Saying Goodbye to Bella

My son's dog has passed away.

Bella was 15+, a basset mix rescued from a shelter in PA when my son was 9.

Hounds are outdoor dogs, not pets...
Or so this former country-girl thought. 

My old gal, Amanda, had passed in February. I'd been promising my son a dog for almost a year. In July I attended a writer's conference in the area and stopped in to the shelter where my friend had gotten her springer spaniel. I was hoping to find a similarly sweet and intelligent friend for my troubled son.
We'd already been on quite a journey. The tantrums started at about age 3. He was recently 9, and rather than diminishing with age, they'd grown worse. There was more to come, but we already knew something was wrong. We just didn't know what, or how far we'd have to go before the road would turn for him.

When I talked to the folks running the shelter, he asked me, "How do you feel about basset hounds?"

I rolled my eyes. I had hounds as a kid, and they were noisy, slobbery, boneheaded doofuses, better kept in outdoor kennels than in the house, due to the difficulty of housetraining. My experience with hounds told me they were hunting dogs, not pets. He told me that she'd been returned to the shelter by a family that didn't look after her properly, that she was shy and sweet. I relented and agreed to meet her, knowing I would be bringing my son back later to look at puppies. Smaller, fluffier, easier, trainable puppies.

She came into the visitor's room looking anxious. She went immediately to the windows, staring out as if looking for someone. Looking for her family to come back for her. The family that had returned her, bone thin and shaking. She still wanted them. And my heart melted a little.

I brought my son in, as planned, careful to explain that he was free to choose a PUPPY. That he should meet her, but he didn't have to choose her...
It was a lost cause. She was brought into the visitor's room and LAUNCHED herself at him. Wagging, wiggling, facelicking happiness embodied in a bony hound dog. "I want THIS one, Mom."

It took us SO long to get weight on her.

And so it began.
She came home, only to hide under the kitchen table and bark and growl at my husband. She managed, with her six-inch legs, to get on top of the kitchen table to raid the butter dish. She refused to eat at first, forcing us to get creative in concocting dishes she would nibble at, until she eventually decided to eat properly. She was so thin at first that the vet wouldn't spay her- and by the time we got enough weight on her, we discovered that my dog Charlie had been a bit frisky and there were pups on the way.

I was worried sick... She'd just gotten healthy, and the vet had revealed that her stated age of 3-4 years was inaccurate- by then she was close to 8.

She successfully delivered 11 pups, but 4 did not survive past the second day. Of the seven remaining, we were able to find homes for 5. Two of her girls remain with us to this day.

Bella with her girls.

In the past few months, I noticed a change. She was moving more slowly. Returning to her picky eating habits. Having more digestive upsets, which have been common with her, on and off, the entire time she's been with us. (We've consulted the vet before, and he told us there was nothing to be done; she simply had a sensitive digestive tract.)

A long story short... She was an old lady- past 15 now by our best guesstimate- and she was tired.

She loved the outdoors, even in winter, but summer sun on grass was her favorite.

She spent her last day lying in the sun in the grass. At some point she wandered out by the kennel to be near her girls, content to lie there. We brought her in that evening and she had cuddles on the porch and fell asleep in one of the recliners. Fearing the evening air would be too chilly for her old bones, I moved her inside that night, into her crate with a fresh blanket. When we got up in the morning, she was gone.

This has been a journey. She was with us when my son was expelled from school in the 5th grade. When he was throwing his tantrums (Which we know now were expressions of anxiety.) When he told me he never really wanted a dog anyway, but cried when, out of sheer frustration, I threatened to find her a new home.

She taught him that some tasks- like feeding the dog and taking her out- must be completed regardless of feelings or mood. That some things are more important than our own internal turmoil. That when someone, or something, is depending upon us, we must set aside our personal challenges and rise up.

She helped him grow, helped him mature, and helped teach him empathy. She was always there with her floppy, silky ears, and her sneaky way of climbing onto the couch when she knew she was supposed to go into her crate for the night.

She was slobbery and smelly and noisy and stubborn- everything a hound dog is. She was also, for 8 years of his life, my son's friend and companion. She was a good dog, and she will be missed.

Rest easy, old Girl. You've earned it. 

Building Together

Whirlwind... That's our lives recently.

We're settling in, adjusting to a new family dynamic. My kids have gained a sibling and a stepfather. Beloved and Doolittle have gained two more kids and siblings. We're just getting past the "stepping lightly" polite stage of people getting to know one another and afraid to offend, and hurling into the sibling-arguments stage of "I know we haven't lived together long, but I'm not putting up with your crap" stage of security, knowing that this is here to stay. 

We're doing our best to build a lasting foundation.

Some days, I get tired of the bickering and nonsense, but most days, I'm warmed by it- knowing that the kids are secure enough in their relationships to start being jerks to one another. They know that they can fight, knowing that the relationship can take the abuse. That they'll make up later. That it'll be ok- that this family isn't going anywhere, and we're in this for the long haul. 

In the midst of all this, we're planning a wedding. And doing life... We just replaced our beater van with another pair of beaters- a rusty, banger of a Cherokee, and an F150 that was thrown into the deal upon agreement to let the seller have our old van (he'll scrap it out.) And life goes on. 

