The Hauntings of Thanksgiving

Holidays are the hardest time of year.

I’ve said this in the past and I’ve heard so many people with depression, anxiety etcetera say the same thing. It’s a uniquely painful time I think for agoraphobics.

It’s as if the spirit of the holidays has fled me. Perhaps I left it behind somewhere. There was a time when I could grab a hold of it, even if just for a short time, eventually I got caught up in the wave. Moving through thanksgiving with a smile and even a sparkle. It's not as if I ever had any responsiblilites. A proud gen-xer, never married with no children left me free of all pressure related to throwing a good party.

But long before the fear got the better of me I disliked the run-up leading to holidays. The crowded stores, the cacophony of overlapping conversations and the always mad rush to “get ready”. In our nuclear home a lost shoe or cake pan could lead to thirty minutes of drama. Weeks of procrastination meant tortured last hours before finally piling into the car. My parents and siblings seemed unaffected by all the self-wrought stress, and even today face events with the same last minute sprint. To their credit, they seem to come out relatively unscathed.


I quit leaving the home for holidays about ten years ago. Initially I thought it would be a temporary thing, surely I would join the family the next year for Thanksgiving and it seemed nearly everyone at one point or another had had to skip a holiday for work or traveling to a spouses for that special day. So it seemed to me it should be forgiven if I skip that year, and I assume it generally was.

I always insisted that Mom go about the holiday as if I didn’t live with her. She and Papa went without me when he was still with us. Then her new husband accompanied her and all was well for me. Well, that's what I tell myself. Now she’s not able to travel home alone and at this point in her life I should be the woman preparing and planning and making it all wonderful for a room full of children scuffling about peeking around corners in anticipation. Instead I keep the spirit holed up and stuffed down, brought out just long enough for a quick prayer.

There were of course holidays that I enjoyed in that other life. That life and time when the spirit propped me up and kept me going. Even when the occasion was a huge get together, I usually thrived once things got going. Although the run up to an occasion often left me crippled with anxiety and fear internally, once we drove up to a loved one’s home the spirit seemed to step in. My fear was crumpled up, stuffed into a tin box and put away to enjoy after the party.

Our family is pretty big and I can remember the table. That moment of shock I always had when I would look down the length of the table and over to the other table and wonder at all these happy people who genuinely loved me and I loved them, each and every one. The camaraderie. The prayer of thanks. The endless procession of food being passed around until the portions being shoveled onto the plate got smaller and smaller as the evidence of our bounty took up more and more space on my dish. The spirit of thanksgiving taking its place at the table with us.

I still love them one and all. Old and young and big and small. With their neurotic tendencies and all their idiosyncrasies, they were beautiful and intelligent, and they were mine. Mine to talk with, laugh with, share with and reminisce with. Mine to defend, amuse and listen to. Mine.


The women could compete on Top Chef with pride and the men could shuffle furniture about with the ease, if not finesse, of any fancy moving company. And yes, they could veg out on football too. When my uncle got that first big screen TV I think he may have crossed into godhood there for a while. The smells were magnificent, the deserts were classics and the smiles were thrown about like confetti. Who could ever ever argue that this was not what the holiday was all about?

But they didn’t know what it took for me to get to this point. Or perhaps, I suppose, they did. Odds are, at least some of them did and do. Because when I look back as an adult I’m able to imagine it from their eyes.

The women who started preparing weeks, even months ahead with phone calls, recipes and schedules. Always efficient in the kitchen with such grace and dexterity. Turning one and two-butted kitchens into dance floors with seemingly choreographed hips, weaving in and around ovens, burners, cutting boards and china cabinets. How often I wonder, did they wish they could hire a caterer or get a baby sitter? Did they ever resent dressing up, cooking like slaves then washing dishes? Eventually doling out desserts and finally keeping the children happy and entertained while the men watched football, a movie, played a game, napped or chatted? Did they face the holiday under two conflicting minds, one of bliss and one of silent endurance? If so, they never showed it.

If they had known that I was of two minds myself, would we have shared? Could they have known that every moment was a wonder shock for me.

To see such unity, such love, such selflessness.

Could they tell that I was insecure and afraid of embarrassing myself. Had they guessed that my chatter was a ruse to convince them all I was happy and contented, even successful? How many of them were suffering to the same extent of their own demons forever whispering they were fooling no one? I was sure that every eye saw past the composure to my secret self, slumped in a corner and hiding from scrutiny?

Can it really be that all of this actually shares a couch in my mind with all my favorite memories. That place where I hold all the precious mementos of family and love and warmth. These doubts and fears and anxieties were once blanketed by that love and unity. When did the negative become the dominate in my mind? How could they win over the day? The spirit kept the demons at bay until I was home alone. Here I could pick up my depression once more and hold it close without fear of discovery. How could home be a refuge then? How can that, this be an escape?

