Marching Forward (random thoughts)

 Today is the last day of March. I've wanted to write a little more for awhile now, but I've been busy with work and haven't been able to focus and sit down to write. I am writing now, without a plan, but I am marching forward nonetheless. 

I've said this before, but I write these posts knowing that not many people will read them. It still surprises me when someone says that they do. But enough people have let me know that they appreciate them that I figure it is worth continuing. So, for those of you that read these words; this is for you. 💚

It is Spring here in the Midwestern US. Today is a sunny, windy and cool day. My two old dogs lay near me as I type on my computer. Their breathing alternates between sweet snores and coos, with an occasional sigh or stretch and swallow. They are both 13 years old this year, and I am thankful every day that they are alive. I know that each day is a blessing. 

I am at the stage in my life when I am more surrounded by aging; aging dogs, and also aging parents. Along with the morbid atmosphere that has surrounded the pandemic for the past year, I have been acutely aware of the slowing down and impending doom I sometimes feel about death. But again, I try to appreciate each day that we all live. Both my parents are still alive, but they have also been talking about dying for decades, it seems. I suppose that sort of morbidity can seem bleak, but I try to use it as a reminder to appreciate things. And, I do. 

I've mentioned before that I spent many years of my life not wanting to be alive. I was a very sad child and adolescent, and it took a lot of therapy and time to work through things and change my thinking. I am still a moody person, but now I recognize that my moods are a bit like the Midwestern weather; just be patient and it will change. So I enjoy the "good" moods, and I "get through" the not-so-good moods, knowing that they will pass. Of course I have strategies and skills for helping the "bad" moods pass more quickly or less painfully now too. When I was younger I worried that the darkness would swallow me up and control me forever. But now I know that I am strong enough to wait it out and get back to the light. 

I try to use my experiences with depression and anxiety to help others. I am not a psycho-therapist, but I am a massage therapist, and I can give people emotional support. Usually I give others what I want people to give me; energetic support, and sometimes the knowledge that someone else cares. I don't try to solve other people's problems, but I do want them to know that I care and support them emotionally on their own journeys. As a massage therapist, I can also help their muscles relax if they come into my office, but the emotional/energetic support is there regardless of distance. If they/you want it. 

I often wonder what I can do to help others, without it becoming too much. Too much for me or for them. I need to keep a safe bubble around myself, for emotional protection. My job allows me to do that. In friendships, that isn't always as easy to do. I have made mistakes in the past of letting my boundaries be too wobbly, so I am aware of the dangers. It is nice to feel the closeness of a good friend....but people often want different things and we don't always communicate very well. And I am wary of becoming attached to people. 

But life is a dance, and I am constantly dancing between attachment and non-attachment. I practice various philosophies and observe my feelings. And I try to communicate. And I practice forgiveness and try to keep a sense of humor about things. And I breathe and I dance and I laugh, and I live. 

Friendship Timelines

I am very fascinated by the concept of time in relationships, and how each person spends their time differently, and views the value of that time differently. I am fascinated in the amount of time that people like to spend with each other, versus how much time some of us also need to be alone. And, how much some of us can feel connected and close to someone when we are apart, versus needing to be in physical proximity to them. I am fascinated that some people cling to relationships and want them to last forever, while others welcome change and are quick to move on. I am eternally fascinated by people, and their behavior, and especially by relationships. 

I am someone who likes to keep people in my life. I like to think that we can always reconcile our differences and disagreements, and come to a place of kindness, if not friendship. I see the potential, if not "good", in everyone, and I always hope that anything less than that will be a mistake and therefore something that can be apologized for and made amends for. 

Although I *know* that not everyone else is like this, I still do not fully comprehend that not everyone is like this.  So I try to ask questions, and I try to understand human differences. No judgment, just curiosity.

Friendship is also a term that is fascinating to me. The definition of a "friend" versus an "acquaintance" has become especially wobbly since the advent and popular use of Facebook, where the term "friend" is used for any kind of social connection. Much can (and is) said about the whole "social" experiment of Facebook and other social media enterprises, and I can absolutely see all kinds of good and bad issues with it. But again, I like to focus on the more positive aspects, so I still participate, albeit inconsistently.

At various times in my life, I have identified as being "introverted" or "shy" or having "social anxiety". I am "highly sensitive" and especially uncomfortable in crowds. I do not trust large groups of people, for good reason. I can be incredibly disappointed in human behavior, and yet I also genuinely like most people when I get to know them. I am absolutely wary of group think and behavior, but believe in the best of the individual. 

So, back to the title and beginning of this essay: I believe that friendships are a type of relationship, and I believe that they all have their own timelines. For my own life, I like to keep those timelines open. I love to hear from old friends who I maybe haven't been in touch with for a few years. Even if the last interaction we had was a misunderstanding or less-than-positive, I still welcome communication. People change and hopefully grow, and I genuinely care about all living things. But I especially care about people who I have interacted with in my life, whenever that was. And honestly, double-bonus if it was a disagreement or misunderstanding and you've grown and want to explain things in a more forgiving way. Or, if you felt slighted and want to ask why....maybe there was a lack of awareness or confusion. 

I have often wondered what the statute of limitations on apologies might be. But then I also wonder if there are things that I should apologize for that I don't even know about. Communication is so crucial, and yet so clumsy at times. 

At any rate, I wish there was more time to really connect and communicate with people because I genuinely care about everyone. But I also really value my time alone and I need to protect that as well. So I do energy work and hope that it does reach people. Whenever and however they need it.

I keep my heart open to connections.  And although my door might not be open, my emails are. 

☮💛

Reflections on My Pandemic Year

 

from my calendar in February 2020

It has been a full year since the Pandemic started, and I have been reflecting on how things have changed for me personally. I have been very fortunate in many ways, but it has still be a difficult year. 

I knew that 2020 was going to be a year of change. There were a lot of things set to change in my life personally, and I knew the 2020 election was going to be pivotal. I also dabble in astrology and I was aware that there were some big planetary "energies" going on, so I was trying to be open to things. I started the year nervously excited about the year ahead. But that doesn't mean that I was prepared for a pandemic.

