“ Why must you always be around?
Why can’t you just leave it be?
It’s done nothing so far but destroy my life
You cause as much sorrow dead
As you did when you were alive”

SINEAD O’CONNOR You Cause As Much Sorrow

I worked the graveyard shift Saturday night. As I’ve mentioned before, I work with mostly men. A few of them are veterans, and hearing them tell their stories, if they even can, and seeing the consequences they are dealing with now as a result of seeing more violence in a few years than anyone should ever have to face in a lifetime is heartbreaking. One man told me not to come up behind him; he can’t handle it. I’ve tried to walk heavily when I am entering an area he’s working in. He told me of working as a medic in the combat zones and trying to come to terms with losing 80% of his men. He told me of shooting them with morphine when they were hit and holding their hands as they died because, as he put it, “no one should have to die alone out there.” I asked him if he was treating a fellow soldier with a fatal wound and that man asked if he was dying if he told them the truth, or no. He said he always told them they were going to make it, no matter what.

Another veteran soldier tells no stories, ever. He shakes his head “No” and walks away slowly. I wonder how they feel about the people who drive around with yellow ribbon stickers making statements “I Support Our Troops”. I know that they received training that they could parlay into other jobs but they hide on night shifts and don’t use their GI Bill for college, not yet anyway.

A couple of them have erupted at work, showing anger and frustration by throwing things, swearing, yelling. Me being me, with my own issues; I get scared when this happens. Saturday night when one man blew up I moved away quickly and tried to work in a far away area. There’s a new woman on the maintenance crew; she was on her first night. I was trying to breathe through a panic attack and fighting the urge to run out the door when she came up to me and asked, “What man did that to you in your life, made you afraid like that when someone yells?” I was a bit taken aback. We’d only been introduced once and her name had slipped out of my head as soon as I heard it.

“Your Daddy?” she pushed, and I just nodded, not wanting her to think I am in an abusive relationship now. She nodded back and smiled. “It’s gonna be O.K.”, she said as she walked away.

Later on we were all sitting outside on the patio chilling out and relaxing at the end of our shift. I decided to tell my coworker that it had scared me when he blew up like that. He looked surprised and then sad. “I’m sorry! Sometimes I just need to let off a little steam and then I am fine.” I nodded, but I felt better having said my truth.

The conversation switched to Father’s Day and everyone reminded everyone else, “Call your Dad and tell him I love you and thank you!” I remained silent. The woman whose name escapes me said, “My father is deceased, thank you very much.” She glanced over at me and asked, “You too?” I nodded in the affirmative and she asked me how old I was when it happened.

“Twelve”, I answered, “I usually call my Mom and wish her a Happy Father’s Day but she’s out of town this year.”

“Me too! I call my Momma on Father’s Day too!” and then she rose and sat right down beside me, pulling out her cell phone. She texted her Mom so I could see, “Happy Father’s Day, Momma. I love you.” and the reply came quickly. “Thank you baby. I love you too. Signed Daddy Momma”

As she picked up her belongings and prepared to leave she told me, “Every bit of fathering I needed I got from my Daddy Momma, even before he died when I was 17.”

I know what she means and even though my Mom is in Australia right now and I have no way of calling her because she’s traveling about the country I sent her an email when I got home from work on the off chance she might stop into an internet café or something. It took me a few years, but I’ve finally been able to convince my Mom that she can check her email from anywhere in the world. She thought that it lived inside of her computer only.

***

Thank you all for your wonderful dessert ideas and opinions. I printed everything out and I look forward to getting back into the kitchen to try out some new recipes. I get bored making the same old things every night so hopefully getting to play around with the dessert specials will help. The comments that even took the time to say sweet things about me and my writing were a pleasant surprise. Maybe I should ask you all for advice more often. Do you think that now that I have hit the ripe age of 35 I should cut my hair above my shoulders? What about the color? Continue to get it highlighted at a salon even though I can only afford to do it once a year and I always have roots, or go back to doing it at home the way I did when I was in my teens and twenties?