I have Mom, but we were all meant for more.

I miss them all so much. My family. My strength. There’s an occasional email and “hi” sent with a pic. But I’ve managed to keep them all away with my walls. Building the ramparts with such zeal and enthusiasm that Thanksgiving has become a plate wrapped in cellophane or delivered down the hall.

I’m still thankful for all those wonderful things, all those bigger than life memories. I’m still grateful for my family, home and freedom. I appreciate the spirit of the holidays more and more even as it leave me behind to my fear.

Pet Therapy: and shamless excuse to show pics of my pets

Let’s talk about pets.





I grew up in a house with pets and I’ve never had a moment in my life when pets were not a central part of my life. I shudder at the thought of not having these scaled, shelled, feathered, or furry friends within arms reach.


The great thing about pets is that all the clichés are absolutely true. They are always right there for you.

Dog’s are always thrilled to see you come home and they never judge. The dog owner is forever and always A#1 in somebody’s heart.

Cats are soft and gentle, fierce and commanding all in the same moment. However unlike a dog, a feline will weigh and judge their people. But they will also forgive and tolerate our inferiorities. Because we are after all, only human.

A fish will always relax someone focused on their world. A bird will inevitably lead a person to ponder the fragility and the moral complications of caging wild animals, and a turtle’s perseverance will get it to the finish line, even if it takes a really long time.

My best therapy inevitably pushes me toward my pets. Happy times are shared with yips and purrs, while sad times with nuzzles and more purrs.
Nothing takes the bite out of a sapien insult quite like a canine nose under the elbow followed by the recipiratory belly scratch.

Nothing chases away the cobwebs of a nightmare like a cat on the pillow,

and nothing can compare to the rebound from rejection like a pack of dogs competing for one persons attention because you’re just the coolest person ever.



To them I’m always interesting, intelligent and fun to hang out with.

This is Sigh. Named, I’m told, for sighing a lot when he was a puppy. Still a very apt name. He’s my eighty-five pound gentle giant. My angel, sent here by happen chance just for me. Shortly after we had lost our Toby, the dog that came with the property, a man at my brother’s church had just married. Sigh had a record with the police for escaping his cell and trolling our small town for ladies every night. So his single owner kept him indoors most of the time. Marriage to a non-dog person earned Sigh a reprieve as long as he go to a home out of town with more room to run. My brother heard through the grape-vine that Sigh was looking for a new home and thought of his favorite sucker. His little sister.

Now Sigh already had a reputation among the faithful.
Parked alongside the tiny little church for two services a week, Sigh had made lots of friends as they passed his friendly mug to and from services and this gentle giant is much loved in town and word quickly spread. My brother took over temporary custody and headed here.

I was so offended. We had just lost Toby. I thought it rude to come around trying to cheer us up with a big brute of a dog that would surely just get us in trouble with the neighbors. It was simply too soon to fill that gap with a big snow dog who already had a wrap sheet. But then through the door, led by a brown rope and followed by a proudly feathered tail came the biggest brown eyes you ever saw. Sitting there pouting over my loss and a perceived insult I looked into those brown eyes and melted like a stick of butter in the microwave.

I don’t know how they do it. They just know who needs them. The moment the rope came off he crossed a room full of people and came over to me. He put his big foot up in the air like a mooch and sighed. “What’s your name?” I said. “Sigh.” came my brother's reply and I reached out and felt that thick fur and “Reach Out and Touch Somebody’s Hand” started playing in some faraway distant theater. LOL

He sheds on everything, is unfixed and knows it.


He behaves better off leash than on and never ever, for any reason should he be left alone with an unopened meat lovers pizza on the deck.

Unsure of his paternal parentage, he certainly looks like a great Pyrenees and he cuddles with snow like my cat cuddles with fleece. We know his mother was an Akita and while he certainly doesn’t look it, he sure has all the personality of an Akita. He talks a lot, never hesitant to share his opinion, and he’s fiercely loyal to me above all others. He follows me around, but is never “in my face” unless we have company. Then he stays right on me like a secret service agent.

He earned himself a doggy run when we learned just how good he was at escaping, but spends little time on it as everyone is always willing to let him go about with them in the yard. He spends most of his time under my desk or on my bed and his BFF is Dax, my cat. He resisted her attentions at first, stepping away from her if we caught him paying attention to her. Apparently being a cat lover is not considered “cool” amongst dog-kind. But she was persistent. Now she’s his favorite cuddle partner when I’m busy.


