The fat lady has sung...

I'm getting this out a bit late, but Happy Mother's Day to any moms out there! I got cards from my darling babies, one from the three older dogs and one from the new baby! My littlest one has bonded to me, much to the dismay of my other half, but he's only 5 months old, so maybe that's kinda natural. He kisses me all the time and wags his entire body when he sees me. Seriously, his tail is wagging so hard that it brings his butt up near his head! I call him my little wiggle worm. I also call him Hooty because he is a hoot! He makes me laugh all day long. My hubby says I'm confusing the little guy when I call him all these different names, but heck, I don't care. He'll learn his name one day.

This is the first time I have experienced Mother's Day since the big changes in my life last year. Even though I thought I had worked through this, I find that I am still a little sensitive about never having kids. The events that led to the changes occurred over a period of two or three months, but I have decided on July 1st as the beginning of this next phase of my life. That is when I left everyone and everything behind to go on a three week sabbatical. I went to the mountains to try to clear my head and recover from the difficulties I was experiencing. Getting away from it all was wonderful, but it wasn't the answer. Between work and home, I had so much stress and emotional upheaval that I had to quit work. I also went into post menopause possibly due to the stress. I'm am seriously still so confused about what is and isn't menopause. My doctor used the term "post-menopausal" to describe my hormone levels (basically non-existent), but I've also heard/read "menopause" used to describe the time when things stop happening (same thing?). No matter, whatever I'm in was not a good place to be. During that very emotional time, I had to deal with the fact that I no longer had the ability to have children. Now, don't get me wrong, I never gave it much thought prior to this. I never had that longing for a child. I really think the fact that my own mother wasn't nurturing was the reason. I love babies, but having one of my own just wasn't something I wanted. My hubby was teaching elementary school at the time and had kids around day long, so he wasn't too disappointed. So, my doctor had told me earlier in the year at my annual physical that since things were slowing down, I probably had three or four more years before I stopped having periods. Then, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, six months later it stopped. No warning. Although it is different for every woman, there does seem to be an average time of three to five years of "slow down" time. I was so stressed and emotionally wrung out and could not--absolutely could not--wrap my head around this newest development. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was mourning over this loss. It didn't matter that it had been my decision, I still had this sense of complete emptiness and failure as a woman. I don't feel as bad as I did back then, but I do feel down today. I'll be fine tomorrow.

As I should have expected, I really had a hard time finding an image that represented the day, so I just gave up and went will how I felt.

(Image is entitled "Feeling Empty Inside" and is by Gilfling at Etsy.)

Remains of the day...

Well, one of the hardest things I've had to do in awhile is past me. We did decide to have one of our rescue dog's eyes removed. I've posted Maris' story earlier. After talking to both our regular vet and the vet eye specialist and taking all factors into consideration, we opted to have it done. Maris went in last week for same-day surgery and needed only one or two days of recovery before she was back to being (mostly) herself. We had this same procedure done years ago with Taylor (who left us not too long after his surgery), and his recovery took two very long and difficult weeks. We didn't know it at the time, but he had a brain tumor that had started pushing his eye out. The surgery was performed by our regular vet, not the eye specialist. Not that our vet didn't do a great job, but sometimes a specialist sees something that a non-specialist wouldn't. That's why they are specialists, no? We were worried that Maris' recovery would be painful and difficult. There tends to be leakage both from the eye as well as the nose as a result of this surgery. Maris had one day of leakage that was bloody. After that, it was the "draining" type of leakage, and it lasted about two days. She has managed beautifully, probably because she had already lost sight in that eye. And the specialist assured us that all of the cancer had been removed. By the end of last week, she was already chasing her brother and sister around the yard and was starting wrestling matches with them. She has a mean left jab. However, I've been curbing those matches because until the stitches come out, I don't think there should be any roughhousing!