I remember when Kobe Bryant died, and how it felt like something even bigger than the tragedy that it was.  I remember first hearing about Covid-19, before it even had that name, and being genuinely worried that it could become a pandemic. I actually remember the stock market from the beginning of the year, and thinking that it was destined to crash, but not fully knowing how or why. I'm not psychic; I'm just observant. 

My father had his 90th birthday last year, and we were trying to plan a big celebration. His birthday was in April, and in January and February we were still trying to make plans, but one of my sisters lives in Seattle and it wasn't looking good. By the time his birthday came around, we were all in lockdown and we could only call and send email. Fortunately, he is still alive, and has now been vaccinated and will hopefully be able to celebrate his 91st birthday. And maybe some of us can visit him. 

At the beginning of March, I still had clients scheduled but I started to be concerned. By the end of the second week in March, the Big Ten was cancelling all their sporting events and I shut down my business. 

When I look back, the month of February was when the pandemic really started for me. We could see it coming but we didn't know how soon or how bad. It was like the mud was swirling; we didn't know what was happening. That continued, and still continues to some extent today. Things are much clearer than they were a year ago, but there is still a lot of mud swirling around. 

I personally have managed to stay healthy. My immediate family has managed to stay healthy, and nobody in my extended family has gotten sick enough to require hospitalization. We are fortunate (we are also a pretty small family). But that doesn't mean that we have been unscathed..  No one with a heart could get through the past year unscathed.

I have been fortunate to be able to weather the storm in the safety of my home, with my family. But that doesn't mean that I don't feel pain from knowing of others who are not so fortunate. I do not understand how people cannot care about other people. I do not understand how the pain that others feel is not enough to try to alleviate that pain. Why would we need to experience pain ourselves to care? Why is empathy not enough? Why do so many people not care about other people?

I still believe that there are more "good" people than "bad" people. I still believe that most people do care about others. But damn are there a lot of selfish assholes out in the world. Seeing so much of that this past year is profoundly disappointing. 

I also believe that much of the conflict in the world has more to do with miscommunication and misunderstanding than straight-up asshole-ery. (what? that's not a real word?!)... Unfortunately sometimes people get hung up on some kind of self-righteous need to be misunderstood. Or refusal to forgive. Or, they just like being an asshole. 

I've witnessed a few too many assholes this past year. I'm sure you have too. There have been those who simply say something mean, or ignore someone when they are in pain. Then there are those who refuse to wear masks that could protect others, or purposely repeat misinformation. And of course there are those who physically assault other people or destroy property. This is not innocent ignorance. This is blatant disrespect for others. This is believing that your right to kill other people is more important than a little inconvenience. And it's profoundly disappointing that so many people just don't care. 

On the other hand, of course, I've also witnessed a lot of kindness and compassion and courage this past year, as well. And I hope you have too. It is unfortunate that assholes get so much publicity when there really is so much good stuff too. Of course pain is significant, but beauty is significant too. I am often guilty of focusing on the yucky stuff, but this year I have also been very blessed and I have learned to appreciate the peaceful and beautiful moments all around me. 

I am blessed to have two wonderful old dogs who I have been able to spend many more hours near, because I have stayed home with them. They are two angels in fur coats, and their snoring and gentle old movements help me stay in the moment, and at peace. Although I closed my business for most of the year, I have been able to spend more time at home making use of my recently remodeled kitchen and bathroom. I have been able to enjoy learning to prepare more yummy foods, and take long relaxing baths. And I have been able to spend more time writing, which I find indulgent. My pandemic year has allowed me to slow down. It forced a sabbatical for me, and although I lost a lot of money, I didn't lose my house or my life. I did lose a couple friends this past year, and that still crushes me, but I am trying to appreciate the past while honoring the present. I have been in mourning, not only for the friends that I lost, but also for all the millions of people who I have never met who lost their lives or are in pain. And for all the relationships that have been broken by misunderstanding or malice. 

I still dream of a world where there are less assholes. I still hope that people will be more willing to apologize and speak their truth and listen. With compassion. It shouldn't take abnormal strength of character to communicate caringly. But too often people are not willing to take the time to understand each other. And too often people aren't willing to share the way they feel. How did we all get so judgmental? Why can't we all just care about each other? 

My Pandemic Year has ultimately been a good one. I have had the time to reflect and grow spiritually, and spend time with my family. I know I am really fortunate. That doesn't mean it hasn't been painful, by any means! But I guess I am learning to appreciate the painful times because I know they have helped me grow stronger. And I do truly appreciate the good times. I appreciate kindness and compassion, and thoughtfulness, and communication. 

And if you read this, I appreciate you. 💛

Reclaiming February 13th and Valentine's Day

I have previously written about Anniversary Reactions https://jc-tome.blogspot.com/2012/04/anniversary-reactions.html and a little bit about the trauma from when I was fifteen https://jc-tome.blogspot.com/2012/02/when-i-was-fifteen-introduction.html (and other places).  For many years I also referenced February 13th as a particularly traumatic anniversary, and even did some specific PTSD treatment for. Although my trauma was not limited to that date, February 13th was a date that for decades would cause Anniversary Reactions in my body. And being associated with Valentine's Day, I have often struggled with the whole obnoxious holiday. 

But I have finally reclaimed that. 

Valentine's Day is one of those uncomfortable holidays anyway; as kids we might give Valentines to all our classmates, but what we write in them can vary. It can be sweet and innocent, but it can also be extremely cruel.  Often it can become a very public display of popularity and a worse public display of bullying. As kids get older it becomes even more sensitive as kids either wear their hearts on their sleeves, or refuse to acknowledge any feelings. I'm sure most of us have memories of feeling shunned by someone we liked, or simply ignored. It didn't matter that most of our classmates were also being ignored; the ones who got elaborate Valentine's gifts always let us know that we were not as well loved. 

I don't remember anything really horrible happening as a kid, but I do have these vague feelings of rejection. I know I was always uncomfortable. I dreaded Valentine's Day enough that I always considered staying home from school. I was too serious of a student to do that though. But it was always a day that made me feel like I wasn't good enough; that I was somehow lacking. 

The date took on a more sinister meaning when I was a senior in high school.

