Since about a month after surgery on August 30, 2016, I've been struggling deeply with depression and anxiety. On the heels of that were the holidays, which aren't my favorite time of year anyway. It's been difficult to muster up any sort of "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays" sentiments. The best I could come up with was "Tolerable Christmas."
Until this past week; I've felt an upcycle.
I hope the shift sticks and I can get out of this underlying dark and difficult, non-solution-oriented, and non-creative mood. I know I'll still have my regular ups and downs. But I hope they aren't the big monsters I've been having to deal with the past few months.
A couple days ago I briefly perused Youtube for "Christmas song parodies" and found the following. It made me smile.
Quite impressive way to upcycle bottles.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and Happy Everyday to us all...
I later found "Happy Together." It brought me a bigger smile.
December 25, 2016
December 16, 2016
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
One of my online blogging friends was in another dream. In real life, like me, this friend suffers with chronic pain and illness. In real life, like me, they were once a committed true believer in a fundamentalist Bible doctrine. They slowly deconverted to atheism/agnosticism, I to agnosticism.
In my dream my friend was in our king size bed with my husband and I. There was nothing sexual about the arrangement; we were simply sleeping. The friend had a 5-year old child with them. The next moment the friend and child and I were instantly in the woods beside a mountain creek with rushing water over rocks surrounded by laurels. I was taking them to a path. I don't know where the path led, but it was the path they needed to get where they were going.
In another dream the main toilet in our home was leaking. At first when I entered the bathroom, I thought the leak was coming from the handle. But it was coming from the wall behind the toilet, about 1-1/2 feet up. Like in our real-life bathroom the wall was painted in a textured slate-cobalt blue. In my dream, I was thinking of putting a container below the leak to catch the water, but then more leaks appeared as fissures formed in the wall behind the toilet. I felt frantic. There was no way I could catch all the water. I thought, I have to call Fix-It Man and tell him this needs to be fixed first, before anything else. In real life Fix-It Man was coming to our house in a few days to fix another toilet, the one in the textured sunflower-yellow bathroom. In real life Fix-It Man and I had served together in The Way. He left in the late 1980s, I in the mid-2000s.
~*~
When I was a Way believer, I mostly dismissed sleep-dreams. I recall being taught that ongoing dreams were an indication that I'm not renewing my mind well. Or, at worst, devil spirits were trying to influence and maybe possess me. Dreams could also be just flippant convolutions from current life events. Dreamless sleep, or at least sleep where I couldn't recall my dreams, was the best, an indicator of a well-renewed mind - one more unrelenting standard to feed my defective self-image as a below-par believer.
So, for the most part, I did not try to understand my dreams or what my body and mind might be trying to communicate with me - until my last 6 or so years in The Way when I began to have dreams that were so vivid, and often repetitive, that I simply couldn't ignore them.
The dreams in my final Way years - as I was going through the grueling and ambivalent process of cognitive dissonance with Way doctrine and my own life experiences, with doubts about the organization of The Way, the so-called "household of God" which was the only place that taught the true accuracy of the inerrant Word of God - coincided with a time when my body was ridding itself of toxic levels of mercury after almost two decades of chronic illness.
I feel deeply that my body and soul were going through "healing responses." I prefer the term "healing response" to "healing crisis."
Often there were houses in those dreams, houses with lots of bathrooms and water. Most of the houses were huge, and I was continually discovering another level to explore. In part, this mirrored what was happening in my life at that time. I came to look forward to the dreams. I felt (and still feel), these dreams were my body/mind/soul's attempt to help heal itself, to help put into some type of representative images my struggles at the time, and to remind me that my body/mind/soul was working through them.
I don't believe in "dream interpretations" from others. I do think we can intuitively so-call "interpret" our own dreams and that we can often(?) receive insight into what may possibly be going on at a deeper level. I don't think it is a supernatural process anymore than eyesight or the immune system or circulatory system or any other incredible function our bodies perform.
These recent dreams. Could they be indicating that my body is actually able to heal itself now, now that the antagonist-hip has been removed and the cobalt-and-chromium metal-leech stopped?
~*~
A couple nights ago I dreamed I went hiking in New Zealand with my son and another ex-Way believer. It was a fun dream. I'd love to go hiking in New Zealand. I'd love to be able to hike, period.
~*~
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
~*~
In my dream my friend was in our king size bed with my husband and I. There was nothing sexual about the arrangement; we were simply sleeping. The friend had a 5-year old child with them. The next moment the friend and child and I were instantly in the woods beside a mountain creek with rushing water over rocks surrounded by laurels. I was taking them to a path. I don't know where the path led, but it was the path they needed to get where they were going.
In another dream the main toilet in our home was leaking. At first when I entered the bathroom, I thought the leak was coming from the handle. But it was coming from the wall behind the toilet, about 1-1/2 feet up. Like in our real-life bathroom the wall was painted in a textured slate-cobalt blue. In my dream, I was thinking of putting a container below the leak to catch the water, but then more leaks appeared as fissures formed in the wall behind the toilet. I felt frantic. There was no way I could catch all the water. I thought, I have to call Fix-It Man and tell him this needs to be fixed first, before anything else. In real life Fix-It Man was coming to our house in a few days to fix another toilet, the one in the textured sunflower-yellow bathroom. In real life Fix-It Man and I had served together in The Way. He left in the late 1980s, I in the mid-2000s.
~*~
When I was a Way believer, I mostly dismissed sleep-dreams. I recall being taught that ongoing dreams were an indication that I'm not renewing my mind well. Or, at worst, devil spirits were trying to influence and maybe possess me. Dreams could also be just flippant convolutions from current life events. Dreamless sleep, or at least sleep where I couldn't recall my dreams, was the best, an indicator of a well-renewed mind - one more unrelenting standard to feed my defective self-image as a below-par believer.
So, for the most part, I did not try to understand my dreams or what my body and mind might be trying to communicate with me - until my last 6 or so years in The Way when I began to have dreams that were so vivid, and often repetitive, that I simply couldn't ignore them.
The dreams in my final Way years - as I was going through the grueling and ambivalent process of cognitive dissonance with Way doctrine and my own life experiences, with doubts about the organization of The Way, the so-called "household of God" which was the only place that taught the true accuracy of the inerrant Word of God - coincided with a time when my body was ridding itself of toxic levels of mercury after almost two decades of chronic illness.
I feel deeply that my body and soul were going through "healing responses." I prefer the term "healing response" to "healing crisis."
Often there were houses in those dreams, houses with lots of bathrooms and water. Most of the houses were huge, and I was continually discovering another level to explore. In part, this mirrored what was happening in my life at that time. I came to look forward to the dreams. I felt (and still feel), these dreams were my body/mind/soul's attempt to help heal itself, to help put into some type of representative images my struggles at the time, and to remind me that my body/mind/soul was working through them.
I don't believe in "dream interpretations" from others. I do think we can intuitively so-call "interpret" our own dreams and that we can often(?) receive insight into what may possibly be going on at a deeper level. I don't think it is a supernatural process anymore than eyesight or the immune system or circulatory system or any other incredible function our bodies perform.
These recent dreams. Could they be indicating that my body is actually able to heal itself now, now that the antagonist-hip has been removed and the cobalt-and-chromium metal-leech stopped?
~*~
A couple nights ago I dreamed I went hiking in New Zealand with my son and another ex-Way believer. It was a fun dream. I'd love to go hiking in New Zealand. I'd love to be able to hike, period.
~*~
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
~*~
December 14, 2016
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
I've had four vivid dreams in the past couple weeks.
In one dream I was standing on a sidewalk in a doorway on a small city street. It was dusk or maybe night time with enough illumination from city lights to make out details.
I was looking at an SUV parked in the street in front of me as a woman grabbed two children, around ages 5 and 2, and put them in the SUV, the older child in the back seat and the younger in the front. I do not recall their genders.
I knew the woman was kidnapping them, but physically I could do nothing about it due to my disability and slow pace and the weakness in my limbs and extremities and back, just like in real life.
There were a few other folks who were witnessing the event, and I was panicking in my mind, Why is no one helping? Why is no one helping?!
Catty corner across the street three men stood outside a brick-front bar or cafe. They looked relaxed, leisurely visiting and unaware of the situation. I recognized one of them as Kyle who used to work for me in my pet sitting business in real life before he moved to Colorado. I hollered at the men, "Hey! Get those kids out of that SUV! That woman is kidnapping them!"
The three men went into quick action and ran to the SUV, pulling the kids out. The woman was already in the driver seat ready to pull away. She was heavy set with shoulder-length blonde hair. She was wearing a tank top and reminded me of the kind of biker mom who would have a Confederate Flag flying high in her yard.
The front passenger door was left wide open after the men had grabbed the child from the front seat. As I stood on the sidewalk on the passenger side of her vehicle, the woman, sitting in the driver seat, glared at me. I felt her threat through the anger in her face and heard the words in my head, though she never uttered them, "I will be back. I will be back."
