Can you say Gaylord Focker?!

Last night we had dinner with a family of three girls I babysit for. The week before Zach had come over to visit them with me, and apparently there was a meltdown after we left. I explained that Zach had left feeling overwhelmed, too. For those of you who don't know Zach very well, he is very animated and full of boundless energy. He is great with kids, but they tend to get overly excited around him.
Last night the plan was to order chinese food and eat right away so that there wouldn't be much time for things to get wild and crazy. That turned out to be just foolish thinking. There was a fairy named Sky Dancer, some wisteria, the roof, and a water-filled hula hoop involved.
Sky Dancer, a new birthday gift for one of the girls, spins around quickly atop her cloud perch and then flies through the air when a string is rapidly pulled. The first time Zach tried out this new toy, he launched her up into the wisteria where she hung for several moments before he knocked her down. With the second attempt she was on the roof. All day long she hadn't flown more than 2 feet, and within 15 seconds Zach managed to launch her 30 feet into the air. There was some screaming involved, but M came to the rescue and retrieved Sky Dancer while the rest of us were doubled over laughing. The toy had to be put away by the end of the night.
Later as Zach was hula hooping, the hoop split open at the seam and a stream of water flew out at me and our hostess. Luckily she has a good sense of humor. Who knows where the water came from, but luckily the hoop was easily repaired, but apparently more difficult to use without the water. "This is the story of my life", Zach said. "Trouble just seems to find me".
This morning he woke up with a stiff back. There will be no more tangos with Sky Dancer for Zach.

Things that I've recently (re-)discovered that make me happy

1. Strawberry yogurt
2. Guacamole (be sure to mix the garlic and salt together before adding the avocado. It makes such a difference in taste)
3. Swimming in the outdoor pool with Zach
4. Wearing Ashley's old blue-flowered bikini with boy shorts to the pool
5. Sleeping
6. Driving
7. Napping
8. Getting dirty
9. Drinking coffee in bed with Zach in the morning while listening to the news (if I can lie still long enough)
10. multiplication (and sometimes long division) in my head-it's a challenge and it helps me fall asleep sometimes
11. Trees
12. Thunderstorms
13. The blogging* community that Nancy started
14. Tea

*As Nancy pointed out, blogspot's spell check doesn't recognize variations of the word "blog". It suggested I change blogging to flogging. Thanks for starting our flogging community, Nancy!

One more day that I'm alive and well

It has been a stressful week in babysitting. Twice in the past 5 days two different kids choked and one consequently vomited twice. The first was the 15 month old I've babysat only a handful of times. She has a habit of not swallowing all of her food and just letting it loll about in her mouth an hour after lunch has ended. Her mother knows it's a problem, but unless she's putting her to bed doesn't worry about it. I was sitting on the family room floor with her when she started her "crying because I'm there and NOT mommy" which is a fun cycle that continues endlessly the entire 3-4 hours I am there. This time, however, she started with a gasp followed by awful "I can't breathe" sounds. Since she's tiny, only about 16 pounds because she was born about 3 months too early, I whisked her up, slung her over my arm and gently (of course) whacked her on the back. She continued her usual screaming after that. I only told her mother that she started choking a little bit and that I had to hit her on the back, which is why she is crying more than usual. I figured there was no point in worrying her mother any more than necessary. All's well that ends well.
Yesterday I was watching the two boys aged 27 months and 9 months. The 9 month old had been happily playing on the floor by himself for nearly an hour when I looked over and saw something white in his mouth, most likely one of the dinosaur stickers his brother had been sticking on and peeling off everything. Just as I started to walk over to look closer, he gagged and puked. Twice. He started screaming when I pulled his shirt off and tried to wipe the snot from his nose. He is also getting over a bad cold, so it's possible that he choked on his own phlegm, which is what I told his parents. He seemed fine after a sink bath and some pedialyte.
Here's the thing. Vomiting of any kind freaks me out. I know, nobody enjoys it, but I think there are probably people who don't mind it as much as I do. I've only thrown up a handful of times in my life, and before the last two times it had been 12 years since I'd been sick like that. I start to imagine being horribly sick which makes me feel so out of control. Maybe that's the issue for me-the lack of control over vomiting. With a cold or a headache you can still go about your day, but not when there's puking involved.
Last night, as I was trying to fall alseep and hoping I wouldn't catch the baby's choking-vomiting bug, the only thing worse that I could envision happening to me that night was death. Luckily I evaded both.