***

One last thing, before I go. For those of you who have been following my stories, ChefHisName called and offered me a job. I actually considered it for a second because it would be a Mon.-Fri. day shift, but it’s several dollars less an hour and the benefits aren’t as good. Plus, and this really sealed the deal, the job was as a breakfast cook and the thought of cooking eggs for 200+ people every morning is more than I can stomach. It was nice to learn that he wasn’t just feeding me a line of bullshit when he said he’d keep me in mind for another position.

Jean Asks: Tell me how it feels to be a baker….do you feel like you’re an artist or is it a job? What’s your favorite part of the job - or your favorite thing to create?

It just feels like a job to me, honestly. I don’t feel like an artist. I’ve enjoyed the places I’ve baked for that gave me some creative freedom more than the ones that don’t (like this one). Maybe eventually I’ll earn that right. Two of the other bakers are now able to bring in recipes and see if they sell on the menu. My favorite part of the job so far has been shooting the shit with the men I work with. They are funny guys and I enjoy talking to them. My favorite thing to create is bread. I am still in awe of the simple process and its results. Sweets get old very fast; bread never has.

Mary asks: Please tell us about a time when you succumbed to temptation.

Damn, this one is difficult. I was pretty much succumbing to temptation on a daily basis from the day my Dad died until I became pregnant with my son. How about this: When I was 15 Alex broke up with me to date this girl he “had to have” (his words at the time) and I started a new school. I had always been in Catholic school so starting public school was a huge shock for me. One day when we were alone in his classroom my teacher wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered in my ear, “I had a dream about you last night.” I was stunned and I had no idea what to say. After a couple of weeks of flirting I decided to take him up on his offers to take me out. I still think of him when I hear that Police song, “Don’t Stand So Close To Me.”

ie asks
Is there something you regret doing in your childhood? Or: What’s your favorite color and, why?

When I was a girl I can remember watching my sister Maria sitting next to my mom getting her hair brushed out and rolled in curlers. Maria and I had always been very close and she looked out for me in every way. At this moment though, I can remember being so filled with rage. I felt that Maria was always so good and I was so naughty. I saw her as the personification of all that was holy and myself as truly evil. I got up and walked across the room and punched her as hard as I could. Her face crumpled into tears and I immediately regretted what I’d done. My dad came into the room and smacked the shit out of me for a good long time and I remember knowing that I deserved it.

Favorite color? When I was a little girl my favorite color was yellow. My mom used to use our favorite colors to differentiate between her three daughters; Monica was red, Maria was blue and I was yellow. I started hating yellow and I kept telling my mom ,”I don’t like yellow anymore” but it was too late. Now I don’t have a favorite color. I stick to black, gray and white. I found out a few years ago that I am color blind. I get my blues and greens mixed up and my reds, purples and browns. When Alex found out he started trying to get me to take a bunch of tests but I wouldn’t do it because when I first found out I was color blind they all laughed at me (Alex, Nathan and Polly) and joked about it for days even though it was clearly upsetting me. I hold grudges forever, apparently.

la says:

Guest fee $7.50? Um, guest fee? I think this means if you want to bring a hooker back to your room but maybe I’m too cynical. I wonder how much it costs if you want to bring a hamburger back. That’s something for you to find out!

I immediately thought of prostitutes being brought back to the hotel when I saw the guest fee, but then I wondered about other scenarios. A prostitute getting a room for the night and then having to pay 7.50 every time she brought a john back, for example. Or one person renting a room and then bringing someone else along for the night, and extra $7.50. That hotel is pretty sleazy; I am surprised the powers that be haven’t put it out of business yet. Of course they’ve also been unable to do anything about Old Town /Chinatown either. That area is a complete and total haven for drug dealers, addicts, prostitution, homelessness, etc. I don’t even feel safe there during the broadest of daylight.