He takes up to thirty minutes to try new foods. First setting it down, then looking away for several minutes. A bit later he’ll glance at it and touch it with a paw. Eventually he goes through an elaborate series of holding it in his mouth for ever increasing lengths of time until he's determined it's edible and finally, down it goes. It took us several days to figure out he wasn’t just a picky eater. Obviously, we suspect at some point someone gave him something that was too hot or, I hope not, used food to pick on him. Or he could just be weird. He also won’t take food from people he doesn’t know. He knows the people who he can get “safe” food from and if someone is new, he waits until family take and offer it to him.


He’s my Big Yellow Dog, my four-footed angel, my gentle defender, my compassionate comrade and my cuddle bear. He responds immediately to my moods and a raised voice, a sniffle or a gasp are all calls to action. Any sign of upset and he’s at my side in a flash.

Oh, and he sighs, a lot.

This pet profile has been brought to you by Sigh, Peaches, Dax, Junior, Julie May, Charity, Tiger, Sugar and Joey. ;-D

I Have Hope

Hope.

I have hope this morning.


For me this is a fleeting thing. As quickly passing as a random thought. It fades out of my grasp as mysteriously as a dream. I can write down all of its twists and turns while it hangs tenuously in my mind‘s eye. But after a few moments, even the words on paper cannot quite bring into focus the images that I was so desperate to record.


So I hold on tight to that feeling while its there. So tight that it hurts. So tight and with such a fear of it’s loss that my body seems to cramp with the effort. Perhaps the desperation and crushing hold only makes matters worse, less tenable.


I'm not sure what it is I have hope for, but I have it. Perhaps it's the hope that things will be better. Life will change. Walls won't crumble and leave me exposed. I will have a place of safety that isn't suffocating, not claustrophobic and the air will be fresh rather than stale. I can open the drapes and enjoy a potted plant. I will go into the yard and actually pause and feel the sun. I will go Christmas shopping in the daylight.


I have hope that family will see me as an addition to the foundation rather than a weakness to the insulation. That they will think of me as a help not a hindrance. That my countinence on a bad day will not keep loved ones away on a good day. That when I come to mind it’s my smile they think of rather than my frown. They will not be a ashamed of the lazy cow in the back room. I will not forever be a whisper. I have HOPE that they will someday, stop punishing me for being me.


I have hope that extended family will not murmur my name as if I’m in a house full of cats on a hill. That they will not hold my offense against those that surround me. That they will not confuse mental health with intelligence. That they will research instead of assume. That they won’t look to Hollywood for an example. That they will not forget the girl I was. I pray that they do not think me short on faith or failing in devotion. Someday they won’t think “call before you come” means “don’t call us, we’ll call you”. I hope that they will discover that I like to be part of their communications online, even though I don’t go to family reunions, holidays or talk on the phone. I have HOPE that they will someday, stop punishing me for being me.


I have hope that the world will forgive me for what I am.



I have hope. I have hope.

Breathing

Wow, what an interesting day I had yesterday. It started out with an appointment with the p-doc, and that’s always just too much fun.

But, yay, I didn’t actually have to see the “p-doc” who I do not much care for. She seems to be a bit threatening, which doesn’t seem like a good attribute for a shrink. At least, I don’t think so. What do you think? Anyway, it was actually a nice(so far) man who actually knew the family, not me though. I haven’t decided whether or not that is a good or bad thing yet. He was very accommodating while I was sitting there, we’ll see how accommodating he actually is when the results come through. I hate waiting. Apparently he will make his recommendations to the p-doc and between him and my therapist they will come up with a med adjustment, which I’ve wanted for a really long time.

It was a bit too intimate in the questioning department for me, and I wish he hadn’t gone into the past, I don’t much like it there. But there it is. I didn’t collapse, implode, pass out, break into a sweat or start panting or anything ;) so all in all, I have to call this one good.

Afterward we drove to Conconully, a great little town nearby where everyone has fences to keep out the deer. I’ve seen deer up close and personal all of my life. But they still manage to float my boat. Why is that? The fences of course do very little to keep them out of anyone’s yard and the homes are packed in like sardines.

In one yard we saw 18 deer, and that was just the one. It was so much fun. One little dear deer (pun intended :), was parked munching on grass on the edge of the road, just laying there. If she had stretched out a hoof to show off her elegant leg for a nearby buck, she would’ve been “in” the road, rather than lounging on the shoulder. We stopped and said hello and she said something like, “Hello gawkers. How are you this fine morning?” We were delighted, she was rather hmm...contently ambivilant?

They don't beg for food like they do in some parks, just go about their day, lazying in nearby yards. Ironically, we didn’t see a single one perched in the middle of the road. By our place you pass them every morning and evening crossing the street.

I love the town, and I love the tolerance of the people that live there for the wildlife. We’re the migrants after-all ;) Although, there isn’t a garden in sight lol.