Friday February 13, 1987 was not yet Valentine's Day when I went off to see a movie with a co-worker. We were not dating, and I naively thought he was my friend, but I was also very nervous. For good reason. I was a ridiculously innocent 17 year old high school student, and he was a 26 year-old man who really lived in a different world. We were going to see Platoon in a theater, but when I went to his place he wasn't ready and was upset because his car had been repossessed that day. 

I was in way over my head, but tried to play it cool. It was complicated; he was a big strong guy with biceps as big as my head who worked in the weight room at the YWCA where I was a lifeguard. He was sort of the strong silent type and I mistook his interest in me as an older brother kinda thing. Did I mention I was naïve?? We missed the movie and stayed at his apartment, and the night spun completely out of control for me.

For years - decades even - I remembered that it was Friday the 13th and a Full Moon. I didn't even fully realize that by the time things went really really wrong for me, it was actually after midnight and therefore Valentine's Day. 

I had a good friend that dragged me to a rape crisis center the next day, but I still tried to pretend I was fine and it wasn't a big deal. I didn't let my family know for well over a year, and that was only after another rape in college and some more serious suicide plans. I would always have visceral physical reactions to all things Valentine's Day, but I still tried to ignore the truth. 

For me, my "Me Too" experiences were all tied together. When I was a young athlete running, I was chased and grabbed more than once. As a lifeguard I got so many comments from young guys and older men that I just accepted it as part of the job. That didn't make it any easier though. I was fortunate when I was younger to date guys who were courteous and respectful. Until those times when I was 15 and then 17 and then 18 when they weren't. And what happens when you say no or plead with someone to stop, or actually push them away and try to fight back and they still don't stop?.... well, as a lot of people can tell you, it can really mess you up. 

I was really messed up for a lot of years. My poor husband - and even my kids - have had to deal with being woken up in the middle of the night by my screams as I fight someone off in a night terror. The night terrors are usually stronger when I am triggered by a memory.  Or an anniversary.  February 13th, and 14th, used to be big triggers. 

I can pretty confidently say that I have reclaimed these dates now. They will always be a part of my history, but they don't have the power they used to have over me. I know that some people might read this and wonder why I want to re-visit the past. Why do I want to remember? And I think I understand that some people can push things back into the dark and forget about them. But for me, if I try to hide something painful, it just grows more powerful in the dark. For me; it is important that I bring some of these things out into the light every now and again to shine some of my strength on them and keep them in the past. 

I avoided admitting what happened to me for years, and it had a sinister hold on me for far too long. I recognize that I don't need to share this with all of you now, but I also hope that by sharing I can help some of you to confront some of your own demons that you hide in the dark. Just because bad things happen to us doesn't mean that we are bad people. And, we are not alone. We can help each other get stronger and reclaim our past "bad dates" (in more ways than one). 

So, Happy Valentine's Day. It's still a stupid holiday, and I know a lot of people have not been able to "reclaim" it's hold on them. But it's a good excuse to eat chocolate, and throw some whipped cream on things. And here in the Northern Hemisphere the days are slowly getting longer. So, I hope if you read this you are hanging in there, and if possible I hope you have a good day. ❤ 💗 😗

TOME about a coach (and a swimmer)

 

My coach jacket that still keeps me warm when I shovel snow

Not long after I wrote my last post, where I wrote about my struggles over the years with depression, one of the key people who helped keep me alive when I was in high school rather suddenly died. I have struggled with whether to write about it, and what I should say....and even if my recollections are correct or not. Because my past traumas and even use of anti-depressants has fogged my mind a bit and my memory is full of holes. But my memories are still my memories, and my stories are still worth sharing. And I hope that I can honor my coach with my words. 

My competitive swimming career began just after I turned 7. After a serious bout with pneumonia when I was 5 years old that kept me in the hospital for a week and left me weak and frail, my mother thought maybe a swim team could help me get stronger. 

Me; 5 years old, with my tent in the hospital with pneumonia

I remember going home from school with the Try-Out flyer, and I even remember that very first try-out at the St. Anthony High School pool. Swimming soon became probably the most important thing in my life. 

I was a "good" swimmer, but I was never really "great". I remember that the Minnesota State Championship meet would give out jackets to the winners of the events, but the best I ever got was second place. So I got a bunch of red ribbons and silver medals, but no jacket. I managed top 10 and top 5 in many events, but never quite got first at that meet. 

I remember (perhaps incorrectly, but this is my memory) that the cost of that first season of swimming was $40. That was a lot for my family and caused some conflict, but my mom made it work. Being a swimmer and bringing home ribbons and medals got me attention from my grumpy grandpa, and allowed me to spend time making my mother happy. Although I was painfully shy and scared of most people, it gave me something that I was sorta good at and got me attention in school. Swimming really was the center of my life. 

I still have dreams about the route to swimming practice at St. Anthony. I was a city kid, but St. Anthony was a little suburb just a 3 mile trip up the road. When the weather was warm I would ride my bike to practice; mostly up hill on the way there, but more enjoyably downhill most of the way home. When the weather was colder I would get a ride, and I still have the image of waiting inside the door and watching for my mom's car going over the speed bump on the way into the parking lot. I can still remember the condensation on the glass doors, and my wet hair freezing after practice in the cold Minnesota winters. 

The summer swim season was Long Course, and the Long Course pool in our area was at my neighborhood "A-Field" (athletic field). I was able to ride my bike there as well, and later when I was older became a lifeguard and swim instructor, and even an assistant pool manager there.  

It was at the A-Field pool that I first met Neil. While I was still swimming for St. Anthony, I discovered that there was a little city team made up of Minneapolis High School students. I don't think they swam year round, but only during the summer season. I was still swimming year round and didn't want to cut back, but eventually the rising cost of the year-round team forced my hand. 

The exact timing on all of this is a bit fuzzy, but I know that in 7th grade (we could participate in high school sports in junior high) I ran cross-country while still swimming for the club team, but then joined the high school swim team after the x-c season and participated in both sports that season. I also cross-country skied and ran track, while still swimming year round. But sometime in there I started swimming for Danny's Dolphins. 