Cynthea asks: I love love love looking at the city through your pics. I miss downtown. I used to go to college at PSU. I haven’t been to Pioneer Square (those were the bricks you were walking across, right?) in years. I swore I’d never live in the suburbs and contribute to single person vehicles, and now look at me. Hmmm …
What’s your very favorite building? And why. Here in Portland, or wherever.

The bricks were on a sidewalk down near 2nd and Alder. Some of the sidewalks downtown are brick and I don’t remember that. Now I wonder if they always were, and I just didn’t notice it? I used to love this building downtown that had gargoyles around it. Now I can’t remember where it was. I love the old US Bank down on SW 6th and Oak, I think. I tend to like the old, detailed buildings. I also like the Central library downtown. I’ve spent hours of my life in that library just reading or writing and getting in from the cold rain. Of course they put a Starbucks in it and now I don’t feel the same about it as I used to. I also love old churches. I am not a religious person, but I like to look at the buildings.

Mary asks: Have you ever been to Collins Beach?

Yes, twice. For those who don’t know, it’s a nude beach. I’ve never been one with particularly high self esteem, but I did some topless sunbathing there.

Thanks everyone for the questions. This job is kicking my ass. I only seem to be working and sleeping and trying to get caught up on the housework. I was thinking about buying one of those tiny little laptops so I can type on the bus on the way to and from work. I really miss writing. I have been jotting ideas in a notebook from time to time, but like I said, so tired.

Itty Bitty Napping in His Basket

Maggie May Enjoys the Sun

You Only Give Me Your Funny Faces

4 Out of 5 Doctors Recommend I Don’t Read This Info.

I am Tempted to Pop In For a Cocktail

Walking

The Joyce Hotel

I am Tempted to Get a Room So I Can See What 30 Bucks Gets You

Quit Stalling and Get Your Ass Moving, Tammy

I Remember Getting Free Condoms Here in the 80s, Back When AIDS Was Called “The Gay Disease”. (Yes, it’s a clinic for men, but I had friends who volunteered there.)

They Were Very Nice to Me and I Am Glad to See They’re Still Helping People. I Make a Mental Note to Make a Donation When I Can Afford It.

I Am a Tourist In My Own City. I Used To Love Looking At The Buildings Downtown.

After A Hard Day’s Night I Want a Beer Or Three. They Don’t Look Open.

Working downtown feels filled with temptation.

I have writer’s block. Ask me a question, would you?

Friday I had a doctor’s appointment that I had planned on canceling but had forgotten. I got dressed and went even though I didn’t want to talk about my back, or my depression and anxiety, or my should I keep it? uterus. When they called my name I walked in and after passing through the doors I was immediately asked to step onto their large digital scale. I took my coat off as it was my heavy winter one still soaked with rain from the last downpour I walked through umbrella-less and I hung it and my purse on the hook. As I was slipping off my shoes I remembered what my Mom always says before she’s weighed; the joke about needing to take off her 100 lb. shoes. She did it every week when we were in Weight Watchers together and she’s done it at every doctor’s appointment and ER trip I have accompanied her on. My Mom has maybe a dozen lines like that which she laces into her conversations. Decades old and worse for the wear, they are the jokes I used to roll my eyes at and groan with embarrassment over, now I smile just because they are a part of her and she refuses to give them up, even though everyone has heard them all before.

The CMA led me back to the room and after I had sat down on the paper covered exam table she took my vitals. I apologized for wearing a long sleeve shirt, but the young girl said it was okay, she could put the blood pressure cuff over it because it was so thin. I studied the girl’s face as she carefully recorded the numbers. She looked to be about twelve, her hair in a ponytail, her face a mixture of perfectly tiny features that made up her sweet little face. I imagined that I could be old enough to be her Mom, if I’d given birth to her in high school. As she was checking my pulse the sleeve of the long sleeve shirt she wore under her pink scrubs slid up and I saw that her arms were covered with scars from cutting herself. I imagined that she had to wear long sleeves on even the hottest days, and I thought about her cutting into herself, wearing her pain on the outside too. She told me that I had to get undressed and that I couldn’t even leave my socks on. “When I go to the doctor, I always want to leave my socks on because it makes me feel more secure.” she said to me. I nodded in understanding and wanted to hug her but she was out the door, gone, not my girl to save.