I'm so relieved that we made the right decision. I didn't want to lose her yet. She is truly an angel. When hubby went to pick her up, the specialist and the assistants said that Maris was the sweetest dog they had ever had in the office. Our regular vets and their assistants say the same thing. Maris is gentle and hesitant when greeting anyone, but she always greets lovingly.

I think if I were almost deaf, had one of my eyes and half of my lower jaw removed, a fingernail taken off, a cancerous lesion on the back of my neck soon to be removed and been rescued after almost a month of neglect (including no food or water), I doubt I could be sweet. I think I would not greet the world lovingly. I would most likely be required to wear some sort of warning sign.

Or probably several at one time so that no one would fail to get the message...


(Top two images are resin bracelets found at sisicata at Etsy. The last image is found at BoingoJennie, also at Etsy.)

Sound in Silence...

Lately, there have been too many small references to my lack of living in the real world made by the other half who lives here. He and I have been over and over this same subject more times than I can count. I agree with him on some points. I know I have created problems. But why can he not get through his head how I am feeling now as opposed to years past? He thinks I can do what I've always done--after taking some time, move on. It isn't that easy now. But he seems to think that I can somehow be magically cured just by talking to someone. How could he have lived with me through these last 25 years and not figured it out?? I am clinically depressed. On medication. I've done the talking. I'm through talking. On the night of my last meltdown, I told him that he didn't really know who I am, didn't understand my soul, that he just didn't "get" me and probably because he never really listens to me. Even recently, he admitted that he had no idea what was going on with me and my hormones. Forgive me if I'm going over something I've already said many times, but I am so frustrated. This past weekend, after he made the hurtful remarks, I spent all day Sunday in bed, first being angry, then being annoyed and then crying. Yesterday I was exhausted by all that spent emotion. However, one good thing did come out of it. I have always written down my thoughts and feelings and called it my "poetry." I'm not sure if it is, but it's mine and so there. I have shared only one or two of them ever (out of maybe 50 that I've written), so I am a bit hesitant to share one here. Once on the net, forever on the net, and such. Anyways, for what it is worth, here it is.



Listen to the Sounds

I read somewhere that tears are the result of the soul or spirit crying out in pain.
The spirit can be broken, and the heart can break.
[Where do the tears come from if the spirit is broken?]
[How does the heart keep beating with so many scars?]
I've heard that the mind splits--[or does it shatter?]--into pieces that allow the pain to be forgotten.
[I wonder how many pieces are inside my head?]
A body/soul/spirit/heart/mind can only take so much hurt and pain.
Then it needs a safe place to rest and to heal.
Something to wrap itself in, like a cocoon, insulated from feeling.
To bind the bleeding wounds.
To stitch the broken heart and put the pieces back together.
To wait to be reborn as a person with the strength to try again.
For a time, I was able to cocoon myself like that.
I would emerge, but not like a glorious butterfly.
No, I was a moth.
Drawn to the hurt and the pain.
Drawn until I was burned by the flames.
Drawn until I was once again crying/breaking/shattering/falling.

I need my cocoon.
It is my safety net.
A necessary part of my healing.
Because a person will cry/break/shatter/fall from all the pain.
And a person needs a net when they fall.
[If I fall and don't have a safety net, is there any sound?]
[Do falling tears plead or the breaking heart scream?]
[Does the mind shout out a warning before shattering?]
[It doesn't matter. No one is listening.]