Me; my freshman year of high school swimming

Danny's Dolphins was the little city team and it was coached by Neil, who was one of the coaches at South High School, and Steve (I think) who was the guy's coach at Edison High School, which was my neighborhood high school. There was a joke that the team really should have been named "Fran's Fish", but I'm not sure if that is because Steve's wife was named Fran, or I'm just making that up. Minneapolis Public Schools only had a few swimming pools between all the schools and they shared practice space. South High School and Edison High School shared practice space at Northeast Junior High School. In junior high and 9th grade, I swam for Edison High School, and then after my first trimester of 9th grade I transferred to South. 

My transferring to South was a little bit controversial at the time, and there were people who thought I transferred just so I could swim at South. But Minneapolis was in the midst of a bunch of magnet programs and there were many reasons why I transferred to South; academics and music being two of the bigger reasons. A chance to not be known as the little sister of all my older siblings being another. But yes, swimming was also one of the reasons I transferred to South. And that was because Neil was one of the coaches.  

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school, I wanted to be a better swimmer and somehow my mom scraped up enough money for me to join an even bigger team that summer. I was still able to ride my bike to practice, but this time I would ride 9 miles each way in the morning for a 3 hour swim practice, and then 6 miles each way in the evening to get to a 2.5 hour practice. Some days I would run in the middle of the day on top of that. It was that summer that I did my first triathlons and was definitely in the best shape of my life. I felt guilty for not swimming with Neil and Danny's Dolphins that summer, and even though he understood it still seemed like I hurt Neil's feelings a little bit. But it did help for me to train with more, faster kids. In 10th grade I had my best swim season, and just came up short of qualifying for the State high school meet by coming in 2nd at our Sectional meet. Again, I was just a runner up. But I truly thought that the next year would be better. 

Me; high school yearbook

Unfortunately I went on a fateful trip to Italy at the beginning of that next summer and had a traumatic experience that I really never fully processed for over a decade. My parents also got divorced, my mom was incredibly depressed, my dad re-married, and my family was truly a hot mess. I don't remember much abut my junior year of high school, but I do know that my swim coaches are part of the reason I am still alive today. 

The Anderson "brothers" were not brothers by blood, but they did serve as uncles to a lot of us swimmers. They both helped me in numerous ways, and helped keep me alive my last two years of high school. Mike was the more cerebral, quiet, steady one. He is responsible for my need to eat peanut M&Ms on long car drives; because of the time we all drove to Chicago for a swim clinic and he shared the perfection of sugar and protein that is the peanut M&M.  He also is responsible for helping me understand that there really are only 24 hours in a day and not only do we need to respect the time that everything takes, but we also need to sleep. He was my chemistry teacher in high school and I absolutely felt like I failed him my freshman year of college when I nearly failed out, even though that had nothing to do with chemistry and everything to do with unrecognized trauma. 

Coach Mike Anderson

Neil was the more fun "crazy" uncle. He was the one telling all the wild stories of the 'hood, while he drank diet soda and chewed gum. I remember riding in the back of his truck with blood stains from the deer he killed hunting, and getting rides on the back of his motorcycle across the city to school after morning practices when I was one of the only swimmers there. With Danny's Dolphins we'd grab a lane at the University of Minnesota and practice next to the college kids. And everywhere he went, Neil was entertaining people with his stories. 

Coach Neil Anderson

Neil had the ability to make everyone feel special. Because to him, we were. But as I got more depressed, and other swimmers got faster, I thought I had let him down and I retreated. I was lost in my own emotional trauma. Where some athletes are able to channel their emotional pain into performing better at their sport, I instead would tighten up in races and fill my goggles up with tears. Too many practices would have me jumping out of the pool to go cry in the locker room. 

Years later, Neil would sit down with me outside at the A-Field pool and tell me about how helpless he felt, that he couldn't fix things for me. He told me I was like a first-round draft pick who just never lived up to their potential, and that he felt like he had failed me as a coach. But he didn't fail me. I may have been "always a Bridesmaid, never a Bride", but he was still a guardian angel. 

I was voted Captain for both my junior and senior years of high school, and I'm sure I was a terrible captain. I was too caught up in my own personal trauma. I wish that I could go back in time and be there more for the other swimmers. I did, however, become a swim coach myself later and think that I was a much better coach than a swimmer. I like to think that I honored all the different coaches I had over the years. 

I had re-connected with Neil a few years back through Facebook. Since the time I swam with him, he had gotten married and became a father, and was very happy....until he lost his wife to cancer and things went south for him. I regret that I did not keep in touch better. I am, however, thankful to see that so many other people have such fond memories of him. Others who kept in touch better and never felt like they let him down. I hope that he knew how much he helped me over the years. I hope that he knew that he helped save my life. 

And for anyone reading this who knew Neil and some of the stories he would tell; for some reason I still always remember his story of the guys who did the Pac-Man cheer, and how he would say "Pac-Man, ooooh baby, you got munched!" 

R.I.P. ☮❤

 

January 18th

 Trigger Warning?....perhaps

This post is both dark and also bright. It is a post about considering an end, but choosing to live. Again and again. 

January 18th is a significant date because in my "poetic" mind, I thought it was the best date to "end" my life. Six months after my birth day, I chose this date more than once, as a date to wrap things up and move on from this life....but each time I chose instead to keep living. 

The first time, I was sixteen. I had sad eyes, but people would comment on the chlorine that must have bothered them from all the swimming I did...

in the words of one of my favorite bands at the time; "Girl of sixteen, whole life ahead of her..." ~ Depeche Mode, Blasphemous Rumors

But I didn't slash my wrists - that was far too gruesome. And I didn't really want to die. I was just scared and sad and didn't really want to live. I come from a family that is really good at depression. We were taught to work hard and never be satisfied, and also never feel good about ourselves. We were taught to not fit in. And then after the one year I seemed to finally be more comfortable with success and friends - my 15th year of life, and sophomore year of high school - things happened that threw me down and seemed to punish me for that success and happiness. As if I dared to feel good about myself.... and crash down I did. 

I don't remember much from my junior year of high school. I cut my hair short and wore sweat pants and baggy clothes and listened to dark music and cried a lot.... I was too cowardly to actually kill myself, but I certainly wished I could just go to sleep and never wake up. 

Somehow I kept going and made it through the next couple years. I had teachers and coaches that let me know they cared and were watching out for me. I still got good grades and escaped into music, and planned a better escape and new life in college....