My doctor had large dark puffy circles under her eyes. I had never seen them there before, but although she sees me naked, inside and out, we are not allowed to break through the doctor patient relationship and talk about her. She scolded me gently for not having done the two things she had told me to do, go to physical therapy, and get blood work done at the lab. I told her that I knew I should have, but when the woman had called bright and early from the physical therapy department I had listened to her chipper over enthusiastic voice and deleted the message without writing down the number. The doctor laughed at that. I have always been suspicious of people who are genuinely cheerful, especially so early in the morning, because I feel like I am in a Twilight Zone episode enough as it is without surrounding myself with constant happy banter.

The doctor gave me three new prescriptions and I showed her the zit that had sprung up on my chin. It was one of those that lingers, red and throbbing, but there is nothing you can do about it because it refuses to break through to the surface. I told her that it was my worry about going back to work zit and mentioned that I had read in a trash magazine that celebrities have cortisone injections to eliminate their pimples. She said that she had never done a pimple injection before and she wanted me to hold a warm compress on it three times a day.

She flipped through my charts after we had talked for awhile about my back and my crazy brain and exclaimed that I had lost fifteen pounds in a month. She asked me how I had done it and I, having not been aware of the weight loss, said that I had been drinking lots of water and walking my dog. I didn’t mention that I was trying to flush narcotics out of my system. She warned me again about the ramifications of taking any job that required lifting and I nodded solemnly as I thought about telling ChefHisName that I could lift up to one hundred pounds, no problem. She told me she wanted me to find another psychiatrist because she felt like what she was doing, the drugs she was prescribing me, the medication monitoring, she felt it wasn’t working. I knew she was right but I felt weary at the thought of trying therapy again. I told her I’d look for a doctor who was accepting new patients, and inwardly felt nauseated at the thought of sitting in another office with the stranger taking notes and the tissue box pushed closer to my seat as I was told to tell the story of my childhood. Again. Over and over again, just for me, just for them, until one day something in the wiring of my brain reprograms itself perhaps? Until I can retell the morning of March 27^th 1985, walking into a house to find my father had chosen to die, was I supposed to tell that story until I could tell it with dry eyes?

I went downstairs to fill my prescriptions and the café next to the pharmacy was packed with lunch eaters. After comparing prices between the café and the vending machines I bought water from the vending machine, letting that be an opportunity to use up all of the nickels in my purse. I sat staring at the numbers on the pharmacy screen. It currently read 71; the piece of paper in my hand read 85. There was a woman in a wheelchair telling everyone and no one that she had lost her husband of thirty years to cancer. People moved tables to avoid her, and she maneuvered her motorized scooter, carefully zipping up rows in between the groups of patients and employees trying to eat their lunches. Everyone seemed to be avoiding eye contact, not wanting to get caught up in someone else’s grief, and I looked directly at her, committing her face to memory, noticing the long thick grey whiskers growing from her chin. She didn’t come near me. She forced her pain on the other people, the people in the circle that I actively tried to sit outside of.

Finally, unable to stand sitting a moment longer, I made my way outside to the one bench that has been designated as a smoking section at the hospital. Rushed employees trying to hurry and inhale as quickly as possible linger there, as do patients who come outside to smoke, some with their IV poles still attached to their arms, some with oxygen tanks hooked to their faces that I imagine to be flammable.

As I lit my smoke I remembered my cell phone, which I had turned off due to hospital regulations. I turned it on, wondering if ChefHisName had called with the appointment time for my UA. I pressed the 1 on my speed dial and his voice was there, different than before.