Among all this is a sense of contentment. A sense of settling in. A sense of security in the future that we're building together. Of foundations being laid. 

I don't know where this will all go. I'd love to say that I see a rosy future with his kids and mine walking linked arm in arm off into the sunset of our elder years, and us secure in the knowledge that they'll always have each other. 

I hope they'll always be together. Even if they do drive one another nuts.

As the children of mixed families, Beloved and I both know that may not happen. When step parents pass away, many times the children drift apart. The family created by marriage splinters in the absence of the glue that held them together. I pray that will not be the case with our children, but I know there are no guarantees. So, I welcome these days, the bickering and making up, the laughing and the goofing off and the going off together to do who-knows-what without Mom and Dad, because they are knitting their own foundations. I just pray it will hold for the long haul... that what we are building together as a family will become a shelter for our children, and our grandchildren. 

Life, love, and family are precious. 

Please don't call me special

I've been called a lot of things through the years, but by far the most hurtful has been "special."

I know that sounds insane. Reverse humility, attention seeking... No, it's really not.

The fact is, hearing that I'm "special" because I survived the trauma that led to my PTSD is like a knife to the gut. If I'm "special" for surviving, what does that make the other victims who did not? Less special? Less deserving? Those ideas send survivor's guilt into a spiral.

I'm not special because I survived. I'm not special because I pieced myself back together, hid the entire thing from my family, and tried to get on with my life. None of it makes me special, or conversely, less deserving.

Hiding was a form of survival.

What happened was not an object lesson. It was not God carrying out some mysterious purpose. It was not a sound bite, a media clip, or a podcast topic. It was horrible, tragic, terrifying, and awful. It was loss. It was hate. It was anger and terror and the stuff nightmares were made of. It was not "special," and it did not make me a better person.

The idea that God "has a purpose for everything" is ingrained in much of Christian culture. Some take comfort in the idea that, in an out of control world, God is in control always. And (I believe) he is. However:

We live in a fallen world. That means that God's vision of perfection- humanity working in harmony with one another and with the Earth, was derailed. We got too much knowledge too soon as a species, and, like kids exposed to something we weren't ready for too young, we're still acting out the consequences.

As a friend is fond of saying "Death, loss and separation were never in God's plan for us.
We were not meant for death. Eden was the plan. We were made for Eden."

We are fallen human beings. God is sovereign. He is omnipotent- that is, he is capable of controlling everything. But does he? No, and for a very good reason- Free will. If God controls every human action, what would be the point of Creation? The entire experiment becomes completely pointless if He controls everything. Free will was the entire point of creation- we are created as autonomous creatures. That means that sometimes, we do truly awful things to one another. Out of our brokenness. Out of our own hurts, failures, and fundamental flaws, we sometimes do the worst things human imaginations can produce. The idea that God controls everything, and has a "purpose" for everything, is fundamentally mistaken.

Bottom line? Not every event has "meaning." Sometimes, incredibly shitty things happen to people who don't deserve it. The trick to finding peace, at least for me, is to learn to be OK with that, to find peace in the center of a storm of chaos. Not being "special," but rather, acknowledging being caught up in the swirling insanity that was unleashed when that fatal first bite was taken.

Please don't call me "special" because of what I've suffered.
Being myself is quite enough.

Thinking Out Loud

When your legs don't work like they used to before

And I can't sweep you off of your feet

Will your mouth still remember the taste of my love?

Will your eyes still smile from your cheeks?

Just a couple of crazy kids. :) 

Dear readers... So much has changed in these past few weeks. So much has changed, and yet so much remains the same. I feel as if I've walked through the door, into Narnia, and the world is so much bigger and brighter and more real than I ever could have imagined. 

How did Lucy feel, I wonder, when she passed back through the wardrobe after her tea with Mr. Tumnus, trying to convey to her sister and brothers all that she had seen and experienced? It might be something close to what I'm feeling now, trying to find words to tell you how weird and wonderful, scary and joyous it is to be falling in love again at my age. 

I can tell you the facts- His name is Mike. He has a daughter, Heather. They both love animals and babies and are fanatics for an author I never heard of before, Christine Freehan. I am learning so much in a short time... how to live with severe food allergies (Heather's,) and how he likes his coffee. I'm learning to live with the fact that he's a Green Bay fan. It's not easy, dear readers, for a diehard Giants fan, but I'm learning. 

He's a brave man...

There is one more thing, something that seems like a small obstacle to me, but one that does present its own unique challenges, and something I have had to consider as I fall, headlong, into a relationship I never dreamed I'd find.

Mike was born with cerebral palsy. 

I didn't know much about CP before I met him. I vaguely knew it existed but not much beyond that. I've learned a lot since then. After the first date, a coffee meeting that started at 10:30AM and ended up stretching until 9 at night, I came home and hit up Google, because that's what I do. When I'm feeling overwhelmed and as if my life is spinning out of my control, I anchor myself with facts. I learn. I search out the information I need to make decisions. I tried to grab on to what I'd need to know- because I already knew that it was hopeless. Even if CP turned out to be an insurmountable challenge, it was too late. I was already in love with Mike and there was no turning back from the course life has set us upon. I was reading, not to discover whether I could handle loving a man who lives with CP, but how I would live with a man who lives with CP. 