San Francisco

My mom and I returned from San Francisco last Friday. It was the first time either one of us had been to the west coast. The trip was spectacular. We spent three days in the city walking up the steep hills to see Lombard Street, the “crookedest street in the world”, Fisherman’s Wharf, Chinatown, Japantown and Haight Ashbury. One day we rented a car and I drove us over the Golden Gate Bridge up to John Muir National Monument to see the Redwoods. From there we drove along coastal Rt. 1 high above the Pacific Ocean and up to Sonoma Valley where we stopped at several wineries on our way back. It was a cool, sometimes chilly 60 degrees the whole week. There were so many things to see. Mostly we sat in Union Square and just watched people. The city seemed almost too good to live in, until we picked up a couple of real estate magazines. At any rate, I would love to go back and see more of California. Maybe for that honeymoon Zach and I never took…

Forming a Dent

I couldn’t sleep Sunday night. I went out into the family room and sat in the reclining chair that we all got my dad for father’s day several years ago when Ashley was still well. It’s the chair I sat in the week she and I spent together. She had herself and all of her stuff nestled into the corner of the big, white sofa where she said she felt a huge dent forming. There were two big pillows propped up behind her and several blankets on and around her. There was a small table in front of her with random pill bottles, gum wrappers, and empty cups piled on top. There was usually a plate of half-eaten chicken or french toast which she would end up feeding to Zoë from her fork. Zoë would gingerly take the morsel of food off the fork without scraping her teeth against it. Ashley was always teaching Zoe new tricks. The cats were never far away, either. Tyler would never miss an opportunity to jump up on a pile of blankets, especially if you didn’t want him there. Under the table was a paper bag with trash spilling out onto the floor. She was never a very neat person. The big oxygen machine was right behind the sofa making its steady whirring noise all day and night. I would miss it when it was gone. Her backpack with the TPN (total paraenteral nutrition), the “food” that was taken intravenously through the artery in her neck, was at her feet. That week Zach and I prepared those bags for her. The time Zach did she didn’t even hook it up to her pump to use. It just sat in the refrigerator only to be thrown away the next day. It was a tedious process to prepare those feedings. The bag, several of which were delivered weekly, had to be removed from the fridge hours before use. I had to use two different syringes to inject vitamin K and other B vitamins into the bag through a little plastic cover near the bottom. This had to be done hours before use so that they had enough time to be infused. Right before use the bag needed to be hooked up to the pump and primed for use. The fluid had about 6 feet of tubing to go through before it would enter Ashley’s body, and there couldn’t be any air bubbles in the tubing. I would stand on a chair and hold the tube above my head as the pump slowly pushed the fluid through, often times spilling over onto the floor before I could flick the air bubbles out and stop the pump. I tried hard not to let any of it spill onto the floor, because it was Ashley’s main source of nutrition. She was supposed to keep the pump on through the night for a total of 12-13 hours. She never did though. She would turn it off every time she got up to use the bathroom and then “forget” to turn it back on. It would make her feel sick, she said. After she died as I was cleaning out her room I found a dozen half-used TPN bags dating from August, September and October, and she died in January. This past Sunday after I sat in the chair for a while trying to remember what it was like 6 months ago with Ashley sitting across from me asking me to please stop rocking because it made her feel nauseous, I went into her room. Her urn sits on her dresser. A few months ago I tried to open it to see what her ashes look like, but I couldn’t figure out how to get the lid off. I figured it out last Sunday. Her ashes were inside in a clear, plastic bag twisted shut with a number attached to it. Here she was, my sister, a number. The ashes were nothing like what I expected. I thought they’d be fine and black, like soot, but instead they were gray and white and gravel-like. The whole back must have weighed about 8 pounds. This was my sister. After crying for a while I felt anger. I’m angry that she didn’t take care of herself the way she should have. I’m angry that she left me here to deal with this. Sometimes I wonder why her and not me, just as I wonder why Alyssa and not me.