“Hi, sorry I haven’t gotten back to you sooner. Uhhhhhhh…….After giving it, uh, further thought, I uh, have decided to uh, um, go with someone less experienced, so ah, um, the position has been, uh, filled with someone else. I, um, uh, will, however, keep your resume on file, and it will, uh, be the first one I pull if I am looking for a Chef or a Baker.”

I hit the 4 button on my phone and listened to the message again. I felt a pang of disappointment, then a rush of anger. He had told me the last time we spoke that the job was mine; I just needed to take the test. Pride came to my mind and joined regret and anger in the party and my ego said, “ChefFucker, you just made a huge mistake not hiring me.”

As I stood there and studied the sky, the people taking advantage of the free valet parking, the old people bringing their even older looking parents into the hospital, (at least they were parent child in my imagination), and the most amazing thing happened.

Usually I am prone to fretting and fussing, over thinking every scenario until it’s beaten to death, bloody and limping, feeling and feeling some more. This time? This time I just let it go. I let it all go, and I actually felt the weight of it leave me. I wondered if that was the secret of the chipper people I so try to avoid, the ones whom I feel so irritated around, the ones who can put on the face and pull out the happy voice.

I walked back inside and the number board read 84. I was next.

I have had a few interviews now. I have applied for so many jobs that I can’t keep them all straight and sometimes when someone calls and says ,”Hi, this is Jude” and then starts talking away I am wondering,  “Jude from where?”

I should have kept records. Anyway, I am liking the over the phone interviews. I think that in many situations time can be saved on both sides with a preliminary phone interview. Case in point: the woman who asked me if I wanted a position on call, rotating shifts. The money was very good and the benefits package was better than anything I’ve ever had but the truth is that the job is 90 minutes away by bus and since our buses don’t run 24/7 I had to answer honestly when she asked me if I could jump up and rush to work at a moments notice if she called at say 3 a.m. I thought that even if it was bus accessible I would be a nervous wreck with an on call job. There is no one in the world I want to talk to at 3 a.m anyway. Sometimes I miss the days when only drug dealers and doctors had cell phones or pagers. Now we are so accessible.

I had an interview last week, I can’t remember the day now. Anyway, I was on the phone with the boss/man who called and I had gone up to Alex’s and my bedroom to try to get away from the kids and the pets for a bit of quiet. Alex came upstairs and heard me refer to the man as ChefHisName. When I hung up the phone Alex made a crack about it. I told him that it was something I’d encountered before and it didn’t bother me. Certain chefs will demand to be referred to as Chef whatever and others don’t care. There is also the whole thing in kitchens about who gets to wear which uniform and who gets the big hat and the in between size hat and who gets no hat at all. I have actually witnessed arguments amongst cooks when one feels that the other is wearing a hat he hasn’t earned. It’s sort of like the Catholic church and the priests, bishops and the pope. It’s all in the special hats. Look next time. I personally don’t need a hat so I just put my hair in a bun with a hairnet over the top.

Anyway, he must have liked whatever I said on the phone because he asked to meet with me in person. I arrived early, even getting off a few stops ahead of the place so that I could have a cold drink, work on my breathing for relaxing as I get very nervous in these situations, and to have a cigarette (oh by the way Chantix isn’t a magic pill and you have to actually want to quit smoking and I really was more determined to cut down, not to quit, so I quit taking them after a month. )

I’m so frazzled lately I can hardly focus. I read my resume over few times because the jobs I did in the 80s and early 90s? I wasn’t so sure I’d remember everything. I decided to enter 20 minutes before the interview because nerves+ cold drink= must pee. The woman at the entrance greeted me and I told her that I was there for an interview with ChefhHisName and could she please point me in the direction of the facilities? I was only in there for a few minutes and when I walked out the door ChefHisName thrust his hand out and shook mine vigorously. I had this moment of panic that maybe my hands weren’t all the way dry. Maybe there was some moisture between my fingers and he had felt that when he shook my hand. Another woman in a uniform met up with us as we walked toward the breakroom and I noticed how fast the employees were all moving and I realized that I have been out of the professional kitchen for a few years and my speed walk has turned into a saunter.