I am still learning, my friends. The process is exhilarating and terrifying and joyous. It is like learning to ride a bike again- wobbly, and with some bumps and falls along the way, but that glorious feeling of flying... there's nothing like it. 

I'm thinking how people fall in love in mysterious waysMaybe just the touch of a handWell, me I fall in love with you every single dayAnd I just wanna tell you I am 

There is so much to learn. So much to know. So much to discover. If you'd have told me a few months ago that I'd be planning a wedding for sometime next summer, I'd have laughed. Today, we picked out rings and talked about dates. 

Could this be any more perfect?
Life. Peace. Love. <3

When two hearts that have been wounded by past losses come together, the fireworks are spectacular. 

So honey now
Take me into your loving arms
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars
Place your head on my beating heart
I'm thinking out loud
That maybe we found love right where we are

I will keep you informed, dear readers. For those of you who have been with me from the beginning, and for those who have joined later in the journey, thank you, so much. Your support and kindness has meant so much, and I want to share this joy with you all.

God bless!

~*~*~*~*~

Lyrics quoted are from "Thinking Out Loud," by Ed Sheeran, courtesy of MetroLyrics.

Second Chance Living

So, I've been thinking about writing this post for a long time.

I've been thinking about the events that led to my dealing with PTSD. I've been thinking about how much I would share, and what I would not say. I'm still thinking.

There are stories, friends, that are better left untold. There are things that happen in real life that make the scenes from books that keep you awake at night seem like shadows under the bed, easily dismissed by a flashlight and a mother's kiss. There are real-life monsters, and they walk around in human skin. I don't like horror stories. I don't read them, and I don't write them.
I have decided that I do not want to talk about the past. I don't live there anymore, though my mind occasionally conspires to drag me back. I live in today, in the present, with my kids and my friends and my family. This is where I choose to take my stand. This is where I will stay, and this is what I want to write about.

Sometimes the only way to move forward is to take a stand.

Life is weird sometimes, when you're living on your second chance. Some of us made bad choices as teens and young adults. For some, those bad choices led to endings, of freedom, or of life itself. I have mourned friends whose choices led them away, along paths where I could not follow. I have learned from their mistakes, but have, to my continual amazement, been spared. I am a living second chance. I often feel that I owe it to those who were not given that gift, to make the most of it.

Living on a second chance means that I don't take anything for granted. It also means that I don't have the same perspective as many of my friends and family. I don't see opportunities in the same ways they do, and sometimes that causes frustration. Why wouldn't I want to go for the management position in the company I work for? I could do the work easily enough, and the pay is reasonable. But it would mean giving up too much of the precious time I have remaining with my kids- while they're still young and living at home. I can't make that sacrifice- the money's just not worth it.

My heart. My loves. My life. 

Why do I "waste" my time on writing fan fiction and making silly Youtube videos, playing a children's game and hanging out with people who do the same things with their spare time?
Because, friends, there simply is not enough joy in this sometimes-dark world. There aren't enough smiles to go around. There are shadowy places in minds that are too often left unexplored and unlit. If my goofing around in a Minecraft world, or my writing stories that bring heroes to life brings even one person a bit of joy, a glimmer of hope, and gives them the nudge they need to feed their own creative spark, I will gladly labor for as many hours as it takes to make that happen.

The further I get into Youtube, the more fun I have.

I am one of the lucky ones. I fell into a pit, and was trapped there, by the subsequent depression and anxiety related to trauma. But I have a pretty amazing family. We're not perfect- who is? And parents who, while they made mistakes, loved me and wanted the best for me, always. Those are powerful weapons in the fight against depression, and I consider myself most fortunate.

The purpose of this entry, and of this blog, is to light candles. To reach out to those who are living in that dark place. To let you know, you are not alone. You can fight back. You can find joy. You are worthy. You are loved. You are wanted. I've been where you are, and I've found my way out again. You can do it. I believe in you.

"What if I fall??"
"Yes, but what if you FLY?"

Remember that life is an adventure. Live it. Learn from it. Never stop believing. There is power in faith, and in hope, and in love. Light always wins over darkness. Always.

Safe travels, friends.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Attack of the WHAT???

Dear readers, I am, at this very moment, having an emotional meltdown. Over a video game. With real tears trickling. It's not pretty. It's an ugly cry, and it comes from down deep, because this is more than "just a game." This is the full circle. This is the infinity snake catching up with itself. The mobius strip making the connection... It's just a game, to be sure, but to me... it's more.

Some of you, if you know me in real life, have heard me talk about Minecraft. About the connection forged between myself and my troubled tween. My son has been playing Minecraft almost from the beginning. He played the truly early stages- the first releases of the game. He would get SO excited when updates were released. He, quite frankly, drove me half mad with his chatter about creepers and endermen and zombies and mobs and mods and downloads.

Redstone was a complete mystery to me. It still is to some extent. I didn't understand the appeal of this blocky, weird game, until one day, seeing the disappointment in his face when he caught me rolling my eyes at just one more rendition of "Me and Brody got cornered by these zombies but his wolf was fighting for us and then this creeper came along and..."

For an instant, I caught sight of just how deeply my little boy, whose father had just walked out of all our lives, was hurting. I decided to appease him in the only way I knew how- I asked him to teach me Minecraft.