It was a great drive. The tourist season is over and the Okanogan is just waiting for the seasonal carpet. But it’s cold enough the we had the whole park to ourselves and I was able let sigh out to stretch his legs. That was too much fun. A bit disappointed I left behind the camera as the willow trees were absolutely gorgeous. The little community keeps the bottoms trimmed and the whole park seemed draped in long golden tresses floating from organic chandeliers. It really is worth a visit if you get there after they’ve claimed it back from the tourists.

Then home with a nice evening of reading and television and needlepoint. Criminal Minds was something else last night. Wow!

Mom and I vowed that since she plans on getting more activity and I plan on getting out more that we would start going to town or nearby at least twice a week and go for a little walk. I’m so praying this will actually happen. There were no people in the park and though Mom stayed in the car. It was SO great to just meander about with Sigh and breathe.

*****

Beautiful Language:

The sky is deep. The sky is dark.
The lighted stars are so damn stark.
When I look up I fill with fear,
if all we have is what lies here.

This lonely world, this troubled place,
then, cold dead stars and empty space.
But, I see no reason to persevere.
No reason to laugh or shed a tear.
No reason to sleep or ever to wake.
No promises to keep,
and none to make.

And, so at night I still raise my eyes
to study the clear but mysterious skies
that arch above us as cold as stone.
Are you there, God?
Are we alone?
The Book of Counted Sorrows


Best E of the day:

Subject: GOOD NAPKINS
Some of you may not have daughters, but you have been a young girl...

THE GOOD NAPKINS .. Ahhhhh ... The joys of having girls .

My mother taught me to read when I was four years old (her first mistake).

One day, I was in the bathroom and noticed one of the cabinet doors was ajar. I read the box in the cabinet.
I then asked my mother why she was keeping ''napkins' in the bathroom. Didn't they belong in the kitchen?

Not wanting to burden me with unnecessary facts, she told me that those were for 'special occasions'
(her second mistake).

Now fast forward a few months....It's Thanksgiving Day, and my folks are leaving to pick up my uncle and his
wife for dinner. Mom had assignments for all of us while they were gone. Mine was to set the table.

When they returned, my uncle came in first and immediately burst into laughter. Next came his wife who gasped,
then began giggling. Next came my father, who roared with laughter. Then came Mom, who almost died of
embarrassment when she saw each place setting on the table with a 'special occasion' Kotex napkin at each plate,
with the fork carefully arranged on top. I had even tucked the little tail in so they didn't hang off the edge!!

My mother asked me why I used these and, of course, my response sent the other adults into further fits of laughter.
'But, Mom, you said they were for special occasions!!!'

Pass this on to your girlfriends who need a good laugh or anyone who has a daughter !

Life is too short for drama & petty things, so kiss slowly, laugh insanely, love truly and forgive quickly....
and for heavens sake, use the good napkins whenever you can!

Comics that made me chuckle

brilliant living color

Meet Judy Jane and Sigh, my angels.

Yesterday was a good day, a blessed day and it was in color.

It started out looking awful. Mom had an appointment with her cardiologist about the new pacemaker/defribulator they connected to her heart. I was just not looking forward to it and don’t usually go to appointments with her. But I wanted to make sure I understood how it worked and what the prognosis is.

Mom's understanding was that her heart was too far gone for a pacemaker, so we were confused as to why they put one in her chest. But in fact mom’s heart rate is too fast and a pacemaker doesn’t kick in until it goes too slow. Oh! But that wasn’t the end of the surprising little tid bits we got from the delightful young lady that is my mom’s cardiologist.

First she explained how once a day the DF (I will shorten defribulator to df, cause’ I’m lazy) will get a phone call everyday from the manufacturer and it will download mom’s heart activity, run a diagnostic and then forward the whole mess to mom’s df “specialist”. Then, if I understand correctly, the specialist can tweak the programming if need be and update the puppy the next time the df gets a phone call. HOW COOL IS THAT?

All it needs is a free landline and it calls her “heart” every night between four and seven a.m. to check in. Yes, even mama's heart gets phone calls. I just love technology. She can travel to 120 different countries and it will contact her there and do it’s thing. I had no idea things were moving quite that fast. I knew we were testing that sort of thing, but not actually doing that sort of thing.

Mom was also under the impression that nothing had really changed, since she thought she was too sick for a pacemaker, and that all the df did was keep her alive, not make her better, so she couldn’t hope to get any stronger. This has obviously been the most difficult thing through all of this. So I just swallowed the lump in my throat and came right out and asked the doctor, “Can Mom start living again?”

The doctor looked at me in shock, turned to look at mom in puzzlement and said, “Yes! Of course! That’s what this is all about. Go out live, play, enjoy life.” She explained that it would take a little time, but she could start building her strength up and getting back to her old life as soon as she wanted. Just keep her arm below her shoulder for five more weeks until the wire is good and seated into her heart. I was so happy I was giddy.

