To Jill...

I found out this week that you are gone.
I tried to call you much too late. Your sister told me the news. The pain of that was almost more than I could bear!
So, after I cried myself to exhaustion, I wrote this....

December 21

It's nearly 9 pm. I feel so tired, hoping I can sleep. I wish the pain would melt away. My legs ache, my mind and heart, too.
Jill, you were all that a sister should be. I wish I had done right by you. I should have been there with you in those last days. I am so sorry! I wish my own "real" sisters had been half as sweet as you were to me.
I have some music on now-and there is that song again. "Jesus, Friend of Sinners".
That was how you were, Jill. A friend of sinners, ones like me, like you...like us.

"For I was that lost cause
And I was the outcast.
You died for sinners just like me
A grateful leper at your feet."

That was us, Jill. We were the outcast lost causes.
Some days I still feel that way. I think I may never get myself together-and not getting it together soon enough is what really took your life. That scares me in a way.
We so mirrored each other, did so many of the same things.
I was so scared to say the things that I had been doing, afraid no one would understand and that they would only condemn me. Then you told me that part of your story, the part that made me exhale hard and say " Wow...I did the exact same thing." I believe your response went something like "And ain't that just the shits?!" because it was-it really was.
We both knew the guilt, the shame, the lies and the games.
Now the thought that I was not with you in your final days...it hurts so much, sis. I should have been there. Yet, I can see you and I can hear what you would say-"Stop it! No one deserves that! You don't deserve to feel that kind of regret!" I know that's what you are telling me.

I am flooded tonight with memories...
I loved how you called me "Dorothy Gail" and that you always understood when I disappeared for long periods. If you ever did hold that against me, it never showed.
I loved how you thought my dad looked cute in his old farmer bib overalls.
I loved it that you could smell your mom's lavender perfume drifting on the air long after she left this world.
I loved it that you mailed me that letter when my mom died and enclosed a single sparkler for me to light in her honor, whenever I was ready.
I loved your art work, your collage cards, your beaded creations. You inspired me, always.
You called on your angels to guide and strengthen you. When I told you I was a Muslim now, you thought it was so cool! When I talked to you about Palestine, your heart went out to the people there.
When you told me you had breast cancer, it struck panic in my heart. And when you ended up in the ICU after your surgery-and no one could tell me if you were going to live or die-I felt crushed.
Not even a year later, I also had breast cancer and you were more than happy to let me lean on you.

How did either of us survive as long as we did, as screwed up as we were?
It occurred to me last night that you were probably more put together, in spite of setbacks, than I could have hoped to be.
I continue to struggle, honey. I wish I could talk it over with you now. You always encouraged me and reassured me that I deserved to have a decent life, no matter my mistakes. You did  too, you know?
But I realize how life crashes in on some of us. We do what we think we have to, just to cope and survive.
Survive...we think we are going to survive this whole thing, don't we?
I wish you had lived to tell the tale just a while longer.
I hope I live to tell mine.

Thank you so much, honey, for being a friend to this sinner.

Jesus, Friend of Sinners by Casting Crowns

A New Day

It is hard to believe it is December. We are less than two weeks from Christmas now and today, the sun is shining brightly and the temperature is in the forties.
So I should be feeling bright....but we know better.

My husband found a website I will share, one that I think is very good and possibly vital to some reading this.
I have Borderline Personality Disorder(BPD). I was diagnosed in the year 2005, when I began to injure myself. I will not go in to detail about that; it has the possibility of "triggering" that behavior in someone with BPD who may read this. Suffice it to say, parts of my body are still scarred.
The underlying symptom of BPD is an intense fear of being abandoned. It seems that the other symptoms are all linked to this. This fear most often results from a real or perceived abandonment by a very significant figure in one's life, somewhere during one's childhood.
It took me a very long time to understand the roots of my illness. Unfortunately, that realization by itself does not "cure" the disorder. It is lifelong. It requires much honest work, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
Other disorders often accompany BPD-in clinical terms, are "comorbid". Addiction and depression are common. I personally cannot say I have escaped them.
But, there is hope. I do not want anyone reading this to think otherwise! Where would any of us be without hope? I believe, however, that hope is a choice. We have to choose to grab it and hang on to it.

