It is precisely 5:00 am. Insomnia has once again claimed my precious and ever elusive slumber for yet another trophy on it's already overfilled mantle. The concrete and asphalt river that ceaselessly flows outside my window is oddly peaceful; the occasional "big fish" swims past, loudly announcing it's presence, it's Jake brake grunting loudly. Mostly the fish are quiet, and the sounds from the river slightly hypnotic. The quiet should facilitate time for reflection and meditation, but I have too much energy to focus on any one thing in particular. It's been like this for several days now, and I've come to accept that this is who I am, and it's okay. I used to feel guilty leaving my husband alone to sleep while I went about the business of household drudgery, but now I look forward to my quiet time, alone with my kitties. The coffee in my cup is warm and comforting, and after my first refill, the cogs and gears in my mind begin to creak and grind as they prepare for the day ahead. I don't work outside of my apartment, so my days are spent relentlessly rearranging and reorganizing the tiny space we call home. It's a never ending game of Tetris. I am good at Tetris, and so I continue the game. Today is the first day of May, or "May Day." In some spiritual circles it is known as "Beltane." Beltane celebrates the time of year when life, love and growth are renewed. It is a joyful and energizing season full of palpable, arcing electricity. This is the beginning, the Allegro of Mother Nature's symphony. It is also the end. It is time to acknowledge and excise the weeds that choke and strangle our growth, both physically and spiritually. For me, that means examining my non-productive behaviors and thoughts: Why do I allow the beasties to continue to live rent-free in the recesses of my mind? "Why?" indeed. Possibly because they've lived there for so long that I'm afraid to seek new tenants. Better the monster you know, right? It's far easier to continue habitual thoughts and actions (no matter how derogatory) than to do the work and evict the little buggers. I've made the decision to evict, but deciding and doing are two separate actions. I believe that I've discovered the "Why." One word: Victim. Webster's dictionary defines "victim" as: victim [vic-tem] noun: one that is acted on and usually adversely affected by a force or agent, such as (1) : one that is injured, destroyed, or sacrificed under any of various conditions, i.e. a victim of cancer, a victim of an auto crash, a murder victim (2) : one that is subjected to oppression, hardship, or mistreatment (3): one that is tricked or duped, i.e. a con man's victim Victim. Huh. Not a title one consciously chooses to be sure. Being awarded this moniker is not to be envied; the medals received in honor of your new title are typically struck from the heaviest of metals. The weight of your medals (more often than not) prevents you from rising up to become everything you have the potential of becoming. Earning this title certainly does not feel like an honor...more like a life sentence. But what happens when you cling to this derogatory label? Just how much joy is there in a life that feels so bound to pain and self-loathing? I can tell you from personal experience, not much. No matter the positive image you strive to personify, there always seems to be an elephant lurking in the corner, even if only in your imagination. And as long as you have peanuts, it's not going anywhere. I finally threw the peanuts in the garbage bin. The Elephant has been loved, fed and even revered for far too long. It's time for it to move on, or better yet, disappear altogether. Every peanut provided nourishment to a creature that had no reciprocal love for me. Instead, in return I learned how to treat myself no better than those who initially bestowed the dubious title of "Victim" upon me. Decades later, I still believed that I was a victim. But guess what? It turns out that although I had indeed been previously victimized, I was actually responsible for any perceived victimization that continued to asphyxiate life's natural progression. My path was blocked by an imaginary pile of dead trees, and it became clear to me that I was the only one capable of forging a path through the deadfall. How can this be? Where is the fairness? The short answer is that nothing is fair, nor has it ever been promised to be so. This may seem callous; Facebook is chock full of memes designed to remind you to, "Suck it up, Buttercup! You're responsible for everything you do!!" (Honestly, they make my eye twitch...my Victim feels slighted and a little pissed that someone else could make her problems seem so trite and imagined.) I deserve so much more than you could ever understand. Or at least that's what I told myself. It had become part of my "hard-wiring," and not something I was interested in abandoning. It was not just a part of me; it was me. A self-induced health scare was what it took for me to begin these internal conversations. I've had to acknowledge The Victim, and assure her that she is loved and not forgotten. Not forgotten, but no longer laying on the coffee table for easy access. There is honor in being retired to the trophy cabinet. She taught me many things: survival skills, compassion, empathy, and a healthy respect for things dangerous. She will always be part of what makes me who I am. But her curriculum is outdated and offers no new lessons for my future; there are only bleak reminders of a fearsome past in her text books. She provided me with seemingly valid excuses for my unhealthy behaviors. Avarice, gluttony, promiscuity...surely a victim should be not only entitled to but forgiven for such behavior. I received far more permission and forgiveness for my actions and their outcomes than anyone, victim or not, ever should. I ate without conscience. I shopped to the point of bankruptcy, and drank alcohol relentlessly. Personal relationships suffered, because why ever should I have to step outside of myself and my own wants to be concerned for another's? But it was all justified, because I was a victim, right? I'm not sure why it's taken so long for this epiphany, like lightning, to strike my brain. I've wanted to change. To be healthy and just be the beautiful person that has remained cocooned in The Victim the greater part of my life. The first step, just as in so many other challenges in life, was to realize what I was doing. I want and deserve to molt this lifeless weight I've worn as a cowl around my heart. And I believe the transformation has begun. Changing long-held or creating new mantras is no easy feat. I've found that grief is not relegated solely to physical death. Rather, any person, place or thing can become an important piece of your history, and realizing that it may not be a piece of your future can be so very hard. Psychology tells us that there are 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. You may not experience them in this exact order, and it may take longer to progress than what you expect; it's progression is different for everyone. The key part of that phrase though, is "progression." Progress. It's how you move forward. I'm personally on what feels like the latter part of anger; it angers me that I stayed in the cocoon for so long. But I'm excited for this epiphany and it's impact. I don't expect perfection...how boring would that be? I can tell you that since I've been doing "the work," it's become easier to hear and comfort The Victim when she tries to reassert herself. I've had conversations with her, both inside of my mind and out, reminding her that she's not the boss anymore. She's a much deserved trophy no matter how she was earned. She is a reminder of the survivor I became once I let her go. I may take her from the trophy case occasionally to brush away the dust, because no matter my personal evolution, she provided the protective cocoon that became my launching pad. But she is no longer a symbol of fear and pain. Only strength. Gardening, baking and writing are all things that bring me joy. On this Beltane, my plans include all of the above. There is pain in life. And there is beauty. The first half of my life, pain was given license to run rampant. Going forward, I choose beauty. What will you choose? Blessed Beltane Happy May Day Much love. Tammi-
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My personality has always been that of an addict. Even as a child, I would hide hoards of chocolate to consume all at once in some secret hideaway. The guilt would, of course, make me feel ashamed (and a little queasy to be honest). And yet, Grandma's "Christmas Cookie Stash" was always under attack. And her fudge. And her chocolate covered pretzels. In retrospect, I understand that I was trying to fill a void, something most addicts have in common. For me, it was the need for normality in a world that was less than welcoming to me. So much family dysfunction, and so little nurturing. I sought solace and comfort in food as a child, and later in life, sought that solace in more "adult" comforts. But I digress.