There are some special things she needed to be aware of, like keeping a cordless phone 6 inches from her heart. She might set off alarms at airports and anti-theft things. She has a card she can present if this does happen. These things can interfere with it as well, so she needs not to linger around them, but just moving away from them will stop the interference. Some things she has to just stay away from completely but they are few. 12 inches from an induction cook-top. What’s that about?

Afterward we sat visiting in a Safeway parking lot, just enjoying the easy breaths and playing with the dog. Mom's new caregiver was with us and she has been another blessing bestowed on the family. She fits right in and doesn't seem at all shocked by our strange little family. Although, personally, I think she's just good at hiding her puzzlement.

Then we went to the library and Mom waited in the car. I went into the library with Avon and without Mom and was in and out in 10 minutes, just grabbing stuff off the shelf lol. Avon must have thought me a not very discriminating shopper. But I saw a favorite author and a new line I just had to check out. I went in without Mom, and that hasn’t happened in ten years. Ironic? Isn't it grand?

It was one of those days that is experienced in brilliant living color. I thank God for my mother and his gifts of intelligence and ingenuity, that are keeping her with us. Mostly I thank Him for things like parking lot conversations with your best friend and your dog and hugs and smiles and living color.



My angels. When they're not propping me up, they're propping each other up :)

Agoraphobia and Manipulation

Yesterday morning I was held hostage for a total of three hours. At first I thought I was being reached out to in love. You know, I need someone to talk to so I will reach out and this person will comfort, support and just listen for awhile. But that’s not what was going on.

It was pretty clear about an hour and a half into the conversation that I was being manipulated. They wanted me to “fill them in” on someone else’s actions, sayings, etcetera. To me this is voyeurism, it’s no different then dressing up at night in all black and spying through someone’s windows.

That moment of recognizing I was being manipulated is when the alarms started. Can you hear them? If you can’t hear them, can you recall the sound? Those are the alarms of caution, it sounds a bit like a fire house bell from earlier years: DingDingDing! Then there’s the alarm of manipulation. This sound is a bit like a vinyl record scratching to a halt. You think, ‘Huh? What was that? This isn’t a “reach-out” it’s a “reach-in”. That sound hurts. Then the church bells chime in. The bells warning you to be supportive but cautious. Remember, you love this person and they must be feeling desperate to use your relationship to spy on another person.

Somewhere in there the agoraphobic bells start ringing like tinnitus. They are muffled and broken. Panic is glass shattering and self-pity is sucking mud against your shoes. Walls going up is the sound of metal leggos snapping together and the need to get out of the conversation is a prayer chanted over in over in a silent whisper.

Eventually, the conversation ended and I sat back and shook and cried and played the conversation over and over in my head. When I finally determined to calm down I concentrated on breathing . But it seemed my chest expanded but the air was not getting in, just a thick goop that made it even harder to breath. I took a valium and slowly came down from that place that is a pit over the edge of a cliff. First you climb out of the pit, then you peek over the edge of the cliff and with concentration and lots of visualization the ground you are clinging to is just a step above the rest of the world. You step off, and if it’s a good day, it wasn’t all an illusion and you don’t find you’ve stepped off the edge of an abyss and will fall, sinking for days, weeks or even months.

You see for me, part of my fear is finding a way out of, not just situations, but also conversations that are disturbing. Sometimes I'll talk very fast, to hog the conversation, so the other person can't direct things. Sometimes I'll blank out and just smile and nod, you can't do that online or on the phone. Sometimes I disassociate completely and couldn't tell you what I was wearing at the time. There's a fear that making an excuse will be obvious and that person won't like me anymore or will turn others against me. It's a paranoia of being trapped in a conversation I don't like and lacking the confidence to just gracefully bow out.


Say what you will of my faith, but that’s what keeps me taking that step off the “little ledge”.

For an agoraphobic a betrayal in trust is a betrayal that sticks with you for a very long time. It doesn’t end your love for a person, but it edits every conversation and moderates every action from then on. I will continue to love this person and be their friend and even support them when they need it, but I will never again interact with them without suspicion. It’s not, I don’t think, a hard heart or an inability to forgive. It’s survival. People that try to manipulate you are manipulating others as well.

Agoraphobics Hollywood Style. (That means rich.)

I just finished watching a charming little film about a little girl alone on an island after her father takes a tiny little sail boat off in seek of a new scientific discovery. Daddy gets hit with a monsoon and the story begins.

Nim, the little girl, then begins an email friendship with her favorite author, Alex Rover a.k.a. Jodie Foster. Nim has mistaken Alex for the adventurer that Alex writes about by the same name in her famous books. When Alex figures out that Nim is a little girl and not the scientist’s research assistant, she conquers her agoraphobia and traipses off across the globe in search of rescuing Nim from the South Pacific.

What? Are you kidding me?

