This Time Last Year

Last year about this time I wrote a piece called Scarred. It's interesting to go back see where I was and what I was doing a year ago. I gain some perspective of time and healing. And that is a very good thing.

I stand by all that I said in that post. Emotional scars do smooth over. I can't say I've reached the point where my past doesn't show up every day, but the impact from it is so much lower. It happened. It is fact. It is history.

The present has a way of supplanting the past. That's generally a good thing as moving forward is what I strive for. But sometimes that forward movement requires me to look back and examine how the past is impacting and informing the present.

Right now I'm going through a difficult time. Things are not right in my world, but they are not right in a way I don't feel good writing about. That is problematic for me. I use this space for processing. But here is what I can share I'm 53 years old. My children are grown and practically on their own. My husband is mid-job change, and I don't know what my next phase looks like. 

Maybe I should have planned more for this. Maybe I should have been thinking about this time, but the truth is I'm a live-in-the-moment kind of person. I've never found 5 year plans to be very helpful mostly because life (at least mine) is messy. Plan all you want but be prepared for it to go to hell in a handbasket at the drop of a hat.

I don't think that's negative. I think it's reality. So I'm looking at options. A new career path? A return to the life of a librarian? Part-time? Full-time? A major change or a minor shift? Who knows? I certainly don't.

I recently told a friend I needed God to come down and smite me on the head for clarity. I'm not usually one to wonder and fret over what God wants me to do, but I've been fretting a lot lately and I need that to change.

So if anyone has a good job idea for an undecided former stay at home mom with a masters in libary science who really only wants to work about 20 hours a week and make really good money, could you shoot me an email or just reply to this post? 

Or maybe I should just buy a lottery ticket.

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Word of the Day

cheap

a:  of inferior quality or worth:  tawdry, sleazy <cheap workmanship>

b:  contemptible because of lack of any fine, lofty, or redeeming qualities <feeling cheap>

A word I learned early on to hate. 

I couldn't define it, but I knew what it meant. People who were cheap were valueless. Worthless. A waste of space and time. There was no fixing "cheap". It was a degenerative character analysis to be avoided at all cost.

But here's the thing about terms like "cheap", they're relative. One man's trash is another man's treasure. And that applies to people as well as things. So while the abusers in my life saw me as cheap, tawdry, sleazy, irredeemable, even contemptible, that didn't make any of those definitions permanent or even accurate. 

For years, I've fought to discover my value as a person. Is it determined by how much money I make annually? By how productive I am in a given time period? By my weight or my car or my house or my husband or my kids or how many "good works" I do?

Is my value based on how healthy I am (another variable definition)? What I choose to do for relaxation? What I eat or drink, or don't eat or don't drink?

The recurring answer I hear when I let myself relax and listen is this, I am not cheap. I am valuable because I am a person. A being made in the image of God. I exist because God has a purpose for me. I may never know or understand that purpose, but that doesn't change the fact of its existence. 

Lately, I've been praying a series of rules or daily offices or prayers (whatever you want to call them) and this line keeps standing out to me

Fulfill now, O Lord our desires and petitions as may be best for us,

     granting us in this world the knowledge of Your truth . . . 

I have chosen to trust in God's knowledge of me. I have chosen to trust that He knows what is best for me, regardless of what I ask. I believe God has much better things to do than worry about cheap people or stuff. If His desire is to hear from me and grant me the knowledge of His truth, then there's no way I'm cheap.

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The Last 5 Books . . .

I love to read! That being said, I'm not very good at writing reviews. I get bogged down in the minutiae, and I don't want to enforce my opinions on anyone else. However, I do love to know what other people are reading, so I'm figuring there are other like-minded people out there. Here's a list with a few comments on the last 5 books I've read.

1. Tiny Little Thing by Beatriz Williams

". . . the vodka, I've found, is a reliable refrigerant . . . "

This mashup of Mad Men and the Kennedys makes for a decent summer read. It doesn't require much from the reader. The characters, while familiar, do bring some interesting twists and turns. Tiny is at times likeable, although I wouldn't want to be her best friend.

2. The Minotaur by Barbara Vine (Ruth Rendell)

"But good looks are not just a matter of fine, regular features, copious hair, large eyes, and a supple figure, all of which they had, but of how a woman holds herself, turns her head, smiles, her consciousness of her appearance, and the air of beauty she carries with her."

