when Alex can do it for free.

1987: Alex kisses me in the pouring rain downtown, my red lipstick smearing all over his face. He presents me with a ring that eventually turns my finger bright green. I wear it anyway. He and I snort crank and cocaine, smoke endless bowls of green bud, and he talks incessantly about how intrigued he is with me, how he can’t put it into words. He seems so earnest. He hasn’t had his heart broken yet.

1988: He has left me for someone else, someone better. She is older and prettier and has a car and a college education. He calls me every few months to see if I am dead yet. That’s what he says when I answer the phone and it makes me laugh. I miss him.

Fall 1988: He is homeless. I let him move into the basement I am living in. I have an old mattress on the floor and when it rains water flows from the cracks in the walls. I ignore the rain but study the mushrooms that grow from the cracks with genuine curiosity. He is still dating his girlfriend and as I watch from the mattress he irons his khakis, applies his favorite cologne and slicks back his hair. He pulls out part of the dope stash and divides it in half. We snort out lines off of an airplane window that I bought at a yard sale for a buck and a quarter and he instructs me on when to do the rest of my half if he doesn’t come home in time for the next dose.

February 1989: Alex’s relationship with that other girl is over and we share the mattress and blankets on the floor for warmth. Sometimes he holds my hand as we try to sleep. Having bonded over pharmaceuticals and a shared knowledge and subsequent secret keeping of various crimes we have committed to feed our habit we reach the fork in the road. We knew the jig was up. We make a pact to go all out with the rest of our money to do as many drugs as we can afford on Valentine’s Day and then go cold turkey. I watch him surveying the packets of white powder, the bags of weed; a case of Stroh’s beer sits against his leg. I picked out the case because it was a bonus pack, a steal with 27 cans instead of 24. The cigarette situation is in good shape. Chopping out the lines he looks up at me and says, “Sorry I didn’t have enough to get you any roses or something”, I shrug him off and reach for the tooter.

Years later he told me that the reason he always gave me the first line of anything we bought was in case I died or had some other reaction. That way he knew if I lived it was safe to snort Years later, I laughed about that: sick, twisted laughter ,but genuine nonetheless.

Last night he told me that the incense I’m always burning gives him a headache. I reached for another stick and held a lighter to the tip, making sure it catches before softly blowing, then placing it in my holder. He has headaches whether I burn incense or not. His doctor has referred to him as a stroke waiting to happen because he can’t get his blood pressure down. He holds his head as the incense fills the room and mentions something about an aneurism. I ask him about his life insurance and we both laugh.

I’ve had an idea of love, of what being loved should feel like, of this void inside of me that no one would fill. Alex explained to me once, only once, that he loved me very much, but he wasn’t in love with me. He apologized, but for what, really? Can we control our emotions?

After years of Alex asking me to marry him I finally gave in and did it a few years back. I needed health insurance and I married for it. I also wanted to make sure that my end of life plans would be carried out in the way that I wanted them to be. I shuddered to think of my mom Terry Shiavoing the hell out of me, and I knew Alex would pull the plugs himself if need be. I want to have the ability to deal with a terminal illness on my own terms. Doctor assisted suicide is legal here in Oregon. As much as I love walking through old cemeteries, I don’t feel entitled to take up so much land. There are too many people in the world already, living and dead.

If doctor assisted suicide isn’t available I have a plan to take matters into my own hands.

I don’t wonder about love much anymore. I focus on my kids. I try to do the best I can each day. I fail a lot. I get up and try again.

A few days ago I had been stretched out on my stomach for so many hours in pain such as I’ve never felt before. It takes about fifteen minutes to get out of bed, and that is with the assistance of either Alex or Nathan to help me up, and a cane to help me walk to the bathroom.  I called out for someone and my German Shepherd Maggie ran over and licked me. No one came.

I cried, finally, a long deep cry. Alex came home; he had been to the bank and to the store. He came face to face with me and smiled, “What’s up? The pain is that bad?” he asked, referring to my tear stained face. I made him shut the door before I whispered to him that it was time. I was ready to take matters into my own hands, the pills weren’t working, and I couldn’t go on another minute.