Why do I write? My mother tells a story of me when I was 11 months old. She would sing to me, and I would sing right back to her. Music has always been a passion of mine as well; the lilting melodies and the trance of the rhythms carry me away. But even at so young an age, I was always drawn to the words. The rest can move my body, but the words have always moved my soul. I could shake my booty, or pretend I knew how to waltz. But the words told the true story, and that is where I found my newest addiction. I've always been an avid reader. At 8, I read Stephen King's "Carrie." For some reason, words have always just come to me without needing to be explained. Perhaps it was being raised in a mostly adult world, or maybe I've just been blessed with a most-welcome gift. And I found that when I shared these words with others, I not only received praise, but found that the void I'd been longing to fill had finally found an unending source of nourishment. It lay within my heart, grew within my mind, and manifested with my pen and paper. Conveying my thoughts and feelings through writing gave me a sense of purpose in a world where otherwise I had none. I wrote short stories, speeches and benedictions for church services, and articles for newsletters, among other things. The validation I had longed for was finally mine; I finally had something I could call my own. Then life got a little too real for me (remember the afore-mentioned "adult comforts?"). I forgot my gift, and instead chose to fill the void with unhealthy rewards instead. I was still writing, but nothing that truly spoke "my words." I wrote ad-copy, created and wrote more newsletters, a few songs, and a lot of real estate flyers for an old boss. But then, nothing again for awhile. I was finally mute. A few years later, I was afforded the unfortunate "opportunity" to spend some time reflecting. I picked up my notebook, and it embraced me like an old dear friend. The words came a little clunky and slow in the beginning. But they didn't stop, and my hand could barely keep up with them as they fell from my heart and mind. (I'm so grateful for computers! I type ever so much faster than I write, and it's a lot more legible for sure!) All of the things that had been screaming to be heard were finally having their say. It was wonderful! Invigorating! And thankfully, they're still finding their way to new homes where they can be shared with and by whomever finds beauty within them. So why do I write? It's no longer for validation, although that never hurts the ego. I write because there is both pain and beauty in the world, and the idea that my words can influence either is a great responsibility and privilege. And because holding them back does not only a disservice to me, but to someone who needs to hear them. I write a blog that covers many of my personal life experiences because it's cathartic and free therapy. And because I still and will always love Stephen King, there's always a little something creepy bubbling in the cauldron. But mostly, I write because I'm addicted. The only support group I really need is The Words. A few years ago, I wrote a piece entitled, "Dear Vinny." It had nothing to do with my husband; rather, a clever (or so I like to think) play on the word 'vino.' Wine has long been an on and off affair of mine, and occasionally, I like to remember the reasons I can no longer be involved in that toxic relationship. I'd like to share that piece with you today...it may be a little rough in places, but the brain needs time to heal. Dear Vinny - How are things? I haven't seen you for a couple of weeks...I've been a bit busy with some new friends, and quite honestly, trying to recuperate from our last whirl-wind romance. "Romance" may be too strong of a word for what we had, as that typically implies a relationship that involves mutually affectionate and passionate emotions. Those terms could hardly describe our relationship over the last several years. There were some positive terms I could have used to describe our history; there were things you made me feel and desire that I didn't realize were buried deep within my core. I will admit that the first time we met, when my sister introduced us, I wasn't ready for the intensity of all that you had to offer. Heck, I was only seven. Just one small taste of you was overwhelming...although, not gonna lie, I threw up in my mouth a little, lol. I wasn't quite ready for you yet, but I really wanted to find out if all of the grown-ups around me were on to something. They all seemed so cheerful after being around you and your extended family. And although occasionally my mother was angry about life in general after you'd reminded her of some of the things that had not gone as expected in her life, she spent more than one late night with me, after some quality time with you, sitting on my bed proclaiming her absolute and complete love for me and my brother, and that we were her world. She didn't spend a lot of time with you or your family, but when she did, she usually seemed happy and content, and I wanted that for myself. At ten, I met one of your more exotic relatives, a handsome, sweet temptation named, "Kahlua." I enjoyed his company alone, but sometimes we'd get crazy and bring a couple of others to the party (some Russian guy, and some milk to keep it innocent). That was when I knew I had found a place to belong. It wasn't a "crew" I consorted with regularity then, but they were always there to lighten my mood when I needed them. I introduced them to my other few, but close, friends, who were also very happy to be a part of the gang. Over the next few years, I met much of your family, both immediate (although a bit red-neck) as well as some of your foreign and more passionate relations. I met TJ (coincidentally my nickname at the time), this guy who worked on a farm owned by the Boone family, and this scary, unkempt man who liked to be called, "Mad Dog." There was also a guy who drove a Thunderbird, but he was so cheap and tacky, and that date went so horribly wrong that I refused to see him again. You have some other relatives who have much stronger arms, and they made me feel happy and accepted almost immediately. There was Jack, Jim, and someone with a very comfortable southern accent. But my soul mate was your relative from Russia. He and I spent the next couple of decades meandering through what I call "my experimental period." There was nothing we wouldn't do together. He was willing to try anything, and because of his boldness, so was I. The only problem was that he became terribly physically abusive. My body began to disintegrate before not only my own eyes, but also the eyes of everyone around me. I decided to end it with him, at least for awhile. Give myself a chance to see if I could do it alone, and regain some of my health. My family deserved it after all. After a few days, or weeks, or months or years (I can't really remember), I began to miss that comfortable