Ruth Rendell was one of the grand dames of psychological mystery and crime fiction. She is perhaps best known for her Inspector Wexford series, but I have always been partial to pseudonymous Barbara Vine novels. Since her death this past May, I've been reading through those. The Minotaur was a real find. Set in England, but with a Swedish heroine. In typical Vine/Rendell fashion the story twists and turns like the labyrinth slowing drawing the reader closer to the minotaur. I particularly enjoyed the Swedish take on British culture.

3. The Girl in Between  by Laekan Zea Kemp

“People don’t exist in just the light or the dark. They exist in the contrast. In the shadows where the two overlap.” 

Young adult literature and Kindle publishing are a perfect pair in some ways. I ran across this book on some random list of free Kindle books and decided to give it a try. Although somewhat formulaic, there is an interesting premise. Bryn Reyes, the Girl, suffers from a little-known ailment called Klein-Levin Syndrome which causes its sufferers to sleep for extended periods of time. Bryn's is different though as she dreams her way through each episode as if in an alternate universe. Interesting read, although are teenagers really like this nowadays? Being YA lit and part #1, be prepared for an abrupt ending!

4. The Blood Doctor by Barbara Vine

"Someone -- was it T. S. Eliot? -- said that human beings can't stand too much reality."

This one had everything I love in a psychological mystery -- good characters with depth, history, flashbacks, and a medical mystery as well! A good, solid story that grew on me as I read. 

5. From Doon With Death by Barbara Vine

The first in the Inspector Wexford series, I felt compelled to read it as a Ruth Rendell aficionado. As I suspected, I'm really more of a Barbara Vine fan. I'll probably read a few more Wexfords to give him a fair chance, but I don't even remember much about the story and didn't make any notes in my reading journal (never a good sign!). 

So there you go. The last 5 books I've read. The most interesting thing to me is how quickly I've read them. All 5 in July! I've almost finished another one this week. Of course, I've been battling asthma for 5 weeks so that makes for lots of reading time.

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I Am: a poem

I Am

I am kind and compassionate
I wonder about tolerance and offense
I hear a fairy whisper in my ear
I see a tiny fairy village, filled with fairies, gnomes, hedgehogs, and mushrooms
I want a vacation all by myself in a wonderfully indulgent hotel by the ocean
I am kind and compassionate

I pretend that I have a storybook existence
I feel the fairy folk are caring
I touch a fairy ring
I worry the about the lack of kindness in the world
I cry over the world's pain --

"There is so much pain. And I-I-I don't know how to not notice it" 
I am kind and compassionate

I understand that everyone sees from their own perspective
I say kindness matters
I dream of old houses filled with forgotten possessions
I try to be productive and disciplined
I hope for kindness to come back into fashion
I am kind and compassionate

(you can create your own poem here)

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Coffee and Community

I am not a coffee drinker. 

This is a shocking revelation for many of you, but it's true. I'll drink a coffee drink on occasion (e.g. if there is no tea or soda option available). Coffee smells wonderful, but I can only drink it if it's loaded with real sugar and at least equal parts of milk.

But I do have a coffee story. A recent one. 

Earlier this week I attended a retreat of sorts. Led by Robert Benson it was titled "The Rule of Saint Whatever Your Name Is". It was inspirational. It was informative. It was thought provoking. It was exhausting.

Around 7 o'clock on Tuesday night as we were preparing for our final exercise for the day (and Robert was bemoaning the absence of espresso) we all began to express our overload of thoughts and feelings and desires. We were exhilarated but tired. Oh so tired. 

We scattered to our workstations to finish this last step in deconstructing our daily lives. The final day of the retreat was set aside for reconstructing, or sewing our lives back together. While we struggled and wrote, erased and wrote differently, Robert walked to the local Starbucks to pick up a double espresso. 

As we were questioning choices about life work, Robert was walking to Starbucks questioning his motives. Was he headed for espresso just for himself, or was this an act of prayer or community or renewal? Was it just work? 

He returned as we were completing the assignment ladened with 6 double espressos, 6 bottles of Pellegrino, and 4 bottles of San Pellegrino Sparkling Fruit Beverages. His desire (and need) for a restorative espresso led to an act of community by providing for us all! 

At that moment, coffee took on a whole new meaning. 

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Guilty?

"the disease of false guilt . . . the idea that what you feel must be true"

I felt guilty for most of my life. I wasn't sure what I was guilty of, but I knew I must be guilty of something because that was how I felt.

