Five, four, three, two, one...

Now that I am into a more reflective time of self-examination, I'm much more aware of how seemingly unrelated events cause the most revealing thoughts to pop into my brain. Oh, it may take a few days, but it happens. For example, while getting an acupuncture treatment two weeks ago, I was telling my chiropractor--aka my acupuncturist--that I felt hyped up and couldn't relax. I had been feeling like that for several weeks, and I was erroneously thinking it was just an elevated mood. Apparently, a recently increased dosage in one of my medications was sending my blood pressure into dangerous territory. I freaked out when I got my BP reading and read about the numbers, especially the word "crisis." Yikes. Spent that day and the next four--including a weekend, which is why I couldn't get in to see my internist sooner--being extremely cautious, including making the stupid decision to stop taking most of my medications. I've been fighting taking the Hormone Replacement drugs due to the increased risk of heart attacks and strokes, and most of the other meds have some mention of the same side effects. I debated going to the Emergency Room, but part of me thought that was overreacting. As it turns out, my decision was serendipitous. One of the other meds was the one that was causing the problem. My internist, whom I saw ASAP, lectured me in no uncertain terms that I might have caused a worse situation by quitting my meds cold-turkey and that I was very fortunate indeed and to call her no matter the time, day or night, if something like that ever happened again. Phew, she chewed me out! Once it was all over and I felt calmer, I suddenly remembered something the chiropractor said about my hyperactive, manic feeling--"You jump into everything feet first, full tilt and give it 150%. You don't hold anything back, and it wears you out to do that." Of course, he had no way of knowing that it was the meds causing the problem, but I've been a patient of his for the past two+ years, so he knows me fairly well. I started going to him when I needed treatment for a pinched nerve in my neck. I forget the correct medical term, but there isn't really a nerve being pinched, although that's exactly what it feels like. Anyway, I had always viewed my initial energetic ventures into jobs and projects as stemming from a caring attitude. I always want to do everything perfectly (as if!), and I really care about the people involved. I was surprised to think that the physical aspect could have had as much of an impact as the emotional one. I've always thought that the emotional stress caused the physical problems. Maybe the combined results of both is what always pulled me down into a pit. The most unfortunate outcome, regardless of the cause, is the way others reacted to my decline, not to mention my own guilt for not meeting my own expectations. For that reason, I've been reluctant over the past year to get involved with anyone on any level to keep from feeling the pain and hurt when I don't meet their expectations.

The thought that I could get involved in something without launching myself into it is my pop-upped thought of the week.

(Image is entitled "Rocket to the Moon" and is available from Etsy shop loriontdorr. Do you see it?)

Know a good locksmith?

I've been out of work for almost 10 months, and although some might not think it's true, I have had somewhat of a schedule. Well, not for the first three months, that is. That was when I was simply numb. No thinking, no feeling, no responding. There were a handful of significantly stressful and humiliating events during the last decade of my life for which I had not grieved. Add to that the fact that I found myself in the final stage of my feminine life without much warning. Finally, the numbness wore off, and I became a thinking, feeling, responding maniac. Too much grief and hurt needed to be released. Too much time that had been, perhaps, wasted. This journal was my recording of what I needed to work through, get through one way or another. It took the last five or so months to do just that. One day I should probably record some of the events. I'm sure my doctor would recommend it. To anyone who took the time to read, encourage or offer up a prayer for me, I can't express enough just how thankful I am. Big, big hugs all around. I am eternally grateful.

Now, I am at a point in this journey that I can look back and see how I've progressed, and I am so encouraged by where I find myself. I am actually answering the telephone and talking to people. Amazing! I don't think I've ever said, but long ago during my first bad incident, I developed a phobia about the phone, and I've never gotten over it. Now, not only have I talked to people, I've gone back to work with my former employer. Technically, I guess I'm no longer employed, but then again, I'm not very technical. I think this is more of a part-part-time job. A good start, no? The retail position offered earlier in the year is still available, and I have been in touch with the owner recently. Again, good.

I know myself well enough to know that there will be more ups and downs. However, I believe that I've learned enough now to keep those ups and downs to a very low frequency. Hopefully, no more serious roller coaster emotional upheavals and certainly not with any regularity. I know when I need to back off, I think. Now that we've refinanced and made it possible for me to stay at home if I need to (which was a miracle to accomplish), I feel much less pressured and stressed. I have options. Again, amazing. I put myself at the mercy of others for so long, I forgot how that felt.