After we had all sat down the questions began. I had carefully thought this out beforehand so I would be ready with the “Why did you take a break from working?” to the “What is your best feature” and “What is your biggest flaw?” I’ve always hated the questions they ask in interviews. I know that you’re supposed to flip the answer around to a positive i.e. “I am a perfectionist” but I hate that shit. I had also researched the place online in case they asked me questions about it but this guy caught me off my guard by opening the interview with, “Why are you applying for this position? You are way overqualified.”

I told him that I was attracted to the schedule. It’s a Mon-Fri gig on the day shift. I mentioned that when I was baking it was 18-20 hours a day during the holidays and then I was lucky to get 20 hours a week during the off seasons. He seemed satisfied with that and after he had talked with me awhile he let the don’tcallmechefwoman ask me her questions. The whole thing was pretty quick. The chef said he’d like to cross train me so I could fill other stations and I said that was fine. We talked about wages and benefits and the fact that if I am a felon I might as let them know because they were going to run and background check and oh by the way you have to take a UA. I said that was fine and he said that as far as he was concerned he wanted to hire me right then and there but they still had two more people coming in so call Tuesday (tomorrow) morning and he will give the yes or no.

I don’t know why but I have been extremely nervous about it. I am nervous that I won’t get it, and nervous that I will. I have kept on searching just in case and I have felt frozen when it came to trying to write. I am worried that my back can’t do this type of work anymore and fretting because I don’t know how to do anything else.

That’s all for now. I just thought it might be helpful to jot this down as it’s something that is difficult for me, this going out into the real world and hoping that I can control my anxiety and depression enough so that neither of them will interfere with my ability to do my job . As much as I believe that the stigma surrounding mental illness needs to be lifted, I don’t want to be a spokesperson or a poster child for it in a work setting.

Sorry I haven’t had time to write. I have been looking for a job and I am becoming frustrated because I haven’t heard back from anyone yet.

The last time that I was looking I had four job offers in nine days. I am trying very hard not to get discouraged this time but it’s not easy.

Anyway, I have some items up for sale on EBAY if anyone is interested in taking a look. I should have more things up by the weekend. Too much stuff and not enough $$$. AHHHH…

Think good thoughts for me please.

Thank you to my kind readers. I never understood it really when some online writers went on and on about how much they loved and appreciated their readers but now I do. Thanks everyone. It means a lot that you’re here, more than I can say.

“She should have stayed away from friends
She should have had more time to spend
She should have died when she was born
She should have worn the crown of thorns”

Been a Son- Nirvana

1982 was the year that marked, among other things, my Dad approaching me to ask if I would like to attend this series of classes he had heard about. It was called GI Joe’s Fishing Camp, and it was for parents and their children to learn how to fish together.

At this point in time I was still very much a daddy’s girl and what I wanted more than anything was to make him happy, having deduced that if he was happy, everyone would be happy and we could all continue to live together. When I gave an enthusiastic, “YES!” he pulled me to him and held me. My heart was racing with joy and I felt just the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes. His face was beaming and I had done that; I had put that smile there.

He showed me the information that he had collected regarding these classes and wrote the times and dates down in his tiny little cursive. When the evening of the first class arrived I was all excited, imaging us flinging line into water and pulling out fish. When we got in the car he had no poles, just his wallet that he always studied carefully before he left the house. We arrived at a building and walked into a room full of fold out chairs. We were early as always and Dad seized that opportunity to grab good seats. He had difficulty hearing and even in the best situations he had to cup his hand around his earlobe and listen with a pained look on his face. We sat silently holding hands as we waited. Soon the room began filling up with fathers and sons and when a man approached the microphone stand dad gave my hand one last squeeze before he pulled it away to cup his ear.