I'll be sure to wear some flowers in my hair

I've been incredibly busy this past week, mostly babysitting. I've been spending 10 hour days at the home of Kristi and Martin helping to watch Alison, Maya and Serena. I'm thoroughly exhausted, and wonder how I'll ever cope with my own future kids. I've been busy, but some of that busy-ness is a strategically planned distraction from my own abysmal emotions. I'm afraid that if I have time to sit down by myself that I'll start thinking about Ashley and my anger toward her. I don't want to be angry at her, and I'm not even sure if I know how to be angry at her for more than 5 seconds. I've spent most of my life working hard at suppressing any anger I might feel, so now actually accessing that anger feels like twice as much work as it was suppressing it.
Yesterday Zach received a CD he ordered called "I heard it on NPR-at home in the world". It's an awesome collection of world music. There's one song in particular called "Via Con Me" by Paolo Conte, and it's like a swingy-er, hipper Dean Martin. There's also the song "Homeless" by Paul Simon and Ladysmith Black Mambazo, and it made me cry, because it's from the album "Graceland" that my whole family used to listen to in the car wherever we needed to go for like 6 months. Ashley really liked that album.
I won't be posting much in the next two weeks. I'll be in San Francisco from July 4-8 and in Baltimore the weekend of the 9th.
Have a safe and happy 4th!

"A Busy Busy Backson"

As Pooh would say.

I spent Saturday afternoon helping some friends move into a house in town about five miles away from their old house. Their new house is something right out of Swiss Family Robinson. It's a 1960s style rancher, BUT it is an amazing house. I never liked ranchers, but this one is a nice, dark wood with a red tin roof. The ceilings are high, and there are windows everywhere. There are also several little lofts, one of which you get to through the kitchen by climbing up a small, wooden ladder through an opening about 18 inches wide. In the basement there is a wine cellar, replete with greek columns where the beams stand and grape vines painted as a border around the room. The floor in the foyer, kitchen and dining room is made of slate. There are tiered flower beds out back, and there is a trellis full of wisteria at the entrance. I am so jealous right now. I really want my own house.
Later that night Zach and I went out with Liz and Jay to a new bar in town called Pickles. It used to be an expensive men's clothing store. Now it's a ritsy bar that looks like a dance studio. All the front windows open up wide so there's no stench of cigarette smoke, and a 12 oz beer only costs $2.00.
This morning I went to help out friends of mine who just adopted a baby. They already have two little girls, Alison and Maya, and now Serena makes three. I really enjoy being at their house, as opposed to some other homes with small children. When I was there on Thursday Maya, who's nearly 3, came in from outside and informed me that her toenails had melted. I guess I underestimated how hot it really was, but then I realized that she had painted them before going outside and all the nailpolish came off.
A week from tomorrow I'll fly to San Francisco with my mom. I'm nervous to be on vacation for 4 whole days with just my mom, but I'm also super excited about seeing San Francisco. I'm also looking forward to the mild temperatures; I've heard the temp. stays between 40 and 80 degrees all year long. I am amazed at how well I've adjusted to the stifling heat and humidity, though. I always remembered summers being like this when I was little. You'd walk outside at 7:00 in the morning and the heat would hit you like a wall. It caught your breath and made it difficult to breathe. Maybe I didn't mind it so much because I'm kind of a glutton for punishment. I guess that's why I still don't mind it, and because I like to push myself to extreme limits. Now I'm going to take an ice, cold bath.

Solstice

Welcome first day of summer! The longest day of the year! I went biking and swimming at the university's outdoor pool today. I also played in the sandbox with Jack, who is 3. Jack's family has a cute, little kitten named Cosmo who kept getting stuck in toy boxes. What better way is there to bring in the summer? Then I had a chicken curry salad on a wrap with avocado, pineapple, and mango chutney. It was delicious. That sums up all the good stuff that happened today, and I think I'll leave it at that.

Weepy Violets and Dry Eyes

There is one, lone purple bud on my African Violet plant that I discovered this morning. It hasn't bloomed in years, and I'm not really sure what prompted it to do so now. I recently moved it from the kitchen to the living room where it gets the same amount of sun, maybe even a bit less. I also recently overwatered it. For three days Zach complained of wiping water off the coffee table after his books or newspapers inevitably got saturated in it. I did feed it a few times last month. Who knows. It was a pleasant surprise, though, as I discovered it after hanging up from an hour-long phone "conversation" with Jennifer from my health insurance company. I was calling about two claims, one from last August and one from March 2004. We got absolutely nothing resolved. Basically I have to resubmit the claims, because they, conveniently, have no record of either of them. I felt like crying. It's funny that I felt like crying over unprocessed claims and not the recently (yet not uncommon) strained relationship with my mom. Maybe the tears were disguised for my mom. I've got nothing else tonight. My eyes and my fingers are dry.