I'm falling, and something is different.
Something has happened to my safety net.
It's not stopping my descent.
I'm lying here, surrounded by the broken fragments of what is left of my net.
[Has it been damaged every time I broke/shattered/fell?]
[Does it shatter like glass into sharp, broken pieces?]
I can't feel because I'm broken.
I can't see because I'm crying.
I can't hear anything over the screams of my body/heart/mind/soul/spirit.
I need a cocoon.
I pull the sharp fragments around me, and they cut into my skin.
Deep cuts, exposing what is inside me.
[Frantic. Find bigger pieces to cover up the bad parts. Too ashamed to let anyone see.]
Now I'm bleeding, a slow leaking of self.
[It makes no sound.]
I've built walls around myself with the fragments of my net/cocoon.
Walls that are not stable or strong.
[I am like the man that built his house upon the sand.]
My net/cocoon is worn, thin, ripped, unraveling, in pieces.
It doesn't matter.
I no longer have the strength to wrap myself up in anything now.
I can only lie here.
Exposed, bleeding, crying, broken, alone, trying to hide behind my walls.
I've lost my cocoon.
Without it, I can't heal.
Without it, I can't insulate myself from pain.
Without it, I can't be reborn, stronger.


I need my walls.
They are my only hope.
A translucent cover of broken pieces, stacked and piled, surrounding me.
My walls are so very fragile.
Definitely not safe.
I cannot let these pieces fall.
[God, please don't let these pieces fall.]
I lie still and silent.
Still and silently crying/broken/shattered/bleeding within my walls.
Within/inside/behind/under my walls.
[If I fall and die in a dream, will I die in my reality?]



(Image used is entitled "Broken" and is by shenanigansarah at Etsy.)

Inside my skin...

Yesterday I was supposed to go to work and help with a payroll project. I emailed them on Friday and said I would be there. Then I just didn't go. I tried, but I couldn't make myself walk out the door. I haven't gone in four weeks. I've never been like this. When I knew that something important needed to be completed, I was the one who always bent over backwards to do everything I could to make it happen. I don't even feel bad about not going, and I haven't tried to go in today.

I think I've quit caring. I don't like being this way. One one hand, it feels so selfish and just wrong. On the other, I almost feel like I'm rebelling in some strange way, like a little kid who is saying "nah-nah-nah, you can't make me." Ever since I had that meltdown a few weeks ago, I've been getting more and more like this little brat, with an attitude of "don't tell me what to do or I won't do it just for spite."

I've always carried around a lot of guilt because I felt like I wasn't good enough or strong enough (mentally or emotionally). I was even told that I didn't care enough when, in fact, caring too much was what created the problems. I felt a lot of guilt over the last six or seven months when I opted to stay home from work. Guilt for not doing enough for my employers as well as guilt for creating our difficult financial situation at home. I mean, really major guilt trips. Now, I've gradually come to realize I'm not feeling guilty at all. Not about anything.

I'm becoming someone I never thought I could be. I don't think I like me this way.



The image used in this post is from a 2004 exhibition by Elizabeth Ingraham, a faculty member at UNL's Hillestad Textiles Gallery, and is entitled "Guilt." Her exhibition was titled "Information, Memory and Desire: Skins," and the lifesize figures were created from various fabrics and findings. The exhibition annoucement had this to say:

“Through a series of life-size, dimensional female skins, I am exploring how expectation, desire and convention - our own and others - form casings which shape our deepest selves and which become so familiar they seem like our own skin,” Ingraham said.

She likened the skins to costumes and camouflage, saying that they describe emotional states, conceal and reveal identity. The works are tactile as well as visual and are designed to be touched and handled by the viewer - unzipped, unbuttoned, entered, read and rattled."

Read more about her at culturalterrain.com or at monet.unk.net and see more of the "skins"--Duty, Denial, Regret, Baggage, etc.--"...the guises in which women enrobe themselves."

Too little too late...

I'm finally getting over the exhaustion after my meltdown on Sunday evening. That was some night. My other half was truly shocked at my explosion of emotion. I certainly hadn't planned it, but I guess it was a good thing since it opened his eyes a bit.

Last night I saw a commercial for a hormone replacement center that helps treat "those who have lost the joy of life." After the experiences of last year, I definitely lost that joy. Going through the struggle with constant bleeding, all the tests to determine what was wrong and finding out I was post menopausal probably due to the extreme stress, a kind of forced post menopause. That pretty much made me lose it. The loss of joy, I mean. I really struggled for a few months trying to accept that what fundamentally makes me a female was dead. And it wasn't a silent struggle. I know I talked to my other half several times. However, interestingly enough, last night he once again proved that he and I are miles apart.