In another dream, my 28-year old daughter and I were rushing to get out of my home. I don't know where we were going or why we were rushing, but I was moving as fast as I could though it was slow, just like in real life. As I descended the hard wood stairs to the ground level approaching the door, I looked down at the underside of my left forearm, the side that is less exposed to the elements than the upper side which is tanned and grows hair.
Right under the thin, translucent top layer of skin, were two 3D-cell alkaline batteries. I thought, "How am I going to get these out? I bet this is why I feel heavy."
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, the whole time having looked at these batteries in my forearm, they fell out. Plop. Plop. The top layer of skin simply tore away from my arm like when a human peels after sunburn. But the skin did not peel all the way off; it looked like a jagged-edged open pocket. There was no pain and no blood. After the batteries dropped out, the skin-pocket hung loose and saggy from being stretched by the weight of the batteries.
~*~
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
~*~
In one dream I was standing on a sidewalk in a doorway on a small city street. It was dusk or maybe night time with enough illumination from city lights to make out details.
I was looking at an SUV parked in the street in front of me as a woman grabbed two children, around ages 5 and 2, and put them in the SUV, the older child in the back seat and the younger in the front. I do not recall their genders.
I knew the woman was kidnapping them, but physically I could do nothing about it due to my disability and slow pace and the weakness in my limbs and extremities and back, just like in real life.
There were a few other folks who were witnessing the event, and I was panicking in my mind, Why is no one helping? Why is no one helping?!
Catty corner across the street three men stood outside a brick-front bar or cafe. They looked relaxed, leisurely visiting and unaware of the situation. I recognized one of them as Kyle who used to work for me in my pet sitting business in real life before he moved to Colorado. I hollered at the men, "Hey! Get those kids out of that SUV! That woman is kidnapping them!"
The three men went into quick action and ran to the SUV, pulling the kids out. The woman was already in the driver seat ready to pull away. She was heavy set with shoulder-length blonde hair. She was wearing a tank top and reminded me of the kind of biker mom who would have a Confederate Flag flying high in her yard.
The front passenger door was left wide open after the men had grabbed the child from the front seat. As I stood on the sidewalk on the passenger side of her vehicle, the woman, sitting in the driver seat, glared at me. I felt her threat through the anger in her face and heard the words in my head, though she never uttered them, "I will be back. I will be back."
In another dream, my 28-year old daughter and I were rushing to get out of my home. I don't know where we were going or why we were rushing, but I was moving as fast as I could though it was slow, just like in real life. As I descended the hard wood stairs to the ground level approaching the door, I looked down at the underside of my left forearm, the side that is less exposed to the elements than the upper side which is tanned and grows hair.
Right under the thin, translucent top layer of skin, were two 3D-cell alkaline batteries. I thought, "How am I going to get these out? I bet this is why I feel heavy."
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, the whole time having looked at these batteries in my forearm, they fell out. Plop. Plop. The top layer of skin simply tore away from my arm like when a human peels after sunburn. But the skin did not peel all the way off; it looked like a jagged-edged open pocket. There was no pain and no blood. After the batteries dropped out, the skin-pocket hung loose and saggy from being stretched by the weight of the batteries.
~*~
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
~*~
December 13, 2016
"Can a leopard change his spots?"
It's a rare day when I post anything political. Today is an exception.
I think it is horrific that Donald Trump is our president-elect.
But I understand how it happened.
When people are vulnerable and thus in pain, they look to alleviate that pain. It's normal. And sometimes we get taken by a con artist or, dare I say - a cult leader. And if we have never had an up-close and personal relationship with a sociopath/psychopath/full-blown narcissist we may not be able fully fathom the lies that are spoken as absolute truths. And even the truths a psychopath might speak are still lies in the sense that everything, everything, is about the psychopath's power and appearance. The psychopath will never admit they are wrong, unless it somehow increases their power. (It's a personal life lesson that I had a hard time wrapping my head around, until I experienced it up close and personal. Even then, it's unbelievable.)
My opinion is that Donald Trump is an outright psychopath, or at the very least...sociopath, though the two terms are used interchangeably.
A typical comeback to the Trump versus Clinton question is, "Well, isn't Hillary as bad as or worse than Trump, herself being a sociopath or psychopath?"
Perhaps, though I have my doubts after doing a bit more research on Hillary's life. But if she is, she is lower on the scale than Trump, in my opinion.
In one of my recent face-to-face conversations with a Trump voter, they told me, "I didn't vote for Trump; I voted against Hillary."
I thought on that a little bit and later said, "That's bullshit. I understand where you are coming from because I voted for Hillary to keep Trump from winning. But I still voted for Hillary. And you voted for Trump. Twisting the language is what cults do. It's wrong and manipulative." They agreed and changed their statement to, "Yes. I voted for Trump."
Their main reasons? The establishment Republicans and Democrats in DC are both corrupt. The voter thinks Trump might cut through some of that, though maybe the voter is starting to see that they might be in error as Trump gathers his cabinet and adviser picks from mostly Wall Street and the military. They also think Trump might get trade policies changed and our economics moving on the up, more so than Hillary would. I believe they have been duped. Time will tell.
I said, "I get that. But Bernie's influence got Hillary to change her mind on TPP, and some other policies. I believe she would have seen it through on her changed stances on TPP and some of the other policies as the people would have held her accountable for her words." But that voter really despises Hillary.
The voter said they would have voted for Kasich, if he had been the Republican nominee. And, interestingly, they would have probably voted Bernie over Trump, if Bernie had won the Democratic ticket. I say "interestingly" because Bernie is farther left than Hillary. But that voter believes Bernie is one of the more authentic folks on Capitol Hill, thus possibly able to forge a crack or two in the establishment corruption.
This morning, I read this article about an 18-year old whom Trump went after on social media: "This is what happens when Donald Trump attacks a private citizen on Twitter."
I wonder how a Trump supporter and defender would feel if this happened to their daughter? I imagine they'd feel like killing the guy. Not that they would, but that is how they might feel.
What about on an international scale when Trump tweets his thoughts that would better be left out of public view until he has time to consult others who deal with and understand the delicacy of relations with international powers? How do those powers feel, powers that can have catastrophic consequences? I think it is beyond concerning.
I hope the more level-headed Republicans in Congress can help keep in check the effects of Trump's tweets and get him to put the brakes on. But Trump is 70 years old; he won't change. Plus, who he is, is who he is. As Jeremiah 13:23a states: "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?" It is naive to think Trump will change when he takes office.
I think it is horrific that Donald Trump is our president-elect.
But I understand how it happened.
When people are vulnerable and thus in pain, they look to alleviate that pain. It's normal. And sometimes we get taken by a con artist or, dare I say - a cult leader. And if we have never had an up-close and personal relationship with a sociopath/psychopath/full-blown narcissist we may not be able fully fathom the lies that are spoken as absolute truths. And even the truths a psychopath might speak are still lies in the sense that everything, everything, is about the psychopath's power and appearance. The psychopath will never admit they are wrong, unless it somehow increases their power. (It's a personal life lesson that I had a hard time wrapping my head around, until I experienced it up close and personal. Even then, it's unbelievable.)
My opinion is that Donald Trump is an outright psychopath, or at the very least...sociopath, though the two terms are used interchangeably.
A typical comeback to the Trump versus Clinton question is, "Well, isn't Hillary as bad as or worse than Trump, herself being a sociopath or psychopath?"
Perhaps, though I have my doubts after doing a bit more research on Hillary's life. But if she is, she is lower on the scale than Trump, in my opinion.
In one of my recent face-to-face conversations with a Trump voter, they told me, "I didn't vote for Trump; I voted against Hillary."
I thought on that a little bit and later said, "That's bullshit. I understand where you are coming from because I voted for Hillary to keep Trump from winning. But I still voted for Hillary. And you voted for Trump. Twisting the language is what cults do. It's wrong and manipulative." They agreed and changed their statement to, "Yes. I voted for Trump."
Their main reasons? The establishment Republicans and Democrats in DC are both corrupt. The voter thinks Trump might cut through some of that, though maybe the voter is starting to see that they might be in error as Trump gathers his cabinet and adviser picks from mostly Wall Street and the military. They also think Trump might get trade policies changed and our economics moving on the up, more so than Hillary would. I believe they have been duped. Time will tell.
I said, "I get that. But Bernie's influence got Hillary to change her mind on TPP, and some other policies. I believe she would have seen it through on her changed stances on TPP and some of the other policies as the people would have held her accountable for her words." But that voter really despises Hillary.
The voter said they would have voted for Kasich, if he had been the Republican nominee. And, interestingly, they would have probably voted Bernie over Trump, if Bernie had won the Democratic ticket. I say "interestingly" because Bernie is farther left than Hillary. But that voter believes Bernie is one of the more authentic folks on Capitol Hill, thus possibly able to forge a crack or two in the establishment corruption.
This morning, I read this article about an 18-year old whom Trump went after on social media: "This is what happens when Donald Trump attacks a private citizen on Twitter."