Sticky and Sweaty

I've been overwhelmed by life's little nuisances lately, like paying bills, making dinner, remembering to water my plants, etc...I wish I could forget about something for once. I'm plagued by a super reliant, overly- efficient mind. At any rate, that's hardly an excuse for not posting more often. It's always on my mind, but it gets pushed back to the "Not-As-Important" corner of my brain where it just sits making me feel guilty.
Things have been "good enough" lately (what is with me and quotation marks tonight?! It's just something else to annoy myself with). Things are not great but not bad either. I've been babysitting a lot and expanding the limits of my patience. Sometimes I watch the kids trying to master a new skill and think about how much it's going to help them later in life, but then I wonder how much any of those skills has really helped me. Maybe I didn't learn anything the right way. Then again, maybe I'm just too hard on myself.
It's been really hot the past two days. It hardly ever hits 90 degrees in State College, but it has two days in a row now. I sound like I'm complaining, but really I don't mind it so much. Growing up my mom always kept the air conditioning at arctic levels. My sisters and I would come in from swimming and turn blue underneath piles of afghans. Now Zach and I don't have AC, but I find that the body adjusts. Of course, I'm not talking about living in the super humidity of the south, but it gets fairly hot and humid in Pennsylvania. So you can imagine me sitting at the desk typing while sweat accumulates underneath my bra and behind my knees making my legs stick to the chair, and how much I really need a shower right now after playing with a two-year old all afternoon. That's me. No appearances to be upheld right now.

Stupid, sunny day

The computer is sooooo slow this morning. I keep getting monstrous emails from my cousin-in-law including pictures of her baby cutting first tooth, wearing first bathing suit, eating first foods, out and about in stroller and drooling, pooping and any other "cute" things babies do. Don't get me wrong. I love kids, but I don't need weekly updates from parents of a kid who live 400 miles away who (it should be "whom", but it sounds so pretentious) I've only met twice before in my life. Have they never heard of a blog?! Then people can look if they want to without their inboxes getting jammed up.
I am irritable today.
I tried to do yoga this morning (on a video) and got annoyed at the stupid, pretzel people. Usually I am one of those super-flexible ones who can do all the contortions, but not today. Today I was just annoyed, and I don't think that's the point of yoga. Last night I got mad at Zach when he made a simple observation while we were playing basketball. I was "cheating" by standing too close to the hoop. All of a sudden every shot I had made was discounted and I felt worthless. He hit a sore spot, but he didn't know it. How does my mind jump to those conclusions? Yes, it is my time of month. It's not meant to be an excuse, but it may explain some of my behavior. Watch out jar of Nutella in the cabinet and Zach.

The World According to Children

It's a rainy day, the oppressive kind of rainy day where it seems like the sun won't ever shine again. I am usually good about not letting the rain stop me or get in my way, but it's always had an adverse affect on my mood from as far back as I can remember. When I was about five I thought that it never rained in the summer (there must have been a drought the year before). When I confidently assured my dad that it wouldn't rain that summer he politely told me otherwise, and I had to go about restructuring my entire world view. That may have been the same year that my grandmother told me I still had twelve years of school ahead of me at the end of my kindergarten year, when I had thought that the two weeks until summer vacation would be it for the rest of my life. I was so mad at her that I wouldn't speak to her for the rest of the day. Now look at me. I'm still in school.
I leave you with this anecdote. I babysat last night for a two-year old, one I've been watching for the past few months along with his 7 month old brother. The two-year old now says my name, and it's "Anna-week". Previous two-year old pronunciations of my name include:

Anjeek (this was by my cousin who is now 26, and my grandfather still calls me this on occasion) Jalaleek (my niece Ashley)
Reese and G (Maya)

Getaway

I got in late last night from a rejuvenating weekend getaway at Nancy's in Cincinnati. It was just what I needed. I love car rides, but only when I'm driving alone, because then I can listen to my music at full volume. In fact, I could have easily kept driving for another 7 hours. I listened to the Dar Williams CD Nancy burned for me for about 5 hours straight, specifically songs number 3 and 6. After about 3 hours I could feel my eyes welling up with tears, the ones I've been holding back for weeks now. Dar Williams and Nancy finally penetrated the thick skin that had been surrounding my soul. Thanks for a great weekend and for making me laugh! It's so important, seeing as how one day we're all going to dissipate* anyway.