embrace again. I knew my Russian friend was just too much for my still-weak body, but how about that guy I met when I was seven? In high school, he had always been so light hearted and fun...that was just what I needed. So, I looked you up...you weren't hard to find. In fact, I seemed to run into you everywhere! Grocery stores, mini-marts, gas stations, restaurants...even WalMart! I learned that whenever I was feeling a little anxious or overwhelmed, I could always count on you for support. You had all of the answers, and helped me overcome my inhibitions. So many things we did together...many of them illegal (although some only in certain states :-) ). In the beginning, those around me enjoyed the spontaneity of our relationship. They saw us as the life of the party. And there were so many parties. Too many, I guess, because those people (my friends) stopped attending. A few of the closer ones hung in a bit longer, but since I focused more on you than I did them, they soon tired of our affair and politely explained that they would still be there for me, but they didn't feel that we were a good couple. Then, what luck!! Tragedy struck and our home caught fire! I was once again approved to be with you without criticism. I fell into your arms, and never looked back. My family mentioned many times that I was perhaps spending too much time with you and not enough with them. I did my best to try to incorporate both worlds, but it just wasn't enough for them. Even my employer noticed that I wasn't my old, productive self, and suggested I seek help. I did, and somehow ended up in a place that promised me they would show me how I could rid myself of my unhealthy relationship with you. I wasn't sure that was what I wanted, but if it would make my family happy with me again, I would give it a shot. I came home a month later. My family was overjoyed, but I felt so lost. My employer had replaced me, and so I had nothing to fill my days except thoughts of inadequacy and you. I made it without you for almost another month once I came home before I couldn't bear it any longer without you. My family grew even more distant. I found a new job that was a wonderful opportunity for our family. I made great money, and quickly advanced. You were there with me every step of the way. But once again, you clamored for my attention incessantly. I knew that the only way to keep my job was to try, once again, to exorcise you from my life. So, back I went to ask for help. I was confident that this time I would win. I had learned everything about you and your insidious deceitfulness, and I could handle anything. This time I made it a full two months. But since I had learned all about you, I knew how to handle you this time. I never realized the lengths to which you'd go to keep me close. You listened, comforted, laughed and appreciated me like no-one else could or would. Eventually, nothing else mattered. I gave up my home, my husband, my daughter and my perfect job just to be with you. What was I thinking? I'm finally aware of all of the time you've spent in the grasp of others while I've remained devoted to you. And all the while, you've been wreaking the same havoc in their lives. I could not see it; I could only see that they seemed capable of managing their lives and romances with you, and I was certain I could do the same. You are not capable of holding me at night, or even allowing me the comfort of being held at night. You've never once wrapped your arms around me to tell me you love me, only your tendrils to constrict with the promise that "It will all be better." And you've certainly never looked at me while I was singing and said to me, with great admiration, "Mommy, you're awesome!" In fact, you stole my voice. I've not much left to lose. So it is with great respect, humility and desperation that I'm choosing to let you go. We're toxic together. If you remain in my life, the next natural step is truly death. And although in the past you have nearly convinced me that that would be the only way I could leave you, I assure you that I intend to live my life to the fullest, one day at a time, without the empty promises that I have come to not only believe, but am guilty of uttering myself. And so, as they say, it's not about you...it's about me. Tee- It's nearly 2 am. The house is silent except for the ticking of the clock above the fireplace, and the occasional sleep snort from my sweet husband in the next room. I sit in the living room, on the big, comfy couch, drinking peppermint tea and hoping to soothe my mind. I'm not stressed, the world is not upon my shoulders; I am merely a frequent insomniac. I've never understood how a person can put their head down upon their pillow, close their eyes, and in merely an instant, be lost to Ole-Luk-Oie (The Sandman), his happy stories, and his umbrella of dreams. Many things have transpired since last I wrote. I feel as though we are becoming rolling stones, and the moss is beginning to fall off with each cartwheel. We are 90% unpacked and put away (just need a desk), and have begun working on new projects. We've nested. Another recent development was a bit of extreme weight loss on my part. Prior stressors were a factor, not to mention some odd aversion to food I developed. My friends and family grew concerned, because I just couldn't palate many foods, and when I could, a bite or two was more than enough. Too skinny. Huh. I never thought I'd see the day when people I barely know tell me I need to eat something? And that's really what I'd like to dive into today. Little bit of background... Growing up, I wasn't terribly chunky (I have the pictures to prove it!). I had a couple of spurts of chubbiness when hormones started kicking in, but it eventually worked out fairly nicely. I assumed I was terribly obese though, based on commentaries by many of those around me. Apparently, a little extra meat on the bones and you're a heifer. Who knew? My figure soon garnered the attention of the opposite sex. I was still pretty sure I was still too fat (my Levi's were a YUGE 26" waist!!), and I was ready to do whatever it took to get rid of that extra blubber. And just when I was getting close, I got married/pregnant. From that point forward, the scale and I tangoed. Diets, drugs, gimmicks, starvation. I was so devastated after my son was born that nothing fit anymore, and that I must surely be the most undesirable woman on the planet. Fast forward to 2007. Since the birth of my first child, I have weighed anywhere from 130lbs to 250lbs. Out of desperation, I resorted to gastric bypass surgery. Not any of those reversible ones. Oh no. I went full bore (I call it, "The Full Monty") and insisted that my insides be completely re-plumbed. It's called the "Roux en y" procedure, and basically, the majority of your stomach is removed. Permanently. I was initially left with a "pouch" capable of holding an ounce at a time. It took a great deal of adjustment to find the balance between