Trapeze

Therapy was good today. Why was it so good? We went surprising places. And going to surprising places is what brings me further along on my journey.

At first we talked about my last blog post, about feeling that I'm home now. She said she thought it sounded like someone who was content with herself and where she was. Content. That is a place where a person could experience the highs and lows of life, all the happys and the sads, and still know that she is fine. Content is where a person could know she will get through the bad times and appreciate the good times for as long as they last.

Then I told her what I was thinking of writing about today: how I feel weird feeling so good, how I don't trust it, how I'm more than a little bit afraid of it. That's what connected content with surprising places. Because how and why would any person be afraid of feeling good, of feeling happy?

Well, it comes from learning experiences. Several times in my life, just when things were getting better after having been difficult, or when things were going very, very well, I have been hit by a major trauma: my father died, my brother died, my mother was diagnosed with metastasized lung cancer. There have been others, but these were, of course, the worst. My therapist said that post-trauma personalities are always prepared for the worst to happen because they know not only that it could happen but that it will happen. So how can I trust the good feelings won't just blow up into something horrible again?

In addition, there's the fact that I have struggled with anxiety and/or depression for most of my life. As I discussed in an earlier post, I have been having to work on not identifying myself with the depression or with the anxiety. But for a long time, they did become part of my identity, so this feeling good, this happiness, is something new and different (especially from the past couple of years) and it is unfamiliar.

Being Home

It's funny, calling this apartment home. It has just been "the apartment" rather than "my home" for most of the time I've lived here. But somehow it's changed.  The change isn't just the framed doily on the wall. After all, there is still clutter I have to deal with all over (yes, my organizer would be a little disappointed, but it's not too bad). There are still 3 plastic totes that I need to sort through and organize. 

The apartment is still beige, except for the doily and the large photo of a yellow hibiscus a good friend gave to me a few years ago and the three smaller photos of purple flowers my BFF gave to my mom when she was sick.

My sofa is still black leather with no slipcover, but my Ikea chair is now in unbleached cotton rather than black. And I have to wash the unbleached ottoman cover because I use it as a table and it's a trifle used-looking.

The Oregon Coast isn't home anymore. That's kind of weird, too, except that neither I nor my mother live there anymore. So it's a place I love where some friends of mine live. Seattle, oddly enough, is still home, as much as I was glad to leave it over a decade ago. That's probably because people I love live there, people who I deem family and who have me there for Christmas and who I've known for a very long time. And because enough time has passed that the dislike I built up toward the city has dissipated. I don't know when that happened.

As much as I enjoyed staying with my friends for Thanksgiving and as comfortable as I was there, I am very glad to be back to my own space. This was not always the case. I mean, here I am alone with no one to play with. (My Houston friends are completely different from my Dallas friends and my Seattle friends.) I'm in an apartment that until recently did not feel like home. But now I feel I am home and I don't feel lonely: I am a text or an IM or a phone call away from many people.

Thanks

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving today, here at my friends' house. Her parents came to it and we had several dishes to choose from, as well as a salad that only the guys ate any of because we women were too full before we remembered the salad! It was a wonderful meal and I didn't make a pig of myself. Still ended up in a food coma and had to take a nap. I'm still a bit out of it. Luckily, my friends are feeling quiet and full, so we are just hanging out on our respective computers, not feeling we need to be terribly social.

While my life has been difficult for the past couple of years (plus), there is also much to be thankful for. I have the money to live on as I job hunt. I have been gathering contacts while I've been hunting and I've got a couple of recruiters on my team now. I am open to more possibilities for work than I was previously, and even open to moving if the work pays enough and is stable enough. I'm even open to moving back to Seattle, but not quite yet. 

I am thankful for my friends from all over, most of whom I've met over the interwebz. I am lucky to have each and every one of them. I am fortunate to have so many people interested in how I'm doing, reading and commenting on my blog, emailing me, demonstrating their, and your, caring in a variety of ways. I no longer feel alone, even if I am still mostly solitary at home. Contact is just an email, a comment, an IM, or a Skype away. Or even — gasp! — a phone call. And I'm lucky in the few local friends I have, too, and with whom I can occasionally have lunch or a snack with.