* Since Nancy and I are both having trouble with the idea of god and religion lately, we decided that people don't really die, but rather dissipate. Their energy is just dispersed throughout the universe.

More about Ashley

I’ve been feeling anger toward my sisters lately. Neither one is around anymore. Ashley is gone and Alyssa hasn’t been in my life for ten years now. Why did they do this to me? Why did they abandon me? I know it sounds childish, but the child-like part of me asks myself these questions every now and then.

I try to remember back to when Ashley was well, and I have to reach way back in order to get there. My mind is jogged by letters I read and pictures I see. I remember her high standards and expectations from life, which, on one hand is very admirable and on the other is very frustrating to those she was close to. She was very determined and knew what she wanted and sometimes even what other people should want. Ashley spoke her mind, sometimes with words and other times with a sigh or gesture. She would impishly raise one eyebrow up to her hairline, and that was often accompanied by a barely-audible snicker. She could be very critical, just like my uncle. She took her time doing work, never rushing anything. She was very generous, and she loved dogs. Ashley and I got closer about three years ago, a little while after she had returned to school and after I had returned from Germany. She would call and email me, and most times I wouldn’t respond, or at least not initially. It took me a while to see the sisterly bond between us that had been there from the start, because it was often camouflaged by jealousy, animosity, or ambivalence. Once we started talking more, most of that faded into the background. It never completely disappeared, but it faded. I realized that we had a lot in common and how nice it was to talk to someone who understood me so well. We shared the same parents and a childhood; nobody else, except Alyssa, knows our past so intimately. It was reassuring knowing that somebody in the world was so much like me.

Ashley’s graduation ceremony from Bryn Mawr College was held last Sunday. My mom and I walked across the stage to accept her diploma. When it was announced that her degree was awarded posthumously, the crowd gasped a little, but then applauded until after my mom and I returned to our seats. It was spectacular, heartfelt, and highly charged. I couldn’t have imagined it going any better. I kept picturing what it would have been like had Ashley actually been there. She would have been irritated with my family, annoyed that none of us knew why some of the capes were fur-lined and others weren’t, what language was printed on the cover of the yearbook (I think it’s Greek), and other silly questions. But she also would have been really happy and excited about her future endeavors. She was going to go on to graduate school. Maybe she would have studied urban development or law. I miss having Ashley around. Even if we weren’t in close contact, I regret no longer having that as an option. It’s hard for me to be angry with her, despite what I stated in the beginning. It’s especially hard because she was so sick for so long. When I think back, though, I get angry at her for “letting” herself get so sick.

There will be a plaque and a book collection dedicated in Ashley’s honor at the Bryn Mawr library. Please let me know if you can think of any books that should be dedicated in her honor. They do not need to have anything to do with her studies (Economics/Urban Development and German).

More of my story

I want to thank Nancy for posting a link to my blog. I really appreciate everyone's comments and even just knowing that other people are reading my blog even if they don't comment. It gives me courage and the incentive to keep on writing. Here's some more.

April 24, 2005

Another week gone by in my life without Ashley, and somehow I’m managing fairly well. I feel guilty about that. I am resilient, and I view that as being negative somehow. It makes me feel like I am cold and heartless. I think about her often, though. Friday night I saw a Mahler concert with Zach and Sarah Melissa. Ashley played the violin for over ten years, and so I kept imagining seeing her up on stage in the orchestra. Then I started thinking about her upcoming college graduation and how difficult it is going to be walking up on stage to accept her diploma for her without her there. It’s really going to reinforce the fact that she’s not here anymore; that she’s not ANYwhere. I suppose someone could argue that she’s all around us all the time, but I just don’t see it that way, at least not right now I don’t. Her death hasn’t made me turn toward God or any kind of organized religion. Right now thinking about her death is too cold and stark a reality. I don’t see any way of glossing it over or trying to explain it, nor do I want to. Whenever I try to make sense of it, I end up back where I started from, and that is with no good explanation. What good is our ability to reason if we can’t come up with acceptable explanations? The problem there is that I rely on reason in life. Ashley is dead, but those words are meaningless. “Ashley is gone” resonates more deeply with me, but it makes it sound like a temporary situation. Maybe it is for all I know. The worst expression I heard in regard to her death was “Patient expired” spoken by a receptionist at UPenn Hospital where she had been seeing a specialist for a while. Milk expires, not people. Expire means something has gone bad that has been around for too long. People don’t expire. A lump rose in my throat, and I wondered if the woman on the other end of the line had ever experienced the loss of a loved one. She was so cool and detached, and while it pissed me off at the time, I can also appreciate her demeanor, because I can easily detach myself from just about any situation or feeling. I think that that is what has helped me get through some of the difficult times in life.