I was ready to act on my plan to end my own life, but it was more complicated than it had been in my head. I was stuck on my stomach upstairs in the house my children called home. Having gone over my father’s suicide a million or two times I wanted mine to be perfect. I didn’t want it to take place at home and I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t found by a loved one, because that picture follows you forever.

Babbling to Alex last minute changes in plan he said that it wasn’t my time. He recommended sleeping through the pain, and a shot of whiskey with my meds. Every solution he has seems to start with a shot of whiskey, and I’ve seen my mom nod her head gravely when she hears him, for that was the way my grandfather had taught her to deal with each and everything life sent her way.

I had to pee, and there were stairs. The trip down took a year or two and when my ass hit that seat I screamed out unexpectedly as the fire shot straight up my back. A bite of yogurt, pills, water, shot of J&B, sleeping pills, heating pad, pillows, blankets, cold washcloth and the rest came a long breathless time later. I continued this cycle over the days, vomit bucket beside my head, until I didn’t know the day month or year.

Now I can walk a bit.  And on I go.

I wrote something over the course of this time on my stomach, painful, sometimes high on prescription drugs to take the edge off this pain and it is angry, bitter, long and hate filled. For the first time I feel really scared to be even more exposed than I am here. Is anger really a good sign Jean? I keep trying to stifle it. I have long known about the balance of love and hate in relationships and I would never want to paint myself as a victim because I’ve made some really fucked up choices and I am not easy to live with. So, do I post it, just as it was written over those days filled with hatred or are there some things you just tuck away? I don’t know.

I have Sacroiliitis in my hips. I don’t know how to pronounce it but there it is. This is not something I wanted to write about. This is not the way I planned to start the year. I had a steroid shot in my right hip last Thursday. My left hip is scheduled for tomorrow. I am supposed to be on bed rest. That’s not working out too well.I thought I knew pain before. There will be a time for me. I have to draw that to me. I haven’t been writing here not for lack of words. I’m coming back. I need to process this anger, this hatred.

1993: I sat across from my psychiatrist. She never wore the same shoes twice. She asked me a lot of questions about my childhood. She asked me if I’d ever thought of harming my son in any way. I was horrified by the thought of hurting my baby boy. It had never occurred to me. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Tammy, what you need to realize is that your life will never be as bad as it was when you were a child.” I nodded, but I didn’t believe her. She was my psychiatrist for years. She was the only one I ever told about the times my dad tried to kill us.

1985: He was trying to kill my mom and us kids. My mom took us and fled. My brother refused to leave. We hid in a trailer. Dad killed himself in the basement of our house. When we drove up the driveway to the house that morning I already knew. I’d tossed and turned all night having dreams where I was choking to death. The threat to my life was over, but I kept seeing him around town. There he was walking down the sidewalks, there’s his face on a bus going by, oh shit and he’s that man in the store. He was everywhere. I started to feel him behind me when I was loading clothes into the washing machine. I would close my eyes and run. My mom came home from work and scolded me for leaving the lid up and the washer half full of clothes. The water was cold by then. I told her that I had to run from the basement and that I was sorry. She hugged me. She bought a new house. I wanted to ask the other five who had survived with me if they saw him but I didn’t.

2009 Mother’s Day: I am sick in bed, shaking with fear, unable to go to work. I can’t get my valium refill. The doctor says he faxed it in and the pharmacy says they never received it. Alex holds me and wishes me a happy mother’s day. “Probably your best yet, huh?” I couldn’t laugh at his joke then but he tries to remain lighthearted when I am in extreme distress. He recommends that I have a shot of Jack Daniels to calm me down. I refuse. I am afraid that it will trigger an alcohol binge.