As I write this, I have to say the fear is lessening just a bit. We are talking and trying to cope, hoping more counseling, more of that honest hard work will pay off in the end. Even though we are apart, in some ways this is a joint struggle. This is a struggle to survive and maybe eventually, to thrive.

If you or anyone you know is dealing with BPD, the following website is one you really should look at. If you are not sure that you or a loved one has this disorder, there is a list of symptoms to check out. And if you want help, there are links to that, as well.

Today-a new day-I choose to have hope.

Facing the Facts

Peace Propaganda And The Promised Land: U.S. Media & the Israeli-Palesti...

To Be Good and Strong

The countdown begins.
I feel as though someone is dying. Maybe it's me.

I remember a day nearly six years ago....looking over at my mother, asleep in her chair, knowing that in a very short time-very short-she was not going to be there. She had come home to die and sure enough, that is exactly what she was doing.
I remember this feeling of near terror at the thought of her leaving. I cried like a baby. 

But there were things that had to be done, just as there are today. I did not have the energy to do them back then and I do not now. But I will get through this. I know I can. How do I know that? Some things you just sense, I guess. Some things you learn over time and with age and experience. One thing I have learned is how to survive.

So he will leave today, taking the car. I have some money I have tucked away in little piles, for cab fare to get to work, get to the store and laundromat. A little bit for Christmas.
Yesterday, I bought some plastic to cover drafty windows and today I will tug and pull with all my might to set a ladder up to the house. I will put the plastic up and I will feel better-not just warmer, but I will feel that I did a good, strong thing.

When Mom died, I took care of much of the funeral planning. I even wrote and gave the eulogy. I sent out all the thank you's for her memorial gifts, as well as notes to her doctors and to people from our church who helped. They were all actions that were good and strong.

His leaving feels much like a death. His things will not be here. His voice, his presence...he will not be here.
But I will be-and I will do the things that will prove to me that I am strong, the things that will show me once again that I can survive.


I Can't Make You Love Me.....

Aching to Wake Up

My, but it's been a long time. Life got in my way, as it often does.
But now, with the holidays approaching and my heart in tatters again, I must write.
I did name this blog "Souls and Struggles", did I not? It seems most fitting today.

My husband-well, technically he is my ex-husband-and I are in the final countdown now. We are going to split again, and while that is not entirely a bad thing, it is nonetheless painful. Twenty-three years has proven not to be able to save us. So much for the value of a history together. It is simply not enough sometimes, nor is love. Love should be enough, right? I thought that, but this is not the first time illusions in my life have been shattered, nor will it probably be the last.

I start over now. The tears come and go, as does the anger. To figure out exactly what went wrong seems futile at this point. Does it matter? No, not really. Not today.
What seems to matter today is getting up out of bed, at least making an appearance in this thing I call my life. To simply not die. To keep breathing.

There are "issues", of course. Those things we have rehashed until my head swims with them. There have been accusations, denials, at times even outbursts of anger. Always tears-and fear.

Our six year old son seems to understand in some way what is happening. It breaks my heart. But to hear Mommy and Daddy argue and to hear the doors slamming and the feet stomping, to hear the name-calling....how can we put him through any more of that? Or to pretend we are something to each other that we no longer are-how can we put ourselves through that?

My God! I ask myself how this happened, and yet when I look back, I think this relationship should never have happened to begin with. If I am completely blatantly honest, we have never been on the same page, as much as we have tried to be over the years. We have both been far more needy than loving. These things they call "boundaries" have never been there for us. We have been a storm together-lightening and thunder rolling over each other, never tame. And while that has been exhilarating at times in its passion, it has too often been destructive in its pain. Now, I feel simply too old for all of this. I feel a need for peace we will never be able to give each other.

I think much of it is my fault.
A friend and I were talking this morning about "awakening", both in one's own mind and soul and the work of awakening others. I have felt for a long time now that when I faced cancer, I was drastically changed. I call it being shaken to my very core. Not shaken with a fear of death, but with a fear of not having lived the life I was supposed to. But what is that life? What am I supposed to be doing? And do I have the courage to do it?

There it is...that whisper again. That beckoning me to come...to somewhere. Call it God, call it Love, call it Awakening-this Thing will not leave me alone. There is a pattern that repeats itself, one of loss and grief that is trying to bring me to a place I do not recognize, at least not consciously. Maybe if I am able to muddle my way through-or leap from this safe cliff I peer over-I will finally have the ability to open up and fly. I will finally awaken and I will wonder why I slept so long.