It was the beginning of an era. With a lot of frustration and some swearing (mostly me) and some "Geez, Mom, you're REALLY bad at this!" eyerolling comments, he introduced me to the game. And then, in an effort to understand it better, I did what I do best - research. Research took  me to Youtube, to explore the gaming channels... and that's when I discovered a whole other dimension of minecraft- Mods.

The very first modded Minecraft "lets play" Youtubers I watched were Generik B, Chimney Swift, and BDoubleOO, playing "Attack of the B-Team." Their commentary was engaging. The gameplay was intriguing. Chimney, in particular, caught my attention with his infectious enthusiasm and his mischievous approach to multiplayer gameplay. Soon, my son started playing B-Team, too, and got me to play it. I eventually upgraded my computer to better handle the modpack. Together, my son and I discovered this world. We explored it. We built things together. We laughed. We shouted. We got frustrated. We created and destroyed. We argued and collaborated. We learned... and we grew.

These days, my son doesn't really play with me. For a while, we played servers together and built incredible things. He showed me his creative world in which he built some insane redstone projects. Even now, when he has a girlfriend and a life that is slowly carrying him away from the childish pursuits of Minecraft and further toward the interests of an older teen, he can still be drawn back in. We still watch Etho, another Let's Player, together. We discuss his builds and talk about how crazy his "sand worm" project is, and how cool. Even as my son is growing away from his early interest in Minecraft, I am building a small hobby channel and immersing myself in the community that nurtured that early interest.

And now, a new era is opening up. Attack of the C-Team will be a sequel to the early Attack of the B-Team series. Many of the same Youtubers who participated the first time around will be involved in this remake. To call my reaction "excited" is like comparing Mt. Vesuvius to a sparkler.

This new game is about more than Minecraft. It's just a game, after all. There may be mods in this pack that I don't care for. The changes with the update may not appeal to me. I might not be as excited to play once I see what's been added and what's been taken away. Knowing all of that doesn't dim my excitement one bit.

These past few years have been... difficult.
My kids and I have navigated some rough waters. Not only has the divorce caused enormous emotional upheaval, we subsequently lost my best friend and my sister. Both deaths were sudden and unexpected. The devastation was deep and is lasting. For the past year or more, I've been knocked off my feet with grief, just keeping my head above water. It's only been in recent weeks that I've begun to feel as if life might have a chance of returning to some semblance of normalcy, and that the gaps left by the losses might close enough so that the feeling of continuously falling into them will end and our feet might once again touch the ground.

While no game, no exciting news, and no new adventure can possibly begin to touch the depth of the losses we've suffered, there is a moment, after one has been walking through darkness for so long, that a flicker of light can be seen. There is a moment when you realize that the tunnel you've been walking through isn't endless after all, that you will step out of it. The sun will once again warm your face, and you will feel the breeze against your fingertips. Spring will come, even after the longest winter. What is lost to the past can never be recovered, but there will be new experiences and new joys and new chances to laugh and live and breathe together. There is healing, and that, my friends, is something worth celebrating.

My kids have both expressed interest in exploring this new modpack together. The idea of playing together again, and discovering the ways in which we've changed, as players and in our relationships, is exciting beyond words. The fact that they still want to play with me... It's a balm to the soul.
So, forgive me if I dance just a little too exuberantly at this announcement. If I get a little carried away, and get just a little too excited. It's been a long, cold, dark night. I'm ready for the sun.

Bring it on.

Been a while...

Hasn't it? It's been a while since I've revisited this page. The reasons are many and mostly mundane.
Holidays. Thanksgiving, and Christmas, while lovely, did take up a lot of my time and attention. I'm happy to report they were among the best we've had in the past 3 years. The kids were happy. I was relaxed. We all just enjoyed one another's company.

It was lean, as always. Their gifts required careful planning and saving, but the looks on their faces when they opened them, and the use they've put them to in the weeks following, have made it all worth the effort. I rarely see Babygirl without her phone (an unlocked, off-brand that works with our text-and-talk plan, with which she can pick up wifi when she wants "data.) Thing1 carries his camera- a beginner's DSLR with more knobs and twiddly bits than I could navigate- with him nearly everywhere.

And me? I got the precious hours spent with my kiddos. I got to welcome Thing1's girlfriend to spend time with us. She's got a very special place in his heart, and I'm dreading the day they split, and hope it won't be too high a drop from the clouds he's riding right now. Ah, young love... So precious, so poignant... and so fleeting. They've been friends for years. Dating for weeks. I don't know how long it will last, and, like, I'm sure, the adults in my life when I was young and in love, I'm not telling him that the ending will be inevitable and bitter-sweet.

The goofy pair at Halloween. 

They are too young, their lives yet unripe for the stresses of marriage and babies and commitments. (and yes, we've talked, extensively, and continue to talk about the more serious side of this floating infatuation he's in now. About respect. About care. About safety and using the upper brain to control the lower one.) Let's let it suffice to say that he knows, at the very least, to keep it covered or keep it zipped. I hope that, when they part, they will retain the depth of friendship they've enjoyed since he crushed on her in the second grade.