The following Wednesday, I am sitting in front of a new psychiatrist. He asks me what happened the weekend prior. I try to explain about the panic attack I can’t stop. He bumps Effexor to 300mg and Valium to 30 mg. He adds Trazadone. He spends an hour with me and tells me I have post traumatic stress disorder, panic disorder, and severe depression that is medication resistant. He snaps my file shut, ready to go, but before he stands he looks at me and says, “If you ever find yourself out of valium again and going into withdrawals, drink some alcohol. It acts on the same part of the brain that valium does. Don’t you go telling anyone your doctor told you to get wasted.” We shake hands. I make a mental note to tell Alex he was right.

I spent some time in the lock down facility. I am panicked the whole time I am on that floor because there is no escape. Only the employees carry key cards. The doctor who gives me a physical tries to make jokes. I can’t laugh. I am trying to behave in a way that will get me out of the lock down floor. For whatever reason, the severe psychiatric patients are locked down with the drug addicts going through their withdrawals.  They are so sick: some pacing and shaking, others vomiting into garbage bins, there is crying and face picking and wails I will never forget. I can’t drink water without supervision and I am watched as I piss. I wonder if I could break through a window and jump out. I want to be outside in the freeway polluted air, smoking a Camel filter. I pretend I am doing research for a novel. I sit still and observe. I want my cell phone back. I want to go home. Dr. Joke asks me how I am doing and I tell him it’s not like I thought it would be. I joke that I am looking around for the table with Jack Nicholson and Danny DeVito playing cards. He says those days are long gone. He asks me if I have ever thought of hurting myself or anyone else. I lie when I say no. I have to sign a contract that if they let me move to outpatient I won’t hurt myself or anyone else. I don’t tell him that I imagine jumping in front of every fast moving vehicle I see. When I am finally set free they put me in outpatient loony bin. I am escorted out by card carrying scrub wearing men.

I am assigned a therapist. They take me to him. He is nice. He already has my file. He asks me if I’ve ever been raped or molested. I ask him if I can go home early. He sighs and says it’s time for lunch. I get into the line and wait. Sugar and caffeine are forbidden. People nibble candy from their purses and pockets; fill water bottles with coke or coffee. It’s finally my turn. I take my cucumber sandwich and sit at a large table. They have little packets of mustard and mayo, but plastic knives and forks are forbidden. I find that amusing. The groups of people sitting around me are talking about work as I choke down my sandwich with warm water. They are comparing notes on patients and discussing how to care for the nonverbal ones. I realize I have sat down at the employee table and try to eat faster. I have 15 minutes until I have to be back from lunch. Smoking is prohibited. I throw away my paper plate .I walk through the door right in front of the woman at the front desk and exit. I walk until I am standing over the freeway overpass and smoke as much as I can. It would be a perfect place to jump. I imagine my body down there, splat.

When I return to the building, room 2, I sit at the table ready for the class to begin. Some of the people I had eaten lunch next to come in and take their seats. They are not employees after all, they are patients like me. There are other patients in the chairs surrounding me. Some have their mouths wide open and the saliva runs down their chins and onto their shirts. Some patients are so drugged their heads fall over and smack the table, startling me. The therapists try to talk to us in calm tones, asking the ones who keep nodding off to please try to stay awake.
There is a woman in the corner reading Twilight with her headphones on full blast. The therapists try to remove them and bring her out of the corner and into the group. It’s a no go. She needs the music to drown out the voices in her head. She said they are telling her to do bad things. I close my eyes and thank the sky that I am not that sick. There is an elderly woman who sits at the front of the class surrounded by bags. I find out over the course of weeks that she believes the feds are watching her and that they will come into her apartment and steal all of her belongings while she’s gone. That is why she must bag them up and bring them with her. Her diaper leaks sometimes. No one says anything about it. Psychiatric facilities involve a lot more body fluid than I’d imagined. I carry hand sanitizer.

