Perfect Crunch

I'm just back from physical therapy, feeling like screaming. It happens every time. Massaging scars and pushing my muscular/flexibility limits is very painful.

The up side? My PT says I can cut back to once a week because I consistently work every day at home. She says I'm making progress and I try be content with the small gains I've made so far.

The other wonderful news is that she thinks I have good posture, something I've been trying to mindful of as I go through my day. I got accustomed to slumping a bit after the reconstruction surgery. Time to stand up straight, which helps with energy and stretches out those internal scars where the tubes ran vertically inside my body from both sides of my groin to new breast.

The very best news (and I know this sounds a little silly) is that PT says I have perfect crunch form. The former fitness addict (and perfectionist) in me rejoices at that news. Muscle memory. It's an amazing thing.

It's been a good Friday so far. Well, except for that need to scream.

Next week, I'll report on the saga of the latest injured employee who's driving me crazy.

The Festive Sausage Returneth

The pie making season is officially over and what a blessing that is. The first (Thanksgiving) pie was fabulous, but the Christmas pie disappointed. I haven't been interested in baking in many years, so I'm a little puzzled by my enthusiasm for it this year. The oven can now take a well-deserved rest until Easter.

Nipple reconstruction is scheduled for January 10. It's an out patient procedure, using a local anesthetic. I know they will tattoo the aureole to match the other girl. When I first read about that technique, after I had tattoos for radiation, I was anxious about having it done. I didn't know then that the new girl would be completely numb.

As for the nipple itself, that tissue sometimes comes from the inner thigh area, sometimes from the labia. Either way, it doesn't sound like much fun to me. On the other hand, there's nothing they could do to me that would hurt worse than the things they've already done to me. I try not to think about it. Ignorance is bliss.

My physical therapist is impressed with the progress I've made in muscle strength and flexibility. I've been doing the exercises she gave me as homework and I changed my yoga routine to include more stretching in the tummy area. The goal is to tear the scar tissue under my skin. Yes, as a matter of fact, that does hurt. It all hurts.

My mom convinced me to stop riding my bike because of my constant fatigue. That's a typical problem for someone who's had chemo, radiation and multiple surgeries. Fatigue plagues many people for years after their treatment. I go to bed exhausted and I wake up exhausted. As a matter of fact, I started falling asleep on the sofa at 3:00 p.m. yesterday and kept drifting off all evening. Once I fell asleep in the middle of one of Hubby's sentences. I tried to pretend that I hadn't, but I failed to respond appropriately to his comment, so I'd be surprised if he didn't notice.

My physical therapist encouraged me to get back into my bike routine and to integrate some other types of cardio exercise into my daily workouts. I have many dance aerobic dvd's and the thought of being able to do them again makes me happy. I may try one of them today and see how it goes. I'm certain I won't be able to make it all the way through the workout the first time, but maybe soon.

Meanwhile, my weight is still an issue. I've been on an eating rampage during the holidays, but I still haven't gained any weight. That's good and bad, you know. It's bad because all of my clothes hang on me. It's good because I'm always balancing precariously on the edge of an eating disorder and thinner always means better to me. Even when it isn't better. My (psychological) therapist suggested that I think of gaining weight as a means to building strength. I'm good with that and heaven knows I've been the festal sausage for over a month now. When I weigh myself (infrequently), the numbers never change.

I hope the coming year is a lot less painful than the past two. I hope I regain some of my lost stamina. I hope I find sources of greater joy. I hope the next pie I make is better than the last.

So Long to a Fellow Survivor

Tyler was my age. Ten years ago, he was diagnosed with a rare form of throat cancer with a high mortality rate. (He never smoked.) Tyler went to my friends at M.D. Anderson, where he received radiation treatment, followed by surgery to remove the tumor. He went about the business of surviving.

Three years ago, after an argument, his wife killed herself. He had spent the night at a hotel and came home the next morning to find her sleeping. He noticed that her head was lying at an odd angle on the pillow, but thought nothing of it. Tyler went out to run some errands and came back to find his wife had shot herself. When the autopsy was completed, he was told that she apparently took an overdose of medication and, waking to find that her suicide attempt was unsuccessful, she pulled a gun out of the bedside table and shot herself.