It's taken years of therapy to learn the concept of "false guilt". Feeling guilt is not evidence that I am guilty. In its healthiest form, guilt is a cognitive or an emotional experience that occurs when a person realizes that he or she has compromised his or her own standards of conduct or has violated a moral standard, and bears significant responsibility for that violation. So guilt helps us learn to accept responsibility for our mistakes -- that's a good thing. Unfortunately, false guilt leads us to take responsibility for anything that causes us to feel or assume guilt. So the abuse survivor feels guilty for what was done to her or him.

And guilt becomes a way of life. 

My kids used to say I felt responsible (guilty) for global warming. It was a joke rooted in truth. Anything, and I do mean anything, that went wrong I felt guilty about. People were using too many disposable diapers and paper towels? Clearly my fault. If I would just cut back the problem could be solved. 

My favorite TV show got cancelled? If I just hadn't missed those few episodes while I was taking care of my kids, going to church, helping someone out, or, God forbid, doing something for myself, clearly the show would have survived (and none of those actors, producers, camera operators, directors, make-up artists, etc. would still have jobs).

Man, that is a lot of guilt! No wonder I felt bogged down and driven to despair. Who wouldn't?

For survivors accepting guilt for the abuser's actions provides a false sense of safety. If it (the abuse) was my fault to begin with, clearly I can keep it from happening again. I was in control. I let it happen, so I can stop it from happening again. Magical thinking. 

If I recognize that it wasn't my fault, but rather the abuser's fault, then I've lost my safety mechanism. See? It's a warped perspective that functions as self-preservation. The problem is, it's a lie. I can't keep someone else from committing a crime. I can (as an adult) strive to create a safe environment that raises my chances of avoiding another attack, but even as an adult I can't eliminate the possibility of something bad happening.

Letting go of feeling guilty is one of the hardest shifts for most survivors. I know it has been for me. But, it's also the truest path to becoming a survivor.

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A Spring Bucket List

I like the idea of a bucket list as long as I can view it as suggestions and not absolutes. I don't want to be forced into doing something, fail, and feel guilty for failing. Okay, so maybe I still have some issues to work on. With that proviso, here's my list.

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1. Clean out and restock my bird feeders. Every year I do a finch sock, songbird feeder, and a hummingbird feeder. I enjoy watching them throughout the spring, summer, and fall.

2. Plant some daffodil bulbs. I know they won't bloom this year, but I keep meaning to do this because they are my favorite flower and I don't have any in my yard.

3. Create a fairy garden.  My bff sent me this picture and I now I really want one.

4. Lay on a quilt in the grass. It sounds a bit silly, but it's something I love doing, but rarely take the time to make it happen.

6. Ride my bike at least once a week. I got a new bike right before all the snow and ice hit us this winter. I've been out on it several times already, and I want to keep it up.

7. Read some non-intellectual literature. Not necessarily bad lit, just casual and relaxed. Suggestions?

8. Sort through my spring clothes and create some new looks. 

9. Finish up those spring sewing projects before summer gets here.

10. Drive with the top down as much as possible. Still loving my Fiat convertible.

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No one ever asked

Write a blog post that ends with the line: No one ever asked me.

When I started this blog my plan was to write about the abuse and healing in a way that would help other people. I hope that's been true, but it's really been about helping myself. The more I get it out there and the more positive feedback I get about getting it out there, the less alone I feel.

I spent a lot of years walking around in a fog, pretending (unconsciously) to be something I wasn't. I was striving so hard for perfection that I wasn't really living. Not connecting with myself, so it was impossible to truly connect with anyone else. I even had a friend tell me later in life that he was always so impressed with me because I was so poised. Apparently I was a better actress than I thought I was, because I was doing a good job of fooling the people around me.

Part of my problem was I needed permission to share my story. The abusers had locked it away inside of me. Some with overt threats. Others with implied threats. And over time it just became a given that I wasn't supposed to tell. What few bits and pieces I shared were dismissed or ignored as unimportant, so there was no hope of anyone believing the really bad stuff. I put it away in a box in the back of mind and conveniently "forgot" about it, because it wasn't going to be addressed until I felt someone really wanted to know, but no one ever asked me.

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Tricks, No Treats

 A time you were tricked.

For good or ill Mama Kat's prompts frequently remind me of my childhood. I read the list of prompts for this week and was immediately struck by number 1 - A time you were tricked. It wasn't a single time, but rather lots of times.
Tricks and games are the stock in trade of abusers. They set me up, lured me, tricked me into believing a game was afoot, to relax me or wear me out, and then BAM, they'd lower the boom.