I wonder how a Trump supporter and defender would feel if this happened to their daughter? I imagine they'd feel like killing the guy. Not that they would, but that is how they might feel.
What about on an international scale when Trump tweets his thoughts that would better be left out of public view until he has time to consult others who deal with and understand the delicacy of relations with international powers? How do those powers feel, powers that can have catastrophic consequences? I think it is beyond concerning.
I hope the more level-headed Republicans in Congress can help keep in check the effects of Trump's tweets and get him to put the brakes on. But Trump is 70 years old; he won't change. Plus, who he is, is who he is. As Jeremiah 13:23a states: "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?" It is naive to think Trump will change when he takes office.
December 6, 2016
Rehearsing stories...trail magic
Rehearsing.
The same stories, again and again.
Remembering that which has been dismembered.
~*~
Detours.
I love them and I hate them, depending on the detour.
When I am "in the flow," allowing life to happen instead of trying to make it happen, the detours are adventures, like "trail magic" the few times I've backpacked and the many times I've hiked.
I can no longer backpack, due to the widespread nerve damage in my feet and legs and back and arms and hands and neck and jaws. I can seldom even hike, except during my good weeks between epidurals. And then no more than a couple or so miles.
My last real hike was in May, 2014. Eight miles, mostly along the Appalachian Trail through Grayson Highlands in Virginia. My beloved Grayson Highlands, where feral ponies run free; where, in 2006, I buried tokens for the life I had ended in my womb in 1978. And not just for that life, but for that season of life, including the relationship with the father and our serendipitous, bittersweet reconnection in 2006.
In May, 2014, after I received my third epidural and had hit my "good weeks," my 23 year old son and I went for a day hike at Grayson. As usual, we started at Massie Gap. We hiked together in the beginning but then I told him to go on ahead; I know how slow I am.
I made my way over the rugged terrain and drank in the views from the giant rock outcrops...
the awe...
the vastness of the sky...
the ocean of mountains...
the wind...
the sun...
the trees...
the foliage and wildflowers...
the ponies in their small herds, some with newborn foals, grays and chestnuts and creams and dapples, long silver and blond manes, and forelocks that fall into their eyes...
Wanting these moments to never end. And wanting so badly for these epidurals to keep working and maybe even reverse this nerve damage that had started in 2011 after taking a drug for a toenail fungus. But it wasn't diagnosed as nerve damage until I saw my eighth doctor in May, 2013, who told me I had polyradiculitis which means multiple nerve roots in my neck and low back are swollen at my spinal cord.
I asked the doctor if he thought I could get well. He said, "If we can find the cause, then yes, I think you can." I had been questing for answers since the onset in 2011. I am still questing for answers.
But that day in May, 2014, while on my last real hike though I didn't know at the time it was my last real hike at least for the time being, I met Jason at the Thomas Knob Shelter. Jason's trail name is Rising Tide.
I was sitting alone at the shelter when he walked up, a lone thru hiker. He was wearing one of those Gatsby, golfer-type hats. It was checkered green and white and matched his backpack. Just he and I at that shelter on the Appalachian Trail, a serendipitous encounter. He had plans to backpack the Triple Crown which includes the Appalachian Trail and the Continental Divide Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail.
We exchanged trail talk and I shared with him my dream of thru hiking the AT, but that I have nerve damage and didn't know if I'd ever be able. He then shared with me that he had been a quadriplegic just 15 years prior. He'd been injured in an auto accident. He shared how the medical field told him he would never again have use of his limbs. So, he turned to pot. "Lots and lots of weed," he said. Slowly his left side came back and then his right and then he started walking and then he started jogging on the beach, and now he was thru hiking 2180 miles.
Trail magic.
I believe.
Or at least want to believe.
The same stories, again and again.
Remembering that which has been dismembered.
~*~
Detours.
I love them and I hate them, depending on the detour.
When I am "in the flow," allowing life to happen instead of trying to make it happen, the detours are adventures, like "trail magic" the few times I've backpacked and the many times I've hiked.
I can no longer backpack, due to the widespread nerve damage in my feet and legs and back and arms and hands and neck and jaws. I can seldom even hike, except during my good weeks between epidurals. And then no more than a couple or so miles.
My last real hike was in May, 2014. Eight miles, mostly along the Appalachian Trail through Grayson Highlands in Virginia. My beloved Grayson Highlands, where feral ponies run free; where, in 2006, I buried tokens for the life I had ended in my womb in 1978. And not just for that life, but for that season of life, including the relationship with the father and our serendipitous, bittersweet reconnection in 2006.
In May, 2014, after I received my third epidural and had hit my "good weeks," my 23 year old son and I went for a day hike at Grayson. As usual, we started at Massie Gap. We hiked together in the beginning but then I told him to go on ahead; I know how slow I am.
I made my way over the rugged terrain and drank in the views from the giant rock outcrops...
the awe...
the vastness of the sky...
the ocean of mountains...
the wind...
the sun...
the trees...
the foliage and wildflowers...
the ponies in their small herds, some with newborn foals, grays and chestnuts and creams and dapples, long silver and blond manes, and forelocks that fall into their eyes...
Wanting these moments to never end. And wanting so badly for these epidurals to keep working and maybe even reverse this nerve damage that had started in 2011 after taking a drug for a toenail fungus. But it wasn't diagnosed as nerve damage until I saw my eighth doctor in May, 2013, who told me I had polyradiculitis which means multiple nerve roots in my neck and low back are swollen at my spinal cord.
I asked the doctor if he thought I could get well. He said, "If we can find the cause, then yes, I think you can." I had been questing for answers since the onset in 2011. I am still questing for answers.
But that day in May, 2014, while on my last real hike though I didn't know at the time it was my last real hike at least for the time being, I met Jason at the Thomas Knob Shelter. Jason's trail name is Rising Tide.
I was sitting alone at the shelter when he walked up, a lone thru hiker. He was wearing one of those Gatsby, golfer-type hats. It was checkered green and white and matched his backpack. Just he and I at that shelter on the Appalachian Trail, a serendipitous encounter. He had plans to backpack the Triple Crown which includes the Appalachian Trail and the Continental Divide Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail.
We exchanged trail talk and I shared with him my dream of thru hiking the AT, but that I have nerve damage and didn't know if I'd ever be able. He then shared with me that he had been a quadriplegic just 15 years prior. He'd been injured in an auto accident. He shared how the medical field told him he would never again have use of his limbs. So, he turned to pot. "Lots and lots of weed," he said. Slowly his left side came back and then his right and then he started walking and then he started jogging on the beach, and now he was thru hiking 2180 miles.
Trail magic.
I believe.
Or at least want to believe.
 |
| ~Thomas Knob Shelter, where I met Rising Tide~ "As he spoke my spirit climbed into the sky. I bid it to return to hear your wonderous stories. Return to hear your wonderous stories." ~Lyrics by Yes~ |
November 30, 2016
In-breath...
I wish it were spring now, instead of fall.
I wish a lot of things.
~*~
Tuesday, 11/08/2016
I walked into the bedroom around 11:15 PM. Hubby was already asleep on his side of the king-size bed. As usual he was sparsely covered even though the temperature was to dip into the low 40s. So I pulled the comforter up over his body and gently laid it across his shoulders. He didn't budge as he lay on his left side facing the wall with the two windows that peer into the backyard.
Typically we leave the windows' vinyl mini-blinds pulled all the way up during the day to let the outside in. Sometimes we leave them up at night depending on the weather and our sleep-in-or-not plans for the next morning. Tonight they are pulled down to help block the cold. There are old storm windows on the outside of each window, providing some insulation. There are no screens. I don't like to look through screens. Almost every morning I stop in front of these bedroom windows and peer out to see if the deer family is in the backyard. Almost every morning I say hello to the trees as I am letting the outside in.
These windows face east and every morning on the sunny days, the sun-rays catch the two marble-sized, cut-crystal spheres that hang with invisible fishing line from the curtain rods which hold the tapered rose-colored valances. Small rainbows dance around the room on the bed and the walls and the hard wood floor, which often brings to mind Joni Mitchell's song Chelsea Morning. The rainbows don't last long before the sun moves up higher into the sky.
The comforter on our bed is a cheap one, but it serves us well. Our dog friends have left their love-marks on it. Picks in the comforter from where the dogs will dig before they settle in and lay down. I love watching the ritual dig. I don't scold the dogs for digging on the comforter. That's one reason I bought a cheap comforter. One side is a pale green color and the other a pale bronze color. I flip the sides depending on whether I feel bronze or green.
I crawled into my side of the bed and lay down on my back. The sheets were cool and clean. I pulled up the cover sheet and small blanket and comforter. It felt good. Safe. Comforting.
My head on the pillow, I checked my iPhone. Updates on the election. It was still a long way from done, but there was so much red on the map already. I was concerned. What if Trump wins? What will that mean? There's just no way, surely. No way.