I soon discovered that listening to a man talking about fishing was even more boring than church, where at least we were threatened with eternal damnation and called sinners and told to beg for forgiveness least we be sent to the fiery pits of hell. I pretended to be incredibly interested in the man with the microphone and when he set up a screen for a slide show I hoped it was getting better but a slideshow about fishing while a man talks is only marginally more interesting than him talking without the slides.

When we left my Dad pulled me along by the hand and praised me for being the best behaved child in attendance. This was an early lesson; I knew full well that the consequence for misbehaving was being taken home and beaten until I could only hope I’d pass out or even die, but I never did. We were beaten until he either grabbed someone else and started in on them or he tired. The only salvation I had was the fact that he often beat us in chronological order, so by the time he had finished with my Mom, my brother and both of my sisters and reached for me he was sometimes out of steam.

All the way home in the car my Dad talked about the new things he had learned and I sat nervously, hoping there wasn’t going to be a quiz. When he exclaimed about learning to fly fish, something he had apparently always wanted to do, I felt this nausea within me. When the weather was nice and my Mom opened the windows the flies would come in. My Mom would smack at them and with each successful hit she would exclaim, “I got Louie!” or Fred, or Stan, or Joe… I asked her once how she knew their names and she said she just knew. The flies were always male and sometimes, before she would wipe the remains away, I would look down at the smashed insect and wonder if he’d had a family, a wife and kids. Now I envisioned catching them and having to place them on hooks.

Dad and I attended a few more seminars before the big event, the Saturday we got to try out all that we had learned at a trout fishing pond especially stocked for the occasion. Before that Saturday Dad surprised me by taking me shopping for supplies. We stood in the fishing aisle and I pretended to understand why we needed this and that but not the other. When my Dad said that he felt it was time to get me a pole of my own I nearly fell over with excitement. It wasn’t Christmas or my Birthday; I couldn’t believe I was getting a present. My Dad selected the pole for me, carefully pointing out the fact that it was very expensive at $14.99. I couldn’t wait to get it home and open it. I imagined standing on the couch casting off into the shag carpet and reeling my stuffed animals in one at a time.

At home the pole was tucked away for safety with my Dad’s things. I waited for the day I would be allowed to hold it. When the Saturday arrived I eagerly helped him pack up the car. Upon our arrival at the pond I saw dozens and dozens of sons with their poles and their fathers. There were tables set up with free hotdogs and soda pop and I was excited because I had never had a hotdog before and now the day had arrived when I would bite into the mystery of the bun and the dog all covered in mustard.

We went directly to the water’s edge and my Dad finally let me hold my pole. He showed me how to slip the salmon eggs he had bought onto my hook. I was relieved that I didn’t have to touch any flies or worms. The salmon eggs were pink and pretty and I just pretended they were mushy beads. My Dad showed me how to cast out and then we waited. I asked him if he was going to fish too, but he said that this was my day. All around me the excited screams, hollers and chatter erupted from excited boys reeling in fish to the delight of their back slapping proud fathers. My Dad grimaced in disapproval over the noise. Patiently he stood beside me, guiding me in a whisper, watching my face closely as I waited for a nibble. Hours seemed to pass as I tried again and again, unsuccessfully.

When most of the participants were now wandering around eating hotdogs and chatting with the other fathers as their sons ran and played, the fish they had caught either strung up or in buckets, forgotten already, my Dad packed us up without a word. Grasping my hand again and pulling me along he finally spoke, “You didn’t want a hotdog, did you?”