The clearest memory and example I have of this happened the day of the barn incident. 

It is after lunch, and we are sent outside to play. It's a hot, early summer day. Her idea is that I should chase her around the yard to see if I can catch her. We run in a circle -- past the swing set, across the carport, through the front yard, and back into the backyard past the swing set again. 

It is hot and humid. A better time for a nap than a game of chase. We run in circles. She is older than I am by 5 years, so there is no way I can catch her. I am sweating and tiring, but I keep chasing, because it is what she has asked (told) me to do. At some point I realize that if I am chasing her in a circle, it could be reasoned that she is chasing me. That I am the prey. But that concept won't become fully formed until much later in my life.

Eventually she changes the path, turning to run into the barn -- the shade with an invitation of a truce, a cooling off period. I follow like a lamb led to slaughter. It is a trick. I have been tricked and fallen for it again. There was no "game" being played. There was merely an execution of her plan. Wear me out and down, and then lure me to the barn to "cool off". Exhaust me so that she can torture me more easily. Assure my compliance(?) or at least lower my ability to resist.

I think about tricks, pranks, practical jokes. As an adult I've never liked them. I feel belittled and betrayed when I am on the receiving end. When it's not me who's been tricked, I feel sympathy and pain for the one who has been. 

Being tricked is like being lied to and then expected to laugh about it. Tricks are lies in disguise, and I don't do lies.

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The Best Kind of Day

You can go back to your childhood for one day. What day and age do you choose?

To quote Joyce Summers, "My, that's a terrible thought."

I pick a day in mid-spring the year I was 4. It's before the awful started. Before I knew to be afraid. Before I knew bad things could happen to me.

I am at my grandparents' house. I stay with my great-grandmother while everyone else is at work. She has chores to do, but she includes me in all of them. We bake biscuits together. She lets me have my own lump of dough to roll out all by myself. I sneak little bites of the dough. We place biscuits on the little black baking sheets, and I play with my doll while Nur gets the rest of our meal ready.

Later we will wash clothes and hang them on the line to dry. We'll take a walk through the back field and go home to pull off the briars that have stuck to my socks. Maybe we'll play Old Maid. But through it all, I will hum and sing and smile and dance, because I know I am loved. I know I am safe, because nothing bad has ever happened to me.

Emily Webb in "Our Town", after she has died, asks to go back for just one day. Mrs. Gibbs says, "No!—At least, choose an unimportant day. Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough." Emily chooses her 12th birthday, but she can't bear it, saying, "All that was going on in life and we never noticed."

So I choose an unimportant day. A day when life was so normal. The best kind of day to remember.

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Shattered

Write a blog post inspired by the word: shattered

I had a meeting yesterday morning. It was supposed to be one of those 30 minute meetings to go over and finish up the details from a previous meeting. It turned into something very different.

Last summer I agreed to participate in a PhD study on lectio divina -- in short the practice of reading and meditating on scripture. This is something I've been interested in for some time. I've gone to a few workshops and retreats. I liked the idea that my practice might benefit someone else -- I'm altruistic that way.

Yesterday I met with the PhD candidate (MC) to go over my journaling from the experience and to give him the opportunity to ask me some follow up questions. I felt that I had let him down by not doing as well with the practice as I had hoped, thus providing less data for his research.

MC asked me an open ended question when I got there -- What hindered me from going further with the lectio divina? I knew the short answer, but I wasn't prepared to go that route. The longer, more accurate answer was going to open up a lot of my past and require me to verbalize a lot of what the abuse did to my relationship with God. I asked him if he was prepared for a winding, long winded answer, and he was.

That began a nearly 2 hour conversation about God, our representation of Him, insular societies, secret keeping, understanding how my past colors my perceptions, and how Christians show the true character of God to others.

I didn't say anything I didn't already know about myself and my history, but I did experience that strange epiphany that comes with verbalizing thoughts. There is a clarity that comes from saying or writing out thoughts in complete sentences and paragraphs that doesn't come from random thoughts and ruminations. MC said it himself to me, "Your journal was in phrases, and you're not a phrase kind of person." It's true. I write and talk in paragraphs, but when I looked back at what I'd shared with him, it was all phrases and incomplete thoughts. I had edited myself out of fear that he would not understand, agree with, or validate my complete feelings. And it's scary to think some things through to their ultimate conclusions.