When I do my one on one time with my therapist I ask him about all of the patients who are nurses, CNAs, LMTs etc. He says that those in the care giving industry are statistically number one on the list of people who seek help there, followed by teachers, and then insurance salesmen. I laughed, just about the insurance salesmen part. I ask him where and how the doctors go for treatment. He pauses for awhile before telling me that they go to hospitals outside of the one that they work for, and that they don’t identify themselves as doctors during the group sessions.
As the days go on I start to like the structure there. I start to worry about some of the patients when they don’t show up for a day or two. There is a woman with trickatilamania who sits across from me. Once, when I was speaking during group, she announced that my voice is a trigger for her. She asks them to stop me from speaking. I hate her suddenly; her head a pattern of long curly hair and softball sized bald spots. I over think why my voice would be a trigger. She cries a lot and lets the snot run free. There are tissues everywhere in the room. I don’t know where I fit in.

I encourage a few others I feel comfortable with to come out and smoke with me on the lunch break. After a few weeks more and more patients are there now. There is a tiny little 20 years old girl with two babies at home. She likes to spread out on the grass and close her eyes to the sun. She came to the treatment center from the hospital where she was treated for a suicide attempt. She wears the tiniest outfits, little halter tops and shorts, overall shorts with no top underneath. Her arms and legs are covered in scars; fresh bloody cuts over old purple skin where she had started to heal. She tells me that they have taken all of her meds away now that she had tried to OD. I want to hug her but I don’t. I have never seen someone with that many cuts on their body in my life. I talk to her about ways to take care of herself while taking care of her babies. I bring her a recipe for edible play dough she can make with her kids. She offers me a hook up on the opium poppy seeds she’s been buying. I just laugh.

There are a few patients who swap their pills with others, the smell of marijuana hangs in the air and that guy named Josh under the tree there is smoking heroin. I can’t imagine that a group of us who have decided to have our lunch outside goes unnoticed but it’s never mentioned inside the hospital. I crave coffee but since it’s forbidden inside the building I sometimes walk around to the little corner shop and buy a cup. It’s nasty but I chug it hot, just trying to get something into me to make it through the rest of the day. I wonder if I’ll ever be OK and what OK is.

There is a pregnant woman in the program. She dresses up each day in patterned thrift store dresses, stockings and heels. She makes no attempt to hide the track marks on her arms. She smokes Marlboro Reds and talks in the group about wanting to get sober before her baby comes. She is six months pregnant. She’s always asking people for things: a piece of paper, a pen, an Advil. She deals drugs to some of the other patients. I recognize it immediately because I used to be part of that world and I’d recognize the drug/money pass off anywhere.
I am standing alone during lunch on a sunny day, not far from where Josh sits with his rolled up tinfoil smoking heroin, when she approaches me. “Do you have a tampon?” she asks. I immediately dig into my purse and pull one out for her, but as I do I can’t help but look at her swollen stomach. “Are you bleeding? You should call your OB/GYN.”I say.  “Nah”, she answers, “This is my ninth pregnancy. I’ve had eight miscarriages already so I’m sure everything is fine.” She staggers away on her high heels, the backs of her feet covered in Band-Aids. I remind myself once again that I am not the doctor here. I am a patient. I try not to judge her, but I do.

With my insurance running out I begin to feel more pressure to be better. In a private one on one with my therapist he asks me if I am starting to feel the effect of the doctor doubling my Effexor. “I am beginning to think”, I spit out, “that this quest for happiness is bullshit.” He looks taken aback and he comments that I seem irritable. I look at him sitting there calmly and I tell him the conclusion I’ve come to, “I think that life is just a series of hrumph moments, sometimes punctuated by joy, or sadness, in varying degrees.”
He looks at me for awhile before smiling. “Tammy, you just described life.” It hadn’t occurred to me before that this could be true. I had imagined that most people were happy most of the time, with a few ho hums bits and grief only on occasion. “So how do I get there?” I wanted to go from the constant sadness to the ho hum. He didn’t really have an answer. When I left that day I didn’t know it would be for the last time. I made the decision the following morning that I had learned all that I could there. The medical bills piled up.