It wasn’t a question. I tried not to cry as we hurried to the car. After we had packed up he placed his hand on my shoulder and looked directly into my eyes. “It’s okay that you didn’t catch a fish. I am proud of you for trying so hard. The fish were probably scared away by all of the people making so much noise.” He shot a dirty look in the direction of the pond as I tried to believe him. I wanted so badly to see the look of pride on his face that I saw on the faces of the other dads. I wondered if it was due to the fact that I was a girl. I thought that all of those hours I had spent in those seminars just pretending to listen while daydreaming had caught up with me. I vowed right then that I would become a fisher girl extraordinaire. I would do him proud, one day.

To Be Continued, as always. For those readers who requested more about Terri and Sophie, I haven’t forgotten. For reasons that will become obvious later, it was necessary to write this entry first.

The year was 1982. I was spending the night at my friend Sophie’s house for the first time.

Sophie was pretty much an outsider at the Catholic school we attended. She had arrived in third grade and she soon became the source of cruel child pranks. I stood next to her after gym one day as she cried over her shoes. We were to change into sneakers for gym and then dress shoes for class. Someone had filled her shoes with glue. The snot and tears ran down her face and dripped into the shoes as I awkwardly patted her shoulder. “My Mom is going to kill me.” A few days later word spread that the mom had insisted that the school buy her daughter new shoes. Sophie showed up in shiny brown leather and a smile.

Her mother Terri was 23 and she had three kids: 10 year old Sophie, 3 year old Jolie, and 1 year old Amy. There was no man in sight and the whispers weren’t even hidden behind their backs as Terri roared up to the school to pick up her daughter in an old white Chevy. She emerged from the driver’s seat sleek like a cat with her perfectly feathered hair and flawless figure in skintight jeans and a tube top. She approached the playground with a baby on one hip, a child holding her other hand, a cigarette dangling from her lips and yelled at Sophie to get her ass in the car. I was instantly enthralled and decided right then and there to befriend Sophie.

My plan worked and soon I was invited over for the night.

Her house was wondrous, not in its exterior, but in its contents. Terri raised angora rabbits for show and they had the run of the house. I snuck a quick feel as they hopped by me, immediately sold on the fur as it brushed across my palm. One wall contained the largest fish tank I’d ever seen in a house and while Sophie was giving me the tour of the house she showed me the puppy’s bedroom. They had a bedroom on the main floor with puppies. I wanted to stay in that room, but outside I was led, my animal loving mind going crazy with delight. In the back there were rows and rows of metal cages with rabbits in them. I asked Sophie if these rabbits ran around inside the house too, but she shook her head no and asked me to give her a hand with the carrots. The 50 pound bags were waiting near the hutches and we slipped the carrots through the bars and checked the water levels in each bottle. Sophie told me which bunnies were pregnant and when they were due and I wanted to hold them all but she said no. I gave the pregnant bunnies extra carrots.

Back inside the house her mother waved us toward the table. I sat across from Sophie and Terri pulled a pizza from the oven, slapped it on a plate, placed it in front of me and growled, “You’d better eat the whole thing or I’m gonna beat yer ass.” My heart started beating faster and my face burned hot. Sophie had an entire pizza in front of her too. I didn’t even know that you could bake a pizza in a home oven; I thought pizza came from Shakey’s. Terri went off to the living room to watch TV. Sitting there with no utensils I did it. I ate the entire pizza. I looked up to see Sophie standing there next to my chair with a diet Pepsi in her hand. On her plate remained a large portion of her pizza. “Wow! You must have been really hungry!” I told her that her mom was going to beat my ass if I didn’t finish and she ran off laughing to tell her mom.

Terri came into the kitchen laughing at me. “You didn’t really think I’d beat your ass did ya? I was just kidding.” I wiped the sauce from my mouth onto my sleeve and stood; Terri put her arm around my shoulders and led me into the living room. Amongst the dark paneled walls and the thick veil of smoke I sat on the overstuffed couch. I don’t remember what was on TV but we sat there surrounded by the softest bunnies who would hop away as I tried to catch one after another. The puppies were let out of their room to roll and play at our feet and her two little girls played with their toys on the floor. I wanted to live there with them forever.

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.