No, I’m dead serious. With the help of her imaginary hero, also the famed adventurer of whom she herself created, she beats agoraphobia.

I have a number of imaginary friends and frankly, they are more afraid of the world than I am. They prefer the Island in my mind to all the islands out in the big blue. Although, I have to admit, the island in my mind is much cooler than the ones out there.

Has anyone else noticed Hollywood’s recent obsession with agoraphobia. Ever notice how all the agoraphobics out there are little, albeit perkier, versions of Howard Hughes? Am I being unfair. “I think not!” she said earnestly. I mean how about we see an agoraphobic facing the holidays. Let’s see one faced with the monthly shopping on a fixed income. The internet is not a cheap place to bug groceries, not to mention skivvies.

Face it folks, doctors do not make house calls. People are not understanding or compassionate for more than a few days at a time. At the end of these artistic portrayals the afflicted soul is always seen jutting their chin up toward the sky, bathing their no longer pale faces in the sunshine and all is right with the world.

Oh shut up. I know I’m being too sensitive, it’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to.

I just wish Hollywood would right a script for me I guess. The handsome scientist might be too much to wish for though. A handsome cattle rancher on an island? That would work, don’t ya think? I can see it now: the two of us and a horse and cow and a dog and some chickens and a colony of cats….oops….sorry about that. I’m back.

Wait a minute? Does a handsome scientist on an isolated island in the shadow of a volcano mean she’s been set free? It doesn’t. It’s an agoraphobics paradise.

Hmph. In that case, thank you Hollywood for making my dreams come true for a change. I think I may have a shot now. Now all I have to do is come up with a successful line of books and start emailing single scientists for answers, I mean single cowboys. Cowboya that own lots and lots of cattle that they would never dream of selling for meat. He wouldn’t be a vegetarian of course, I like men who like protein. But I don’t want to kill our pets. Oh well…maybe we could keep the ones for eatin on another island.

Agoraphobics pleased about election results

I was surprised today when I scanned some other blogs on agoraphoia and found so much combative language about the election results. A lot of hate speech towards Sarah Palin. As someone who finds her a great change to the national political pool, it hurts a little, even on a personal level, to see people say such cruel things about someone I respect and even admire.

Now, you might expect such things coming from the keyboards of pundits and politicians, journalists and political bloggers. But why such mean things said by people who hide in holes? I don't get that. I'll never get that. I'll never understand, and I hope I never do understand how someone like me, who hides behind walls, and typically relies on other people to largely get by, can be so judgmental of anyone else. Especially publically. But I suppose that's not really fair though. I can't understand how anyone can enjoy seeing someone humiliated or debased. I don't get that all.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for free speech and saying it like you feel it, and all those lovely american shout outs we are so proud of. But why be mean? Why is it that the people who are most pleased by seeing someone belittled are people that claim to be "misunderstood"? Ever notice that it's usually the people who claim to be "open-minded" who are the most closed. These are typically the people throwing trash at other people. Yelling things about people who disagree with them at the top of thier lungs and then they stand around corners pointing and saying, "those people are so mean".

Why do people delight in pushing down opinions opposed to their own, then say everyone else is trampling on their rights? I don't get that. Am I that stupid? Vapid, even? Perhaps. I suppose. I can take it.

I'm opposed to abortion. That's it, that's all, nothing more. I don't hate those that are all for abortion. I don't think thier stupid, or daft or uninformed or closed-minded or hate mongers. I see it as the murder of a person unable to even give a dissenting voice. They see it as a right and decision that should be left to the carrier of a cell that could someday, if left in place become another person. I've read the literature, I've heard the arguments and debates, I've seen the images and heard the speeches. Both sides have legitimate points, and both sides have strong feelings on the matter. Very very few on either side are even close to open minded about it. But even here, on such sacred ground, no one ought to be casting stones.

I'm a christian. I believe in God, the Christian God. I don't think athiests or muslims or hindus are less than me. I don't think they are right. They don't think I'm right. Woopdi Fippin Doo! Big Deal! Leave me be, I'll leave you be. So why do all these "tolerant" people keep taking shots at my religion. Sure, okay, the church, christians, muslims, religions in general have done terrible things in the past. Horrible things. But where are the tolerant people when christians are being bashed. It's ok on network television to show pictures of my Savior in all kinds of awful setting, but because someone elses religious icon might evoke violence we won't doing anything "dis-tasteful" there. Why not leave them all alone. Why not just respect each other's beliefs. There is a line that shouldn't be crossed, it's called respect.

Now I understand! I just got it! Duh... tolerance is about being tolerant about things I agree with, but has very little to do with things I disagree with. I am within my "tolerant margin" as long as I'm only intolerant of people who are different from me. I have an open mind as long as I agree with mainstream media, hollywood, and my buddies. I am closed minded if I feel everyone has a right to be different without being painted as an idiot, a robot or brain washed.