Tyler struggled to regain his equilibrium the past three years. I'm not sure that he ever really did, though. As a suicide survivor, I know that road is long and treacherous. I can't imagine how it's possible to recover when your wife shoots herself, in your bed, after an argument. He went on and tried to find a new life.

Every year since his surgery, Tyler had to go back to M.D. Anderson to have scar tissue from the surgery removed from his throat. He had his last surgery about three months ago. He left a message on our machine a couple of weeks ago, wanting to hear how I've been doing. It was something Tyler did regularly.

His message sounded almost like he was on a respirator. I could hear his labored breathing in between phrases. There's only so much you can do with scars. Ultimately, removal of scar tissue only creates more scar tissue. For Tyler, the scars finally made it impossible for him to breathe and he died in his sleep.

Here's to you, Tyler, to your long struggle to survive. Here's to your will to endure your wife's death. We walked the same paths, but now you've left me far behind. Would you have guessed that I'd be crying for you? I am, just as I'm celebrating your courage and tenacity.

So long, Tyler. We'll all see each other soon.

The Kielbasa Report

The Crazy Land fete didn't disappoint. Kielbasa suggested that we maintain a charged-up defibrillator for occasions like this. Death food abounded and the Sausage partook heartily, given the fact that she's swaddled in spandex.

In brief, Owner offended many times.

*He corrected one of our foremen when he made the mistake of using "ain't." There was general grumbling from all of us about Owner's need to browbeat. This from the guy who calls me on the intercom regularly to use me as his own personal dictionary and Thesaurus.

*Owner made a snide comment about Kielbasa's hubby (childhood friend). He insinuated that Hubby is bitter about the divorce from 35 years ago. I was baffled and speechless, a rare event. Again, the natives were mightily offended.

*He compared the Information Superhighway's older son to a former University of Texas coach not known for his comeliness. Superhighway was furious, having already been irritated by Owner's previous snottiness.

There were a couple of additional offensive comments, but I'm too befuddled by cholesterol-laden food to remember what they were.

The luncheon was further enlivened by the Shunner displaying the stitches in his hand from a recent surgery. Noel, noel!

There was lengthy discussion about Mitt Romney, Mormonism and everyone's dissatisfaction with our choices for President. As you know, these subjects are required fodder for any festive occasion, brimming with opportunities for people to be aggravated. Luckily, no one was choked or beaten about the head.

In a surprising turn of events, death and layoffs were never mentioned. That's how you know it's the holidays.

The Kielbasa jingled from all appendages and was thoroughly amused by Owner. The hand was good, too.

New Weblog

I have a new weblog, but if you don't like poetry, don't bother. (It's not my poetry. Be grateful.)

This So Voiceless Flesh
(from a poem by Kenneth Patchen)

Hark, The Festal Sausage Cometh!

"Humor is the instinct for taking pain playfully." ~ Max Eastman

Today, I'm stuffed into what used to be known as "foundation garments." I remember, as a kid, trying to figure out what the hell those were because, in the olden days, you never saw bras or girdles on television commercials. It was too risque even to offer a definition. It seems so quaint now.

I saw my physical therapist yesterday, which is a tantamount to paying someone to abuse me. All of my scar tissue always hurts (and I have a lot of it, everywhere), but after she finishes massaging and pinching, I'm ready to start confessing to things I've never done. I'll say anything, but please don't torture me anymore.

This morning, I woke up feeling more than a little ragged. I'm exhausted and it seems entirely possible that an army of little demons stabbed me with forks all night long. I am not at my best.

PT told me that, if I wore my special compression bra and girdle (the one I wore 24/7 for three months), I'd have a lot less pain. Damn. I was in no shape to be stubborn about it today, so I'm packed into my underwear like a kielbasa. "Less pain" is the operative phrase here; I have a lot left over, despite my discomfort.

I wore one of my festive shirts today, the one with a reindeer who's holding a martini while he has one hoof perched on a beach ball. It's a little loose, but you can still tell there's something weird going on under there. We're having Owner's birthday party today, so I wanted to amp up the merry for the occasion. Not feeling particularly convivial, I knew special effort would be required to get through the Crazy Land lunch. I'm not sure the shirt's going to help much, but I've done all I can. I'm a kielbasa with a reindeer and jingle bell bracelet, earrings and necklace. Hark, the festal sausage cometh!

