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.