Memories of Mom: Happy Birthday, Mom!

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

Well, I don't have any one story to tell today; I've told you all the best that I can remember right now. Instead, I'll just sum up the day, provide a few vignettes, and maybe tell you just a little bit more about Mom.

I had therapy today. I took with me pictures of my mom and we talked about Mom and how I was feeling. I'm feeling kind of neutral, but I think that's a touch deceptive. I think there is more there than I am currently feeling. There's sadness underneath, which is to be expected. And I'm feeling a bit irritable and easily annoyed. But it was a good therapy session.

I have little pictures in my mind of my mom. When I was little and she was trying to play whiffle-ball with my little brother, me, and Dad. Unfortunately for my mom, there wasn't a sport she played where she didn't end up bending a finger back further than it was supposed to go. Frisbee, volleyball, even whiffle-ball with a couple of little kids.

When wigs were popular in the 70s, Mom had one that was in a tight perm and was kind of silvery blonde. We all called her "Fifi" when she wore it because she looked like a poodle, only she didn't realize it. Then she saw the pictures from the Halloween when my little brother wanted to be dressed up "like a hooker" and he and I used Mom's wig, among other things of hers. She never wore that wig again. Or the mini-dress that my brother wore with it.

Then she wore her blonde hair in a cut that, with her golden wire-framed glasses, made her look like John Denver. 

Memories of Mom: A Mother-Daughter Bonding Experience (Rerun)

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

(Originally posted Tuesday, October 28, 2008 and was rerun on March 29, 2011 by request. It seemed appropriate for this series)

WARNING: This post contains adult content and references to genitalia, sex toys, and batteries. Read at your own discretion. If you are under 18, just lie and tell your folks that you didn't read it.

Don't blame me: there was a request for it!

My mom was helping me pack today, and we were discovering that there was a lot more to do than I had thought there was. And we had less time to do it in. So there was some back-and-forth comments, as is usual, some mild bickering.

Then came a knock on the door. It wasn’t until I was almost to the door that I realized what it had to be: my delivery from Babeland.com. Early. Usually UPS doesn’t deliver in my area until late afternoon or early evening (it’s a long story and an even longer way from anything resembling an airport). So when I made my order, I figured it would arrive after my mom was gone.

Nope.

The rectangular package was only as long as the distance from my elbow to the end of my fingers. Mom came out of the bedroom, where she had been sorting and packing my clothing, and asked “What is it?”

Memories of Mom: Painted

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

When I bought my house in Oregon, it was a bank repossession and it was in bad condition. The floors had been trashed. The wrong materials had been used in the bathroom tub surround and the wood joists around it had all rotted; the bathroom had to be gutted. The fireplace was not in good enough shape to be a working wood-burning fireplace. Most of the little wall-insert heaters were situated behind doors and were also from the years that had been recalled due to fire danger. Because the house was being bought with a remodeling loan on top of the mortgage, the bank insisted that the tiny, aluminum, 1960s windows in the bedrooms be replaced with windows that allowed egress according to current building codes. A lot of work had to be done before I could even live in it in the barest form, much less in comfort. 

But work went along and the bathroom became a thing of beauty (but that's for another story). I worked as the general contractor for the work, with a contractor friend working as the main contractor. Lots of extra things came along, as things do, and it wasn't until December that I was up to putting in new flooring and painting the walls and ceilings.

This is when my mom surprised me. Never before had she shown any interest in doing this sort of work. She paid to have someone repaint the walls in her own home. But she wanted to help me paint my house. So I let her.

I had painted before; I'd completely scraped and repainted the exterior of my previous house. I had done a lot of research before that to make sure I knew what I was doing. My mom had never so much as held a paintbrush. I just made sure to cover anything that needed covering. The floor was still old linoleum that would soon be covered with floating plank flooring (Mom paid for someone to lay the floor in the living room and kitchen for me, so they would be done at least), so it didn't need covering thank goodness. The amount of paint that ended up on that floor was tremendous and I have to say that only some of it was my fault.