getting nutrition in without overdoing it (that's an incredibly painful event). Still, it's sometimes frustrating to find something tasty, and only be able to eat a few bites. Your belly is full, but your hunger is still not satiated. As of late, a term has become common in our culture: body shaming. This is the practice of ridiculing another's body for it's perceived imperfections. You can be too thick or too thin, your hair can be wild, your boobs can be too big or small (same goes for your bum), or any manner of other "shortcomings" with which you might identify. And as if we aren't already hard enough on ourselves, there always seems to be someone to helpfully (but mostly not helpfully) suggest how you can improve yourself to achieve the standards of civilized society. I have been on so many sides of this phenomenon. As a young, thinner person, I'm sure I made my fair share of inappropriate jokes about people bigger than me. For that, I am truly sorry. As a heavy person, I turned my venom upon the "skinny people." "She needs a sandwich," I would say as skinny folks walked past the window at work. Or if some poor soul who happened to be bigger than me walked past, I'd make a comment about how at least I wasn't that big. When I was heavy, I would catch folks staring and giggling. Now that I'm too thin, people offer to feed me, tell me I don't eat enough and that I really can't afford to lose more weight (couple that with the fact that I can only eat a little at a time, which not everyone knows, and people immediately think I'm extremely ill). Dropping from 250lbs down to 112lbs is pretty drastic, I'll admit. I'm smaller than my smallest in high school, and probably even smaller than in the latter years of what would have been junior high (private school, long story). I just kept dropping, and secretly I think I was hoping to challenge myself to see how far I could go. Sick, huh? People were looking at me shaking their heads, hoping to find something I could stomach, or convince me to "eat more protein!!" After getting sick last week, and the subsequent drop in poundage, it feels like my body has hit the reboot button. Once I could finally eat, that's all I seemed to want to do. Non-stop. It's as though my body finally remembered that food is a good thing, and I've already gained a little more than 5lbs. I saw myself in the mirror before I started eating again; it was pretty scary. Sunken cheeks and eyes, no muscle tone whatsoever. I understand what is meant by skin and bones now, and it's not a pretty sight. The point of this post is that I put myself through Hell to try to avoid the shaming and judgement. I've completely altered my body, both inside and out, hoping to gain the approval and attention of my peers whom I've feared would otherwise consider me less of a person. These are not just perceived notions; this is life. And this is death. This is a model in the UK, deemed too thin by law to continue modeling until she can gain weight. This is a young gymnast at Penn State, who's coach shamed her to the point of suicide. This is a stepfather screaming to his step-daughter that she's lazy, uncoordinated, stupid and fat. This is real, and people are dying. I don't know what the answer is. For myself, I've tried to really become more situationally aware. Whereas I used to catch myself making snap-judgements based on a glance, I'm learning to take a minute, and then rethink my original assessment. I find that it's usually ever so much kinder the second and even sometimes the third time around. I make it a point to smile at people I would not normally even look at twice. I make it a point to engage the cashier in conversation at Fred Meyer's. I tell someone when I think they have nice hair, or eyes, or even just a nice pair of earrings. I don't know where their moccasins have been, but I know where mine have been, and there are sure days I would appreciate a kind word or smile instead of a pitiful expression. Many of us were born instinctively understanding empathy. The rest of us? It's something we need to practice, and share with others. There's too much hate and discontent in the world to waste our precious time doing anything other than to bring each other up from the depths. So, it's now 4 am. Not much has changed, except for the refrigerator has now added to the chorus. I think I'll pack my man's lunch for tomorrow, and probably tuck a note in there to remind him how much I love and appreciate him, and then try to at least get some snuggling in before he has to get up for work. This has been a long post, so if you're still with me, thanks for pushing through. Happy Father's Day to all of you dads out there, and may your weekend be filled with joy!! Brightest Blessings - Tammi- Hello friends. Happy First Day of Spring! It's been quite the winter here in the Pacific Northwest, and we're definitely ready to be reminded of why we endure all of the rainy days. I've spent a lot of time since my last post contemplating whether or not I reached the goal I had in mind when I wrote it, which was to help anyone who's experienced similar trauma to understand that they aren't alone. I think I did a pretty good job accomplishing that, but my musings on the topic have led me to believe that there is more to be said on the subject of survival and regrowth, because many of us don't know or believe that it's possible. In the previous post, I described my childhood as being tumultuous, to say the least. But I think maybe after the last year of my life, I've finally learned to recall the good things that happened all of those years ago, instead of only remembering the awful ones. Things like my grandma's homemade pancakes and syrup, resting my head on my mom's lap when I was sick so that she could stroke my hair, singing at the top of my lungs in my grandparents' back yard. I learned to entertain myself for the most part, because I'm the baby of our clan by 10 years. Making friends wasn't an easy thing (still really isn't) because I tend to keep an extra cowl of onion around my shoulders when I meet new people. Social anxiety disorder? That describes the first 3 decades of my life. But, some of my fondest memories involve some of the greatest people you'd ever want to meet. I think of these friends as the family I got to choose for myself, and who in return, chose me. These bonds are strong, even when tested. And they remain strong, no matter the distance or years. In fact, my very first real "bestie (better known as my, "Fest Brend." Long story)" has agreed to be my editor and the illustrator for the children's book I'm hoping to finish writing (thanks, Shelly-Belly!!). But more importantly, without finally forging these bonds, I would have had little, if any, reprieve from my personal hell. It was these relationships that started to spark a realization that maybe there was something special, or at least not gross, about me. (That little layer still nags me from time to time.) There are