On a lighter note, I also got a gift from my kiddos, unexpected and beautiful. I had shown Babygirl a pattern online for an apron made of an old pair of jeans, and she tried her hand at sewing, with a little help and encouragement from her brother. The result was that I now have a beautiful apron, which I love. It has pockets. I love pockets. I also hate having flour all over my clothes when I'm done baking, and this is not only a beautiful gift, it's also functional. It's easily the favorite thing I've received for Christmas since I was 13 and got a Brooke Shields doll. (Hey, don't laugh! I'd just seen The Blue Lagoon, and Brooke was my heroine.)

You'll have to excuse the mess. It was the end of Christmas Day's
dinner and we were still cleaning up when Babygirl insisted on snapping this photo. :)

Life, especially life with the challenges of mental illness, is no easy task. I could say the same, of course, of life with Crohn's, or diabetes, or lupus. I don't think I have some special burden; just the same burdens that many carry, in different forms. Some days it's not easy to get up and get out of bed and keep moving forward, especially with the uncertainties of freelancing for a living. The income is sporadic, and a client's disappointment may mean the loss of a job. I have to strive, with everything I write, to stay on point, to stay relevant, to stay connected and to express the client's expectations and desires. That sort of constant effort can be exhausting, but it's also what keeps me moving forward. It gives me purpose.

Parenting is, in many ways, the same. We all carry our personal burdens, but the children we're responsible for must be shepherded, fed, clothed, sheltered, and led. Their disappointment doesn't lead to the mere loss of a job; it can leave lasting scars that destroy lives and carry forward into new generations. The time I've put in these past few months, the efforts to put together a simple holiday celebration and to invite in those who are connected to our family by the unfamiliar strands of teenage ardor, seem to me to be the most important job I could've been doing. I may be putting things too high, thinking that these  hours will have a stronger impact on my growing young adults' lives than they will. I could be wrong about Thing1 and his lovely young partner. They could go on to marry and have children of their own, as my own in-laws did, marrying when she was just 17 and he was 19. Fifty years and counting, they're a walking love story.

But for now, all I have is experience to go by. All I have is my own memories of young love, and memories of the hours contentedly dressing up a Brooke Shields doll while Mom prepared the meal and Dad smoked his pipe in his chair while watching the Macy's Parade. Those are the memories that reassure me that my son will come out of this relationship changed, with new experiences and a new perspective. Perhaps with new scars, but ones that will heal and that will shape him, and make him, in the end, a better man. Those are the memories that assure me that my own kids will look back, one day, and remember the holidays as a happy time with their family and loved ones, something that they will want to recreate for their own children.

All we can do is keep moving forward, and doing our best.
I hope, if you're reading this, that you had a beautiful ending to 2015 and that 2016 brings you new joys, new experiences, and new hope.

God bless, Friends.
A belated, but sincere, Merry Christmas to you and yours.

~Mary

“There is no such thing as a "broken family." Family is family, and is not determined by marriage certificates, divorce papers, and adoption documents. Families are made in the heart."-C. Joy Bell

1 in 3

When I was 2, according to a faint whisper amongst the cacophony of family stories, a member of my family had an abortion.

I won't say which member or how she's related. Her story is not mine to tell, nor am I clear enough on the details to write about it with confidence. The story was told in a dark moment of desperation, and today I am telling it for one reason only: to explain the impact it has had on me. Because, that's MY story, and the only one I can tell.

My first response was a lightbulb. Oh. That's why she hates me. My very existence created a difficult and painful situation. And so many things fell into place.

I've begun to write this entry half a dozen times, but I am realizing that I can't tell the full story, even my part in it, without revealing more than I have a right to share. So, I will stick to the point- what the story is meant to illustrate:

When we talk about abortion, we often talk about choice, rights, and morals. We talk about the right to choose. We talk about a woman's right to control her own fate, her own destiny. Many on the other side dismiss those "rights" as invalid- saying that the woman had the "right" to choose to have sex, to live a lifestyle which might lead to pregnancy. And both sides have a point.

A woman does have the right to choose whether she will engage in, or abstain from, sexual activity. But, pointing that out too often dismisses the responsibility that is carried, not only by the woman, but by the men with whom she partners. When abortion comes up, the moral responsibility is always on the woman, but we rarely hear about the boyfriend or husband who got her pregnant. It's HER choice, after all. And, shouldn't it be? If she's being called upon to risk her health, and to take ultimate responsibility for a child, shouldn't she have the right to choose?

Some will say an unqualified absolutely yes, and some will say no. I am not here to debate those answers. I am only here to talk about my experience, and maybe, to explain why I feel the way I do.

The fact is, abortion is not a cut-and-dried "yes" or "no" answer. It is not something upon which we can stamp a label, it is not something that fits neatly into a box of morality or feminism or rights. If you think there are pat, cut-and-dried answers, you lack the emotional and intellectual maturity to enter into the discussion.

Medical science and many on the pro-choice side will tell women that they have absolute autonomy over their own bodies. Except when they don't. Pregnancy is not the only choice over which we lack complete control. Cancer, for example, takes away our "right" to choose our life path. As does, more relevantly, infertility. The bottom line is, we don't always have a choice in how our lives will play out.