PT gave me some new exercises to do, specifically aimed at regaining strength and range of motion in my rotator cup and pectoral muscle. The exercises feel just dandy, too. I've added them to my daily 25 (25!) minutes of stationary bike and 20 minutes of yoga. After I finish with those activities, I have self-massage to do. That takes another 30-40 minutes. In a way, my life is still all about breast cancer. Not that I'm whining. All of this is far more bearable than the chemo and recovery from multiple surgeries. Nonetheless, how annoying. How very un-holiday.

When I got home yesterday from physical therapy, after getting stuck in college basketball game traffic, Hubby was hanging around waiting for me to make dinner. I'd gotten some tamales, so all he had to do was cut a couple of holes in the packaging and stick the damn things in the microwave. The brown rice was microwaveable, as was the refried beans. I'd already mixed the salad. Would any of this be hard to do? If your wife was being tortured, wouldn't you want to microwave the damn dinner for her? Yes, you would.

Not my Hubby. My level of pain made it hard to focus on what exactly needed to be done and in what order. While I wandered around the kitchen, getting things together, Hubby was in another room checking his email. Santa will be delivering a lump of coal for Hubby if he doesn't shape up. During dinner, I mentioned several times how exhausting the pain is after physical therapy. Hubby made a sympathetic face, but I assure you that, if it were he who was suffering, there would be no tamale dinner. There would be plenty of whining, though.

That will be about enough from me, too. Here's hoping for a fun, if not jolly, Crazy Land lunch. Owner's been in a funk the past several days, so he may be entertainingly annoying. Mr. Moneybags is weighing in with some serious crotchety, too. The cake has already arrived. Oh God. I just heard the dulcet tones of Loathsome. Looks like we're headed for some choppy waters. The Kielbasa* will keep you posted on the Crazy Land festivities.

*Finally. I think I've found my very own nickname: Kielbasa. Or Sausage. Hey, Mimi, it's the answer to the question you posed so long ago! I've officially earned my own Crazy Land nom de guerre.

News Flash

"Once again we find ourselves enmeshed in the Holiday Season, that very special time of year when we join with our loved ones in sharing centuries-old traditions such as trying to find a parking space at the mall. We traditionally do this in my family by driving around the parking lot until we see a shopper emerge from the mall, then we follow her, in very much the same spirit as the Three Wise Men, who 2,000 years ago followed a star, week after week, until it led them to a parking space." ~ Dave Barry

Completely unrelated to this post: I spent three hours on Saturday trying to get my mom's DSL set up. There were problems with the provider, so the entire three hours was spent on the phone with a couple of guys from (probably) India. Their names were Barry and Brian, though. It's nice to know the Indian people have started giving their kids names we can pronounce.

News flash: I got a bonus. I never get a bonus. I've been missing so much time the past two years that just getting paid was a huge bonus. They didn't have to pay me for all the time I missed. I'm grateful. Now I can build that new swimming pool (see National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation).

On Wednesday, we're celebrating Owner's birthday. He was a Christmas baby. He has specifically requested canned frosting on his cake. Other than that, I have no idea what we're having for lunch. Just checked intra-office email and there's no word on the food choice. Isn't it sad what I've been reduced to? I always used to scoff at the people who lived for those fabulous office lunches. I may have boycotted a lot of Crazy Land festivities, but never ever have I missed the cake.

I have one more gift to get. It's for my mom. I tried really hard to get her to sign up for another session of Tai Chi (I paid for the last session as a birthday gift). She's having none of it, though. That means Plan B is in effect--a cd player and her favorite perfume. Now if I somehow manage to make these purchases without her knowing it, Christmas will be a fait accompli.

I wrapped up my Crazy Land shopping on Sunday. Foot Lady's getting a calendar with Lhasa photos. She got her Lhasa at about the same time as my two original huskies joined the family. The Information Superhighway's gift is a sterling silver angel for her charm bracelet (she really is one of my angels). Loathsome mentioned months ago that he drinks chamomile tea every night and I think I revealed in an earlier post that he's a faux Buddhist and has a shallow love of all things Asian. I marched myself over to the Chinese healing/Buddhist/Hindu/new age store and bought some Chinese chamomile tea in a lovely little tin. For the son (IT Boy) and daughter, chocolate. Those are the only two impersonal gifts. I have no idea what to get them, so I finally gave up trying to dream something up.