Well, all of this said because I believe that I had a bit of a schedule to my days. I am someone who needs a schedule. Plus, it was quiet, and I needed that as much as anything. My other half is now in the last of his four-week vacation, and having him constantly around has played havoc with my pseudo-schedule and my peace of mind! I can't wait for next week to arrive! He's not a horrible person, but it took this long and difficult 10-month journey to make him realize where I was headed. Downhill, very fast. He has begun to realize that he has never given me any support during the decade of difficulties and that he was, in fact, actually one of my difficulties. Sadly, over time, the result was the loss of our closeness. We will never have a true marriage again. He has also finally acknowledged that truth and is, like me, trying to live as friends. It is one of the situations that gives me the most grief. I am a person who needs to give and receive love. Not having that kind of relationship may be my biggest loss of all.

But enough of that. I am tremendously encouraged and almost feel giddy with the progress! I have a peace now that I have not had for a very long time. I think I've managed to put some of the pieces back together. My heart feels lighter, my emotions are positive, I have options, and I am able to not only unlock the door to The Place in which I had taken refuge but to step out into the world.

The Place will probably always be there. I can visit, but maybe I should throw away the key...

(Image is an assemblage from AnAlteredAffair at Etsy and is entitled "A Lock on My Heart."

Rescue me...

We have three Golden Retrievers that are our children. We love, pamper and spoil them. I think there is nothing cuter than a Golden puppy. Who can resist those soft little bundles of fur that wriggle and cuddle and make cute puppy noises? We started out getting puppies, but the last two we've gotten were rescued and around two years of age. Both were abused and had some behavior issues as a result. It is a tremendous joy to rescue an abused animal, but they require a lot of time and attention. Not everyone can give that time, and not everyone understands the special needs of an abused animal.

Our first rescue was from the local Golden Retriever Rescue Club over six years ago. Her story is awful. A breeder who had around 40 Goldens was mating smaller ones to get a miniature version, something that would be totally awesome to those who love Goldens. Our Maris was one of only two that she had successfully bred. Based on some of her behavior, Maris probably was abused during early leash or show training up until she was about two years old. Then, unfortunately, the breeder abandoned her animals, leaving them in small puppy size cages in a warehouse with no ventilation for 28 days. I won't go into the details--they are gruesome. When the GRRC got there, half of the dogs were dead, and the other half dubbed "the bones bunch." We have always had very large dogs, males weighing between 100 and 120 pounds, so we had been looking for a smaller Golden. The first day "the bones bunch" was in an adopt-a-show, my other half just happened to attend and put our names on the list for both of the small dogs. We were first on the list for the one we eventually got, but later that week, we were told that her behavior issues were the worst of any Golden they had ever rescued. They decided not to adopt her out, and I asked them to contact us if they ever changed their minds.

The foster mom tried to help Maris but wasn't very successful. She kept her for six months, and then, possibly in frustration, decided that our vet references had been so stellar that she would consider letting us "try her out." Otherwise, the fosters were going to keep her. The foster mom's biggest concern was that we had two other Goldens, and she felt that putting Maris with other dogs would exacerbate the problems. We begged her to let us have a chance, and it turned out that it was probably more helpful than hurtful to have Maris be around other dogs.

When we got to the foster home (per our appointment), the smallest Golden I've ever seen was walking around at the front glass door. I ran up the steps and I don't think I rang the bell, walked into the house and sat on the floor. Maris was cautious, but she came and got partially in my lap, and she licked my face with one very gentle kiss. The fosters were astonished because Maris had never exhibited any kind of reaction to anyone before. It was obvious that we were meant to be. We were to take her home for the weekend and bring her back on Monday if we changed our minds. I knew there was no chance of that happening. I was recovering from the worst depression I've ever had, a deep pit that I believed had only one way out. I needed Maris as much as she needed me. Thankfully, I was still around to rescue her, but in truth, we rescued each other.