I clicked the phone putting it to sleep and lay in the dark with my eyes open. I felt a sense of trepidation. What if Trump wins? What if Trump wins...
I paused my thoughts, noticing the quiet between them. That space in between, where perhaps some sort of truth resides. It's a space I can't put into words.
I closed my eyes.
As I breathed in and out, I counted. Something I do often these days, to help me self-sooth and enter the sacred world of sleep. Of dreams. Of another dimension.
One with the in-breath. One with the out-breath.
Two with the in-breath. Two with the out-breath.
Three with the in-breath...
~*~
Chelsea Morning
by Joni Mitchell
Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I heard
Was a song outside my window, and the traffic wrote the words
It came a-reeling up like Christmas bells and rapping up like pipes and drums
Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
And we'll wear it 'til the night comes
Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I saw
Was the sun through yellow curtains, and a rainbow on the wall
Blue, red, green and gold to welcome you, crimson crystal beads to beckon
Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
There's a sun show every second
Now the curtain opens on a portrait of today
And the streets are paved with passersby
And pigeons fly
And papers lie
Waiting to blow away
Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I knew
There was milk and toast and honey and a bowl of oranges, too
And the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses
Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
And we'll talk in present tenses
When the curtain closes and the rainbow runs away
I will bring you incense owls by night
By candlelight
By jewel-light
If only you will stay
Pretty baby, won't you
Wake up, it's a Chelsea morning
~*~
I wish a lot of things.
~*~
Tuesday, 11/08/2016
I walked into the bedroom around 11:15 PM. Hubby was already asleep on his side of the king-size bed. As usual he was sparsely covered even though the temperature was to dip into the low 40s. So I pulled the comforter up over his body and gently laid it across his shoulders. He didn't budge as he lay on his left side facing the wall with the two windows that peer into the backyard.
Typically we leave the windows' vinyl mini-blinds pulled all the way up during the day to let the outside in. Sometimes we leave them up at night depending on the weather and our sleep-in-or-not plans for the next morning. Tonight they are pulled down to help block the cold. There are old storm windows on the outside of each window, providing some insulation. There are no screens. I don't like to look through screens. Almost every morning I stop in front of these bedroom windows and peer out to see if the deer family is in the backyard. Almost every morning I say hello to the trees as I am letting the outside in.
These windows face east and every morning on the sunny days, the sun-rays catch the two marble-sized, cut-crystal spheres that hang with invisible fishing line from the curtain rods which hold the tapered rose-colored valances. Small rainbows dance around the room on the bed and the walls and the hard wood floor, which often brings to mind Joni Mitchell's song Chelsea Morning. The rainbows don't last long before the sun moves up higher into the sky.
The comforter on our bed is a cheap one, but it serves us well. Our dog friends have left their love-marks on it. Picks in the comforter from where the dogs will dig before they settle in and lay down. I love watching the ritual dig. I don't scold the dogs for digging on the comforter. That's one reason I bought a cheap comforter. One side is a pale green color and the other a pale bronze color. I flip the sides depending on whether I feel bronze or green.
I crawled into my side of the bed and lay down on my back. The sheets were cool and clean. I pulled up the cover sheet and small blanket and comforter. It felt good. Safe. Comforting.
My head on the pillow, I checked my iPhone. Updates on the election. It was still a long way from done, but there was so much red on the map already. I was concerned. What if Trump wins? What will that mean? There's just no way, surely. No way.
I clicked the phone putting it to sleep and lay in the dark with my eyes open. I felt a sense of trepidation. What if Trump wins? What if Trump wins...
I paused my thoughts, noticing the quiet between them. That space in between, where perhaps some sort of truth resides. It's a space I can't put into words.
I closed my eyes.
As I breathed in and out, I counted. Something I do often these days, to help me self-sooth and enter the sacred world of sleep. Of dreams. Of another dimension.
One with the in-breath. One with the out-breath.
Two with the in-breath. Two with the out-breath.
Three with the in-breath...
~*~
Chelsea Morning
by Joni Mitchell
Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I heard
Was a song outside my window, and the traffic wrote the words
It came a-reeling up like Christmas bells and rapping up like pipes and drums
Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
And we'll wear it 'til the night comes
Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I saw
Was the sun through yellow curtains, and a rainbow on the wall
Blue, red, green and gold to welcome you, crimson crystal beads to beckon
Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
There's a sun show every second
Now the curtain opens on a portrait of today
And the streets are paved with passersby
And pigeons fly
And papers lie
Waiting to blow away
Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I knew
There was milk and toast and honey and a bowl of oranges, too
And the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses
Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
And we'll talk in present tenses
When the curtain closes and the rainbow runs away
I will bring you incense owls by night
By candlelight
By jewel-light
If only you will stay
Pretty baby, won't you
Wake up, it's a Chelsea morning
~*~
November 28, 2016
Tomorrow will be 13 weeks since my surgery...
My hip is coming along, though it still feels lame. I have a limp, which the surgeon said may last a year. I concentrate to walk so that I don't limp. But when the fatigue takes command, it's much more difficult. Trekking poles help me. And of course my walker helps.
My energy remains low due to the surgery mixed with my ongoing nerve damage. I'm again limited mainly to self-care.
I've been wrestling with depression more than usual. It's been years since it's been this bad. Depression doesn't help with the energy problem.
Last week I wrote that "I am my own caregiver. It's a big job, being the caregiver and the one in need of care. There are no "thank yous," no pay check, very little acknowledgement."
I'm reminding my self to thank my self.
This past Saturday, I treated my self to a day on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It was a lot of work, mainly due to the weather being cold and all the things I have to do to get out the door. I told my self, "If one of your loved ones was disabled, you would do all you could to make it special. Do the same for your self."
The weather was cold. It must have been 25 degrees with the cold wind on the mountain where I walked through the pasture near Rocky Knob overlook. After my short hike at Rocky Knob I visited The Saddle overlook and watched the sun set; it was colder and windier than Rocky Knob. I counted eight contrails in the clear sky as the sun dipped behind Buffalo Mountain. I've never seen that many contrails over The Saddle. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Lots of sky travelers.
After the sun set, I visited, for the second time that day, one of my regular stops -- the Poor Farmer's Market in Meadows of Dan. Hardly anyone was there, unlike earlier that day when I stopped on my way to Rocky Knob. At that first stop, the store had been the most crowded I'd ever seen it. As I was paying for my wedge of sharp cheddar cheese in the black wax and Saltine crackers, I learned a parade was coming. The fifth annual Christmas parade. A parade in Meadows of Dan? This small, "unincorporated" community consists of a hodgepodge of local stores, a small church with a cemetery, a couple restaurants, and a candy factory. It made me smile that the locals put on a parade. But I didn't stay for the parade; Rocky Knob and The Saddle were calling.
On this second visit of the day I chatted with Charlie, one of the ladies who works in the deli section, as I ate a cup of homemade vegetable beef soup while sitting in a wooden rocking chair next to a life size, old-man mannequin who was sitting in the rocking chair to my right. He was Caucasian with a gray beard and was wearing overalls, a checkered flannel shirt, and a Santa's hat. He didn't have a name, so I named him Abe Clause. Charlie liked that name.
On the drive home I saw two different deer at two different sightings. Each right at the edge of the road.
The first deer startled me because the evening was dusk-dark, that time in twilight when it's not dark enough for eyes to shine in the headlights and not bright enough to see the deer's body camouflaged by the muted light and foliage. She was on the right side at the road's edge.
The second sighting was clearer because dusk had dipped into darkness, and I saw the deer's eyes shine. I braked to a full stop. He looked at me, right by the edge of the road on the left. His antlers were coming in, maybe six points. He then turned around and trotted back into the dark woods.
I continued south on the Parkway.
It was a good day.
~*~
I am riding my bike again. The farthest I've ridden is 11.50 miles.
My first ride (since the day before surgery) was on Saturday, 11/05. I rode 9-plus miles at Muddy Creek Greenway.
My first partial trip around Salem Lake was on Wednesday, 11/16. I saw three different heron sightings in three different places. At first I thought it was maybe a different heron each time. Then I changed my mind; I think it was the same heron.
That day, in my head, instead of "heron," I thought "crane." I later looked up the significance of crane sightings, though a heron is different from a crane. (I later googled crane and heron. I'm pretty confident the lake friend is a heron.) Regardless, it was significant for me that she welcomed me back to the Lake. The day before, on Tuesday, 11/15, I was in a deep depression. The ride and the heron gave me a relief from the gloom that has been visiting. "That has" instead of "that had" because it is still visiting and I can recall the heron in the present and bring to mind that bit of relief and connection.
On Friday, 11/18, I rode all the way around Salem Lake for the first time since surgery. I rode it again on Friday, 11/25.
~*~
I accidentally deleted all the photographs on my blog, which saddens me. I'm slowly adding them back. Certain pictures hold deep significance for me. I want to keep those here in the blogosphere.