Memories of Mom: Turning 21

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

Mom was 21 when I was born, so she was only 42 when I turned 21. Because it was a big-deal birthday for me, she drove over the snow-covered mountain pass (after driving over the snow-covered eastern side of the state) to take me out for my birthday, which fell on a Thursday. My friends were all taking me out on Friday, then my aunts and uncles who lived in the area, and my mom and I, were celebrating my birthday on Saturday.

I had moved out of the dorms to live in an apartment in the winter of my junior year of college. (Big mistake, but what the hell.) I was living in a tiny, tiny studio apartment — basically a bathroom, a kitchen, and a bedroom — that was not exactly the dream of every mother for their child's first, or any, home. When my mom went to use the restroom, she almost fell over because the floor was tilted at that spot. There was a bathtub, no shower. The pipes underneath the bathroom sink were rusted. But it was as clean as I could make it. And I was only 21.

So Mom met me at my apartment after I got home from classes. She got to meet the apartment, most of which she kept her mouth closed about (my aunt had been coaching her on how to react to your child's first home, which was bound to have something horribly wrong with it and at least I kept it clean). She couldn't help but shriek about the tilted floor though. And she wasn't thrilled by the "doorbell", which was a string that hooked to a bell on the inside window molding, went out through a hole in the window frame, then down to a loop at about head height outside. Basically, it wasn't a place I'd want my own kid, if I had one, to live. But it was my first place and I was very proud of it. (And I moved back into the dorms the following year; living alone was lonely!)

Since there wasn't anything to do around my apartment, no TV or radio even, and it wasn't the most comfortable place in the world, we went to dinner early. And my mom proceeded to get me drunk.

Memories of Mom: In the Middle

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

When I was living in Oregon, my mom sometimes had the unenviable position of being stuck between my grandma and me. Gram and I loved each other very much, but she had a very narrow viewpoint of life, was critical of everything that didn't fit within it, and when she was angry with me for transgressing these things, she would let my mom know about it. She also let me know about it, but she expected my mom to actually do something about it. This put pressure on my mom and when I occasionally complained to her about Gram, she let me know how difficult she found her position in the middle. So I endeavored to not put her there anymore.

Sometimes all three of us would go into the valley to Salem together to shop and have lunch. We didn't often get to go together because I worked and my Gram often got too tired, so it was always a treat when we managed it. Mom always insisted that Gram and I choose where to eat, hoping to avoid problems there, and Gram and I took turns choosing, to be fair.

One time we went to Salem and before lunchtime came, we had to decide where to eat. Now, Gram was becoming extremely picky by that time and didn't always like to eat just any place. So I offered to let her choose, but she insisted that it was my turn to choose, so I chose The Fish House. They had things other than fish, so Gram could have her choice, but they did specialize in seafood. Gram said that was fine.

Until we got to the restaurant. Then she complained that she didn't want fish, that she'd had fish recently and she didn't like to eat fish that often. Even as we sat down with our menus, both Mom and I told her that we could eat elsewhere.

Memories of Mom: The Wine Fairy

My mom was a very welcoming person, especially as she got a little older and more comfortable with herself. My friends always fell in love with her and enjoyed spending time with her.

One time, when I was in my mid- to late-20s, I took my two best girlfriends with me to visit my mom and her husband for the weekend. It was about a five-hour drive, so I didn't take people over often, and this was my girlfriends' first visit.

It was summer and quite hot out (Mom lived in Eastern Washington then, which is a high-altitude desert), so on Saturday we girls got into our shorts and lay on the back lawn to catch some sun. We hadn't been out there that long when it began to rain. Rainstorms in the summer in that area mean thunder and lightning, and with most things being brown and dry in the summer, lightning means fires. It wasn't long before the police scanner began squawking out news of various wildfires. We could see the smoke from many of them as some of them headed north toward our neighborhood. It was turning out to be a more exciting day than I had planned for my friends.

So, changed into more suitable clothing for the sudden drop in temperature, we stood in the living room watching the storm move down the Columbia River Gorge, watching the wildfires, and listening to the police scanner.

My mom and her husband liked wine. I liked wine. My girlfriends liked wine. So Mom poured all of us glasses and we sipped while we watched Mother Nature's entertainment for the afternoon. 