On the pro-life side, many will tell women they are "murdering a baby," a phrase which is repugnant in its accusatory, hateful tone. It dismisses the mother as a "murderer," tossing her aside in favor of a mythical child which is not even yet a fully realized human being. It dismisses the many, MANY stories of women who are in abusive situations, who are faced with the very real choice of living a life of poverty if they carry a child to term. Who have no supports to carry them as they raise a child. The village becomes very silent when a single mom steps forward. The very people who would strip a woman of her right to choose post memes degrading foodstamps and other welfare programs- vital programs that, if more generously funded and administered, might make it possible for a woman to both become a mother and to have a career which will support herself and a child.

The hypocrisy on both sides is sickening.

I support a woman's right to choose- not because I believe that abortion is ever the right answer- but because I believe in respecting a woman's intellectual ability to make choices for herself, and yes for her unborn child. I believe in a woman's right to choose, the same way I believe in parents' rights to raise their children. Yes, some parents will abuse their children, and that is tragic. And some women will choose abortion. Also tragic. But the way to prevent it is not to remove parental rights and put children in the charge of the State, nor is it to remove women's legal rights.

If we want abortion to end, we must work harder at education. At providing options. At making having a family an affordable, viable way of life. Affordable daycare. Reasonable concessions for working parents- many countries offer a YEAR of paid leave to new parents. A year. Not six weeks. Many countries actually value children and families, and show it in ways that put America to shame. Affordable, accessible adoption. Better options for women who want to bring a child to term but don't feel able to raise one. Better education for families and for individuals about the entire process.

If we want abortion to end, we must teach our young men respect for their partners, and responsibility. We must teach our young women the TRUTH about birth control (it fails at least 1% of the time, some methods more often,) and the truth about the risks they take when engaging in sexual activity, without telling them that sex is ever a shameful thing. It is an expression of love, but it also comes with a commitment to the other partner. It's not just about selfish pleasure. It's something that is exchanged, not something that is simply gained, and it is a precious transaction.

How dare we call sex shameful? How dare we shame a woman's choice to share herself with a fellow human being? How dare we call an act which results in the conception of a child evil (except when it is the result of a selfish and violent choice, and not a partnering between two willing adults.)

And there ends my carefully controlled rein on my emotions.


HOW DARE YOU call a woman in MY family a murderer? HOW DARE YOU?

Who do you think you are, to make a judgement like that? Who do you think you are, to look at this person, whom you know NOTHING about, and judge her?

You want to talk about rights? You have none in this place. Not without knowing her. Not without hearing her story, and the stories of all the women who have made this very personal choice. Even hearing the story, you have no place. You have not stood in her shoes. You have not lived her experience. You have not faced her demons. It is not your choice to make.

Learn to love. Learn to LISTEN to the stories. Read the #ShoutYourAbortion stories. Read these women's experiences. Understand what led them to make the most painful and personal decision of their lives. Until you can weep for these women, for all that they face, and all that they suffer, until you acknowledge and recognize the women who are ALSO SOMEONE'S BABY, someone's mother, someone's sister, someone's cousin, someone's niece, you have no right to talk about abortion. None.

So, unless you can speak with empathy, and support the policies that will make families strong in America again, kindly shut up. That's someone I love that you're talking about.

I will not "shout" her abortion, but you can be very sure that I will shout in her defense, and you may not like what I have to say, but until you can hear the words, until you can understand the grief and the loss, and the hope that comes after the trauma, until you can begin to contribute to the healing, you will have no place here in this sacred space surrounding my family.

Today was a day

Today was a day.

Today, the sun rose. It shone through the window and lay on my face, insistent. It pushed through my eyelids. It wouldn't let me go back to sleep. Today my cat lay on the blanket, anchored as firmly as a boulder, unwilling to relinquish her soft and her warm. Today the two, the sun and the cat, battled silently. The sun won.

Today I showered and dressed and went out with my dogs. Today they frolicked in the grass and wrestled and sniffed and rolled. Like every day.

Today I came in and worked, reaching out to the world and creating, through a little screen and a keyboard.

Today I was restless and sad. Today I remembered. Today the memories spilled over and leaked down my cheeks. Today I felt tired of feeling tired, and the road and the memory of happier times called me. We walked together, the memories and I. The breeze whispered over my skin and the sun shone smugly warm, victorious over the cat, who was still curled on the bed, sulking in her soft and warm.

Today I found a tiny plastic cow on the road, and wondered about the child who lost it and the story of how it came to be there. Today I found a smooth, white stone and remembered gathering them as a child, treasures that exasperated my mother when she had to empty them from pockets in the wash.

Today, I walked as far as I could before I had to turn back. The grass was lush and green and soft under my feet. The sun smiled on and on, and the breeze whispered and hushed through the trees.

Today I didn't get a letter from a friend in the mail, but a book came, and that was almost as good.

Today was a day. A day I decided to go for a walk. To look for the beautiful things. To feel the sun and the breeze and the grass.

Today was a day I decided to go on.


~*~*~*~*~

For those of us who live with the symptoms of PTSD like anxiety and depression, every day is a choice. We get up. We move through our days. We choose, every single day, whether and how to continue living.

If you are dealing with anxiety and depression, remember, you are not alone.
It gets better. Every day you have a choice to make. Today, I've chosen hope. I hope you will, too.
Safe travels, friends.
Mary

Of Love and Loss and Moving On

This is a re-post, from my now-defunct blog, Life, Dreams, and a Turtle, from January 2013.