After I saw the commercial, I made the comment that maybe I should try to make an appointment. He asked me why I needed help with my hormones. I asked him if he truly didn't know, and he said, "I'm really sorry but I don't." Knock me over with a feather.

I'm married to a man who doesn't listen to me or hear what I'm saying. And all I really feel is sadness for the years I've given to someone who hasn't been there.

(Image used is entitled "Listen to What They Tell You" and is by lineanongrate at Etsy."

Being normal is not normal...

One of the things about being normal is that it is extremely exhausting. There is no down time when one is normal. It's about always being "up." I was normal for so long that I wore myself out. Now I am simply exhausted.

And no one understands.

(Image is by inksmear on Etsy and is entitled "Normal.")

Locked up...

Having grown up with a mother who was distant, imagine my surprise when she called this week to ask me to go with her to a dinner/speaker event. We do very little together. There is also the fact that at one point in my past, my family kicked me out. Out of the family. Really. It's quite a long story which I won't go into now. Of course, their side of the story is not like mine at all. They did it with love, out of concern for me. Right.

It took me a long time before I could even have any contact with them, and then to have that contact be meaningful in the least. I was the oldest and the only girl in a family that was "old school." I didn't even realize that until much later in life when I started looking back to try and make sense of it. By "old school," I mean that males mattered more than females. There's probably a nice word like "patriarchal" to describe the situation, but I've also been told my family was chauvinistic. I was floored by the comment and, or course, vehemently denied it. It wasn't too long before I realized how wrong I had been.

I think I may have been cherished before my two brothers came along, but I was so young that I don't remember much at all. I do know that my mother told me that she "had no idea what to do with you since you were so strong-willed and stubborn." I got locked in the closet several times. See, it all comes back to that surfeit of emotions that seem to define so much of my life. I feel everything so deeply and passionately, and when those feelings emerge, they sometimes can be explosive. Apparently, even at a young age.

Too bad the concept of "time out" wasn't around then. Then again, I probably wasn't a "time out" kind of kid. It's doubtful that a mere chair would have had any affect on me. But who knows what damage that locked closet caused?

Maybe that's why I have such a fascination for old doors and keys.

(Image used in this post is by ErinGarrisonDesign at Etsy and is entitled "Waiting to be Unlocked.")

Ignore that woman behind the curtain...

I've come to the conclusion that I may never find answers in this world. Sometimes I'm not even sure of the questions. But there is something in me that begs to understand the events of my life. Looking back, it's a crooked path, to be sure. I wish it were a straighter one. I think that the straighter the path, the easier the time spent on it. Or maybe that the one who walks it is stronger. Or better. Some might say a crooked path means life has been experienced, that there have been twists and turns that give it meaning. I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm behind the curtain just looking out at life, desperately wanting to change it but having no idea how to do that.

Maybe I'm really hiding.

(Image used in this post is entitled "The Search" and is by SpecialBuy found at Etsy.)

Fighting struggle...

Thankfully, things have been a little less rambunctious around here. Once I finally got the ladies settled down from their little blogger war, they have been on their best behavior! I really do not like conflict, especially when it's between people who hold a special place in my heart. I guess that has also been a big part of my past struggles. When emotions run so high during conflict, I am completely distraught and consumed by it. I'm even affected by conflicts between people I don't know! Don't ask me how or why that happens, but if it can, just imagine how much worse it is when I do know the people. Keeping everyone happy seems to be both my goal and my struggle.

The artist of today's image quotes the following about struggle: " 'there will always be a pull, tugging at you from every angle. fight it, and you will lose. give into it, and you will be home.' "

Easier said than done, I think.

(Image used in this post is from TinaCrespo at Etsy and is entitled "The Struggle."