Thirteen Weeks

April 15, 2005

Today marks 13 weeks since your (Ashley’s) death. Every Friday I think about it, but it becomes less clear with each passing week. Most times I don’t even want to think about it. I have trouble remembering the details of that day, of your moaning, of your breathing become less and less regular, of calling an ambulance, knowing that you never wanted to be in a hospital again, of administering CPR and then watching the paramedics take over while a flat line registered across the screen. I had to carry your dog Zoë down the wooden steps and then, with her head pressed up underneath my chin in my arms and her back rigid against my chest, because you know how much she hates to be picked up and carried, I let the police officers in and directed them where to go. The police were called in as soon as I alerted the dispatcher that you had stopped breathing. Apparently that’s the protocol. Zoë didn’t want me to put her out. She wanted to be near you and all of the action. Your dog was loyal to you to the end. She sat outside on her leash with her back facing the house and her head facing into the wind, visibly upset and annoyed that she was relegated to the yard. I rushed around the house grabbing things I thought I might need. I grabbed mom and dad’s contact information for where they were staying in London. I grabbed my backpack and my water bottle. I went back upstairs and called Zach at the library to tell him that you had stopped breathing and that I had called an ambulance and would be at Lancaster General with you. I told him Zoë was outback, Tyler was outside, and Noelle was in the basement, because I assumed he would get back to the house before me. I hung up and forgot where I put down the phone. I turned off the TV. The Ellen Show was still on. Lastly I turned off your oxygen machine, because you didn’t need it anymore. I stopped and watched you lie there on the floor so still as the paramedics intubated you and injected things into your pick line. You were perfectly still. I turned away, not wanting to see them handling your body like that. My vision became hazy as my eyes filled with the tears I wouldn’t let fall. I wanted to scream out “NO!”, but I couldn’t, and I thought that you wouldn’t like it if I had. I realized later that the heartbeat I felt and thought had been yours was really my own; it was my own heart racing and pulsating through the fingers that held your wrist. I rode to the hospital with a police officer who asked me to write down our names and our relationship to each other. He also wanted to know what had happened. He asked about the scars on your stomach and if you had a terminal illness. He wanted to know if you had taken an overdose as an act of mercy. I told him no, that whatever it was you had was in no way terminal, and that that wasn’t the case at all.

The ride to the hospital was long. I was silent and so was he. There was country music playing, which was periodically interrupted by his radio alerting us of robberies and other unlawful things taking place. The tears filled my eyes again, but I didn’t want to think about why. I wanted to remain strong. I didn’t ask any questions, because I didn’t want to hear anything that I wasn’t prepared for. Thirteen weeks ago at this time you were still alive. It’s 12:30 in the afternoon now. That day, January 14th, in three more hours you would take some of your last breaths. They pronounced you dead at 4:47 p.m. at the hospital. They say you stopped breathing and that they couldn’t re-start your heart in the ambulance. I know it was before you left the house that afternoon. You never wanted to be in a hospital again and you never were. The last words you said to me were “Thank you”, after I took off your socks, which you had asked me to do. I don’t know if you knew what was happening or not. It happened so quickly. I’m not sure I really knew, but even if I did, I didn’t admit it to myself. This kind of thing doesn’t just happen to anyone, so why would it happen to us? I have so many mixed-up feelings about it.