In October of 2012, one of my best friends, Laura Curtis, passed away. The loss was sudden, and I was the one who got the call- I was the last person on her phone, and the person the State Troopers contacted in an effort to locate her next-of-kin.

Devastation has no words for this kind of loss. I miss her, and my sister, who passed suddenly just two years later, in August, every single day.

For those who never visited Life, Dreams, and a Turtle, Kame (pronounced Kah-may), is my Eastern Box Turtle.

My notes in church are often less.... lyrical, than you might think.

 Kame has once again slipped into hibernation mode. His torpor means that he disappears for days at a time, emerging only occasionally to explore the offerings of fresh raspberries and take a short dip in his bathing tub, before disappearing beneath the mulch once again. He deals with winter by avoiding it entirely, passing it half-asleep and hidden.

Not for the first time, I find myself envying my shelled friend's ability to sleep through the less pleasant months of the season. I, too, have been hibernating, in a way. I've been avoiding speaking out about many of the emotions rolling through my days as I move forward, because so many of them have to do with other people, and I have vowed that this blog will be about my own life, and not a clearinghouse of gossip about others.
It might not be possible for me to blog without mentioning what's going on in my ex's world, or in my children's, but I'm trying not to air anyone's laundry but my own.

So much has happened since I last wrote. October brought with it a shocking blow with the loss of a very old and dear friend. Laura Kim Eisele Curtis was one of the best friends I've had. She put up with my ramblings, my oddities, my failures and my quirks. She made me laugh. She made me less ashamed of my PTSD symptoms and helped me see it as a condition to be managed, rather than a weakness. She stood beside me as I walked through some of the most difficult times in my life, and she allowed me to be a part of her life as she dealt with her own losses, blows and failures. Her passing was devastating, and a loss to the world, though most will never know what they missed by not knowing her.

My beautiful friend Laura, with her dad, Don, being a goof in the background. She had a quirky sense of humor that she came by honestly.

There are many things that Laura shared with me that I will take to my grave, but I can tell you a few things about my dear friend. She was a great singer and an amazing mom. I will forever hear her voice singing "You Are My Sunshine" to her daughter over the phone at bed time on the occasions she stayed at my home. There is surely no sound more beautiful in the world. She was a good friend. I can't count the times she listened to me and let me run on. She gave me good advice. She was the one who encouraged *cough*dragged*cough* me into seeking out a college degree. She has been my friend, my support, and my confidant for well over ten years... and now she's gone. Just like that, in one dark night, she left this world and traveled beyond the veil.
And even now, she is with me. 

I could hear her beside me, snickering, at her final service, as the Pastor's voice rose in song. He had a lovely voice, but Laura often attended my son's guitar lessons with me, and we had sat, barely containing school-girl giggles, through many voice-student's renditions of "New York, New York". Since her parents live near the Big City, and my favorite fictional heroes are rumored to occupy its sewer system, the song made us giggle all the more. I could feel her arms around my shoulders, even as I cried. I could hear her voice in my dreams, in the wretched days after her passing, laughing and exclaiming, "but Mary, I'm here with MacKenzie! I'm dancing... I don't hurt anymore..."

Her baby daughter who succumbed to SIDS was waiting for her, I know. And although she has left two other beautiful young women behind, I know the joy of that reunion will be complete when we all come together in Eternity's time. Laura knows no grief now, no pain. She has stepped out of time, and into the place where there are no more tears, no more sorrows. It is only those of us who are left behind who grieve for the parting. I could feel her presence again, more faintly, when I achieved my first college degree. I could hear her voice, quietly telling me "I'm proud of you, Friend. You did it."

Laura has moved on, and although I was not ready, could never be ready, to lose my friend, I know that this parting is a part of life. Death's pain is the echo of the separation Man took from God in the Garden, and it is eased by the knowledge that the gap has been closed by His son, that this world is healing. Death is a scar in the eternal tapestry, nothing more.

And now, it is time for me to move on, to move forward in my own life. I can not hold on to the hurts and worries and grief of the past year. I can not hold on to the man who was once my husband, or allow his choices to guide my emotions any longer. I must come to a place where I can see him building a new life of his own, and be able to smile and wish him well. I have not yet reached that place. I don't know how long it will take, but I do know that the only way for healing to begin is to remove the splinter of bitterness and anger.

A painting from my college Illustration class, with a quote that I hope, will define the new year.

Someone very wise once said that revenge is like a splinter. It festers and poisons the mind. The only way to heal is to let it go.

The river is moving on... and I must step into it once again, and find a new way. 

-Mary
~*~*~

Post Traumatic Special Cupcake Syndrome

I didn't plan on making this a blog post. In fact, it was meant to be just a comment on my Facebook page, but I am seriously ticked off, and I need to tell you why.

This morning, I read a tweet from a Youtuber who was chided for not putting "trigger warnings" on his content. Trigger warnings are comments or warnings applied to various media online, to make survivors of abuse or trauma aware that the posting may contain content which can "trigger" symptoms of their mental illness, like flashbacks, nightmares, or anxiety attacks.

Trigger warnings have their place. They protect trauma survivors from further pain. 

To give my response to this a little bit of background: I have lived with PTSD for 20+ years. I was diagnosed in 1989. I was a stupid, scared teenager with no concept of mental illness except that it made one "crazy" to have one. I did not make a good connection with the psychiatrist who made the diagnosis, and soon dropped out of therapy. 