December 23, 2009: I sit in front of my psychiatrist. He asks me how I have been feeling and I try to explain that going through the physical therapy has brought up a lot of old memories and emotions. Taking the huge step of wearing a bathing suit and getting into the pool at the hospital every week was hard, but I did it. I tell him that I joined a book group and that I am now attending family functions instead of hiding at home. I think that this is all good news, but he wants to know what I have been doing about getting enrolled in college. “You’re not twenty anymore, but you’re not sixty either. You still have time.” I can’t explain to him that I want someone to take me there and stay by my side as I go through the process of enrollment. I can admit to him that I am scared that I am going to fail. “You’re not going to fail.” His response surprises me. I wonder where it comes from. Is it because he makes $300 per hour to talk to me? Is it because he been seeing me for over a year and he really believes that I can do it?

I know that our time is running short so I ask him the question that has been weighing heavily on my mind for most of my life. “Do I have to go through life feeling so incredibly sad all of the time?” He responds that it is not normal for someone to feel sad most of the time, as I do. He suggests adding another medication to my list, a tricyclic antidepressant, checking back with me in a month, and if I’m still feeling so sad adding a drug called Abilify. I want to ask him if he could prescribe something with a weight loss side effect as well as a daytime boost of energy, but the timing seems wrong. I thank him and leave.

I see my dad riding with me in the elevator down to the first floor. He’s not stuck at 57 this time. This is what I imagine he might have looked like had he lived. He has shrunk in size and has difficulty walking. I think about that and feel no rage against him. He would be approaching his 82 birthday. In my mind I want to believe in God and in a place where people who die go and spend eternity in peace. I don’t believe it. I want to believe that maybe my dad is now my guardian angel. Before I take the two hour bus ride home I go to the chapel in the hospital and sit in silence for awhile. I feel empty but calm. I feel stronger.
I imagined that 2009 would be the date on my death certificate. Now it feels like more of a rebirth. I have no idea what’s ahead but I feel ready.

Remembering Summer's Peaches

A Fraction of the Apples

Just One of the Varieties of Tomatoes I Preserved

My First Try at a New Dog Treat Recipe

In the months following my discharge from the psychiatric hospital I became fixated on food. Not on eating food, but on researching prices until I’d found incredible deals, buying frequently used items such as flour, yeast, oil, dried beans, rice, etc. in bulk and learning how to store them correctly, and taking advantage of some incredible produce prices in the summer. I learned a lot about myself through this. I realized that in many ways I express my love for my family through food. I had to let go of the need to please everyone every time and just know that I was providing my husband , myself, and our teenagers with the healthiest, tastiest food I could find while still sticking to the very tight food budget. I was then, as I am now, having trouble focusing on books or TV or my writing. In the kitchen I felt as if I was keeping busy doing something worthwhile. It helped to throw my mind into making applesauce, or bread, or spaghetti sauce. It helped me feel less afraid about not having as much money as we used to. I knew the medical bills would be coming in soon, and even though my therapist had directed me to focus on getting well and not on money (ha!) I felt responsible for the burden I was placing on my husband’s shoulders.

Looking back now at the year 2009 I can clearly see what decisions I had made that led up to the time in the hospital. I ignored all of the warning signs that trouble was looming and continued to work too much, sleep too little, and consume far too much caffeine . I was so consumed with guilt and worry over leaving my children at night and then sleeping during the day. I constantly missed doctor’s appointments and let my prescriptions run out because I was so tired and taking hours  on the bus to go to different visits seemed to be a bad idea because it cut into the small amount of time I had each day for sleeping.

Tonight I sit here, not cured, but accepting of the fact that I need treatment still. I have been doing my physical therapy because I must take this gift of time and strengthen my back. I continue to see my primary care physician as needed and my psychiatrist for medication management. It is quite a process, but I am pushing myself to learn how to take care of myself.

Christmas will come, whether I feel ready or not. All of our utilities are on. We have a roof over our heads.  We were able to purchase gifts for Nathan and Polly. I have taken both of them to the doctor and dentist and they are healthy. For that I am so grateful. Both of them are doing well in school and have friends with whom they socialize happily. Polly managed to pull her math grade up from a D to a B and I am so proud of her, as that was the subject she was really struggling with. I now have more time to spend with both of them and just a seemingly simple thing like having a family movie night at home with a bowl of popcorn means a lot to me.