Last night I was reading through some of an old notebook I found in your room, and I was simultaneously touched and angered by what I read. There were several letters in it written about four years ago to some friends and to me. They were written in German. In the two letters to your friends you talked about how much you missed having me around for the summer. I had been on the Cape with Zach all summer and had only spent a few days at home. You talked with pride about me going to graduate school at Penn State and me teaching there and then you talked about how much you couldn’t stand Zach and his ill manners. I remember those times. They were really stressful for me, because I was trying to balance school, my family and being in a long-distance relationship with Zach that no one, except Alyssa, seemed to approve of. I remember not really wanting to talk to you much then, because I could sense your disapproval. I know mom and dad had similar feelings. Reading those letters brought back those stressful, hurtful times. I felt like I had to choose between Zach and my family. Somehow over the next few years things quieted down. I’ll never know how much you thought about me and Zach and if or when your thoughts ever really changed. I guess it doesn’t really matter, but, believe it or not, your opinion mattered to me. There will always be answers to questions that I will never know. I can only try to fill-in-the-blanks myself. I’m sure Zach really did irritate you, as a matter of fact, I know he did, but I also wonder if part of your dislike for Zach was feeling like I was being taken away from you. I resent your disapproval toward my relationship with Zach, even though I think you genuinely warmed up to him over the past two years, but I would much rather have you here, knowing that you disapproved of my marriage than not have you here at all. I could learn to accept that and all the other things in my life you didn’t agree with, but accepting your never-ending absence from my life is so painful that it’s beyond comprehension, beyond words, and beyond feeling. The physical pain your death left me with is pretty much gone, but now there’s some invisible, abstract scar left behind that I can’t see or pinpoint. It makes my head spin, and nothing makes sense. I know I’ll die one day, too, but somehow I also fear that I will never die. I wish we could all die together and I wish that I could be in control of when and how I die. It’s the uncertainty, the elusiveness of death that scares me.

Chapter 1

Okay, so it's been way too long since I've posted anything. I get out of the habit of writing and then it's hard to get back into it. The thing is I find that I usually feel better when I write regularly. Go figure. Why do I avoid doing the things that are good for me? Sure I do plenty of things that are healthy, but often times they are forced and it becomes something that I think I should do rather than what I want to do or what might feel good. It's been so long since I've written anything that I feel like I'm rambling and I can't stay focused. I think I need to break this down into chapters or something.

st ends

Be Fri

So I think everyone has heard about my "therapist-week-from-hell" week. Zach and I are no longer seeing our couple's counselor and I hope to never have to deal with that grief counselor again. Like Nancy in regard to her classes and profs., I don't know how much I am "allowed" to say here. All I know is that my confidence in how I've been living my life was shaken to the core. I felt like I'd been trampled upon and left, battered and alone in a dark forest, to the wolves. Where did all the compassion go? So how do I regain my strength and patch my battered soul? I've decided that the answer to that is through my friends. Janet keeps telling me what wonderful friends I have and to use them, call them,talk to them, and cash in on my friendships, so to speak. She tells me that she has to tell some of her clients NOT to call their friends, because they attract people who are not good for them. Good friends say something about who you are. I can't thank my friends enough. Nancy, Jenni, Annie and Liz, I can't thank all of you enough.

Better

I'm feeling SO much better tonight. I talked to Nancy yesterday and Jenni and Annie today. All those I reached out to extended their love back toward me. **I should make note of this for future reference.** It's not that I ever doubted it, but rather that I didn't feel what I had to say was worth talking about. I suppose I doubted myself more than anything. Last night was rough going. I didn't get to sleep until after 1:00 a.m., and I was thinking all those terrible thoughts that only come at that time of night, when the world feels like it's ending and there's no point to going to sleep becuase that just means waking up again the next morning. By this morning I was feeling better, though.
I'll post more later. Have a good Thursday everyone!

How do I trust myself?

Do you often get the feeling that there is some better way to be living your life? That somehow we're just deceiving others with false pretense? Lately that's how I've been feeling. I have been "cheating" at life. I'm not really living, but pretending to do so. I have little tricks, habits, obsessions and addictions that dictate my life. It's not real. I often don't know who's in charge-me or my obsessions. Can the two actually be separated?
I'm not happy with my coping mechanisms. I resort to old habits, like weighing myself too much, trying to control what I eat, creating lists of things to do in my mind, cleaning when nothing is dirty, and cutting myself. Where the hell did that last one come from? I am an intelligent person and I feel like I should know better, but I get to a point where I just don't care. It's a form of self punishment. If I keep it a secret, then I start to go crazy. If I tell people, I feel crazy and stupid. I hate that I don't tell Zach these things, and then I feel like if I can't talk to him about it then I shouldn't talk to anyone about it. Ultimately it's me that I'm hurting and deceiving, but somehow that doesn't resonate with me. I don't feel like I'm important enough to acknowledge the hurt. Then nothing feels important anymore. There are so many people in this world. How can they all be significant?
I just don't know how to deal with this-the feelings of insignificance and the stresses of life. I think I'm dealing with it just fine, and then I feel hopeless. I am staring destruction in the face, what looks like a shattered image of myself, and I don't know what's real.