too many of them for me to list here, but if you're reading this, you know who you are, and I want to thank you for continuing to be my family, and helping me through the tough times. Much, much love to you. Besides my wonderful friends, and beautiful family, I've also met some wonderful therapists along the way. I'm not ashamed to admit that, because I believe if you're sick, it's better to find a solution than to continue to allow your illness to limit your abilities and make life difficult for those around you. Now, this wasn't always an actual belief for me. Going to a therapist should not be considered a magic, cure-all pill. It's a waste of your time if you're not willing to do the hard work yourself. It took a long time for me to grasp that concept. I wreaked havoc on many others' lives along the way, and for that, I am truly sorry. I hope going forward, things will be more peaceful. So, what was the magical secret I finally learned in therapy? To keep peeling. When I realize something is bothering me, I've learned to start asking myself the "why's." And I do this without the pity party I've carried around with me all of these years. That's been the hardest part: learning to understand why I'm feeling bad, sad or angry, at its very core, and then learning to let it go. It's not for sissies, and it takes some practice, that's for sure. But for me, it works. I've probably got an over-developed sense of distrust. But unpeeling the layers has helped me understand that it's okay to be me. I've learned to accept that people, with no ulterior motives, do actually love and appreciate me. I do still, however, occasionally extend more trust than I should. I want to believe that people are essentially good at their core, but I'm having to relearn to be cautious in my new environment. You've really got to be aware. I want to make new friends in this new town, but it's a little scary with what's on the news. It's a new learning curve for me, for sure. Well, take-aways from this post, at least for me: I'm still alive. And there were so many positives about growing up, though I don't always remember them. My friend network has always been there for me. And I no longer need to BS myself or make excuses about what hurts and why. It's taken an awful long time to get here, and I'm sure there's more work, but the point is, I made it this far. So can you. Again, happy Spring, or "Ostara," as those in my spiritual circles would say. It is a season for renewal and growth; embrace it, and nurture the new life that sparks inside each of us during this season. Much love, and many bright blessings, Tammi- The tale I'm going to share with you today may very well be the most difficult I've ever told. It's very personal to me, and more than a little painful. As I've said in previous posts, I don't choose to share these pieces of me with you in order to gain your sympathy. Rather, It is my sincere hope that my experiences and the insights I've learned from them might help another human being realize that they aren't alone. So as they say (whomever "they" are), the best place to start is at the beginning. Here goes... I'm adopted. I was adopted at the age of 11 months by a couple who were no longer able to have children, but mostly by a mother who wanted a little girl so very much. She made it a point to always remind me that I was smart and special, and at the risk of sounding boastful, I was. My IQ was tested early on, because my mom just knew I was different. She was right; my IQ score at the time was 160, right up there with Stephen Hawking and Bill Gates. (Of course then there were the 80s and 90s, so I'm pretty darned sure that number is ever so slightly diminished.) I've also been gifted with the ability to sing well, so of course Mom showed me off every chance she got. It was mortifying at the time, but it makes me smile so much to remember it now. The first school I attended was a public school. I went to Las Flores Elementary for kindergarten and part of first grade, but when the school realized I was gifted, they met with my mom to suggest that I might be better off in private school. So for the next 8 years, I called the High Desert 7th Day Adventist elementary school my academic home. This was a tiny school: eight grades, only two teachers and an assistant. There were roughly 30 kids in the entire school (my eighth grade graduating class consisted of five kids), so really, if you didn't fit in, there was nowhere to hide. And guess what? I didn't fit. Not only was I just too damned smart, but because of other factors in my life that none of these children knew about, I was also far more mature than they. I didn't stand a chance. It was constant. I will never understand the pleasure one receives from degrading and abusing another human being. There were all of the typical pranks: tacks in my seat (if my seat was even still there when I'd try to sit in it), tripping, shoving, really horrible name calling. I remember during PE one afternoon we were playing Red Rover, and the girl who had to stand next to me and hold my hand cried because she didn't want to touch me, as though my gross cooties might rub off on her. And it didn't just stop with elementary school. Since I had attended private school for so long, the transition to a large, public high school was extremely rough for me. I knew very few people, didn't have cool clothes, and continued to be the target. We were required to dress out for PE, and one day, after my shower, I went to get my clothes from the locker, and someone had stuffed dog feces into my pants. I only lasted one semester, and finally decided the only way to fit in was to try to dumb myself down. I started ditching classes, and eventually just quit altogether. What a waste, right? Now, here's what the bullies didn't know, not that they would have cared much. My home life was pretty scary. My mom, who was single for awhile, always, always, always worked her ass off to take care of the two of us. Because of this, I spent a great deal of time with caregivers who were believed to be trustworthy. Not so much, as it turned out. For several years, and from as far back as I can remember, I was sexually abused. And not just by caregivers either. I'm telling you, it was as though I wore a sign around my neck, advising would-be abusers to, "Go ahead, it's okay. I won't tell!" It continued until I was about 14, when I finally became angry enough to put a stop to it. But it was already too late, because by then, I had decided that it was my turn to be in control. Thus began my road-trip down the Promiscuity highway. I'm lucky to be alive. "What else was going on in the background?" you might ask. Well, let's see. A stepfather came into my life at the age of 10. He was tall, dark and very handsome. He was also a police officer. But he had a secret that we didn't discover until after the wedding: he was the narcissist from Hell. He wasn't physically violent; the only time he ever laid a hand