What does this have to do with the prompt -- shattered? I believe I shattered a stronghold or a wall yesterday. I completed a lot of sentences about my true feelings and beliefs about myself and God and how the abuse impacted (impacts) my daily life and inner conversations. 

There's a lot more demolishing to do. 

The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. -- 2 Cor. 10:4 (NIV)


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New Year's Eve

3. If the way you spent your New Year’s Eve is any indication of how the rest of the year will go, how would you say your future is looking right about now?

Given that I can't even remember what I did on New Year's Eve, that should tell you something about this post!

I know I spent the day with my daughter doing fun, girly things -- shopping, lunch, and mani/pedis. That was great.

I know that I was at home that night with my husband and son. We drank some sparkling grape juice and went to bed by 10:30, but that's it. I've got nothing else. No special foods or activities. Just a normal evening and then bed.

I'm choosing to see that as a positive. I spent time with people I like, doing things I enjoy. And still got to bed on time. WINNING!

I'm a bit like Mama Kat on the whole NYE thing. When I was in college I developed an aversion to NYE after 2 tragic events occurred on 2 concurrent years. The first year, a friend's grandfather committed suicide, and the second year, 2 sisters I was in school with were hit and killed by a drunk driver on New Year's Day while the sisters were on their way to church.

So, no, I don't want to go out and party. I don't want to go out at all. I don't have people over because I don't want my friends out driving on NYE. I don't like to drink and I don't want to start the new year feeling grungy and foggy from too much food or drink, and too little sleep.

I am an introvert, remember?

Based on this information, I'm hoping my upcoming year will be peaceful and spent with those I care about the most.

Blessings.


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Uhm, no?

1.) List your top 6 biggest fears, choose one and tell us why.
2.) Whose fault was it?
3.) Share a favorite recipe.
4.) Something you're reading.
5.) Write about a wardrobe malfunction.

Dear Mama Kat,

I just can't get my head around any of these.

1. I don't want to talk about my top 6 biggest fears. I can't narrow them down to 6 and certainly not to 1!
2. Clearly it was their fault. I could name them all, but I don't want to get sued.
3. I usually do that on Mondays, so don't mess with my blogging schedule.
4. I can tell you what I'm reading, but I just got started so that doesn't sound like a much of a post (Something Other Than God by Jennifer Fulwiler).
5. Well there was that one time when I was pregnant with my first child that I came out of the ladies room with my dress tucked into the back of my undies, but let's not go there!

So thanks for the prompts this week. Maybe I'll do a better job next week.

Warmest regards,
Melanie


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A Girl's Best Friend

This is Dahlia (daylia). She was my first ever Christmas doll. I was about 18 months old when I got her. That same Christmas, Santa brought me a little red rocking chair as well (which I still have).

My mother says that I walked right up to her, picked her up and sat down in the chair and began to rock and sing to her.

She was my constant companion. By the time I'd had her a little more than a year, we had to restuff her body, as I had loved her flat! I remember sitting in my grandparent's living room (we were living with them at the time) with my mother. She explained that she was the doctor and I was the nurse and we were going to operate on Dahlia. It was all very serious. We plumped her up with cotton balls!

For years she was half bald, because I carried her around by her hair.

Once when I was in high school, I came home from some activity to find Dahlia sitting on the mantel in a new dress. My mother had been home alone and made Dahlia some new clothes -- just because.

A few years ago I found a doll repair specialist and turned Dahlia over to her with very specific instructions. 

It was a lot like leaving a child alone at the hospital. What was I thinking? What was SHE thinking?

A couple of weeks later my husband picked her up and I dressed her in the new outfit I had bought for her.

I love her just as much now as I did that first time I saw her. She now sits at the foot of my bed with other beloved folks. She is a treasure!

(this is a repost from 10/1/10)

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Ringing in the New Year

We are not big New Year's Eve people. Let me rephrase -- we are not New Year's Eve people. We are usually lazing on the sofa thinking of bed by 8:30 or 9:00.

Personally I've never understood the hoopla. The new year will come whether I'm there to greet it or not. I don't judge those who enjoy partying. If anything I'm a bit envious, but I just don't care enough to feel that badly the next day. And I'm an introvert. Crowds . . . {shiver}!

Tuesday night we ate dinner and lounged around on the sofa until our son came in around 8:30. Earlier in the day we had gotten the obligatory bottle of champagne and a couple of other items at the liquor store -- did I mention we don't really drink either?