The thing about the wine was that our glasses were never empty. My glass got close to empty a time or two, but then I'd pick it up and it would be full again. Same thing happened with my girlfriends. We never actually saw my mom filling our or each others' glasses, but we sometimes heard them being filled. The next thing we knew, we had full glasses again. This led to a series of photos that in turn led to a series of threats about if they ever saw the light of day. (I need to find those ....)

Thus began the legend of The Wine Fairy, who would magically keep your wine glass full, even in the face of thunderstorms and wildfires. Ever after that weekend, my girlfriends would ask about The Wine Fairy, not "how's your mom?" 

The Wine Fairy abilities are apparently not heritable, because while I can keep your wine glass full, you'll always see me doing so. 

Memories of Mom: Gin!

To see the reason for my writing this "Memories of Mom" series, see the first post in the series.

My mom did not sew or knit or or even cook very well when I was a kid, so I didn't learn any of those traditionally female activities (although I really wish I'd learned to sew). She did teach me how to clean house and do the laundry, both of which I was grateful for when I got older, but they just weren't mother-daughter bonding activities.

Until I hit eight or nine, we really didn't do much in a parent-child sort of way other than the usual go on vacation, go shopping (which neither of us enjoyed), go to Disneyland as a family, etc. But nothing just us.

Then she decided I was old enough to learn to play cards. Perhaps my father had grown tired of being beaten by her because I didn't see her playing with him. Her game of choice was gin rummy.

When she was teaching me, she took her time and showed me which cards to play and why and how to play competitively. Then, once I had the basics down, her killer instincts kicked in and it was no longer Ms. Nice Mom. If I hadn't already learned not to cry when I lost a game, I'd have learned it quickly then.

She beat me — at cards — six ways from Sunday on a regular basis. No playing nice or letting me win. I had to learn and catch up on my own. And I did. Oh, I didn't achieve her ability to completely annihilate the other player: I don't think I have that killer instinct. But I started winning more often. Not as often as she did, but more than before. And I could see my progress, so I figured eventually I might get as good as her.

There was nothing she loved so much as slamming down her last card and shouting "Gin!" at the top of her lungs. Then she cackled her evil laugh. For such a sweet-looking, mild-mannered lady, she could be as evil as they come.

Memories of Mom: It Wasn't Very Funny at the Time

This is the second installment in the "good memories of Mom" project recommended by Judy, Judy, Judy to offset the unhappy memories that have been cycling through my memory lately. Mom's birthday is next Monday, which is probably why these thought-vultures have been circling. This series of good memories is the antidote. I've only just started, but it seems to be working.

From the time I was five until I was 12, my family and my aunt and uncle's family went car camping at a manmade lake in Northern California, on the border with Nevada, somewhat south of Lake Tahoe. We shared a boat and the vacation essentially consisted of parking our truck and camper and their camper-trailer in connecting campsites and spending our days on the other side of the lake, boating and water-skiing and generally goofing around. 

When I was younger, it was great fun, but as I grew older, it grew a bit tiresome on occasion. I was the only girl among a brother and a couple of cousins and, on our last 2 trips a half-brother as well. And I just did not relate to my mom or my aunt, but I usually was left in their company because ours was a very gender-stratified family. And the guys got to spend more time with the boat and do more fun things, to my way of thinking.

At the time of this story, I was 11 or 12. It was a windy day and we'd spent quite a bit of time and effort weighting down the ties for the tarp so the adults could sit in the shade. (They simply slathered us kids with sunscreen and hoped for the best.) My aunt had her small dog with her, a chihuahua-mix of some sort, and it was quite nervous about the flapping of the tarp when the wind gusted through.

A little after lunch, the guys took the boat out. The were going to ski around to other parts of the lake and generally goof off with the boat for awhile. But usually they were back within an hour or so. Not so this day.

Memories of Mom: the War of Water

My friend Judy,Judy,Judy gave me a lovely idea in her comment on my most recent post: to post good memories of my mom every day for awhile — until her birthday I think would be best — to offset the negative ones I've been remembering from just before she died. So here's today's good memory of Mom.