I've said before and still think that one day, maybe in the not-too-distant future, the internet is going to crash. And blogs will disappear. Or worse yet, private blogs will be made public. Which makes me laugh out loud. Oh the secrets that would be released! But hardly anyone would be able to find them, at least for the unknown folks. Unknown in the sense of non-celebrity.
I wish it were spring instead of fall.
I wish a lot of things.
My energy remains low due to the surgery mixed with my ongoing nerve damage. I'm again limited mainly to self-care.
I've been wrestling with depression more than usual. It's been years since it's been this bad. Depression doesn't help with the energy problem.
Last week I wrote that "I am my own caregiver. It's a big job, being the caregiver and the one in need of care. There are no "thank yous," no pay check, very little acknowledgement."
I'm reminding my self to thank my self.
This past Saturday, I treated my self to a day on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It was a lot of work, mainly due to the weather being cold and all the things I have to do to get out the door. I told my self, "If one of your loved ones was disabled, you would do all you could to make it special. Do the same for your self."
The weather was cold. It must have been 25 degrees with the cold wind on the mountain where I walked through the pasture near Rocky Knob overlook. After my short hike at Rocky Knob I visited The Saddle overlook and watched the sun set; it was colder and windier than Rocky Knob. I counted eight contrails in the clear sky as the sun dipped behind Buffalo Mountain. I've never seen that many contrails over The Saddle. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Lots of sky travelers.
After the sun set, I visited, for the second time that day, one of my regular stops -- the Poor Farmer's Market in Meadows of Dan. Hardly anyone was there, unlike earlier that day when I stopped on my way to Rocky Knob. At that first stop, the store had been the most crowded I'd ever seen it. As I was paying for my wedge of sharp cheddar cheese in the black wax and Saltine crackers, I learned a parade was coming. The fifth annual Christmas parade. A parade in Meadows of Dan? This small, "unincorporated" community consists of a hodgepodge of local stores, a small church with a cemetery, a couple restaurants, and a candy factory. It made me smile that the locals put on a parade. But I didn't stay for the parade; Rocky Knob and The Saddle were calling.
On this second visit of the day I chatted with Charlie, one of the ladies who works in the deli section, as I ate a cup of homemade vegetable beef soup while sitting in a wooden rocking chair next to a life size, old-man mannequin who was sitting in the rocking chair to my right. He was Caucasian with a gray beard and was wearing overalls, a checkered flannel shirt, and a Santa's hat. He didn't have a name, so I named him Abe Clause. Charlie liked that name.
On the drive home I saw two different deer at two different sightings. Each right at the edge of the road.
The first deer startled me because the evening was dusk-dark, that time in twilight when it's not dark enough for eyes to shine in the headlights and not bright enough to see the deer's body camouflaged by the muted light and foliage. She was on the right side at the road's edge.
The second sighting was clearer because dusk had dipped into darkness, and I saw the deer's eyes shine. I braked to a full stop. He looked at me, right by the edge of the road on the left. His antlers were coming in, maybe six points. He then turned around and trotted back into the dark woods.
I continued south on the Parkway.
It was a good day.
~*~
I am riding my bike again. The farthest I've ridden is 11.50 miles.
My first ride (since the day before surgery) was on Saturday, 11/05. I rode 9-plus miles at Muddy Creek Greenway.
My first partial trip around Salem Lake was on Wednesday, 11/16. I saw three different heron sightings in three different places. At first I thought it was maybe a different heron each time. Then I changed my mind; I think it was the same heron.
That day, in my head, instead of "heron," I thought "crane." I later looked up the significance of crane sightings, though a heron is different from a crane. (I later googled crane and heron. I'm pretty confident the lake friend is a heron.) Regardless, it was significant for me that she welcomed me back to the Lake. The day before, on Tuesday, 11/15, I was in a deep depression. The ride and the heron gave me a relief from the gloom that has been visiting. "That has" instead of "that had" because it is still visiting and I can recall the heron in the present and bring to mind that bit of relief and connection.
On Friday, 11/18, I rode all the way around Salem Lake for the first time since surgery. I rode it again on Friday, 11/25.
~*~
I accidentally deleted all the photographs on my blog, which saddens me. I'm slowly adding them back. Certain pictures hold deep significance for me. I want to keep those here in the blogosphere.
I've said before and still think that one day, maybe in the not-too-distant future, the internet is going to crash. And blogs will disappear. Or worse yet, private blogs will be made public. Which makes me laugh out loud. Oh the secrets that would be released! But hardly anyone would be able to find them, at least for the unknown folks. Unknown in the sense of non-celebrity.
I wish it were spring instead of fall.
I wish a lot of things.
 |
| Muddy Creek. 11/05/16. First ride since 8/29/16, the day before hip surgery. |
October 31, 2016
Four Wheeling
I got a new walker.
I named her The Phoenix, though sometimes "she" is a "he" or an "it" instead of a "she."
My plan is to be able to get more weight-bearing exercise with the walker, which is hard to do without the walker because I can't walk too far without my back getting too weak to continue.
My current goal is to walker 10 miles per week and bicycle at least 40 miles per week. I'll have to work up to both of those. In winter months, I may have to resort to mall-walkering and spinning indoors on my trainer, neither of which are appealing to me.
Right now, I walker on the Par Course which is about 4 miles from our home. I like it for a few reasons, one being, it's a dirt path instead of pavement..
The hip-healing is coming along nicely. I feel I'm on the other side of the woods in that regard.
I get my next epidural this afternoon. My appointment is at 4:00 PM. It will be #14 since January, 2014.
A friend shared with me what her friend, who has a walker decored with lights and bling, shared with her:
"Walkers are the new sexy."
I named her The Phoenix, though sometimes "she" is a "he" or an "it" instead of a "she."
My plan is to be able to get more weight-bearing exercise with the walker, which is hard to do without the walker because I can't walk too far without my back getting too weak to continue.
My current goal is to walker 10 miles per week and bicycle at least 40 miles per week. I'll have to work up to both of those. In winter months, I may have to resort to mall-walkering and spinning indoors on my trainer, neither of which are appealing to me.
Right now, I walker on the Par Course which is about 4 miles from our home. I like it for a few reasons, one being, it's a dirt path instead of pavement..
The hip-healing is coming along nicely. I feel I'm on the other side of the woods in that regard.
I get my next epidural this afternoon. My appointment is at 4:00 PM. It will be #14 since January, 2014.
A friend shared with me what her friend, who has a walker decored with lights and bling, shared with her:
"Walkers are the new sexy."
October 14, 2016
Native grasses
*~*
A plant is only a weed because it grows in a spot where I don't want that particular plant.
*~*
Coryell states, "Pluck out the thoughts [that are not going to take you where you want to go] as if they were weeds in your garden."
My mental image presented me with a vegetable garden. The garden is in its early phase with a few raised rows of tender sprouts. The gardener, me, is squatted over one of the rows, plucking a weed. I am wearing a hat and long sleeve shirt and jeans, even though I never wear jeans. The sun is warm and bright. The air crisp like in early spring. It is morning.
There aren't many weeds, and there aren't many tender vegetable sprouts. Mostly lots of red dirt mounds awaiting offspring.
As I pluck the weed I talk to it, but not out loud. We communicate via telepathy.
You're only a weed because I don't want you to grow here. You're welcome to grow in the meadow right over there.
The meadow is green and beige and brown and purple, a display of native grasses. But it doesn't look like early spring, more like late summer and early fall. There are some tiny white and yellow wild flowers...
I sit observing the image for a few moments. I like it.
*click*
I take a mental photo of the scene.
~*~
I like that I honor the weed and let it know it has a welcome place, just not in that spot.
Sometimes that's what I tell spiders or ants or gnats that are inside the house, before I swat them or put them outdoors...
~*~
A plant is only a weed because it grows in a spot where I don't want that particular plant.
*~*
Coryell states, "Pluck out the thoughts [that are not going to take you where you want to go] as if they were weeds in your garden."
My mental image presented me with a vegetable garden. The garden is in its early phase with a few raised rows of tender sprouts. The gardener, me, is squatted over one of the rows, plucking a weed. I am wearing a hat and long sleeve shirt and jeans, even though I never wear jeans. The sun is warm and bright. The air crisp like in early spring. It is morning.
There aren't many weeds, and there aren't many tender vegetable sprouts. Mostly lots of red dirt mounds awaiting offspring.
As I pluck the weed I talk to it, but not out loud. We communicate via telepathy.
You're only a weed because I don't want you to grow here. You're welcome to grow in the meadow right over there.
The meadow is green and beige and brown and purple, a display of native grasses. But it doesn't look like early spring, more like late summer and early fall. There are some tiny white and yellow wild flowers...
I sit observing the image for a few moments. I like it.
*click*
I take a mental photo of the scene.
~*~
I like that I honor the weed and let it know it has a welcome place, just not in that spot.
Sometimes that's what I tell spiders or ants or gnats that are inside the house, before I swat them or put them outdoors...