Man, I have been such an idiot. To think that I was raised to never, ever bash someone's religion. To think that my parents raised me to respect all walks of faith, even while clinging to my own. To think that my father taught me to respect the political views of others, while always allowing mine to evolve with the age and the relevance of issues. To imagine that my mother taught me to be gentle when approaching differences in opinions, always checking my conscience for comments that might hurt rather than inform. She was so closed minded when she insisted that I remember other's had a right to differing opinions. If only I had known that kindness and respect was a dead end road years ago, perhaps I would be a more open minded and tolerant person today.

To think that today I could be shouting hateful mean things about democrats and waiting impatiently for Obama to fall on his face. I could be organizing a hate speech rally right now to gather all my republican friends for the day the presidential honey moon is over and Obama has to answer questions as a president representing everyone, not just the swooners. Oh I could be having so much fun. There could be invitatins to the party and I could order orderves and party favors...

I voted for McCain and Palin, if you can't taste irony. Before that I voted for Huckabee. Obviously the majority of American's voted for the other guy. And that's just fine. In January of 2009 I will have a new president. His name will be Obama. I will respect him and pray for him and support him as a citizen of this country. I will disagree with him and dissent when I oppose. But I will never say he's not my president. I will never attack him personally. I will never delight when he fails to meet his goals. I will never clack in glee when he makes mistakes or takes our country in a direction I don't agree with. I will NEVER enjoy seeing him, his party, or his supporters get hurt, bashed, attacked or insulted. I will giggle when Jay Leno picks on him and I will probably disagree when he pulls us further away from capitalism. I will also enjoy his success, say a prayer of thanks when he does something that makes me proud to be an american and shout-out in glee if he finds a way to end the war with grace. But to disagree is not to tear down. To debate is not to debase.

I'm going back to my hole now. Carry on...

My Own Judgment to Fall

Any minute now he’s going to wake up. I’ll hear the bathroom door open and close and I’ll know he’s awake and it will start all over again today. He’s completely unaware of the fear, the tears the depression and the anxiety that he evokes. What it is he thinks I can’t even imagine.

There it is. The gentle slam that starts the day.

She went to bed a half an hour ago. She tries to go to bed right before he gets up so that she can avoid as much time with him herself as possible. She thinks her hours are just “screwy” like mine. But I can see her following in my footsteps to avoid him. She spends almost all of her waking hours either waiting on him or listening to him talk about what he’s reading in the bible, or in here with me, avoiding the rest of the house. Because that’s his domain, his to rule and command. She’s completely unaware of what she’s doing. She loves him completely and can never understand why he says and does such things. She tells me she is sorry for him. “He must be suffering so much inside to be like this.” I’ve heard her tell him I needed her so that she could get away from him.

I try to stay silent. I try so hard. But I fail. God will judge me someday. While I’ve never told her I wanted her free of him. She knows I do. She knows I think God is unfair to demand adultery the only escape from an abusive marriage.

Then again, if she had married anyone else, they would have told her to send me to the curb long ago.

For this I wait for my own judgment to fall. I’m not one of these that think the “get out of hell” card is played equally for everyone. I believe while forgiveness may be freely granted, so too will retributions be issued out liberally and without respect to position. No more tears, is not a shampoo for bad behavior in eternity. And, I know there is fault here of my own. But I find perverse pleasure in knowing that just because he’s forgiven doesn’t mean God won’t hold him accountable in the hereafter.

Siphonaptera’s Siphonaptera incommodious

Well, it’s been an intensely stressful and incredibly lonely two days. Who do you call when it tries you right down to your toes? Who’s the 911 for that “biggest fear” panic in your life? When you’ve worked tirelessly to save it all up for your best friend, and that one person goes to the hospital hours away and you don’t accompany them? Well that’s what I’m here to tell you. Guilt is now your new best friend. Guilt is your closest companion. Guilt is actually a closer companion then the one you stand praying over on the front porch as they drive off in an old jeep aimed at a scalpel and a tiny machine intended to shock the most tender heart you’ve ever encountered.


That’s when you start manning the phones. That’s when all the rules about where you draw the lines to the keep the divide between you and the rest of the world good and wide begin to narrow. That’s when pretty words of reassurance, and long winded speeches about propping each other up and clichés of the American way of life hit you right between the eyes, and sink like a lead bullet to the middle of your chest. Your center of gravity, your middle, core, gut, heart. The place where you feel those emotions that you carefully keep off your face and out of your voice. This is where proverbs are no longer cliché’s, but words of divine wisdom meant to give us hope and encouragement.


This is the time when “people like me” curl up with a creamy hot cup of self-loathing and a good long book of circular reasoning.