The time that I spent earlier in the year stocking the freezer and pantry are paying off big time now. Not having to constantly run to the store on foot or bus in the cold and rain is so nice. After being invited several times by my 22 year old niece Audrey to join her book group I shared a copy of the book with her from the library, read it, and went to the book club last Tuesday. I was tempted to cancel because I had a bunch of painful dental work done the day before and I had been informed that the group started with dinner. I knew that Audrey would be disappointed and so I went anyway. I ate mashed potatoes and chewed on one side of my mouth and nobody cared. I don’t know why I was so worried.  I was able to talk about the book with the group. A few of the women I knew from my past but hadn’t seen in years: Audrey’s grandmother, her mother, and her aunt. I was concerned that seeing them might bring up some painful memories for me, and it did. There was a moment during dinner when someone asked some questions about things that I had done in 1985. Poor choices that I had made at the age of 12, immediately following the death of my father. Before I could slowly inhale I felt a sob rising up in my chest. Time froze and I wondered about the correct protocol involving cloth dinner napkins and tears. A woman I hadn’t seen since 1988 rose, grabbed me some tissues, and turned to the inquiring woman,” Stop being mean! This is obviously a painful subject for her, and she was only 12 at the time. Jeez!” I dried my eyes and smiled my thanks. The moment had come, the moment had passed. My initial reaction to flee the house dissipated and I was able to get my breathing back under control. The subject was changed and the night went on.

Having gone made me feel proud of myself. It also made me realize that I can have personal limits. I know that is probably common knowledge to most, but to me it was a good realization. There are certain subjects I don’t wish to talk about with most people. There are certain decisions I made as a child that I am tired of apologizing for.

Last May I felt as if suicide was my only option. Today I am looking forward to what 2010 will bring. It wasn’t easy to get here, and it is still filled with pain and challenges. There are bits of joy mixed into my life too and for that I am grateful.

As an aside, I am a ridiculous perfectionist when it comes to things I bake. I can’t post that photo of the dog treats I baked above without mentioning what I learned from trial and error. The original recipe called for rolling the dough out very thin and then cutting it into squares and baking them for 25 minutes. I followed the directions, except I just cut them into pieces with a pizza wheel, and I will admit that I placed too many on the sheet pan because I was feeling lazy. The ones around the edges began to bake faster than the ones in the middle and I had left no room to move them around. Another thing that had bothered me was the mess. I was looking to save money by making dog treats at home, but the clean up was horrible, as the dough was very sticky and difficult to roll with a pin. The second time that I made them I doubled the batch and after it was mixed shaped it into logs that I then placed in the refrigerator. When the dough had firmed I took a log out, sliced it with a knife and baked them that way. It was so much easier. Yes, I realize that I just wrote a whole paragraph about dog treats. Oh, and my German Shepherd? She loved all of them, even the ones that I thought were too dark. If anyone is interested in the recipe let me know and I’ll post it.

Edited to add that I posted the recipe for the dog treats in the comments section of this post.

Matilda

My mom got a goat, and I spent a glorious day over there last Thursday preparing her chicken coop for winter. I may or may not have stopped numerous times to cuddle said goat.  Just between you and me, I think this goat loves me best of all.

I have tried and tried to finish the post that I was talking about in the comments on my last post. The post about how I came to name myself Sarah when I first started writing and posting online. I am in such a funk; the post sits as an unfinished document on my desktop. If I can’t get the flow of something after this many days I need to wait. I’m sorry. I really do appreciate all of the nice comments I received on my last post.