We decided to save the champagne for mimosas on New Year's Day, but broke out the rum for some tropical beverages. Here's the thing, the pineapple thingy I tried was pretty good, except for that aftertaste that burned up in my nose. Oh yeah, that's the rum!

Shortly after this beverage I developed a terrible headache. Hmmmmm???? Anywho we were in bed shortly after 10 as per usual.

New Year's Day we were up and about close to our usual time. Puttering and chatting. I made us a our traditional New Year's Day lunch of cornbread & black eye peas, and this year switched up our spinach salad for sauteed kale and garlic (which I ruined, but let's not go there!), and we had a small batch of barbecued Little Smokies. And mimosas. Which were pretty good, except for the alcohol taste. 

This was the point at which my daughter looked at me (did I mention the sweet red wine we tried the night before?) and said, "I think the problem is we don't like alcohol." 

And here's the funny thing. I grew up in a tee-totaling environment. Absolutely no alcohol. I married a man who grew up with an alcoholic parent, so we've avoided alcohol. So I've always wanted to want to drink. It seems so grownup and sophisticated. But I just don't like it. I'm more of a sparkling grape juice and La Croix/orange juice kind of girl. 

So after experimenting this year, next year we'll go back to our usual sparkling juices for toasting in the new year. But it will still happen long before midnight.

Happy New Year!

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This Time Last Year . . .

I wrote a piece last year called Collision.  I had been writing a lot about the tension in attempting to set new boundaries with my extended family. It made for a very difficult summer, but that's a recurring theme in my life -- difficult summers.

So what's different this year? In some ways nothing. Nothing's been resolved, but I don't seem to be struggling with the emotions in the same way. I still want to make everyone come to a happy agreement on everything . . . I just realize, now, it's not going to happen. Working on those expectations is tough stuff.

I interact with family members as infrequently as possible. I know they are annoyed and possibly even hurt, but I also know there is nothing I can do to fix it. I know that I am healthier for the choices I have made. 

I'd still like to have that Norman Rockwell family, where people are kind to each other, believing and supporting one another through difficult times, and providing an open and honest exchange of ideas. It's just not going to happen with these people in this lifetime.

I send them informative emails about things they need to know. I even occasionally send an email just to check on them. They send me notice of their travel plans, and whose died recently that I might want to know about. Sometimes there's a tone in their emails, but I try to keep mine strictly factual -- no sarcasm, accusations, or snarkiness. Just the facts, ma'am.

The one remaining constant though, is a deep and abiding sadness. Sadness about the events that brought me to these choices. Sadness that I don't have that Norman Rockwell (of Hallmark, if you prefer) family. Sadness that it can't be fixed to my liking, and maybe a tinge of guilt, still. I know it's not my fault, but if only, if only . . . 

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Currently.

Reading: According to my Goodreads account, I'm reading 4 books right now. Storm Front (a novel on my Kindle). The Girl with No Shadow (listening to on my iPod). Mom in the Mirror (which requires me to think and answer questions at the end of each chapter). And one thousand gifts (I can't even remember when I started this or how I got bogged down with it.)

Listening to: my yoga station on Pandora because it keeps me calm and motivated while doing housework. But in the car, especially if it's a top down kind of day (the convertible . . . get your mind out of the gutter) it's The Monkees' Greatest Hits cd that stays in my car so I can relive my youth at a moment's notice.

Thinking about: too much! I've got my stuff. My husband's stuff. My daughter's stuff. My son's stuff. Housework. Crafting. Blogging. Vacation plans. Cooking. Entertaining. I tried to explain it to my husband last night. How there's always something to bring on the stress. He just doesn't get it! 

Watching: Psych. I know I'm late to the game, but I just love those boys (listen to me sounding like a little old lady!). I've also been re-watching Life. I think it was criminal that the show got axed. I love those characters. At night the hubs, daughter and I catch an episode of Doctor Who. Yeah I know I'm late on that one too!

Bummed out on: allergy season which is lasting all summer this year. Seriously impeding my pool time. It's hard to get motivated to go swim laps even with the promise of lazing in the sun with a good book afterwards, when you can't breathe and snore all night long, thus being kicked and prodded by your husband who you're keeping awake.

Loving: having SO much conversational time with the whole family. Who knew having both the kids at home this summer would lead to such great conversation! At 23 and 20, I'm guessing this could be our last summer together in the house. So I'm relishing each conversation, especially when there is no arguing involved.