Answering the telephone and claiming a complete sense of confidence while handing out updates and scheduling changes is an absolute must. Previously established rules on phone answering with codes for acceptable people getting through are thrown out a proverbial window, we can always fall apart later about unintended intrusions, what if it‘s news?!


One calmly passes out prayer requests like Halloween candy. Out of your mouth comes the cheery, “say a prayer for…they have a need”. While the phrase inside your head is something akin to, ‘if you ever had any compassion in your life, you’ll spend the next eight hours confessing every sin, offering every prayer and trading in on good deeds for the sake that my loved one might or might not need divine intervention’.


Due to your “delicate” reputation, everyone will concentrate all of their efforts on diminishing your worry. God knows, the last thing you need is someone accusing you of drama at a time like this.
They will systematically make you feel like Captain Kirk in the drama department. A single, “I’m worried.” is an invitation for the eye-rolling “Don’t be silly.”. the aloof silence, or my personal favorite, “Oh my God! You’re absolutely right! Disaster is just out of reach and by this time tomorrow we’ll be planning a funeral!”. With this last one I can only imagine weather there’s a motive here, or just thoughtlessness.


So I’ve learned, and I imagine most worry warts by a relatively young age, have learned that it’s best to share the fear with just a single person. Therein lies the rub. When it’s that single person who you’re worried about who do you express your worry to? You certainly don’t want to worry that person anymore than they’re already worried. You try to concentrate those conversations on encouragement without making them feel like their fear is unfounded. Cause it is founded.


So, for now, you are the positive one, because you already fell apart and now you are that “someone else“ again. That someone who has eyes and ears and a mouth for making silly sounds that people agree to call language. It’s that gift of gab that allows for that opposable thumb we’re so proud of you know. You balance, “I love you’s.” with, “Everything’s going to be just fine.” The typically polite “good-bye” becomes taboo, foreign, a word no longer part of your vocabulary. It is replaced with “drive safely” and “I’ll see you soon” . Quick pecks on the cheek and “hands on the shoulders/elbows down” hugs become long, prayerful wraps of two armed embraces and the wagging tongue holds still while language devolves to the eyes. Perhaps someday science will find that an animal’s glance conveys vastly superior intelligence when compared to the rigid confinement of the syllable in conveying the true meaning behind our primitive words. The eyes express your final thoughts in private though, where no one can see the depths that are hidden and the welling that longs to brim over. After the coast is clear , they’ll express themselves again when you get that phone call, the one you’ve spent so much time anticipating and dreading. Here human language excels. Here it pushes against its restraints and says all the things someday you’ll wish you’d said before that call, before the appointment, before you ever thought to fear.


Then, if you have any sense at all, you write about it! Because in my experience, if there’s one thing guilty sidekicks with drama complexes are good at, it’s dumping their feelings all over the internet and wondering why they can’t relate to anyone in the real world.


Now as a person who feels a spiritual connection to the ostrich, I sit in no judgment of anyone else’s response to a worry wart’s worry. Especially if said worry wart tends to read something into absolutely every detail of absolutely every conversation. This disorder, and I’m certain they’ve developed a pill for it, so it must be a real disorder, is probably called something like Siphonaptera’s Siphonaptera incommodious, which literally translates: flea‘s flea disorder. Did you know that fleas have fleas? Well they do. I saw it on discovery (insert smiley emoticon here). Anyway, details themselves have details. I think people with this disorder often grow up to be successful political advisors. These are certainly the people we see picking apart speeches and attributing ridiculous motives to every word, phrase, action or inaction for any politician who isn’t on the disordered persons side of the isle. But I digress, as conversationally detail disoriented people tend to do. Hey! That’s good. Let’s call it Conversationally Detailed Disorientation Disorder, or CDDD for short.


Wait, I’ve just forgotten the point I was making. Oh yeah! It sucks when your best friend has surgery on their heart. It sucks even more if you can’t be there for them. And it sucks to the point of being an off-color joke, if there’s no one to share your fear with and no on to hold your hand because you’ve managed to chase everyone else away. And to boot, it’s a whole new level of suckiness when your only outlet is the telephone and you can’t hear a damn thing. BTW: to anyone who thinks I laughed or sounded sympathetic at the wrong moment in the last two days and now finds me insensitive or a really fast talker. That’s because I either didn’t hear you right, my mind filled in the missing words with the wrong thing or I couldn’t understand anything you said. In which case I wasn’t rambling or hogging the conversation, I was just talking really fast so you couldn’t get a word in edgewise that I was destined to miss-hear anyway.


And, if all this isn’t crazy enough for ya, just wait until it sinks in that when I sat down here twenty minutes ago I was gonna write a blog detailing everything from the moment we heard she was going in for surgery, until the moment we heard she was on her way home. But like most people with, the now widely excepted, disorder that is CDDD, I made it all about myself. :-*