on me was the time I gave the dog water in one of our kitchen pots. I know what it feels like to have a pot turned upside down, placed on your head, and banged repeatedly. No, he didn't leave scars on my skin. But my heart was broken on a daily basis. It felt as though I was under attack constantly. If I sang with the radio, he'd turn it off to shut me up. If I played the piano, he'd leave the room. He'd go for months without saying a word to me, just a glare if I had the audacity to ask a question. There are so many other little things he did, specifically with the intent of degrading me. But I think my favorite was his, "Don't ever call me Dad again!" routine. He knew how badly I really just wanted a dad, and so, when it benefited him and made a good impression on his family, I got to call him "Dad." We'd visit his family in LA a few times a year, and he always liked me enough then to let me call him "Dad." But once we'd get back, it would only be a matter of days before he'd find an excuse to be furious enough with me to tell me I could no longer call him by that name. He was absolutely as twisted as a pretzel. And he had no idea that I was also being sexually abused, but he actually made a pass at me once as well. See? Like I'm wearing a sign. I recently spent a great deal of time with another full-blown narcissist, which catapulted me right back to childhood and all it's pain. And don't even get me started on ex-husband number one. But I can tell you one thing, with surety, and that is that I will NEVER allow myself to be controlled by a bully again. It's taken years of damage control to finally produce the woman you know today. I am definitely still flawed (aren't we all), but I know now that my life is worth it. I'm worth it. And no one can take that from me again. Say something. Say anything. Tell someone. Don't let your bullies continue to hurt you. I can only imagine what could have been if I had just told someone. Please don't wait, because as you know, too many poor souls are dying because their bullies have won. Have a wonderful Valentine's Day, and even if you're solo, remember to love yourself. You're worth it <3 Brightest Blessings and much love to you, my friends Tammi- Hi friends! It's been awhile since I've written and I've thoroughly missed it. There've been some major changes in our lives, and it's taken some time to embrace the adjustments. I'm happy to report, however, that our path has taken a turn for the good, and I feel like we can finally begin to breathe. So why the scandalous title? As some of you know, my husband and I spent a couple of unexpected months in a m/hotel. I call it that because it wasn't fancy enough to be called a "hotel," but it definitely wasn't a dive. We should have picked one much closer to where my husband's job site is; a regular 45 minute drive can turn into 2 1/2 hours of commute time through Seattle. Needless to say, some days were a little stressful. But we survived. I'm also happy to report that we finally have a place to call our own. Vince's job site is only 15 minutes away, and I've never seen him smile more. Life is finally turning around for us, and with the help of friends and family, we're finding our sea-legs again. Nothing, I mean nothing about this has been easy. Even the moving truck we rented ended up getting towed because it was parked in the wrong place. And we lost so very much; the garage where our belongings were stored was flooded in heavy rain, not to mention the vermin had a right, royal party in there. We lost our mattress, our sofa, bedding, clothes, and lots of personal mementos that can't be replaced. That part was pretty heartbreaking. But it's okay. They're just things. And this is where the part about what the m/hotel taught me begins to make sense. When we first checked into that room, we thought of it as a honeymoon. Just the two of us on an adventure that was only supposed to last one or two weeks. Weeks stretched into months. I'd spend literally hours every day online, looking for an apartment. In the meantime, I had to be clever about feeding us on a very limited budget. A person can only eat so many homemade bean and cheese burritos. This reminded me how to be resourceful. Wanna try to make dried beans or rice in the microwave but don't have a colander to rinse them? Make one out of the deli lunch meat container! I also regained a little independence. I don't drive, but I did my best to walk to the grocery stores to find what we needed for dinner, or anything else for that matter. It was nice to get out, because the days were usually pretty long, and pretty lonely.
I learned to be responsible for my own entertainment, and that was a little difficult. I started coloring, made a few crafts, and started writing this blog. Without doing these types of activities, my mind would start wandering into a very dark and depressing valley, and nobody deserves to feel like that. I learned that things are just that: things. We came to that room with only enough to last a couple of weeks. So I learned to appreciate the few things we did have, and stop pining for the things that were stored away. I also was reminded to trust my husband. Sometimes it takes a little longer than my hummingbird brain wants for things to come to fruition. But his intentions and heart are always in the right place, and he always has my well-being in his sights. Flexibility is important. Not just the physical kind. Things, as you know, don't always go as planned, but usually with a little bobbing and weaving, a little juggling and sometimes a little serpentine-ing, you can make it. Even if it doesn't feel like it at the time. I learned a great deal about patience. Patience for the continually crying baby, the very gruff and very loud construction crews as they were leaving in the morning. Patience for finding just the right place. And mostly patience for the lengthy wait to get here. But probably the biggest lesson/reminder throughout all of this has been gratitude. Gratitude for all of the support from so many friends and family. Gratitude to the girlfriends who stayed up late chatting with me online, assuring me it would all work out. Gratitude to my husband, for never losing faith. Gratitude and appreciation for what we do have, and that we've realized, finally, how excessive we have allowed our lives to become, and that we no longer see a need to continue to live that way. All of these lessons have helped during the transition into our place. I've come to call the move, "The Purge." We've essentially moved from a 3-bedroom house with a garage into a 1-bedroom apartment with one tiny storage closet. We've decided that this year's resolution is to put an end to the excess in our lives. It's nice to have certain things, but there's just no need to keep ridiculous things around like bar "swag," or my coffee cup collection from hell. I am a clothes and shoes horse, or at least I was. I donated over half of my wardrobe to the YWCA