Mom was always the "grown-up" in the family, because my dad could be such a kid. It was always Mom who said "look out" and "be careful" and "are you sure you should ...". So when she let her inner child out to play, it was always a surprise and so much fun.

I grew up in So. Cal. We had a swimming pool from the time I was ten. We lived in a tract ranch-style house with sliding glass doors that led out to the backyard and the pool. One day while Mom had just finished washing the dishes in the sink (pre-dishwasher time), my dad said something to her. I don't know what it was, but she grabbed the sprayer next to the kitchen faucet, turned on the water, and let my dad have it! He was drenched.

Undeterred, Dad headed for the backyard and the faucet back there. Mom, meanwhile, filled a plastic cup with water and sent one of us kids out to throw it on my dad: my brother and I were entirely flexible about whose side we were on at any given time during a water fight. 

Mom and Dad proceeded to drench each other, us two kids, and parts of the house before deciding that the amount of water on the floor indoors and the cement outdoors was becoming hazardous. Then we all bent to the task of cleaning up.

There was no clear winner in the War of Water, but it has always filled me with wonder and laughter that my mom, the grown-up of the family, started the water fight, especially from the kitchen. She may have been the grown-up, but she had a tremendously mischievous inner child!

Early Warning System

In just over a week, it will be my mom's birthday. I don't know yet how I feel; last year was really rough, as most of you know. I figured I'd tell people about it now, just in case, rather than waiting until the last minute.

I haven't been thinking about her any more than usual, but most of my thoughts revolve around her final couple of weeks. I still get very angry toward her doctors for not paying more attention to what we were telling them and for not asking more questions. I get angry that there was no one watching out for her on the medical end — I didn't know what questions to ask or what to say other than what I did ask and say. And yet no one paid enough attention to say, "Gee, that sounds like a lot more than just weakness from the radiation." And I feel resentful because I feel maybe she would have lasted longer if any of that had happened.

I have a few happier memories that pass by from time to time. Like how she spent her last Christmas and New Years with me here in Texas. How we stopped and shopped at Chico's one day and she bought me a bunch of new clothes for work (the pants don't fit because I put on weight while I was taking care of her and it's only now slowly starting to drop off). How we went out for a brunch buffet on Christmas morning at the Hilton on San Antonio's Riverwalk and it was amazing. How we went out to dinner close to home for New Years and had the most lovely meal.

But I have been cycling more through the bad memories, the sad memories, and the ones that make me feel guilty. I guess my feelings are on the down side — I'm just not staying very aware of the down-ness. It would explain why I've been feeling a little more negative about my long-term financial and job situation and why I've walked out of a perfectly wonderful therapy session the past couple of weeks, only to feel quite down soon after.

So I may need some help in the coming couple of weeks. Thanksgiving is and isn't a big deal; I'm not sure how I'll be affected by it this year. I've spent most of my adult Thanksgivings alone, but when I lived in Oregon I spent all of them with my family. So it's a mixed bag.

But I might need help with my perspective and my attitude and my feelings in general. I might need to reach out and hold a metaphorical hand.

The most positive things about this post are that I'm actually looking forward and planning for if things go badly for me, and I'm actually asking for help rather than just planning to push through it on my own. Progress has been made! Or, I guess I should say, I have made progress. It's more powerful. And I can use all the positive power I can get in the near future.

Thank you for whatever you can and will provide. Do you ask for help when you need it?

Thinking On My Center

The last part in my getting centered discussion with my therapist is the part that cognitive therapy has played, which is significant. As we discussed, I have tended to make other people or situations my center, my anchor, and my home, rather than making me be those things for myself.

On the cognitive side, I developed an external locus of control. I didn't learn young how to depend upon myself in a good way; I only learned the ways I couldn't depend upon others. Yet they still remained the loci from which all things came to me. But my therapist reminded me that we had in discussions come across things I have done in the past and present that showed me growing more independent from my family and standing on my own two feet. So her question to me was: what have I accomplished that proves to me that I am self-reliant and independent?