~*~
October 12, 2016
Complaint Overview
[I originally posted the complaint below, and the accompanying links, around August 21, 2011. At the time when I originally posted, I chose to redact Knapp's name and the specific dates. I originally posted the complaint here: the page where I originally posted it. I changed the content of that page in October, 2016.]
_______
Update: On January 14, 2014, New York state determined its ruling regarding the NY state license of John M. Knapp (identified as "practitioner" in my complaint below).
_______
_______
Update: On January 14, 2014, New York state determined its ruling regarding the NY state license of John M. Knapp (identified as "practitioner" in my complaint below).
John M. Knapp was
"...Found guilty of professional misconduct; Penalty: Revocation...Licensee was found guilty of practicing his profession with negligence, as well as with incompetence, on more than one occasion, and of unprofessional conduct."
See January, 2014 Summaries of Regents Actions on Professional Misconduct and Discipline
Click the following links for what constitutes "professional misconduct" and "unprofessional conduct."
Professional Misconduct
Unprofessional Conduct
_______
_______
~*~
This link lists ethical standards for Social Workers: Code of Ethics of the National Association of Social Workers
This link outlines a working ethical framework regarding professional online mental health therapy and therapists' participation in social media & networking: Ethical Framework for the Use of Social Media by Mental Health Professionals
(Note: For the purpose of posting the complaint transcription on this blog, I excluded names, identifying information, specific dates, and one piece of personal information regarding the practitioner.)
~*~
_________
Formal Complaint Overview
September 3, ***0
Filed by **************
phone: ***-***-****
(I realize I may have included too much information, but I wasn't sure what and what not to include.)
****
I am filing a complaint regarding [practitioner], in the following three categories which are listed on the Mental Health Association of New York, Inc., website. These categories are stated under "Complaints About Care by Practitioners" at this link, When You Need to File A Complaint Against A Mental Health Care Provider or Facility.
The categories are:
- Overstepping the boundaries of the professional relationship
- Negligence
- [...] verbal abuse of a client
I. Overstepping the Boundaries of the Professional Relationship
Relationships Overview (I expound on certain of these relationships, and supply emails, in the corresponding papers enclosed with this complaint packet.):
Following is an overview of my various relationships with [practitioner] and their development. Not all of these are overstepping boundaries and I considered all of them healthy at the time. I would still probably consider them so, except (in hindsight) for the way that (imo) they opened the door for the relationship to end as it did with my ex-therapist's ([practitioner's]) verbal abuse and negligence.
With each new relationship (except for #8 below), [practitioner] and I discussed it ahead of time (and at times throughout the relationships) and that they were not outside ethical boundaries. I also want to say that [practitioner] was excellent while our relationship was client-therapist. It was once the boundaries got blurred, which (imo) probably began with #6 below, that (in hindsight) things began to go awry.
- 1 - I hire [practitioner] as my therapist around July, ***8. I had previous counseling since [8 years previous] with two other mental health care providers, with whom I have good relationships. I chose to hire [practitioner] because of his speciality with cult-recovery, which includes spirtiual, psychological, and emotional abuse. [Practitioner] and my appointments/communications were via phone and (later) Skype. Emails were also utilized.
- 2 - I join [practitioner's] online support group, as a client. This was sometime around September, ***8. The online chatroom later changed from being an online chat to a group conference phone call which was held on Monday nights. I was a beginning and core member until [practitioner] abruptly cut off contact with me on August 2, ***0.
- 3 - I hire [practitioner] as my life coach sometime after my "gradutation" in September, ***9. [Practitioner] and I considered me "graduated" from regular therapy in September, ***9. At some point after that I hired [practitioner] as a life coach; that was different than me being a therapy client, though some of my life coaching sessions ended up as therapy sessions. After I "graduated," I would state that [practitioner] was my "previous" therapist; however, the reality was that I was still getting therapy as I would hire him as needed for regular counseling but wanted to consider myself still "graduated." I discussed this with [practitioner] comparing it to hiring any other professional with an expertise. Say like a plumber. The plumbing gets fixed but from time to time still needs some work. So I continued to be "graduated from therapy." If anyone inquired, I stated that I was a "previous client."
- 4 - [Practitioner] and I are "friends." [Practitioner] referred/refers(?) to the members of the support group, and at least some of his clients, as his "friends." This was/is normal practice for [practitioner], from my observation. [Practitioner] and I discussed, at various times, that [practitioner's] self-disclosure (and friendship) had its place, as long as that didn't put his clients in a position where they felt a duty to meet his emotional needs or that his needs were put above the clients. I agreed with him.
- 5 - [Practitioner] refers to me as a "colleague." This probably began sometime after September, ***9, but this may have happened before I "graduated" (which I don't think in hindsight was graduation, as stated above.) I had become active on the web with my personal blogs and speaking out regarding cults, abusive relationships, my own story, and [the cult I had been with]. [Practitioner] had told me that he "thinks of me more as a colleague than a client." [...] [Practitioner] referred to me as an "activist" regarding cults and toxic groups though I didn't feel I was really an activist. I did end up adopting the title calling myself a "lay activist." At some point in ***0, [practitioner] and I discussed me possibly becoming a type of facilitator for his Monday night phone-support group. After some thought, I declined and decided I wanted to remain simply a participant.
- 6 - I volunteer to be a Moderator on [practitioner's] online discussion board. In January, ***0, [practitioner] started a private (by invitation only) Activist Forum for people in cult education and recovery on his online discussion board. That online discussion board web address used to be [...] . [Practitioner] personally invited the first members. After some weeks, on March 1, I volunteered along with another member to act as a moderator on [practitioner's] board. (For my concern about my client-therapist-colleague relationship with [practitioner], please see the enclosed "Conflict of Interest concern with [practitioner] as lifecoach/therapist.")
- 7 - [Practitioner] approaches me regarding a non-profit project he is thinking about forming. I volunteer (which later would include low financial compensation) to help. [Practitioner] thought I would make a good editor-in-chief for a non-profit organization regarding cult-recovery that he was thinking of forming. This would be separate from his online discussion board, though the online discussion board would be a component of the non-profit. At least that was my understanding. I have no experience or credentials to act as an editor-in-chief, which I expressed to him. He thought I would be good at it and explained part of what my role would entail: soliciting articles, giving [practitioner] deadlines so he is accountable to someone, coming up with creative ideas for the project, doing my own writing, and I don't recall what else. I thought it over a few weeks, discussing it some with [practitioner], and decided that I would like to give it a try though the position did cause me some anxiety, which [practitioner] and I discussed throughout the summer. [Practitioner] approached me with the idea sometime in early May. I think I accepted sometime in late May, but it may have been some time in June. We continued to discuss the idea through June, including me sharing my personal self-doubt and lack of confidence in the position. The non-profit remained only in the formulating stages during my and [practitioner's] relationship.(See the enclosed "May, ***0: [Practitioner] shares idea about an organization..." to see when he first brought up the idea.)
- 8 - I support [practitioner] through one of his mental health episodes. I refer to this as a role reversal. [Practitioner] and my client-theapist-colleague friendship ended up in a role reversal in June, ***0, when [practitioner] put out a call for emotional help and support via an email to me and the other Co-Administrator of the discussion board (who was never a client). I responded to [practitioner's] call for help, offering [practitioner] my ear to listen and simply be with him, if he needed it, stating at that point, "In fact, for the moment, I am no longer your client...but rather a friend." He responded with an email in which he disclosed his deepest problems, including [certain diagnosis]. At that point I felt I had "lost my therapist" and I felt I needed to protect him and not reveal to anyone what he had shared with me. (He never stated to not reveal it. I had told him though that I would keep what he shared in confidence. I never told anyone about what [practitioner] shared until after [practitioner's] verbal and emotional abuse in August.) (Please see the enclosed overview, with attached emails, entitled "Role Reversal, June, ***0.")
- 9- I become a Co-Administrator and Creative Director of the online discussion board. This position (though at the time separate from the non-profit mentioned in #7) was like a springboard into the position for the non-profit organization that [practitioner] was still in the process of formulating. The Co-Admin and Creative Director positions held the same responsibilities included in #7 above. I also included promoting the Activist Forum. I was appointed and volunteered for this position in July, ***0 (though I was still uncomfortable, which I discussed with [practitioner], but determined that I wanted to continue so as to overcome some emotional issues and triggers I still dealt with). This position also included sending a weekly email to all members of the private Activist Forum to let them know what topics were being posted, and inviting input. I was also starting to write members to solicit articles. (I only got one of those solicitation emails sent.) Again I was nervous about this position and [practitioner] and I discussed my anxiety regarding it a few times, the last time being Tuesday, July 27, ***0, less than one week before [practitioner's] final emails to me (#II below). (Regarding my distress, please see the enclosed overview with attached emails entitled "Distress, July, ***0.")
II: Verbal Abuse of Client
Overview (I expound on this, and supply emails, in the corresponding papers enclosed with this complaint packet.): This happened via emails on Monday, August 2, ***0. It did not happen in a therapeutic session, but in my role as Creative Director and Co-Administrator of [practitioner's] online board.