It's a beautiful day today and Christmas songs provide a festive oasis here in my office. Yep, I'm wearing my jingle bells again. Sometimes I'm just insufferably merry.

Stage 3, Step 3

When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something's suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful. ~Barbara Bloom (I'm not sure this quote goes with this post, but I like it anyway.)

It dawned on me last night that I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer. Oh shit...how did I not know that? I reviewed what I know about breast cancer staging, just in case I'd jumped to a hasty conclusion. No. Stage 3. Then I called my mom this morning and told her I'd just realized I have Stage 3 cancer.

"Well, they told you that at the time," she said. "I don't think you could handle it then. There were too many things happening too fast to deal with it all."

Well, hell. I wish someone had mentioned it more than once. Seems a little silly to be terrified now. It actually seems kind of funny. Or maybe that's just the hysteria talking. Epiphanies. What a riot!

Today, I have step 3 of the new plan. I thought of it last night in between panic attacks.

What do I know about suffering?

I know that, no matter how good things are, we are never satisfied. We're filled with a restless hunger. Have the perfect job? If only we liked our kitchen more. Have the kitchen redecorated? If only the sun would come out. Sun shining? If only we were having a better hair day.... It's endless, this longing.

We want to push change away, halt time in its tracks, because with change comes loss. We don't like loss; it never feels good.

We yearn so much for feeling good (in all its possible manifestations) that we are unable to accept each changing moment as it comes. That is the solution to my suffering. I have to relearn it every so often. I thought I'd gotten it down during chemo, but no.

I am mourning the loss of my breast. The breast is gone and the new one is scarred and hardened in places. I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer and now I'm afraid. Things are as they are.

I can let go and experience these truths without judgment, holding close to me in loving embrace the sorrow, anger and fear. I can stop rejecting the breast and love it. I can stop rejecting the body and love it. It is my oldest friend, it will be with me until I die. I can feel some empathy for this skin that carries me around in it.

I can remember that, as much as I don't like this moment, it's perfect, nonetheless.

One More Thing...

I'm not angry with my beloved Dr. Ross. I still have him penciled in my datebook to elope with whenever he has time enough to think about it. Well, time and...you know...interest.

Jingle jingle.

Steps One And Two Of The New Plan

" Man performs and engenders so much more than he can or should have to bear. That's how he finds that he can bear anything." ~William Faulkner

After physical therapy, my day is almost gone, even though I've been at Crazy Land since 6:15 today. (Purely accidental, I assure you.)

Step one of the new plan has already been implemented. I've been listening to Christmas music and wearing my jingle bell bracelet. Okay, I confess. I always wear my jingle bell bracelet from Thanksgiving until Christmas. I make it tinkle whenever I walk around the office. I do what I can to annoy the natives in Crazy Land. Of course, they'd never mention it to me if they found it irritating, but it's bound to get under somebody's skin.

Step two of the new plan is to sit with the sorrow, to maintain some inner silence while I feel the loss. It's hard to write or talk when I'm listening to the sadness, so I've gone missing this week from everyone.

When Dr. Ross told me that I had to have a mastectomy, his physician's assistant told me that a year from treatment, no one would know anything ever happened. I held onto that prediction as if it were a lifeline. I don't think I ever really dealt with the loss of my breast. I didn't have to; I believed her.

It dawned on me last night that Dr. Ross actually talked to me about the problems I would face with reconstruction. He said he would discuss them in conference with his colleagues and try to find the best way to deal with them. I assumed all would be well.

The type of breast cancer I have is not the kind most women have; only 10 percent of diagnosed breast cancers are like mine. There were cancer cells throughout my entire breast, extending very close to the chest wall. After the breast was gone and chemo endured, there was an enormous amount of radiation to the area. My doctors feared the proximity to the chest wall and the neck. We were unable to save any skin, which would have made reconstruction easier.

I'd rather be alive than dead. I'd rather have this breast than none. Nonetheless, I'm angry and frustrated. And sad. So, so sad. I'm present with the heartache; I'm silent as I mourn.