Being self-reliant and independent gives a person a center, an internal locus of control, and a firm place to ground themselves. Proving to myself that I have those qualities would go a long way toward helping me see that I have a center inside myself, just that it's been hidden and it may be undeveloped. It would prove that I am grounded at least a bit, no matter how high above the ground my feet feel.

So what have I done that proves self-reliance and independence? Well, for one thing, I left my family and moved halfway across the country. Part of my moving was to find work and a warm place to live. The other part was to cut the ties that had come to bind me to my family more closely than I was comfortable with. (I still feel guilty about that, as if I rejected my mom and grandma. I hope that goes away.) I relied upon myself to make the trip and find a new home successfully. I visited some other friends and family but didn't rely upon them for anything more than some company and a place to stay while I visited them. And I eventually found a warm place to live. The work part, not so much yet, but I continue to hope and to work on it. I kept driving until I found a reasonable place to look for work, even though I was ready to stop moving along at three weeks (it was five weeks before I stopped in Houston and another week before I decided to stay). I made these decisions alone.

On A Philosophical Note

One thing I used to do, for several years, was read part of one of a set of philosophical books at bedtime, the way some people read from their religious books, just a little bit of reminding me how to live well before I went to sleep. The three books are It's Easier Than You Think: The Buddhist Way to Happiness by Sylvia Boorstein, The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh, and Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Zen Buddhism and Stoic Philosophy readings on a regular basis somehow helped me feel calmer and more centered. 

Then, for some unknown reason, I stopped reading them. Either I let the books be packed and so didn't have them at hand after I moved to Oregon, or I just got out of the habit, but somehow I stopped. And I think that stopping that bedtime habit left a little hole in my calmness and my center.

When I remember to think about being mindful, or when I remember something I read and try to apply it to whatever I'm going through, I feel a little better. But because I don't read these books regularly anymore, I don't remember to apply them to my life very often.

For example, the Buddha taught that struggling causes suffering. If you struggle against something that you cannot change, you will feel added pain — the pain of suffering. If you struggle against something you can change but you don't try to change it or accept it, you will suffer. I spent the better part of two years struggling against the fact that my mother died and that she died at a time when she was finally free to do things that she wanted to do. Telling myself it wasn't fair is struggling. Not accepting the fact that she was dead is struggling. It is partly grief, too, but I think I made it worse by clinging to these struggles and clinging to my grief. When I began to read the Boorstein book again this summer, I was reminded not to cling. I was reminded not to struggle against what I cannot change. Those struggles have nearly disappeared now, partly from time and cognitive therapy and partly from reading one of my books and being reminded.

A Spiritual Center

One of the questions my therapist asked me when we were talking about my finding a center and becoming grounded in myself was how people with a deity-based spirituality use their god(s) or goddess(es) as their center. Their feeling of something that is eternal, that will always be there with them and for them is what their spirituality and their spirit revolves around. But I don't believe in deities, so she wondered how my spiritual beliefs could have a centering or grounding effect for me.

I had to think about it, because I hadn't thought about it in awhile. Then I realized: connection. I believe that all things are connected, and I am connected to all things, including rocks and trees and the sofa I'd like to replace and the clothing that is too small for me and the people in the world I've never met and will never meet. I also believe that all things and beings are just as important as all other things and beings, in the larger scheme of Life. In this way, all things and beings are the Center of the Universe.

And the force that is Life itself is as close as I come to a deity in my spiritual beliefs, and it is the main force in the Universe other than the Universe itself. So it is something that I can count on being there for as long as the Universe exists, which is forever as much as anything is.

Remembering my connection to everything, and everything's connection to me, can help me be centered and grounded, no matter where I am. Because, no matter where I am, I am connected to who and what is near me. We all are part of Life and the Universe.

Maybe I need a physical reminder of these connections and what connects us, a ring or a bracelet or something. Perhaps meditating on these connections would help me keep them in mind. Whatever I choose to do, I know it will help me maintain part of my centeredness and groundedness.

The other parts that my therapist and I talked about were my philosophical beliefs and the cognitive therapeutic actions I've been learning. I'll discuss them separately later.

For now, though, do you feel that your spiritual beliefs ground and center you? How so?