And then more trauma found me. Again, I dared to be "happy" and found friends and a new life as a freshman, only to have it raped away from me.  More than once. Even when I wasn't actually raped, I had a quiet voice and people often didn't listen to it. I did have good friends - people who cared about me - but the entire 4 years of college were a nearly continuous battle of emotional turmoil. I'm still amazed that I managed to graduate with a bachelor's degree. But whereas I used to be embarrassed by how bad my grades were, I am finally rather impressed that I was able to persevere. 

There were many times during those years that I picked a date - like January 18th - but never came up with a "good enough" plan, and instead kept going. I sometimes laughed and smiled, but my eyes still hid a lot of sadness....

I was very lucky to meet my husband during this time, and it is true that he saved my life. I don't say that lightly. I didn't want to have to be saved, but I think I needed help. We helped each other, and we have two amazing kids and a really good life. 

But genetics and learned behavior are impossible to ignore and run away from, and depression and angst followed me. Despite my "charmed life", I still struggled. Post partum depression was tough, and my over-thinking, highly sensitive mind and body kept me uncomfortable and searching for something...though I didn't know what. It is true that I had a fear of success, and the words of that old Depeche Mode song would still play in my mind, that the girl who "fell in love with everything" would get hit by a car or something. I was afraid that if I let myself be happy that things would go wrong. I was afraid that perhaps God had "a sick sense of humor" and was just waiting for me to want to live to kill me off. I needed to keep punishing myself; I couldn't let myself be happy. 

The last time I looked at January 18th as a "good day to die" wasn't so very long ago. I won't say exactly how long, but I thought my kids were old enough that they would be ok - better off even - without me. I had made some poor choices and was beating myself up and not forgiving myself, but more than that I really thought every little mistake I had made over my lifetime added up to some kind of  unforgiveable sin. But I'm talking about little things like a fight I got in with my best friend when I was five and called her names, and the time I felt road rage and followed a car for a block in anger.  I was so hard on myself for the little things that I was considering doing a really big thing that couldn't be reversed. But of course I wasn't thinking rationally. 

I was living a wonderful life, but I didn't think I deserved it and I didn't appreciate it. 

My eyes were tormented. 

I had set the date of January 18th as a date that I would end things, *if* I couldn't change them around. 

I am still here. 

 

Now January 18th is the date that I celebrate the choice I made to stay and live. 

I still make mistakes. And it's still hard to forgive myself. But usually I can take each day as a chance to do better. Better thoughts, better words, better actions. And a chance to make up for some of the mistakes of the past. Those times when I was selfish and didn't think about someone else that I was maybe hurting. Those times when I wasn't being selfish but just made a bad decision. 

I'm not perfect. 

I am only human.

And this January 18th, I am still alive. 

The Calm Between the Storms?

 

For about the past 10 days I've been thinking about what I might want to write, in order to somehow document this time in history. What it has been like, to watch as "Americans" stormed our own Capitol chanting about hanging our Vice President and killing other members of our government. 

I still don't know what to write. 

This morning, as I sit here, things are fairly calm. But the skies are dark and the waves are still crashing. More quietly now, but threatening.... 

Will the waves stay small? Is the worst of it over and the sun will continue to come out now?

Or is this just the calm between the storms? The sky is still dark, and the storms are still threatening... will the sea continue to churn and the waves continue to crash?

Will we get thrown around against the rocks? Cut up amongst the sharp edges? 

Or will peace prevail? 

Can we keep the bigger storm at a distance and let the sun come out again...

Obviously I am using this as an excuse to share some pictures that I think are a nice representation of the political climate in this country right now. The skies are various shades of grey, with some sun and blue sky peeking out. But things are pretty dark and ominous right now. 

There is a lot of churning and crashing and spraying. 

But I am still going to keep my eye on the sun. 

And hope that we don't get too beaten up in this storm. 

A Love Letter...

...to my husband.

I don't share a lot about my husband. He's a pretty private person and avoids social media, so I try to keep him mostly out of my more public thoughts. Even though I am not a "public person" (very few people read my writing or know who I am), I still want to respect my husband's privacy even to those who might actually see this. 

But today I want to share a little bit about my husband; B. Today is my Anniversary; both of my wedding day, and of the night we started dating. We met in the Fall of my Freshman year of college, but we started a romantic relationship after re-meeting at a New Year's Eve party five years later. So naturally, it made sense to make it a New Year's Eve wedding. Not only did that make it a great night for a party, but it also made it a great time to have a honeymoon in a nice warm place (we went to Jamaica), and a great excuse to go to other warm places for Anniversaries. Bonus that we would always remember what day we got married (though we sometimes struggle with the year). This year we managed to make it to 27 years. 🎉🎉

Twenty-seven years is a long time. We have now both been married more than half our lives. Pretty wild. 

I want people to know that the reason we have managed to stay married so long is because my husband is an amazing man. He is good and kind and smart, and incredibly emotionally strong. And he has saved my life more than once. 

When we "re-met" at that New Year's Eve party, I was a mess. I had graduated from college, but was working a job that didn't require a degree. I was an emotional mess from years of unresolved trauma and didn't feel at all worthy of his - or anyone's - love. He had just gotten out of a long-term relationship and I was just supposed to be a fun rebound. And we did have fun. 

But we also became good friends, and the rebound kept going. Like any good 90's relationship; we made each other mixed tapes, and we fell in love. If you were to ask me why I love my husband, one of the number one things is that he has great taste in music. I'm serious. My favorite thing to do with him still is to go to concerts (even if they are now virtual, during the pandemic). Almost as enjoyable is listening to his playlists while he is working in his home office across the hall from mine. For me, music is like politics; I would have a really hard time being in a relationship with someone with strongly opposing ideas of either of them. Luckily my husband and I get along with both. We aren't exactly the same, but fortunately we are very compatible. 

A lot can happen in 27 years, and we absolutely have had our ups and downs. I haven't always appreciated that he helped save my life, and I still had a lot of work to do on my own. We both also have the tendency to be workaholics and that can make both of us feel neglected. But somehow, we have managed to stay together. 

When I was younger I honestly didn't think I would ever get married. My parents had a terrible relationship and I didn't think marriage was a good idea. I didn't know how to disagree in a relationship and not break up, so I went through a long series of short relationships. Until B. He didn't let me break up with him, and he didn't give up on me. And it turns out, he was just what I needed. 