Seventeen

I am fast approaching my birthday. On the eighteenth of June, I will have inhabited a place on this earth for forty-eight years. It occurs to me that this is just under a half century. I have issues with that!

I have noticed for the past several years that I get nostalgic just before the big day. This year, I have been downright emotional! Today has been particularly tough, dealing not only with my own insecurities, but those of a loved one, as well. I find that women are easier than men to discuss these matters of the heart with. It could be that men never allow themselves to feel what women do. In a rare instance, a guy can be found who is "weird" enough to get it, to know that place deep inside of a woman where true passion lies, and he is not afraid to open himself to it.

I feel like I am speaking in riddles. Bear with me...indulge me...while I remember Darin.

He was seventeen and I was barely one year older. We were high school friends, it was summer, and I was coming fresh off a broken heart.
It started out innocently enough. He and I drove my parents' car through the countryside one day, as he tried to cheer me up. At dusk, we pulled in to a farm field to watch the sun go down. Lying on the hood of the car, we continued to talk as stars came out and the moon rose. The smell of fresh hay was on the cool night air. A few chirping bugs and a rock ballad on the car radio were the only sounds, aside from our voices.

I do not recall exactly when he put his arm around me. I simply know I turned, looked in to his eyes and we kissed. It was soft at first, then hungry and hard, as though we could force my hurt away by devouring each other's mouths. It was the beginning of a summer long affair, one I have occasionally looked back on with secret delight.
Today, however, more memories of him flooded my mind-and I let them flow freely.

His hair was blond, eyes baby blue. His smooth dark skin covered a very nice build. He played football and swam, and had the stamina to show for it. In a pair of tight Levi's, he looked like a seventeen year old Greek god, Iowa style!

His mother would go uptown almost daily, with his younger siblings. That left the house to Darin and myself.  On these afternoons, we would ascend the stairs to his bedroom and put on some music, usually The Cars. We would talk, of course, but before long, we were unashamedly naked and embracing. The heat from the attached garage roof made the room about ninety degrees, and we took it higher from there. God, it was glorious!

When we were spent, sweating and breathless, Darin would draw a cool bath for me. I would lie in the tub while he gently washed my body and lathered my hair. He would then towel off every inch of my tan skin and lead me back to the bedroom. There, he would gently brush and dry my hair, as I soaked up the touch of his hands, once again.

Dressed and refreshed by the time his mama got home, she was none the wiser. Just two good friends talking the afternoon away and listening to some music....

That was nearly thirty years ago. Whatever happened to him after that summer, I do not know. He moved and I never heard from him again. A blip in my history, yet one that I finally found an equivalent to. This one stayed, married me, and fathered our three children. Darin may have first shown me what passion was, but Andy fulfilled it, and still does.

To find this once is a blessing. To find it again-forever-is indeed a rarity, something to be cherished and relished, delighted in and renewed as often as possible.

Yes, birthday number forty-eight is coming, but I can still see seventeen.

Strawberry Wine,,,seventeen....

Whisper My Name

Dear God, Allah, Mother/Father...Creator,

WHO ARE YOU??

Why do You call my name?
All my life, as far back as I can remember, You have
been calling me.

It is a whisper...but I hear it. Like a breeze blowing through the tops of the trees... I hear You.

And You frighten me.

Is it the awe? The immensity of You? Why am I afraid? Is it that You are so vast and I am so small?

I have tried and tried to put You in that little box. The Farce of Man Made Religion. Christianity, Islam, the teachings of Buddha, of Gandhi, of who knows whom else and none of them satisfy.
Knowledge does not satisfy. Rules. Laws.

Speak to my heart. Climb inside me.

But, no! NO!!

I ache. I run. I am afraid. I want You passionately, desperately...and I push You away.

I fall to my face, sobbing. I grieve for something I do not understand, a loss I do not fully remember.

I feel broken. My soul is shattered.

Help me...just help me. Do not leave me alone in a silence.

Keep whispering....

Fear...

It's 4 am and I have not slept.
I am scheduled to have a hysterectomy in six days. I had my pre-op physical Thursday, along with an EKG and blood work.
On Friday afternoon, I received an "urgent" message to call the doctor's office. I returned the call, figuring there was a simple scheduling problem, maybe a delay in the date my surgery could be done.
What they told me was not so easy as that. It seems my EKG was irregular, showing an abnormality in one of the chambers of my heart, along with a conduction problem.