The new plan will continue to unfold and, inevitably, I will be better. As Julian of Norwich said, "...all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."

Tinkle tinkle.

Searching for a New Plan

There will be no more surgeries (aside from nipple reconstruction on the new breast). That means the hard, necrotic tissue will remain where it is, perhaps for years.

Dr. Kronowitz did inject steroids into the chelated areas on the new breast, navel and donor site. That may help with the way the scars look.

I started physical therapy today in hopes of improving strength and range of motion in my left arm.

There's not much else for me to say right now. I'm coming up with a new plan to come to terms with this new, permanent reality.

Return of the Inner Fascist

"For most of us, the state we're in most of the time is distraction" ~ Joseph Goldstein

Hubby is out of town until Wednesday, researching an article he's writing, so I was left to my own devices last night. I enjoyed the silence, caught up on some reading and then watched television for a little while. That's when things started to fall apart.

My Inner Fascist made a reappearance. She's been under control for months, but she made a reappearance last week, relentlessly reminding me of what a terrible person I am. It's good to know she hasn't lost her edge. Last night, the little Black Shirt reviewed some memories and found me lacking. The harangue began and I started crying.

At first, I thought I was crying about the television program I'd been watching. The program were a little sad, but since I raised my antidepressant medication, I haven't been crying much. It finally dawned on me that it was the terrible words, the crushing failures enumerated that brought me to tears.

I discussed the Inner Fascist with my with therapist last week. She asked me how I manage to stop that critical voice left over from childhood, when perfection was required in order to survive. I told her that I'm a master of distraction. I've lived my entire life coping by distracting myself. I'm a pro. She wondered whether the Inner Fascist is a manifestation of that very survival mechanism.

What a concept! Of course! Instead of hating my parents when I was a child, I found it easier to hate myself. When my life was too terrifying, I distracted myself by launching into a litany of my own faults. All children, on some level, take responsibility for all of the bad things that happen to them, to their parents, to their world. Many, many bad things happened in my family.

Life would be better, my family would be better if I were better. I could ease my mother's pain and sadness, I could calm my father's rages, if I could only be more obedient, smarter, kinder. My father would have no need for a second family living in my own house, he would cease to find other children more worthy of compassion than I if I could be more worthy of love.

The Inner Fascist came along to help me focus less on the real causes of my anguish and to make me toe the line. She believed that rigorous criticism could still save the day. As time went on, the voice became more insistent and the list of requirements grew. There was a long period in my life when nothing I ever did met her standards and she noted each and every one of my imperfections, no matter how small. She noted them loudly and without compassion. The child who needed her help to survive became consumed by a constant cruelty. As if the outer dark wasn't cruel enough.

The Fascist lives on. When I'm anxious or angry or sad, she chimes in with the many ways I've failed. She stomps on me with her boots, rages against me and, by doing so, forces me to focus on something other than, say, going to Houston tomorrow.

I was unable to silence her last night, though I returned to my book about an NBA player to distract me (from her distraction). I slept very little. Today, I'm too tired to worry about Houston. The Inner Fascist has taken off her boots and black shirt. I hope she sleeps long and peacefully.

Dreams of Crazy Land

I dreamed of Crazy Land last night and woke with a rapid pulse. It was an anxiety I couldn't identify at first. Why, I thought.

I was fully awake and wondered why Crazy Land is so scary today. And then it dawned on me. Thursday. Houston.

Working frantically on some Crazy Land business so I can finish by the end of the day on Tuesday. I guess I'll be catching up on everyone on Monday.

Steady Now

Steady Now

Although things vanish, are what mark our vanishing,
we still hold on to them -- ballast against the updraft
Of oblivion -- as I hold on to this umbrella in a world of rain,

of heavy wet greens and grays dissolving into a new
atmosphere, a sort of underwater dulled electric glow
off everything, the air itself drowning in it, breath

thickening, growing mold. Yesterday I felt the smell
of grass greeting me as across a great distance, trying
to tell me some good thing in an underglaze of memory,

some forgotten summer trying to speak its piece. It is
the way of things and it never stops, never calls a halt--
this knocking and dismantling, this uprooting, cutting out

and digging down, so tall oaks and honey locusts are
laid low and drop to earth like felled cattle, shaking
the ground we've taken a stand on as if it were a steady

establishment, a rock of ages to outface ruin itself, not
the provisional slippery dissolving dissolute thing it is --
which we have against all the evidence set our hearts on.