Cork , who is a man I met online over ten years ago, has never been anything but supportive of my efforts. Even though we have never met in person I consider him a friend. He is an incredible writer; I wish that I could link to him here, but I don’t think he has a website up at the moment. Last year he suggested that I try to do two simple nice things for myself everyday. I did for awhile, and then I got caught up in the hell of working graveyard and struggling with my guilt over sleeping during the day and being a sub-par mother to two kids who really needed me. I am going back to his advice now. I will seek at least two moments of bliss for myself each day. If bliss seems like a bit of a stretch I’ll settle for a little flicker of joy. If you would like to join in, please do so. If you would post your moments in the comments I would love it. We can do this together if you’d like. I already have my visits to my mom’s goat. The photo above was taken with my phone, so it’s not great, but she’s a sweetie. I asked Alex if we could get a goat but he didn’t like that idea that much. He was initially resistant to getting a dog too, but he changed his mind and got me Maggie. She makes me happy everyday.

I have been open here before about my drug addiction and alcoholism, so I feel comfortable sharing my morning here. I got up to my alarm (yuck) got the kids up and off to school, pulled on some sweats and took the dog for a walk without brushing my hair, came back and made coffee and checked the status of the dough I’d mixed up last night before I went to bed and peeked at the sticky buns I baked off last night to see  how many were missing (three) and surveyed the house to see which chore I should tackle first. I was standing in the kitchen when it occurred to me: I hadn’t thought about getting high. It’s usually right there, first thing in the morning, that craving to numb myself. Just last night Nathan and Polly got into an argument and I was trying to diffuse the situation before it escalated further and in my struggle to stay calm when I really just wanted to tell both of them to shut the fuck up and to go to their rooms I kept thinking, “I need a drink.” Instead I finished mixing the dough recipe I am trying for the first time (it requires an overnight sit) pulled the sticky buns from the oven and glazed them, and kept my cool. But I wanted a drink, a scotch, to be specific, a big one, a whole bottle. Instead I tried to breathe slowly in and out and I went to bed soon after. Sober.

This morning is the first in decades where I didn’t wake up with that hunger for drugs and that realization is my moment of bliss number one for today. What was yours?

I sit amongst tended gardens
long black silk dress draped just so
as I look over my shoulder
at the climbing clematis
the candied roses
all in bloom for me
my house stands strong
creeping ivy
covering the stones
the moat has been removed so
that no one can ever
enter my rooms
are full and empty
at my discretion
in one lives an aunt Jemima /Pillsbury doughboy
cookie jar collection
married together
their mouths are sealed shut
they keep my secrets
I eat all of their cookies
I am a lazy, lousy lay now
relying on my toy box
I can close my eyes in surprise
imagine a man with no needs or wants
we kiss like those couples
I’ve seen on the moving pictures
eating from takeout containers
with chopsticks made from
elephant tusks in my hair
my lipstick never fades nor smears
my paintings are all of telephones
medicine cabinets
and mailboxes
I am not contagious
nor quarantined against
my will be done
I miss no one

Last week I found out that one of my former coworkers had committed suicide.  I went through this whole range of emotions. He was only 25. I had been planning on calling him to wish him a Happy Birthday as it’s just days away, but that day will pass and 25 he shall remain forever.

I went over the many nights we worked together in my head, looking for signs I must have missed, finding nothing but more questions. I had this feeling that I needed to do something, but I couldn’t imagine what that might be.  I’m not foolish enough to believe that I could have saved him, but I would have tried.

My thoughts kept returning to his Mom on the East coast, and to his little sister, and the  times we had sat together drinking pints of beer after work. He had planned on returning for a visit home. He felt guilty that the years were slipping by. He wondered aloud if the letters and little gifts he was sending to his much younger sister meant anything at all. I assured him that his sister was undoubtedly thrilled to have any contact with him whether it be phone, email or letters and encouraged him to keep the lines of communication open with his mom even if it was hard at times.

He has returned home now, his body anyway, where he can be buried close by his family. Last night I finally sat down and wrote his family a letter and slipped it in a card. I can only hope that my words can one day offer even the slightest bit of comfort to them.

In honor of his love of music, and Sam Cooke in particular, I wanted to post the following song.

Hold On