I have been trying not to panic. I have been a smoker for nearly 30 years, so it was no surprise about five years ago when I was diagnosed with early stage COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease). I had thought my recent increase in shortness of breath was a symptom of that. I was even willing to believe the light headedness was being caused by it. "Time to try to quit smoking-again!" I thought.

Now, I am scheduled to see a cardiologist on Monday. I have the weekend to think about this-or to try to not think about it!
I feel like there are many things I want to tell the people I love, suddenly. However, I do not want to seem morbid or make this in to a drama. Certainly, they do not need that.

I will figure out what to do, I guess. It is just another struggle, that's all.

Dancing on Daddy's Shoes

To find just the right words to describe this is difficult. "Carefree" comes to mind, as does "innocent". Maybe "simple" or "simply blissful" would do it justice.
It is a feeling I am trying to convey. I suspect that if you ever stepped up on  top of  your father's shoes and gazed  at him, as he whirled you slowly around, you know the feeling I am talking about.
I was probably four years old and I wanted to marry my daddy. I thought if he would just wait until I was his age(in a few years), then he and I could say "I do" and live happily ever after. I was sure my mother would understand and be tolerant of this bigamist arrangement.
Our family had one of those old LP record players, the kind that closes up like a small suitcase. The album was by Floyd Kramer; I was very fond of his song "Last Date". Daddy would start the music and take hold of  my hands, as I stood on the tops of his shoes with my tiny feet. I looked up at his twinkling eyes, his smile washing over me, and I was sure he was "my fella". I knew instinctively he would always be here, young and strong, and  he would always love and protect me. What girl could resist a Prince Charming such as he?
My mother said that from the start, I had Daddy wrapped around my little finger. She told me of a time when I was two years old and had found a stuffed toy lamb, on wheels, at the local hardware store. I could sit on it and make it roll around the room. This so delighted me, I refused to let go of it when the time came to return home. Mom said she would have "walloped" me and made me release my grasp. Daddy, however, could not say no to me. He bought the lamb rather than endure hearing me cry. It cost him $12.00, which was not a cheap item in 1966. It was especially high dollar, considering my parents were farmers and had five other children besides me. It was not even my birthday or Christmas, but apparently, my father considered a day without tears to be cause for celebration.
Through the years, I watched my Prince Charming as he plowed fields, harvested corn, and fed livestock, with an eye to the weather and an ear to the farm markets. He was a Boy Scout master, church deacon, and Sunday School teacher, who made it to all the band concerts and school plays that time would allow.
There was only one thing in this world Daddy loved more than the farm, maybe even more than his own children; he absolutely adored my mother! I seemed to figure this out at some point, and eventually forgave them both. Still, deep in my heart, he was my first love.
Now, Mom is gone. The only time in my life I ever saw my father completely break down was at her funeral. It was so difficult, seeing my Prince in such unbearable pain, his body crumpled in that church pew, racked with sobbing.That was on a cold day in January. It was not until her birthday, in August, that he could bring himself to stand once more at her grave, his head lowered and one hand touching that dark stone.
Daddy is 84 years old now and has Alzheimer disease. He still manages to live alone in the same farmhouse where I grew up. He mostly sits in his recliner, in the living room where we danced all those years ago. I watch him now, as he stares out the window and I wonder how much longer he will remember me. If not me, will he at least remember Floyd Kramer's "Last Date" and a little dark-haired.girl, standing on his shoes?
"Dance with me, Daddy," I whisper. "Dance with me."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FB1SLip9BU

The Funny Side of Life

I believe this post needs a brief introduction.
Our city is a small one of about 120,000 people. Our apartment complex is low income and, for a town this size, it is "high crime".
My husband, Andy, and I have two mentally disabled teenage sons, both of whom live in supervised settings not far from us. Tyler, the younger of these boys, came over to visit this afternoon, his usual mid-week routine.
We also have a nominally hyperactive son in kindergarten, the last of our brood. However, still not satisfied, we recently "adopted" a thirty year old man from Morocco. We met him on Facebook, as he was preparing to come to the U.S. on a ten year visa. Houcine thought New Jersey was a real zoo-HA! He came to live with us and found that here, the "animals" roam free!
Welcome to our home!
As you bear all this in mind, share the late afternoon with me....