So here we are, celebrating another year of marriage. And I realize how incredibly lucky I am. He saved my life again this year. 

And he still has good taste in music. 

Trying to understand

 ...different kinds of people.

People have always fascinated me. I'm the youngest kid in my birth family and I think I was born observing others. I was (am?) notoriously shy. People fascinate me, but they also scare me. 

I have very little desire to ever hurt anyone. Or anything. I will take a bug outside instead of killing it in my house, but then I will worry that perhaps it's death will be more painful outside (but then I hope that then it will be food to another creature who needs it to survive and continue the cycle of life, so it is still better than being killed inside my house). Lol...yes, I really have thought those things. 

But back to people; I am fascinated by different people. And we are all different. Beautifully, wonderfully different. I absolutely see the beauty in everyone. Even though some really hide that beauty and seem really pretty ugly. 

I am not talking about physical beauty, though that is fascinating too (what makes someone appealing to some is not the same as to others). But I am mostly talking about the differences of people's souls, and the way we think and act. I am most particularly fascinated by how we think about and treat other people and things. And I find it really impossible to believe that there are people who are truly shallow in their thinking or feeling. I read about them, but it is beyond my comprehension. But it is absolutely fascinating. 

I look at the world through my own eyes. My comprehension necessarily is filtered through my own experiences. But I also know that there are other ways of viewing the world. So I try to understand them. 

But see, this is where it is really tricky; because people often only share what they want to share, and that isn't necessarily a true picture. So even that fascinates me. I wonder why people don't want to share who they really are...why is it so frightening? Or, if it isn't frightening, why do they want to keep other people from knowing who they are? .... and then, I wonder why I'm not more afraid of people knowing who I am....and then I think maybe I should be. 

When I am feeling more confident and strong, I think that it is incredibly sad that people are so afraid to share who they really are. What a sad world we live in where we have to hide who we are.... 

And yet, I also know that I am comfortable writing this in large part because I don't expect many people to read it! 

So then I go back to thinking that surely most people have these kinds of thoughts and just don't share them. So then, are we really all so different? 

I recently read an article that talked about Highly Sensitive People, or HSPs. And, of course, I identify as such. I have known about the "definition" for many years and every "test" I take reinforces that identity. What confuses me, still, is that supposedly only 20% or so of people identify as Highly Sensitive. I really don't understand that. I want to argue that surely people are that sensitive but they just block it because they can't handle it. Surely it is just a coping mechanism because the sensitivity is so overwhelming? I mean, I think my entire family is highly sensitive, so isn't everyone?? 

Ok, apparently it is genetic. But still. How could people survive if they aren't sensitive to their surroundings? Isn't there something about survival of the fittest and don't we, as a species, have to be sensitive to survive? So it must be more than 20%. 

And now I want to study it more.

So of course I will. I will continue to read about people, and to observe. And ask questions when I can. And be frustrated when people won't share more of their own thoughts with me. But also continue to accept that they have the right to not share...I absolutely respect your desire to not share. 

I do think I understand that there are people in this world that do want to hurt other people. And I definitely understand that we can still hurt other people even if we don't want to. I know that far too well. That is possibly my greatest curse; that all I want to do is make the world a better place and to help people, but unfortunately I still hurt people. I have a rather long list of people who I have cared about and tried to be friends with who have pushed me away. I try to protect people from me, but when I let my boundaries slip it usually ends badly. But I'm aware and try to be careful now. I do feel bad for all the people I have hurt over the years; it was never intentional, but that doesn't mean it hurt any less. 

So maybe that is usually the case with other people? They don't mean to hurt other people, but they are stupid and not careful enough, and it happens anyway? And instead of trying to understand and make amends or apologize, they just run away? Or, do they really just not care? 

I care. I am always trying to understand. I feel bad about people I have hurt over 40 years ago, and especially anyone I have hurt in the last year. I try to be a better person now than I was yesterday. I try to make up for my mistakes. And I try to understand. 

Twas the Day After Christmas....

 

....and here at my house, 

the sweet old dogs were snoring, 

(and definitely not quiet as a mouse)

~~~~~~

I sit at my computer, with the sounds of my Sweet Annie and Zoe, 
their breathing coming in and out like ocean waves...

the wind is strong, and the waves are big and loud.

I can almost feel the movement, like riding on a big boat in a choppy sea...

up and down and back and forth, a symphony of breath.

Until someone walks by in the hall and wakes them up.

The little one sits up and looks out to where she heard the sound, 

sleepy in her soft pajamas, she wobbles a little before snuggling back down.

The big one just lifts her head, looks at me, and then settles back to sleep.

Soon Zoe coos as she curls back into a ball, 

and then their breathing deepens again and the sounds of the ocean come back to life.

~~~~~~

Writing this blog is still an exercise in humility and questioning my motives. Why "share" what I write? What do I hope to gain? Anything? Is it worth the time to type and post, even if no one else reads it? Why bother? 

And again, the answer is still yes, it is worth the time, for me. Perhaps no one else will read it, but it is still positive energy to put out into the world. And that positive energy is still worth sharing. 

Writing, like other forms of art, is still valuable even if it is only appreciated by the creator of that art. Creative energy is positive energy, and that is inherently good. I don't have to be famous in order to be valuable. What I write doesn't have to be perfect, or even amazing, for it to have value. 

My December 2020 Thich Nhat Hanh Calendar page has this: 

"Words can travel thousands of miles.

May my words create mutual understanding and love. 

May they be as beautiful as gems, as lovely as flowers."

That is my goal. But if I fall short, may it still be worth the effort. 

☮♡☯

 

Welp....my turn to Quarantine

 

So, it is a good 9 months into the Pandemic, and I have been happily Introverting and mostly staying away from people. But I made a few exceptions, and...oops. Yesterday I was told that someone I was in "close contact" with two days before that tested positive for COVID-19. So now it's my turn to really quarantine. 

The good news is that I was well-masked during the "close contact", and that person was masked as well. There was a good-quality air purifier in the room, and good sanitary protocols were followed. See, I am a massage therapist and I had chosen to work on a very small number of clients, knowing that they were tested frequently and being extra careful. I knew there was still a risk, but I chose to take that risk. Now, I will find out if the masking and cleaning were sufficient to stave off that risk. 