for women interviewing or going back to work. And Goodwill is probably sick of seeing us. So now there's still unorganized stuff in my living room (patience), but once it's gone, that room will basically just be a big, empty room. It's okay though. We get to start over, from the beginning, with things that mean something to both of us, instead of just pieced together from the lives we led before finding each other. I'm looking forward to this new chapter of life, and grateful to be sharing it with a wonderful husband, family and friends who've stuck by us through this journey. Peace and love to you all, and have a happy new year!! Tammi- "There are definite changes to your macula, Tammi. Let's get you set up with a specialist." Those were the words that launched my "eyeball odyssey." In retrospect, there were clues littering the path leading up to that conversation with my optometrist. I attributed the sudden onset of blurriness to simply getting older. A friend once told me that once she hit 40, her eyesight went to hell, so at 45, I was thinking I was really getting away with something. I was also having a hard time figuring out why the light on the surge-protector strip in our room would sometimes flash orange, and sometimes green. (The conversation I had with my husband after I noticed this was actually pretty funny, now that I think about it.) I lost the job I had at the time. It seems that when you sell home furnishings for hundreds less because you've mistaken an 8 for a 5 when calculating the price of a bedroom set, your employers are understandably miffed. But you know? That was actually ok. Financially it sucked, of course. But things went south pretty quickly after that, and I don't think customers would have wanted someone with a weak grasp on color variations assisting them with fabric choices anyway. After several appointments with several different specialists, I was diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder known as, "Best Disease." It's not yet fixable. But there are a couple of stem-cell studies that look promising. There's also the possibility of clinical-trial surgeries that may or may not work, require more than one procedure, and are completely out of pocket. I called for information on some of these trials, but as this isn't at all common, and is definitely not life-threatening, the trials are few and far between. To look at me, you wouldn't know there was anything amiss. I can still make out shapes, read (depending on the font and the color of the letters and backgrounds), and even draw a little. And I'm ever so grateful for the touch-screen zoom on my laptop. But I don't drive anymore. I went shopping for last minute Thanksgiving items last year and got stuck in the store after dark. I cried most of the way home, because I simply couldn't see the lines on the road, and because the oncoming headlights not only blinded me further, but also felt like a thousand ice picks in my cornea. That was the last time I drove at night, and I finally caved on the day driving thing when I realized that colors and depth perception were no longer my friends. I rarely even look up from my phone in the car anymore, because I don't perceive distances the same and I tend to over-react. Vince hates it. Often, when I ask for help at a store, like, "Can you please tell me if this is black or green?" or, "Is this an orange or a grapefruit?" I not only get "the eyebrow," but the occasional, well-intended small talk as well. "It's rough getting old, isn't it?" "I know it's kind of expensive, but my sister had Lasik done, and it worked great for her!" I always smile, and reciprocate with the small talk, but it used to be hard to hear because it reminded me again that there's no fixing this. A lot of folks have helpfully reminded me that lots of blind folks are societally productive, and that my other senses will soon be able to compensate for my vision loss. This is, of course, meant as encouragement and is always accepted as such. But I'm pretty pissed about the super-power thing taking so long to get here. There are so many more things that I'm struggling to re-learn. But I really think the hardest part of this has been trying to work through the layers of my inner-onion. This one's got three different bulbs: bio, psycho and social. The "Bio-onion" wrestles incessantly with understanding and validating the physical changes within my body. The "Social-onion" worries that I complain too much, or is it not enough, or...you get the drift. But the biggest onion, the Walla Walla Sweet of the bunch, has got to be the, "Psycho-Onion." (Great, a new nickname for my friends to call me. You're welcome.) This is the onion that brings the most tears to my eyes. Part of me wonders, "Why? Haven't I endured enough? Who's cosmic Cheerios did I pee in to deserve this?" Another layer is certain beyond a doubt that I've done plenty to "deserve this." Fortunately, there's still one more layer: "You got this." It's not a thick layer, yet, but it's growing up nicely. I certainly didn't share this with you with the hope of garnering your sympathy. Rather, I'd like to encourage you, once again, to be less presumptuous when evaluating your fellow humans. You may think you know them, based on race, zip code, or current life events. I assure you that you don't. My eyes have always been my best feature. I'm a little too proud that my children and grandson have the same eyes (though in honesty, it makes me a little nervous that they may have inherited the "same" eyes if you know what I mean). When you look at me, you likely won't notice anything different about my eyes, other than the tracks of those pesky crows that seem to have built their nests right there on each corner. And when I look back at you, I promise that I will do my best to see you for who you are, instead of what the world has taught me expect of you. It's taken some practice, but thanks to the people I love, I'm learning, and it's getting easier. It's always hard for me to end these posts neatly, so I'll just do what I know works best: K.I.S.S. (Keep it Simple, Stupid!). Be a good human. Don't be afraid to love. We really are all in this together. Much love, and many Bright Blessings! Tammi- Authoring a 'blog has it's perks, both for myself, the author, and for you, the voluntary reader. For me, writing is a cathartic process that helps me finally grasp pieces of my internal puzzle and link them together, affording me the ability to view the puzzle as a whole. For you, reading is completely optional. You can lightly browse the title and/or subject matter to decide if any of it sparks your interest. If not, you get to scroll on by, which is perfectly fine. If you are intrigued, however, then you get to briefly live vicariously through someone else for a bit. Someone who might have the same hang-ups as you, or a completely different set of hang-ups you want to understand better. Or poke fun at, which is also perfectly acceptable.