My God, it's hot in here!
We had to take Tyler home early, for unruly behavior. Austin just bit one of the neighbor kids, hard enough to draw blood. He went in to time out. There was great wailing and gnashing of teeth (no pun intended).
Suddenly, said neighbor kid, and his brother, invaded not only the apartment, but my bedroom-and bed! There I was, scrunched up with Austin and his friends (who made up by now), as they played, watched TV and made me break out in a sweat!
I exited the room and they followed me, stalking behind me like cheetahs. Now in the living room, they loudly played video games, as Houcine and I tried to mentally shut them out, he with his iPhone and me on my laptop.
Andy found a back route into the now vacant bedroom and disappeared. Shortly, however, he reappeared in the kitchen and loudly exclaimed, "Woman, where is my dinner?". He then retreated down the hallway, ruining the aim I had on his head.
I walked across the living room, navigating between boys and toys. Sitting down next to Houcine, I quietly said, "I am going to cook now. And, if you are smart, you will eat and then barricade yourself in your room." He smiled, and kissed my cheek (sweet man).
With that, I flew in to a flurry of cooking motion, then served the men their plates. I suggested to the neighbor boys that their mother was surely waiting for them to join their own family at the supper table. Adam replied, " Mom told us not to come home until dark." I was too stunned to answer.
I reclined to the bedroom once more, fearing if I invited these poor orphans to eat, they would remember this and be back tomorrow.
Finally, Andy came to the rescue, loudly announcing, "Time to go home boys! Thanks for coming over!" He shooed them out the door with their roller skates in hand.
That was over an hour ago and I am still "detoxing". I think the menopausal hot flashes are under control now. I feel better-really. I did, however, double check the deadbolt on the front door. I also told Austin if he ever bites a neighbor kid again, I will have his front teeth professionally extracted!
Until tomorrow, I am over and out!

The Mirror

My face is getting thinner but I am only two pounds lighter on the scale. The extra twelve pounds I have packed on in the last four months settled on my mid-section (and rear section), seemingly to stay.
     I step out of the bathtub and towel myself dry. I look into the large, wood framed mirror on the wall. The first thing I notice is that I appear at least four months pregnant, an impossibility, of course; I had a tubal ligation after son number three. I was forty-two at that time and lost every pound gained with no effort, at all. Now, the saddlebags on my hips seem to mock me.
     Soon, my eyes scan upward to the scars. There are two of them, well-healed, one across each side of my flat chest. It occurs to me that this barren plain only makes my belly and butt look bigger, more pronounced.
     The cancer was caught in plenty of time but reconstruction was an utter failure. The implants went in, followed by a horrific infection, and another surgery to take them out. Exhausting pain and nearly instant tolerance and addiction to the narcotics made any future reconstruction out of the question, in my mind. Now, gazing at my naked reflection, for a moment I wish it could be different.
     I have the best husband in the world about all of this. He assured me from the start that he was a leg man. I have always had a great set of legs! Lately though,the thighs are too wide to suit me, even if he seems not to mind. With indignation, I think to myself that it would only be fair for some part of me to still be fit for groping.
     I remember back to the first time he touched the scars. After a very rough period in our relationship, several months post-op, we had reconciled and were ready to make love again.
     Suddenly, he looked at me and quietly said,"I've never touched them, have I?"
"No," I replied, "and I do have some feeling left there."
Gently, he pressed his mouth to one of the scars. In that moment, I was healed. I was a woman again.
Now I knew that he still wanted me, that is, everything that was left of me.
     I shake my head a bit and wonder how long I have been staring at it all. The humidity in the room has dissipated and I know that soon one of the kids will be knocking on the door, with an urgent need to pee.
     I smear sweetly perfumed lotion over my skin, this time "seeing" my body's hills, valleys and plains with my hands. I think to myself, "Enough of this now" and quickly throw a layer of clothing over it, the whole imperfect bundle.
     It is me. My body has a story of its own. From fresh and pure, gulping first air nearly forty-eight years ago, to this moment, battle scarred but still standing, it belongs to me.
     I am still a woman, still loved, passionate and unashamed. Truly, nothing is more beautiful than just being real.