I am hopeful that I am healthy enough and lucky enough to not get sick. And if I do, hopeful that my body will be able to fight off the virus. But I have to admit it is a little scary.

The greater risk for me - other than my own health risk - is that I am my 85 year-old mother's caretaker. She doesn't live with me, but I buy all her groceries and drive her to appointments. I just re-scheduled a medical appointment that she had scheduled for next week, in hopes that I will make it through the quarantine and be able to take her to the new date and time. And fortunately I had just done some shopping for her a couple days before I was in contact with the now-positive person. And I do know that if I do get sick there are other options to help my mom (just not her preference). 

So here I am, looking at the calendar, and hoping that I will get through the next week to 10 more days without any symptoms, and without my family getting sick as well. And, here I am looking at my options in case we are not so lucky. Things like when and where I should get tested, who I can contact in case I can't help my mom when she needs it, etc. And in the back of my mind; what happens if I spread it to my family and someone else gets more sick.... 

I am super fortunate because I can take time off of work without losing my job or my house or going without food. My kids are old enough that if I get really sick they can take care of themselves. Again, I know how lucky I am. And although my mom won't like it, she *can* be helped by other people too.

So now I join the group of people who have had to quarantine because they were in contact with someone who tested positive. Fortunately the only people I was in contact with since that time are my family, and they have all been careful as well. Hopefully the story will end here and I won't be part of the spread. I guess I'll find out!

Some Thoughts on Pandemic Introversion

 

My dogs have become my spirit animals. They are both older ladies - both thirteen years old - and they enjoy staying home and snuggling into their beds or other comfy spaces. The Pandemic has been pretty great for them, and they have made the past 9 months much better for me, as well. 

I am not strictly an introvert; I usually fall right in between introversion and extroversion when I take any kind of personality test. I do like people, and I like to be around people who are comfortable for me. But I'm Highly Sensitive and I need my space as well. I don't like crowds, and I like quiet calm spaces. I am a massage therapist and I prefer to work in a space where I can keep things quiet and peaceful. 

Because I am fortunate enough to have a pretty good savings and support, I have been able to weather this Pandemic mostly at home, with my dogs and the rest of my family, and I admit it has been pretty great. I do miss working more, and sometimes my house gets a little too noisy with all the other people and their various Zoom meetings.  But my house is big enough that I can usually find a quiet space when I need to. I am extremely fortunate. 

 I recognize that this Pandemic is not comfortable for most people. I am definitely one of the lucky ones. I still hurt for all the people who are struggling more than I am. I still feel a lot of pain for all the others who are hurting so much at this time. I do not understand how other people do not feel other's pain, because it is the way I have always been; I see or hear or read about someone getting injured and I feel pain where their injury is. I always have. It helps me as a massage therapist, but it can also exhaust me if I'm not careful (but I have learned to be careful so it isn't bad). I do wish I could take everyone's pain away from people, but I also recognize that pain teaches us things as well. 

I have learned a lot during this Pandemic, but I will always still have things to learn. One of the big lessons that I am always trying to learn is how much each person wants as far as space and interaction. Including myself. 

I appreciate having the time to hide out in my house and slow down and learn new things. But I also want people to know that they can still reach out to me if they want someone to talk to (or write to, preferably). I am not giving as many massages to clients, but I still care. Physical touch is more dangerous at this time, but we can still connect emotionally. I have always appreciated massage therapy because it is safe touch, with rules and boundaries. That is very important to me. Like many people, I have some uncomfortable history with 'unsafe' touch. I have always looked for ways to connect with people without it becoming uncomfortable. 

So now I write. It suits me. It is quiet and peaceful and I can make room for it safely. I can share without forcing my thoughts on anyone who doesn't want to read them. And I can offer to listen to anyone who wants to share their own thoughts with me. 

And for anyone who reads this but doesn't want to reach out, know that I do care about you even if I don't know you. You matter. Your thoughts matter. You are important to this world. Please know that.

☮♡

Memories of Thanksgivings Past; Football, Food, and a Traumatic Slap

 

I just spent a bunch of time looking through old family photos to see if I had any good old Thanksgiving pictures. I was looking for a picture of our family sitting down for a meal, or even working in the kitchen. But back when I was growing up, pictures were not as easy to take, and my family didn't organize them well either. But I did find this one, taken in November of my first year of life (or that is the label on the picture at least), and it is a pretty nice picture of me and my three siblings. I am, of course, the baby. 

I don't have a lot of fond memories of my childhood Thanksgivings, and that is somewhat unfortunate because I think they were actually mostly good. I do remember quietly hiding in the living room with my brother and father watching football on TV while my sisters worked in the kitchen with my mom. And I remember that I often set the table; getting out all the fancy holiday dishes and placing them, with fancy glasses to drink out of. I really enjoyed drinking juice out of fancy wine glasses or goblets, while the adults drank wine. I know that has led to me continuing to enjoy drinking water (and wine too) out of nice glasses today. Simple pleasures. 

I also remember that we did spend a few Thanksgiving holidays visiting family in small town Illinois. It was often the only time each year that we would see my grandparents and aunt and uncles and cousins, so although they were very nice people they were almost strangers. We didn't have a big family, and I was younger than everyone else and I was shy, so unfortunately I remember feeling shy and scared a lot. I only remember a few of those trips, and my shyness made them pretty uncomfortable, even though my relatives were all really nice. I was just painfully shy, even around family. 

The years that we stayed home in Minnesota, I remember tension and discomfort. But also football. Football was a safe escape for me from the tension of the unhappy people in my family. I especially remember watching the Dallas Cowboys on TV and really admiring the calm cool demeanor of their coach, Tom Landry. At least one year it was contrasted with the crazy coach for the Oakland Raiders at the time, John Madden, and that contrast in coaching styles has always fascinated me. My dad was a soccer coach; and I saw him as being a bit like an Italian version of John Madden. I became a swim coach; and I always wanted to be more like Tom Landry. Those Thanksgiving NFL games had quite an impression on me. 