Needless to say, this littlest Golden stole my heart. Her eyes gave away her lack of confidence and trust. I was able to stay home at the time, and I worked with her for months, trying to help her unlearn her drastic survivor and emotional behaviors. When she ate, I was right there beside her, constantly touching her and her bowl, letting her know that the food was hers and no one would take it away. She gradually stopped scooping up all of the food in her mouth like a squirrel and taking it away to hide and eat. I walked around with treats in my pockets that I would surprise her with so she would learn that food wasn't scarce. I kept an eye on her when she was outside so she wouldn't eat any poop. We put out a giant bucket of water, praying that she wouldn't drink every drop of it, as she was wont to do. She did not want to be touched and hated to be held or groomed. She would growl and occasionally bite if we did any of these things or if she felt threatened. I wouldn't back down, didn't scold her for reacting that way and continued to touch and stroke her fur. She was like a rag doll at first. She had no muscles to speak of, and I decided that a daily body massage would not only help her as her muscles strengthened, but would also be another way of therapy. Gradually, she lost most of her behavior issues, but her ordeal left deep scars. To this day, she does not have the exuberant personality of a normal Golden. She is quiet and subdued most of the time. She is cautious around people, doesn't run to them, and gently raises her paws as a greeting. She is anxious when daily activities are the slightest bit different and paces when anything in her comfort zone changes. But she has become, hands down, the sweetest dog we've ever had.

After all she went through as well as the problems that can come with over-breeding, I'm not surprised that she's had several physical problems. Goldens are prone to getting cancer, and Maris has had three different kinds--a rare gum cancer, a skin cancer and a rare eye cancer. We never want to do anything that puts our babies through unnecessary pain. We consider their age, overall health and look to our wonderful vets for advice on how to manage any problems. We firmly believe that the animal's quality of life is the main issue, and we try not to make emotional decisions.

We are now having to consider whether or not to have Maris' eye removed. She had half of her lower jaw removed several years ago, and she has managed quite well. My heart and my head are battling with this decision. Although I have loved every Golden we've ever had, Maris and I have a very special bond. We are soul mates in so many ways. She has been a joy and a treasure in my life. We both have been to the edge but survived our darkest hours. She and I both guard our hearts carefully. We proceed down the path of life cautiously, but we do keep going.

I know that I will lose this most special gift we've been blessed with at some point down the road. I've often said that I think God gives special needs children to very special people who can love and accept them unconditionally. I believe the same thing about Maris. She was given to me because we needed each other. Some people don't understand depression. They think it is just sadness or a phase. Those are the kind of people that wouldn't understand a gift like Maris, nor would they have been patient and understanding with her behavior. I'm so thankful that I was entrusted with this little angel.

And hopefully, God will prepare for another one to find us when Maris is gone.

(Image in this post is entitled "Golden Retriever" and is by Ron Krajewski of dogartstudio at Etsy.)

Strait talk...

After working on yesterday's post, I was reminded just how much I adore bindings. Meaning, of course, as fashion. Corsets, harnesses, cage skirts, anything wrapped, strapped and layered, belted or laced. I can still get away with most of this because it has simply always been my style. I was wearing lingerie as outerwear long, long ago. Now, my dad did call me a "street walker" and refused to take me out anywhere if he thought I was dressed to an extreme. Hhhmmppphh. Today, he takes my niece out no matter how she is dressed, and most of the time, she shows way more skin than I ever did! Not to criticize her. She is a cutie-pie. The difference is that I was more covered up than not, wearing a lot more stuff than the youngins do today. I didn't feel completely dressed unless I had on at least five pieces of clothing. My friends used to takes bets on how many I would show up wearing.

How did I get reminded of this? Well...

(Jacket is by Jim Stewart.)

And in this corner...

I had a rather impressive emotional meltdown last night. We needed to get the garage cleaned up for an inspection, and it turned into one of our oldest arguments. In the past few years, my arguments have gotten less emotional and more to the point as I have gradually felt less and less emotion for my husband. As a result, his arguments have escalated into yelling and throwing objects out of frustration that I'm not responding to his tactics. Our age-old discussion relates to my purchasing, finding or collecting what he calls trash. He also seems to believe that I am hoarding stuff. I believe I talked about my house decorating in a previous post, mentioning that I use antique things as I find them and often in ways that they weren't intended to be used. I also use these same things in creating art. For example, I have a wall assemblage that includes a window frame, tin roofing, and a shredded curtain still on the rod, all of which came out of my abandoned grandparents' home. Much of what is in the garage is from their home, and needless to say, I will never get rid of it regardless of whether I ever use it or not. What isn't from my grandparents' home is still interesting, and I may want to use it in a project. He thinks if I haven't done anything with it in a year that it should be tossed. He doesn't get that inspiration doesn't have a deadline.