I've essentially been on my own with this. When I was diagnosed, there were no internet communities dedicated to abuse and trauma survivors. There were no soldiers' groups spreading PSAs for combat veterans. There were few therapists who were familiar enough with the condition to provide effective treatment beyond medications to mask the symptoms. It wasn't until I was an adult that I was able to find the counseling and help I needed to cope with the symptoms.

That is not what makes me angry. It's been incredible to see an entire community spring up in support of those who live with the effects of past trauma. It's been healing to be able to reach out to others and tell them there IS hope. You can heal. You can find peace, and while PTSD isn't truly "curable" in most cases, the symptoms can be managed with good support and self-care routines. 

What makes me angry is the request for trigger warnings on content that is put out there for entertainment.

Now, let me clarify- Trigger warnings have their place. They are common in communities that are designed as a support network. Those online spaces are, by definition, safe zones. They are where survivors go to find the connection and healing they need. Trigger warnings on shared content that might be problematic for the members of the group are just a common-sense courtesy that make these groups what they are- bubbles of safety.

The internet, as a whole, is NOT a "safe zone". it is the wilderness. You enter at your own risk.

It's beautiful, and there are hazards. Preparation and common sense are necessary. 

Expecting any content provider or entertainer, to provide trigger warnings is unreasonable and dangerous- and here's why- it's GIVING UP YOUR CONTROL. You are giving someone else the job of keeping you safe. This is not healthy or productive. It's the first step on a slippery slope and in certain circumstances, can lead you into abusive, unhealthy relationships. 

As a survivor, control is a critical thing. You lost control to the traumatic event. In healing, there often arises a need to control EVERYTHING. This might come out in OCD symptoms. It might come out in needing routine or a "safety" item or object. It comes out in a myriad of ways, some healthy and some not. 

The attempt to control others, by demanding trigger warnings, is an unhealthy expression of this need, and when people respond by giving in to the demand, they are essentially feeding the insidious Special Cupcake Syndrome that impedes healing.

We are all Special Cupcakes, but not even cupcakes deserve the right to control others to get our needs met.

Special Cupcake Syndrome is when someone who has a mental illness, or who does not have a mental illness but desires attention and control, who may or may not be an abuse or trauma survivor, demands special treatment, or acts out in ways to get attention for themselves, or attempts to control or manipulate others, using their real or perceived condition as an excuse for their behavior. 

Let us be VERY clear- PTSD and related illnesses are NOT THE SAME THING as Special Cupcake Syndrome. Sometimes, the lines can become very blurred between the two, because survivors NEED attention. They need validation. They need support and healing and understanding and compassion from the people around them. These are natural and valid needs for every human being. None of those needs mean that they are displaying SCS, and not all expressions of these needs are SCS related. NEVER FEEL GUILTY OR ASHAMED TO EXPRESS YOUR NEEDS. 

SCS is not an expression of a need. It is an unreasonable demand to have that need met by someone else, in a way that seeks to control them, and it's most commonly found in online interactions. (Though, it does happen in real-life encounters as well.) With SCS, getting the need met is less the goal than controlling the other person. Getting your needs met in ways that do not manipulate, abuse, or attempt to control others is the only healthy road to healing. What survivors both need and fear is to be KNOWN. We need to be seen. We need to be loved as individuals, by people who know us well enough to love us. We can not get that from people who do not know us well, like celebrities, web page administrators, or other "anonymous" internet connections. They have no connection with us, or real investment in our well-being. Demanding that they meet our needs is not only unreasonable, it's unrealistic. It is holding another person responsible for our feelings and reactions- which, in turn, gives them control over our feelings and reactions.

What SCS behavior gets us is attention for our condition. Attention can be a balm, a soothing salve, but if it is for the wrong thing, or expressed in the wrong ways, it's actually doing more harm than good.

Bandaids don't heal everything. Sometimes stitches are required to close a wound. 

If you have a puncture wound, doctors will tell you NOT to use salve or try to heal the surface of the wound too quickly- doing so can cause a really nasty infection, and the wound will have to be re-opened to drain it. Puncture wounds must be healed from the inside out. So it is with trauma. Until we allow ourselves to deal with the initial trauma, and have help adjusting our perspectives from a trusted therapist, we can not heal. 

Healing is the only path to peace. 

If you suffer from anxiety, depression, flashbacks, nightmares, mood swings, or other symptoms of trauma, please seek out the help you need. There are many qualified counselors who can guide you through the healing process. There are groups and communities where you can begin to find connections and build a network of support. There are probably people in your real-life circles, who care enough about you to become part of your healing process. If there are not, you may need professional support and help to find those people. You need to learn about healthy personal boundaries and healthy ways to get your needs met in the context of loving relationships with healthy people.

Self care is NOT an expression of SCS. It's a good and healthy expression of supported yet self-sufficient autonomy.

It takes time. It takes trust in others. It's not easy. It takes support. You can do it. The trauma left you wounded, but you're still here. You are not a victim. You are a survivor. Own it. Where there is life, there is hope. Make the most of it. With love from the trenches, Mary PTSD Resources: For Veterans (Thank you for your service!)

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