[Practitioner] sent me two emails accusing me of not standing up for him in a **conflict he had with the other Co-Administrator; of name calling, of destroying my and [practitioner's] friendship, of me being non-compassionate regarding [practitioner's] distress, of me stating that [practitioner] is in it for the money, of not respecting [practitioner's] boundaries, of making everything some sort of perfectionistic test for [practitioner], of suggesting that [practitioner's] irritation/anger means something is wrong with that, of playing a charade, of reading into his words, of focusing on his challenges and faults, of having no concern for the effect the conflict was having on him, and of placating the Co-Admin with whom [practitioner] had the conflict. [Practitioner] stated he'd find it hard to trust me again on any level and he cut off communication with me which included blocking me from Skype, his email, and his 800 number. (For an overview of these exchanges with emails, see the enclosed overview "My Individual Email Exchanges with [practitioner] After the Ultimatum Email, August 2, ***0.")
As far as I know, the only accusation of which I am guilty is the one about me not standing up for [practitioner] during the conflict with the other Co-Admin. I chose to not get between the two of them in their personal conflict, though I would comment on emails addressed to me and gave my input and vote regarding the initial discussion about some wording on the forum. The one accusation about me not respecting boundaries may also apply, in that I sent [practitioner] a four-sentence email (due to previous email miscommuication between the three parties) after he stated he wanted no contact. (For further explanation regarding the boundaries accusation, please see second page of the enclosed "My Individual Email Exchanges with [practitioner] After the Ultimatum Email, August 2, ***0.")
[Practitioner] used four of my deepest vulnerabilities against me. Those are self-blame, self-distrust, fear of abandonment, and intimidation when relating with certain authority figures. Not to mention other issues I have worked to overcome, which include low self-worth, shame, and thinking I am unintelligent.
As far as my "client" status: My last paid personal session with [practitioner] was the end of June. That session was listed as a coaching session. I paid for the Monday night phone support group sessions through the end of June. Though I continued with the support group and had some times in July when I needed [practitioner's] counsel, I did not pay for any group sessions or one-on-one time with [practitioner] in July. We had at some point previously discussed bartering; ie: my volunteer time on the online board and non-profit project could be exchanged for therapy/life-coaching sessions and/or the support group. To my understanding, that was never officially implemented. Our personal meetings in July were considered as [practitioner] being my friend who happened to be a therapist. He also shared some of his needs (as friends do) with me.
So it may be that from July on, I was not technically an individual client. [And as stated above, after September, ***9, we (or at least I) most often referred to me as a "previous client."]
Through July, I still continued as a client in the support group, though I was non-pay in July.
(I can provide Paypal records if needed.)
** For an overview of the conflict, with emails, see the enclosed, "The Online Conflict Between [practitioner] & the Other Online Board Co-Administrator, July 27 - August 1, ***0.")
III: Negligence
I feel negligence happened when I endeavored to communicate with [practitioner] (in hopes our relationship hadn't been marred) regarding the misunderstanding/conflict that happened between he and the other Co-Adminstrator on the online discussion board. (For an overview of these exchanges with emails, see the enclosed "My Individual Email Exchanges with [practitioner] After the Ultimatum Email, August 2, ***0.")
[Practitioner's] response to my attempt was to blame and accuse me, intentionally or unintentionally using my deepest vulnerabilities against me (of which he was fully aware as my therapist), and to cut off communication with me. (Again see, "My Individual Email Exchanges with [practitioner] After the Ultimatum Email, August 2, ***0.")
On August 3, ***0, the day after he cut off communication with me, he called me and left a message on my home voice mail stating that his assistant told him that I had contacted her and wanted to talk to [practitioner]. [Practitioner] also stated that he felt he was emotionally able to talk at that point and that I could call him on his cell if I wanted to talk. (note: I never contacted his assistant.)
I was out of town that day (August 3) and got the message when I arrived home after 2:00 AM on August 4.
On August 4, around 10:00 AM, I called [practitioner's] cell phone and got his voice mail. I left a message in which I told him that I never contacted his assitant. I stated that the only thing his assistant may have gotten from me was when I sent a payment of $70 on August 2 to [practitioner's] Paypal account in order to clear my balance due and that I had included a note, with my Paypal payment, that if it wasn't correct to let me know. At that point (in leaving my voice mail on [practitioner's] cell) I got a little choked up (with tears) and stated that if he wanted to talk, I was open to that and that it'd be nice to end on a more positive note.
I never heard back.
****
My Emotional Responses To and Since the Incidents
My initial response to [practitioner's] final emails were fright and then numbness; I simply went numb. It all felt like a bad dream. Within a few hours I was devasated; confused; doubting my reality, my integrity and my motives; and feeling I was totally at fault. I had to take the next day off work.
On August 4, when I heard [practitioner's] voice mail that he had left on August 3, I felt I would have to somehow prove to [practitioner] that I had never contacted his assistant, that he might think I was or accuse me of lying.
I had anxiety regarding calling [practitioner] back; I feared verbal attack or that information would be twisted or that I would simply agree with whatever [practitioner] stated that I had done wrong, though I still didn't really understand what I had done wrong. I also felt [practitioner] might expect me to apologize, and I still wasn't sure what I had done wrong so I wouldn't know what to apologize for. All that was mixed with a feeling that maybe we could have a better closure to our relationship, and perhaps even work things out.
In spite of my anxiety, I called [practitioner] back and got his voice mail. I left the message as stated above in #III. When [practitioner] never got back with me, I felt like a non-person, or like the calls never happened, or like I was making things up (which I wasn't).
I have experienced the following in varying degrees since the trauma. The following list is reprinted from How Therapists Abuse Their Clients.
- Complete devastation and despair (feeling like Munch's The Scream - see http://www.ivcc.edu/rambo/eng1001/munch.htm)
- Self blame and feelings of failure, guilt and confusion
- Loss of self-confidence and self-esteem [...]
- Withdrawal and inability to talk about the abuse; and feeling also that no one understands
- Doubting your own perceptions and reality
- Emotional detachment or "shutting down" (leading among other things to loss of empathy and lack of emotional response within oneself)
- Intrusive negative rumination/intrusive negative thoughts/flashbacks
After [practitioner] cut off communication with me, I hired my local pyschologist to get his viewpoint of the situation and to help repair the harm wrought. He also has read emails, some of which I have not included with this complaint packet. You may contact him here: [psychologist name and phone number].
I have also seen my medical doctor, [MD's name and phone number].
I accept my responsibility in taking on the various relationships with [practitioner] and the positions for which I volunteered and for all my actions/inactions and mistakes related to those positions, relationships, and the fall out afterward. I never imagined the situation would end as it did, and I doubt [practitioner] did either.
Because of the manner in which [practitioner] cut off communication with me, I feel the only reasonable recourse I have is to file a complaint with the hopes that [practitioner] realizes the deep and agonizing emotional trauma and harm this entire situation has had on my life and that another client-turned-colleague/friend will never again endure such.
Thank you,
[client signature]
September, ***0
cc: [psychologist]
_______
October 10, 2016
Sacred routine
Hip pack.
Blue tooth.
Phone.
Charging cord.
Soft cooler with shoulder strap.
Water bottle.
Orange.
Almond coconut Cliff bar.
No need for oil, I've already had my afternoon dose.
Envelope with a payment for the eye doctor.
Wow. Maybe I will get back to "normal."
Pre-surgery, my regular routine was to take along my survival kit when I'd leave for the day. It always includes my hip pack and soft cooler, with their contents. Today, as I packed my survival kit, I felt a feeling of 'normalcy,' almost sacred. I hadn't realized the sacredness of this routine, until now.
Two days ago, I had driven for the first time since 8/29/16. And again yesterday. Hubby was with me on both those trips. Today is my first day out alone since six weeks ago. It feels like it's been months.
Cane, in hand.
Trekking poles, in the laundry room. I'll get them on the way out.
Walker, already loaded in the Explorer.
Where should I go? Somewhere outside, I think. I won't be able to hobble far. I need to go where there is a bench handy, so I can sit and rest.
Pilot Mountain? I don't feel like driving that far. And I'd hit Hwy. 52 traffic at rush hour.
Par Course? There's a bench right at the entrance. But it's rained a lot, and the path will probably be muddy. And I'd hit Silas Creek Parkway at rush-hour.
I slowly make my way down the stairs as I carefully place my right foot on a wooden step, and then follow with my left foot on the same step. I've been practicing stairs a lot.
Bad, down to hell. Good, up to heaven.
That's the formula to remind me which leg to lead off with. When going up the stairs, good leg first. When going down, bad leg first. I don't like calling my surgery leg my "bad" leg. But for doing the stairs, I make an exception.
I successfully reach the ceramic tile landing at the bottom of the stairs.
With cane in hand, but not using the cane, I make my way through the den as I practice walking. I concentrate endeavoring to not limp (which is impossible). But I keep proper form as best I can. I focus to keep my balance, to strategically place my footsteps. I feel the muscles working in my surgery leg reminding myself their memory is working and will come fully back.