~Eamon Grennan

Numb

"Self acceptance comes from meeting life's challenges vigorously. Don't numb yourself to your trials and difficulties, nor build mental walls to exclude pain from your life. You will find peace not by trying to escape your problems, but by confronting them courageously. You will find peace not in denial, but in victory." ~ J. Donald Walters

I've been feeling numb a lot lately. Dissociated. I'm not sure what the problem is, but it's making it hard for me to generate much interest in anything. Maybe the prospect of writing more about my early life has stopped me dead in my tracks. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

I don't have to write about it.

It could also be because of my pending trip to Houston. I'll see Dr. Kronowitz on December 6, to take a look at his latest handiwork. We're going to have to talk about the necrotic tissue. There is no good answer to the question of what's going to happen next there.

If we're going to leave the hard ridge, I'm going to be very very unhappy. This has nothing to do with anyone other than me. Dr. Ross promised me, two years ago, that at the end of all of this, no one would be able to tell I ever had a mastectomy. Well, guess what? Anyone could tell something terrible has happened.

On the other hand, if we're going to do something about it, more surgery is guaranteed. I don't want to have more surgery. I'll never get back to even a semblance of my former physical fitness level if they don't stop cutting. Then, of course, there's that other thing. Stop hurting me.

I know this seems trivial compared to the possibility of dying from breast cancer. It's not trivial. I'm happy to be alive and well. I'm happy to have hair. I don't want my breast to look like a bride of Frankenstein breast. Not trivial.

In case I haven't said it lately: I hate having breast cancer.

Now. Back to being numb.

Friends

"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."~ Henri Nouwen

Dark Matter

When I originally started this weblog, I had a couple of ideas in mind. I lost my best friend of 30 years to a heart attack and this was a means of continuing a "conversation" with her. She knew me when I was an angry, rebellious, hip young woman, when I was still an independent spirit unencumbered by adult relationships and responsibilities. We grew up together. I would write posts as if I were still writing letters to her.

I also thought it might be a good place to examine the path from there to here. I was a strange, isolated and abused child. My future shouldn't have amounted to much other than a life of drug abuse, prostitution and physical/emotional abuse. And yet none of those things have come to pass. Against all odds, I'm a productive member of society, my husband isn't allowed to even raise his voice to me. I earn my own money (even though I do so in Crazy Land). I've never been addicted to anything other than Diet Coke and nicotine. The only prostitution I've ever engaged in was limited to renting my soul to Crazy Land (or other wonderland places I've worked).

The only way to figure out how my trajectory landed me here in this moment seems to be to retrace the arc of my life. It's a tough path to follow, dark and disturbing. Sometimes I'm unable to wade through the underbrush to get to the seminal moments that lead to this present. Many memories are lost to me, buried away by trauma. It's also been my hope to reclaim some of those memories, no matter how brutal that unearthing may be.

Last week, my therapist reminded me of that intention. It was as if she'd wakened me from a deep slumber. However, I think my heart was already leading me back to my original path. My ongoing examination of the events leading up to my father's death fit into the original plan. Aside from breast cancer, nothing has defined the latter part of my life so much as his suicide.

Some of my friends who are kind enough to join me from day to day have read the posts from long ago, when I was trying to set down the bare facts of my early life. Some of them have come to know me during my two-year (and counting) breast cancer ordeal. Some of them love to visit Crazy Land.

Because I've grown to care about so many of the people who visit me here (and whom I visit regularly), I've become reluctant to expose them to the past. Most people can't tolerate knowing about much of it. (My best friend was one who could.) Nonetheless, I'm going to try to retrace my steps and get back to that original intention. It requires a lot of inward focus and, though I always try to be entertaining, sometimes I may not be.

Crazy Land will always be with us. I don't anticipate being freed from the asylum anytime soon. And let's face it, if I didn't write about Crazy Land, it might cause me to have to make an involuntary visit to a long-term mental health facility.

Some days I won't be able to walk backward into the darkness. I'll no doubt find other things to talk about. Some days I may blither on about what's going on in my life outside of Crazy Land. Who knows? Heaven forbid that I should be rigid about this.