I calmly left the garage to go get ready for bed but decided I would apologize for something I said that was rather nasty. However, as I tried to lead up to my apology, he went off on several tangents and avoided answering questions as usual. Or his answers actually proved what I had said. I finally reached my last straw in trying to make him at least see my point of view. He didn't have to like it, just see it. Well, my emotional dam burst, and I kind of went hysterical. I actually scared him. Somehow, amidst the heavy sobbing, I told him that I had been rejected, pushed away and gotten rid of so many times that I was simply afraid for it to happen again. I said that my heart had been wounded so many times that it wasn't mending and that one more heartbreaking incident might just do me in. I said that I wanted to go somewhere that no one, not even him, could hurt me. He said that I wasn't being realistic, that there was no place I could go that there wouldn't be any people. Is it me or is he not listening? I told him about the things he had said and done to push me away, which he remembered but didn't seem to think were hurtful. I have never told anyone everything that has happened over the last 20 years with my family, my husband or jobs and even a bible study. He thought I was upset because I was holding in too much anger and should demand apologies. I am not holding in any anger, and I tried to make him see that apologies wouldn't change how I feel about what happened. I tried to make him understand that hurtful words can't be taken back or attitudes changed. What was said was said and my heart broke. Period. My hurt is not the same thing as anger. He argued that I seemed fine most of the time and that even when I was with my family I seemed okay. Although I've tried to tell him many times that I am putting on a "smiling face" and really am not doing well, he obviously doesn't listen or believe me. In the end, I'm not really sure he understood what I was saying. That he hadn't understood had been one of my earlier points of discussion. For all that we have been married for almost 25 years, he doesn't really know me.

And that, for me, is the saddest thing of all. There isn't anyone close to me who knows the real me, and there aren't many people close to me. The thing that scares me is that if they do know me and pushed me away, there must be something really bad or wrong with me. If that's the case, I don't want anyone else to know me.

(Image used in this post is found at digitaljunkies.net, a company providing freelance digital art and design, and is entitled "Hysteria.")

These shoes were made for walking...

Another problem these days is trying to decide what to do about finances. I was out of work last year for almost six months. I went back part-time in January, but thus far I've only been able to go one day per week. Our financial situation isn't one that will allow me to remain on the employment fence much longer. Actually, I think I have to be off of the fence by the end of this weekend.

It may be so hard to get my butt into the office every week because the extreme stress that sent me over the edge is probably always in the back of my mind. There is something in my head that just refuses to listen to reasoning even when I know I'm really going to be in trouble with my other half if I don't go into work. I have often thought that shame might play a part in how I feel about my failures or when I can't meet expectations. I remember specific incidents of shame being the disciplinary vehicle my mom used. Guess it carried over. It's either fear of the stress or shame, or it may be a combination of the two, but I'm not doing a very good job of getting past it.

I really liked my job. I really like the people I worked for. But I couldn't take the stress of being the only other employee doing all the admin and client paperwork. They admitted on more than one occasion that they needed at least two people and maybe three. They knew I was working too many hours and never making a dent in the stacks. We just couldn't ever find anyone. The one person we hired stayed only a few months. They hired someone else after I had been gone about two months. Now I'm more of a gopher, trying to help get things caught up. I can make my own schedule and am not responsible for any of the day-to-day stuff. It should be a no-brainer, so why am I so hesitant to go back? Maybe I should go be a greeter at Walmart or get a part-time job at the mall. I couldn't work at a bookstore, clothing store, shoe store or pet store. I would simply hand my check back to the owner on payday. That doesn't leave me many no-brainer possibilities for employment. I don't want to work somewhere that I will get so involved and feel so responsible. Gets me into too much trouble. I would love to do something at home, but I have no self-motivation right now. And there is still the issue of making a difference whatever I do. I saw an ad on TV recently that advised doing marketing surveys online that paid "thousands" of dollars. Yeah. What I really wish is that I could get paid for cleaning up my house. It has suffered the past year right along with me.

During tea today, my friends gave me a bit of advice. Alice said she wouldn't recommend falling into a hole, but she did admit that if I was in a place where everyone was mad, mad, mad, I might feel right at home. I'm thinking that the most important thing about their experiences is that neither one of them had a need for cash. Not in Wonderland or Oz. Something to consider.

Wonder how far it is to Yellow Brick Road. If I don't start making a monetary contribution to the home fund soon, I'm gonna be sent packing.

(Image used in this post is by artist Margaret Teichert and is entitled "The Yellow Brick Road." It can be found at margaretteichert.com.)

She's come undone...