Today's post is no different. You get to decide. Today, I want to talk about being bi-polar. I want to talk about how this diagnosis has affected not only my life, but nearly everyone I've ever known long enough to have allowed them "in," you know what I mean? It's not my intent to cause you any discomfort, but as you may know from previous posts, I'm really not one to be shy about my own challenges. How can anyone benefit from my experiences if I shamefully hide them under a bushel? So, instead, I'm just gonna lob this ball in the air and give it a whack. If you are so inclined, feel free to volley back with any questions, suggestions, or even just comments...I'm too old to be "thin-skinned." I was recently diagnosed with "Bi-Polar II Disorder." What this means for me is that it's not easy to keep my emotions on an even keel. While I have regular, asymptomatic days as well, it's the symptomatic days that really kick my ass. I've always compared it to a rag-doll being spun wildly across a dance-floor by an unseen and relentless partner. And then, the magic really begins. After a few days of this lunacy, the rug is completely yanked from under me, and now I'm flat on my face on the floor, staring up from the bottom of the abyss. And who knows what even triggers me, either way? It sounds overdramatic, I know. But this is my truth, and the best I know how to describe it. The reason I chose to share this very personal piece of our lives with you is that maybe you can relate to some of my experiences. I've found a site that breaks down my specific diagnosis...let me know if you've ever known me to behave like this: "During the period of mood disturbance, three (or more) of the following symptoms have persisted (four if the mood is only irritable) and have been present to a significant degree:
Sound like anyone you know? Hi there!! Yup. That's me, almost to the letter, during one of the "up-"swings. This has been me, my whole stinkin' life! All of this time, being The Onion, I of course have blamed all of it on myself, for being inferior and not normal, like everyone else. So many layers of confusion, and believe it or not, guilt and shame. Yes. Guilt and shame. G&S are always around the corner, pointing their stinky fingers at me, reminding me that I'm weak and abnormal. Pretty sick, huh? I know this affects my family, friends, employers, and just about everyone I have interactions with on a regular basis. But I have to say that learning that it's really a "thing," and maybe I'm not just bat-shit crazy has been liberating. I can work with it, learn to manage it, and maybe even forgive myself a little for so many volcanoes in the past. I'm a little nervous about managing it through meds, because I really do love that creative spark that catches and isn't easily extinguished. So for me, the more natural the better. One more note on this subject (at least for today). I don't know which came first for me, the addiction or the disorder. I can say without flinching that alcohol was always my go-to in the past for trying to quiet the monster. Well, that's not entirely true, because I've always felt that there were certain basic categories of need in my life, and that if one or more of those areas were lacking, the others grow enough to fill in the void. But what that boils down to, at least for me, is that until I've learned to manage a balance within these categories, I'm always going to be trying to force the impossible. This really is just the tip of the iceberg. But I hope this starts a conversation. I've seen lots of doctors to ask for help with these symptoms, but not until recently did someone really take the time to dig deep enough for the answers. I'm certainly not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but if any of this has struck a familiar chord with you, please don't hesitate to ask a specialist for help. And remember that you don't have to simply accept whatever the doctor says. I wasn't hoping to find something wrong with me, but you have to listen to yourself, both mind and body, and find someone who will not only listen to you, but work together with you as a partner towards a solution you can live with. As cliché as it seems, there's so much more to life than being miserable. Holiday Wishes, and Brightest Blessings to You! Tammi- *excerpt from "On Being Bi-Polar," copyright Lizy Gibson, 2000 http://www.morgalis.com/bipolar/bp2.htm I've stopped and restarted, erased and rewritten. I've typed like the crazy-lady I am (my daughter calls it, "angry typing," because these fingers can really get to going), and backspaced just as quickly. I don't know what it is that makes it so difficult for me to write about coping with stress. I suppose I could have come up with another topic, but I have learned that when something is nagging at my subconscious, I should probably take a closer look at it. Maybe peel away a few layers, do some internal investigating, and learn a little more about myself in the process.
This isn't one of those, "Holiday Stress Got You Down? 10 Sure-Fire Ways to Rekindle Your Spirit!" kind of posts. Why should we limit ourselves to only seeking peace from within during a select few weeks throughout the year? It just doesn't make any sense at all. We know that when we continually ignore certain symptoms, or warning signs, things can go from pretty okay to complete chaos in just seconds. Heck, lots of times there aren't even any warning signs; it just hits the fan like, "BAM!!" And you're left wondering what the hell just happened. Personally, I've learned that when I dissect these events, and really strip away all of the layers that surround them, I can usually find that one, ugly little nugget, buried deep in the belly of the problematic beast. The true core of the apple, so to speak. And once I'm able to identify that little nugget, I can begin to re-evaluate it's true impact on my perspectives. Basically, dig deep. And once you've found what it is you're looking for, keep digging. You might have found the core of the issue, but have you figured out what caused the core to overheat in the first place? See, that's where you need to go. Get down and dirty, and be blatantly honest with yourself. And then you have a decision to make: keep it or throw it away. It's that simple. It's hard for us hoarders, because even when something's not working we tend to hang on to it, just because we might need it someday. But I'm telling you, if it's not paying rent, evict it. It's either eviction, or a fresh new coat of paint. You choose. All of that said, I am not so naïve as to believe that bad things don't happen to good people. "Joy Snipers," are lurking around every corner (they are year 'round...we just notice their handiwork a lot more during this time of year). The Snipers do things like flatten your tires, hide your debit card, use the last of the creamer without telling anyone. They gleefully romp through the badlands of your peripheral vision, pouncing upon every opportunity to take a shot at your joy. Do we react stressfully to them? Of course! It's human nature. But what if you've already spent some time peeling layers away on some of those other stressors? Might those unexpected pot-shots seem a little easier to navigate? It's worked pretty well for me so far this season, and believe me, my personal Joy Snipers have been working overtime a lot lately. So, I might have fibbed a bit when I said that there weren't going to be tips in this post. To be fair, the original comment was, "10 Sure-Fire Ways to Rekindle Your Spirit!" Well, there aren't going to be 10 here. But I did ask a few friends what they've found helpful for them when The Snipers have seemingly won the battle. Here are few of their go-tos:
From our hearts to yours, we wish you a joyous and happy Thanksgiving. Relish your memories, and treasure your fellow human beings. Many blessings - Tammi- |
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