I'll always want to hear from you. I can't tell you how many times, especially lately as I talk about my dad's suicide, that comments from you have made me pause and rethink things. Comments have caused me to question my own assumptions and conclusions. You raise my spirits and make me laugh. You renew my faith in human beings. You, the new people to whom I speak, are treasures beyond compare.

Because of that, I wanted you to know that the nature of the blog is going to shift a bit. Be forewarned. I know that some of you carry your own traumas and I don't want to add any more to your burden. If some of you choose to let go, if things become less entertaining or so weird that you must turn away, I'll be very sorry. I would wish it not to be so, but I will understand. I will continue to visit you in your own weblog worlds.

If you're interested in my previous posts about the past, please take a look at the following links.
Just the Facts, A Timeline
Sexual Abuse, Again
The Past Falls Away
Just the Facts, Part 2
Just The Dreary Facts, Even More
Deeper Into Darkness
A Small Bright Spot
My Own Good Reasons For a Suicide
Pariah
Torture
Alone
Nothing Left Untouched
You Just Can't Make This Shit Up
The Baby Comes and My Father Finds Someone Else He Likes More Than Me

Well, this is about all I can do today. If you've made it through this many posts, you're a real trooper. Maybe I can finish tomorrow.

The Decision, Part 3: I Hardened My Heart

"Rage cannot be hidden, it can only be dissembled. This dissembling deludes the thoughtless and strengthens rage and adds, to rage, contempt." ~ James Arthur Baldwin

I did as my father asked and called Shannon. I left a message on his voice mail and he called me back a couple of days later.

Several months earlier, my father showed me a recent photograph of my half brother. He looked startlingly like my father. I wished that I had never seen the image. I wished that I could destroy the memory it created in my mind. When I heard Shannon's voice on my answering machine, I wished to obliterate the sound. Hearing it awakened all the old demons, the memories, the rage. The images unfurled themselves behind my open eyes. I hated him. I'd never met him, but I hated him.

Shannon's mother had taken my own mother's place in my house. She had attempted to make me treat her as my stepmother. Grace. Her name is Grace. Amazing how even typing the name is almost more than I can bear. If I hated him, I hate her a thousand times more.

I called him back and left another message. I told Shannon exactly how to get in touch with me. At that point, playing phone tag was a very expensive game for me. I needed to just get it done, get the contact over with so that I could get my father off my back. My illness left me with little energy to get through my day and the pressure was eating up all I had left. I was exhausted and enraged. I tumbled through flashback after flashback as I moved through my days.

Meanwhile, my father was still haranguing me about talking with Shannon. The only thing that would have made him happy was for me to get in my car and drive there, wait for him outside his house and have some big, fake happy family reunion with this person I'd never met. The more he goaded, the angrier I got.

I made myself clear. I called Shannon. I told him how to get in touch with me at work and at home. If he chose not to call, that made him a coward. You know, if you want to talk to me, then do it. Otherwise, leave me alone. This is what I told my father. I had done as he asked. I refused to pursue Shannon any further. The suggestion that I might made me want to set a building on fire and watch it burn.

My father dropped the issue for a while. Then he called me in the middle of a chaotic afternoon and demanded that I call again.

"No," I told him. "Not only will I not call him again, I don't want to hear from you, either. Ever."

My father was astounded. I'm certain he never expected to hear those words from me. I was prepared to enforce the separation. He continued to try to negotiate with me, but he'd finally gone too far. We ceased to have regular contact.

Wasp

"Many of us spend our whole lives running from feeling with the mistaken belief that you cannot bear the pain. But you have already borne the pain. What you have not done is feel all you are beyond the pain." ~ St. Bartholomew

I hate the holidays. I can't remember a time when I didn't. I think, for a while when I was very young, I imagined that there was some possibility for "happy" holidays, but I don't think the vision was well-developed or lasted very long.

When I was a child, the holiday season always meant at least a solid month of my dad enjoying his favorite sport even more regularly than usual. His favorite sport was hurting people. My birthday, the days leading up to Thanksgiving, from then until New Year's day, Easter--they were all really fine excuses to engage in torture. Sometimes it would last for an hour or so, sometimes a day, sometimes many days. He tortured my mom. He tortured me. He tortured us both. Sometimes he tortured my pets.