So that's my "Currently" for today. What's your "Currently" looking like?

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15 Reasons I'm Awesome

Anyone who really knows me, knows this is a tough assignment for me! But I'm giving it my best shot with a little help from a recent status update my husband put on Facebook.

1. I'm a survivor. I lived through some pretty tough stuff as a kid without anyone knowing about it. 

2. I can prepare a simple, yet tasty dinner for guests with only 30 minutes notice. It won't be Martha Stewart, but it will be nutritious, yummy, and frequently attractive.

3. I can make lists like you wouldn't believe. Grocery lists, menu lists, cleaning lists, organizing lists, book lists, craft lists. It's the implementing I get stuck on.

4. I can sing. I did theater in high school and college, and even a little opera. My father-in-law was horrified when he found out my own plans for using this talent would be singing lullabies to my kids. 

5. I love learning. You know how some people spend hours on Pinterest? For me it's Wikipedia.

6. I have an awesome vocabulary evidenced by the recent use of detritus in casual conversation.

7. I can replace an empty toilet paper roll while using the restroom (this skill alludes my entire family).

8. I taught myself to crochet maybe 4 years ago, and can't stop doing it now.

9. I make prayer beads even though I was raised in a conservative Protestant home, and I use them as well. So far I have not spontaneously combusted.

10. I am a fount of random, generally useless knowledge. Hitler drove a red Mercedes to one of his first political rallies. See?

11. Even though I love to read, I avoided actually reading most of the classics by reading the summaries in my dad's copy of Masterplots (this gels with #5).

12. I have 30 + varieties of tea in my cabinet right now.

13. I sleep with a stuffed bunny named Yolie every night. (This may or may not be a reflection of how awesome my husband is, since he puts up with it!)

14. I am able to remember that dirty dishes go to the left of the sink, while clean dishes go on the right.

15. Rumor has it that I am brave, intuitive, sincere, generous, perceptive, wise, self aware, funny, compassionate, and warm (but I'm not sure I buy into all of those).

What are super-awesome skills?


linking up with Writer's Workshop

Validation

Validation is a huge part of recovery. Initially I sought validation from others. I tried talking with family members -- checking their memories of events. Any time they remembered even a small piece of the puzzle it helped me have a little more faith in my own memories. Validation = To establish the soundness of; corroborate. Synonyms --confirm.

So when my sister remembered the night I threw up at my cousin's house, it helped. When my dad volunteered that his uncle's whiskey of choice was Jack Daniels, it helped. When my mother suggested the name of an abuser I could only describe, it helped.

But validation comes in other forms as well. When I called and emailed the girlfriend of one abuser, and she wouldn't respond to me, my counselor showed me the validation in that. I figured she just didn't remember me. His take was different. Maybe I had scared the s**t out of her, because she thought I was going to "out" her.

Ultimately, validation, has to come from myself. I can't spend my whole life waiting for someone else to confirm my own memories for me. Validation is about trusting myself. Trusting my memories. Trusting my motivations. 

It's a long and curving road to that level of validation. I'm further down that road than I used to be, but I can quite see the end just yet.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Replicated

So Mama Kat wants to hear the story of my birth.

To be honest I don't really remember it. Hardy, har, har!

Lots of people have stories they've heard all their lives about being born. There is a scene in the movie Signs where Mel Gibson's character recounts the birth of each child to comfort his children as they await impending doom. The stories are life affirming and perfect for each child's personality.

But that's the movies.

Here's what I've been told about the night I was born.

When my mother came around after delivering me (this was back in the days where they knocked women out completely), she asked my dad what they'd had. He said a little girl who weighed 8 lbs. and 11 oz. She passed out again. The next time she asked the nurse and got the same answer. Being a little more coherent she asked what year it was. Her confusion stemmed from the fact that when my sister was born 2 1/2 years earlier she had received the same information. Yes my sister and I weighed the exact same thing at birth. That's my mother's story.

My father tells of driving home from the hospital in the early morning hours after my birth and driving past a horrific car accident. Once he got home all he could think about were the people in the wreck and all the blood he had seen. So apparently my birth was surpassed by someone else's tragedy. 

So there you have it the stories of my birth. Inauspicious beginnings. Being mistaken for my sister by my own mother, and causing my father to be traumatized.

It's been the story of my life!

linking up with Writer's Workshop