I have often been told I am a true Aquarian. I don't think that's even a word, but that's why it perfectly describes me. I walk to the beat of a different drummer. I am independent. Solitude suits me just fine. My mom and dad have often said that they brought the wrong baby home from the hospital! I am the weird one, the rebellious one, even though I never did any of the stuff my brothers did. I think differently, I dress differently. My mom made my clothes, and I never could find fabrics or patterns that I liked. I had a vision of what I wanted, but no one could ever sew it. My mom was a true seamstress--no seams showed on the inside, prints matched at seams, lined, etc. Perhaps because I demanded perfection in everything I did (though I didn't realize it at the time), I wanted to wear what we now know as deconstruction style. I don't think that was a word back when I wanted it. For certain, my mother had no clue how to make it. My outfits were an odd combination of bohemian, punk, and goth before the last two were popular. Kind of a step up from the hippies of the sixties. Long chains, metal fastenings, lace, high-heeled boots, ripped and shredded, loose and layered. Rings on every finger and toe, bracelets up to my elbows and there wasn't a day when I didn't wear a scarf tied somewhere on my person. And I went to a prep school/college. Pink and green and La Costa. Hated it then, and still do. And yes, I was considered quite different. Duh. Did I care??

My tastes were refined as I got older to include asymmetrical and architectural looks. If I was lucky enough to find something like that, I still wore it in a way no one else would. People would stare at me and might say something about how "interesting" I looked! The Japanese and Belgians, among others, were designing the kind of clothing that I wanted, but I wouldn't discover it for years.

I did a similar thing in decorating. Long before it was popular, I was doing the shabby chic thing without the chic. My love of fibers and metals and layering translated into antique clothing and rusty stuff put together in unusual ways. I bought antiques that were broken or falling apart, and I used them just like I found them. Well, I did clean them up. I just didn't do any repairs. I went to flea markets up and down the east coast, shopped antique stores, did some dumpster diving, picked up "trash" off the side of the road and even picked pieces out of trash piles behind the antique stores in rural areas. I consider the found freebies some of my best treasures! I display the old clothing, usually in some state of decay, like art. Broken garden statue parts are scattered around my home, as are old mannequins and tabletop displays. I have been told by quite a number of people that my house looks like a museum. They usually make it sound like it's a good thing, but who knows? There was the one woman who asked me why I had severed limbs, heads, and torsos in my house. What could I say? She didn't get it, and I wasn't even going to try to explain.

Now, I mention all of this because I know that I am different in so many ways. Odd, unusual, weird, but for the most part I am very comfortable with myself. However, a friend told me a few years ago that she thought the reason I dressed and decorated with things that were flawed and falling apart was because I thought I was flawed and falling apart. What? I didn't know how to feel about that comment. Is it possible that I am outwardly manifesting my inner self with all my flaws and problems by the way I dress? Did I happily keep broken things broken because I was broken inside? Is it possible for a person to subconsciously do that? And would that same friend see every person with a mental disorder in the same way? Or was it just me?

I have to say that I've been disturbed by her words ever since. I'd like to think that my style is a completely separate issue from my mental and emotional state. Because if they are connected, then not only have I been this way all my life, then I am likely unable to change. And truthfully, while I do want to change on the inside, I don't want to change my style at all.

Maybe I should dress like a mental patient. Because it really is my style.

(Image from Dazed and Confused.)

Movement...

The most recent cycle has run its course, and I am once again back in a low phase. I'm so thankful that I seem to have overcome the trauma symptoms since I have been able to get out and about again. That leaves just the depression, which is much easier to deal with and get past. Easier, of course, being a relative term. On Monday, I felt like everything inside of me was draining out of my pores. Like a balloon that was slowing leaking air, sinking lower and lower. By Tuesday, I was completely empty. I couldn't focus, couldn't think. I actually didn't even feel anything. No energy, no thoughts, no emotions. It is a relief to feel nothing. And although I am like a chrysalis, the inanimate shell, I know that somewhere inside I am gaining strength to face another day.

Now that I am past the trauma, I think a New Place has been created. A Place where I can find restful sleep instead of being overwhelmed. A Place where there is no fear or anxiety. A Place that will shelter and renew. I am so comforted by the knowledge that I have moved on from The Place. It will always be there in case it is needed. But knowing that I don't have to stay there encourages and motivates me to keep pushing myself. Well, probably not pushing. More like nudging.

(Image used in this post is from dreamthinkspeak.com.)