It's funny that I'd forgotten how easy it is to dissociate when I think back to those times. I feel blank. My brain has clicked to a different channel. The channel is called "Numb."

Just to add some extra zest to the whole holiday festivities, my dad upped the ante by killing himself nine days before my birthday, a bare month from Thanksgiving. That event has cast a lovely glow over the holidays, too.

The weather is changing. Right now, the sun is shining and I'm watching leaves being blown off the trees. Tomorrow, it will be cold and windy. While I get ready for Thanksgiving dinner, the past will be replaying itself in the back of my mind. No one will hearing it buzzing around in my brain like a wasp.

I hate the holidays.

Monday in Crazy Land

Owner was out of the office a couple of days last week while his office was being painted. He's back today and unhappy with the paint job. That's entirely predictable. Owner is one of the pickiest people I've ever known. Hemorrhoid Guy, as a joke, left the vacuum cleaner and some Pledge furniture polish right outside Owner's door. Owner's attention to detail is legendary. (Note to self: If you're going to call him that, try to learn how to spell the word, "hemorrhoid.")

Even though he hates the paint job, Owner sashayed over to my office a little while ago to ask me if I'd like to have my office painted. Not particularly. That means I'm going to have to move a bunch of stuff and probably end up working in Loathsome's office in the interim. After I move back in, I'll have to inhale paint fumes for a week or so until they dissipate. He asked me that question two weeks ago and I told him then I'm fine with the way things are. He's decided we're going to paint my office.

Then Owner made me follow him around, pointing out to me how much the entire place needs paint. Maybe we could paint everything else first and get to me sometime late in 2008. Or early 2009.

"What if someone were to come here?"

Well, people come here every day and we try to distract them from noticing by making them fill out employment forms and lecturing them about safety. No one yet has commented on that smudge above the copier.

I received an injury report a little while ago. Yes, I love getting those. One of our female employees was lifting a pallet on Friday and hurt her back. Did she report it then? No. Why? Because she didn't think it was a big deal. I called her foreman and told him to have her call me.

Hurt Girl called me in about half an hour. After some time-consuming pleasantries, I asked her if she'd seen a doctor.

"Well, no," she said, "I think I just strained it on Friday and I soaked it in the spa all weekend and it's not any better. I thought I'd report it just in case."

"Well, 'just in case' I need for you to see a doctor." Yes, I'm a bitch.

"I don't have a regular doctor. Can you recommend one?"

I told her I can't recommend one, but I can find her a doctor who's listed on our worker's comp HMO list. I gave her the name of someone we use regularly.

"But I live in (fill in name of small town about 20 miles from here). Can you find me a doctor there?"

The answer to that question is that I should be able to, by checking in on our insurance company's website. I typed in the URL and waited. This is the message I got:

Firefox has detected that the server is redirecting the request for this address in a way that will never complete. (Most of my requests in life have apparently been made in a way that will never complete. How appropriate.)

I tried it again. Same message. I told my injured employee I'd call her back. I called my insurance company and asked them to find a provider. I sat on hold for 20 minutes, then the woman got back on the line and said she was having problems. Really? I asked if she'd like to call me back.

I received an email 3 hours later. Let me repeat. Three hours. It's a good thing no one's bleeding to death. She couldn't get access to her own company's website so she sent me an excel spreadsheet with names of doctors. They were not organized by name, by specialty or by city. Yeah. This is mighty damn helpful.

I located some potential doctors and called the Hurt Girl back. I gave her a couple of names and told her to see them so she can start feeling better and I can complete my report. She called me back in 10 minutes to tell me that one of the doctors doesn't accept workers compensation patients (even though they're on my list) and the other didn't answer the phone.

I gave her some more names and now I'm waiting to hear that none of those doctors accept worker's comp, either. Our insurance company is a nationally known, highly reputable provider. They do an excellent job of taking Crazy Land's astronomically high monthly premiums. This whole HMO thing was supposed to be the way Insurance Company was going to keep a lid on those ever-increasing medical costs. I guess the best way to do that is to make sure no one ever sees a doctor.

Well, Hurt Girl hasn't called back. In exactly one hour and 25 minutes, my day here will be over. The time can not possibly pass quickly enough.