Other than the football games, the Thanksgiving meal was always the main event. I suppose I also watched the Thanksgiving parade on TV in the morning, but my memories are more centered around football and food. Unfortunately eating at the dinner table always had a bit more tension than I was comfortable with. I have memories of arguments, but even more of strained silence. But the single biggest traumatic memory I have is when my older sister burped at the table and was promptly slapped. I don't know how old I was at the time, but the slap was so shocking that I have never forgotten. The dinner table did not feel like a safe place to be. But I have always found solace in watching football on Thanksgiving. That is where my happier memories were. 

I still love watching football on Thanksgiving, and fortunately my recent memories of the holiday are more positive. I still prefer watching TV to sitting at a dinner table, but I am more comfortable with the people around me. And I can even look back at those old memories more fondly as well. Except the slap; I will never be fond of the slap. 

Re-Start/ Re-visit/ Revival

 

So here I am trying to re-start this blog again. I tried to re-start it a few years ago but stalled out quickly then. But one thing I am good at is dusting myself off and trying again. And again and again.  So here I go....again.

I *have* thought about starting a whole new blog, especially since this one never really went very far. But that is actually the point of this; I don't give up and abandon things....instead, I may step away for a bit, but for the things that are valuable to me I will come back and dust myself off and try again. 

Exercise? There's me every January 1st and every morning after the Super Bowl, re-starting some workout program. Healthy eating? Yep, those same dates. I also tend to re-start things around my birthday, and around New Moons. And I admit, the inspiration for re-starting this this time came at the New Moon a little over a week ago. 

I have been doing a lot of writing this year, especially with the pandemic, starting in March. I've written poems and stories and "essays", but have pretty much kept them to myself. Because let's be honest, even if I post things "out there", not very many people are going to read my words. So I have usually decided that it isn't worth sharing if no one is going to read it anyway. I've also wondered what kind of "bad" things could happen if someone does read my writing and then criticizes it or somehow does something else in order to hurt me... is it worth the risk to share my words? 

Sometime in the past week I decided that it was worth the risk. 

I like to read other people's thoughts. I don't want to use other people's thoughts against them. I do recognize that there are people out there that do, but I am writing for the people who are kind souls who are curious or want to feel less alone and feel a connection when reading other people's words. 

I will share my thoughts with you. 

I ask nothing in return, except perhaps a positive thought to someone in your life. Try to see the good in people and share kindness. 

Many years ago I shared a quote of my own that I still feel is true today: 

"I'm not as nice as some of you think I am, but my kindness is a strength. And I'm pretty damn strong." 

I'm not always "kind" as well, but I do try to be. I'm just a person who is trying to be good and kind and make the world a better place. I get a lot of value from reading or hearing other people's thoughts, so I am sharing mine in case it can be of value to you.

I will finish this post by copying the very first post I made on this blog back in 2009. It is still a good place to start:

MONDAY, MAY 18, 2009

My TOME.... (a definition and introduction)

The Dictionary.com definition of "tome" is:

1.	a book, esp. a very heavy, large, or learned book.

2.	a volume forming a part of a larger work.

In this case, My TOME also stands for My Thoughts, Observations, Memories, Etc.

This is my first post, so I really don't know if I will do much with it. We'll see. I tend to write a lot - volumes - but I don't usually share my writing. I'm not entirely sure that anyone really wants to read what I write, and usually what I write is really pretty private. Really I'm mostly writing for myself. But if anyone else gets something from it, then of course that is an added bonus, so I figure I can try to share and see how it goes. I don't promise anything earth-shattering or anything - just my thoughts, observations, memories, etc.

So here it is.
Enjoy....
-jc

Thoughts of a Childhood Rival and Friend

My childhood nemesis died last week.  I stumbled upon a Facebook post of her obituary, and audibly gasped.  It felt like a gut-punch, with years of memories flooding my brain.  She was 47 when she died, and her obituary was short and did not include clues as to how she died.  It felt like a rough draft rather than a completed story, and I spent much of the day after I saw it wondering what happened to her and genuinely hoping that she is at peace.

Our story had the feel of a Hollywood movie; I was the awkward shy hard-working nerdy geek, and Vicky was the more exuberant fun talented charismatic charmer.  We met in elementary school and became friends, and adversaries.  I have often referred to her as my nemesis over the years, and I say that I loved her like a sister. The truth is that there is no one other than my sister who hurt me as much as she did, and in that way she had an indelible impact on my life.  

Vicky and I attended elementary and junior high school together, but the place that we spent the most time together was the swimming pool.  We were teammates on our club team for many years, and that is where she tormented me the most.  Vicky was much more talented than I was, but I was a harder worker.  She was the kid who would play around in practice and pull on my feet and skip laps…and then blow me out of the water in meets.  When we were 9 years old, I almost quit swimming because my coach so blatantly favored her.  But looking back there were probably coaches who favored me as well. I just knew I wasn’t as good as her.

We were opposites enough in the pool that we ended up swimming different events and didn’t compete as much in junior high, but then she tormented me socially. I remember birthday parties where Vicky would shun me.  I remember how she made fun of me for not drinking.  And like a scene from a movie, I remember the time in junior high that she loudly pointed out a pimple on my face, in front of the boy I had a crush on.  Fun times. 

We ended up going to different high schools and going our separate ways.  Vicky quit swimming and I lost track of her.  I ran into her once years ago and we talked for a few minutes and were friendly, but that was it.  Whereas I went off to college and moved away, she was living in the same neighborhood that we grew up in when she died.  Of course I don’t know the details that would fill-in the years, and success is not measured by the distance we travel.  I hope that she had a lot of fun and love and happiness over the years. 

In my Hollywood version of the story, she was the mean girl and I was the ugly duckling that turned into a swan.  But this story took place in the Midwest, not Hollywood.  Vicky definitely tormented me, but I probably tormented her back.  I hated her but I loved her too.  I’ve traveled far and had some good success, but that doesn’t make my life any better than someone who stayed close to home.  It just makes it different. 

We all have our stories.  Vicky was incredibly important to mine.  Whenever I tell my childhood story, Vicky is a part of it.  A part of my childhood died last week.  I hope that her life was full of the exuberant energy that she had as a kid. I hope that that sparkle continued to shine.  RIP, Vicky.