I feel like I am learning how to walk again.
It's not just a feeling.
I wonder what it must feel like to a child walking for the very first time. I doubt they are so keenly conscious and aware of their muscles moving. But maybe they are. I wonder if they feel excitement? Or is it just something they do and wonder what it is they are doing? They like it, so they do it again? I'm sure they don't feel the pain of cut muscles reuniting.
I make my way through the den, then the office, then the laundry room where I pick up my trekking poles. I put my right hand though a trekking pole loop, and let it drape my wrist as I grasp the pole on its grip with my right hand. I do the same with my left hand, in which I also hold the handle of my cane. My cane is shorter than my trekking pole and doesn't touch the ground.
Using my trekking poles, which help me keep proper walking form, I slowly make my way through the garage and out to Edward the Explorer. I open the driver door, pull my hands out of the loops, and lean my trekking poles and my cane up against the door jam. With my right hand I unhook the bright green and silver carabiner that holds my keys and is latched onto my hip pack. I lean across the driver seat and place my keys in the console.
Blue tooth.
Phone.
Charging cord.
Soft cooler with shoulder strap.
Water bottle.
Orange.
Almond coconut Cliff bar.
No need for oil, I've already had my afternoon dose.
Envelope with a payment for the eye doctor.
Wow. Maybe I will get back to "normal."
Pre-surgery, my regular routine was to take along my survival kit when I'd leave for the day. It always includes my hip pack and soft cooler, with their contents. Today, as I packed my survival kit, I felt a feeling of 'normalcy,' almost sacred. I hadn't realized the sacredness of this routine, until now.
Two days ago, I had driven for the first time since 8/29/16. And again yesterday. Hubby was with me on both those trips. Today is my first day out alone since six weeks ago. It feels like it's been months.
Cane, in hand.
Trekking poles, in the laundry room. I'll get them on the way out.
Walker, already loaded in the Explorer.
Where should I go? Somewhere outside, I think. I won't be able to hobble far. I need to go where there is a bench handy, so I can sit and rest.
Pilot Mountain? I don't feel like driving that far. And I'd hit Hwy. 52 traffic at rush hour.
Par Course? There's a bench right at the entrance. But it's rained a lot, and the path will probably be muddy. And I'd hit Silas Creek Parkway at rush-hour.
I slowly make my way down the stairs as I carefully place my right foot on a wooden step, and then follow with my left foot on the same step. I've been practicing stairs a lot.
Bad, down to hell. Good, up to heaven.
That's the formula to remind me which leg to lead off with. When going up the stairs, good leg first. When going down, bad leg first. I don't like calling my surgery leg my "bad" leg. But for doing the stairs, I make an exception.
I successfully reach the ceramic tile landing at the bottom of the stairs.
With cane in hand, but not using the cane, I make my way through the den as I practice walking. I concentrate endeavoring to not limp (which is impossible). But I keep proper form as best I can. I focus to keep my balance, to strategically place my footsteps. I feel the muscles working in my surgery leg reminding myself their memory is working and will come fully back.
I feel like I am learning how to walk again.
It's not just a feeling.
I wonder what it must feel like to a child walking for the very first time. I doubt they are so keenly conscious and aware of their muscles moving. But maybe they are. I wonder if they feel excitement? Or is it just something they do and wonder what it is they are doing? They like it, so they do it again? I'm sure they don't feel the pain of cut muscles reuniting.
I make my way through the den, then the office, then the laundry room where I pick up my trekking poles. I put my right hand though a trekking pole loop, and let it drape my wrist as I grasp the pole on its grip with my right hand. I do the same with my left hand, in which I also hold the handle of my cane. My cane is shorter than my trekking pole and doesn't touch the ground.
Using my trekking poles, which help me keep proper walking form, I slowly make my way through the garage and out to Edward the Explorer. I open the driver door, pull my hands out of the loops, and lean my trekking poles and my cane up against the door jam. With my right hand I unhook the bright green and silver carabiner that holds my keys and is latched onto my hip pack. I lean across the driver seat and place my keys in the console.
Holding my cane in my right hand, I extend my right arm across the driver seat and prop the cane on the passenger side. I unhook my hip pack and throw it across the driver seat; it lands in the passenger seat. I pull the strap of the soft cooler over my head. I again reach as best I can tossing it onto the passenger seat. It's a bit more awkward than my hip pack.
I grasp my trekking poles, step backwards, and make my way to the door behind the driver seat. I open it and place my trekking poles in the back alongside Wally, my walker. I close the door and hobble back to the open driver door.
With my left hand holding onto the door and my right hand holding the steering wheel, I slowly, deliberately, and carefully place my good foot, which is my right foot, onto the running board and step up. I make sure I'm stable and then carefully pick up my left foot and place it on the running board in front of my right foot. My left hand lets go of the door and takes hold of the door jam next to the windshield. I stand for a moment making sure I'm balanced before my next move. While still holding the steering wheel with my right hand, I carefully place my right foot into the vehicle and onto the floor board lowering myself into my seat as I pull in my surgery leg and place it on the floor board. I reach with my left arm and close the driver door. I take a deep breath in and slowly exhale.
Good job Carol.
I settle into the seat and put on my seat belt.
Well, I need to drop this payment in the mail box at the post office. I'll just head that direction and see where I end up afterwards.
I grasp my trekking poles, step backwards, and make my way to the door behind the driver seat. I open it and place my trekking poles in the back alongside Wally, my walker. I close the door and hobble back to the open driver door.
With my left hand holding onto the door and my right hand holding the steering wheel, I slowly, deliberately, and carefully place my good foot, which is my right foot, onto the running board and step up. I make sure I'm stable and then carefully pick up my left foot and place it on the running board in front of my right foot. My left hand lets go of the door and takes hold of the door jam next to the windshield. I stand for a moment making sure I'm balanced before my next move. While still holding the steering wheel with my right hand, I carefully place my right foot into the vehicle and onto the floor board lowering myself into my seat as I pull in my surgery leg and place it on the floor board. I reach with my left arm and close the driver door. I take a deep breath in and slowly exhale.
Good job Carol.
I settle into the seat and put on my seat belt.
Well, I need to drop this payment in the mail box at the post office. I'll just head that direction and see where I end up afterwards.
Almost six weeks
This morning as I was continuing to ponder the idea of a grief vessel, I thought...
The grief vessel holds not just losses, but also love.
And then I read from Coryell's book, "Hidden in the shadow of loss is the power of love..."
What does that mean, "the power of love?"
For a moment, I felt elusive; the phrase held no substance. And in the next moment...
Sacrifice. Sacrifice is love. The "power" of it saves another.
My immediate thought was of Jesus Christ, the sacrificial lamb for all humanity...
*sigh* One of my sore spots with the scriptures and a question that was never answered to my satisfaction when I was a believer. Why is bloodshed required for redemption?
But I'm not thinking of that kind of sacrifice, the kind where one entity demands sacrifice of another, like where God commands his son to sacrifice himself or humans to sacrifice animals. But rather self-sacrifice, total benevolence, an action taken out of totally giving of oneself to save another, which, according to the scriptures, Jesus also did in order to "save" mankind from separation from God now and later. Again, according to the scriptures.
Which brings to mind Jesus's sacrifice from a René Girardian-sort-of angle, as a revolutionary or activist whom the community murdered as a scapegoat for its ills, the sad outcome of extreme greed from those whose only concern is their own advancement or that of their own pure ideology. Who is saved in such a sacrifice?
My next thought was a mental image of a headline I'd read in the morning news. Something like "Mother pushes child out of car's way and dies; child lives"...
That's the kind of sacrifice I'm thinking about. Her sacrifice saved another life. Isn't that the "power" of love?
*~*
Recovery from this revision hip surgery has been really rough.
As my hip continues to heal, the nerve damage continues its normal course of worsening as I get farther away from my last epidural.
I worked with my head on "this" before surgery, but I don't know how well I'm doing with "it." "This" and "it" refer to the fact that most often when a person goes through this type surgery, they will feel better as a result, as the recovery continues to progress.
That is not the case for me. I knew that going it. I know that now. It's a really, really hard reality, and depressing.
But, there is the hope that as months/years tick by, I might feel a difference. And, if not, we at least stopped the development of bone necrosis and the spread of metallosis. I keep telling myself that.
The surgery has "set me back" in the immediate, as far as the nerve damage. One reason (and only one), is because other parts of my body have to compensate for the functions of my surgical leg as it recovers and regains function. That can be rough on any body, especially one with widespread nerve damage.
I've had to temporarily (which feels like forever) give up one of my top relief remedies -- riding my bike. It not only relieves the physical, but also the mental and emotional challenges that come with my body's dysfunction. And I miss my pet sitting. Both riding my bike and pet sitting give me purpose and meaning, and they help my confidence.
Tomorrow will be six weeks from surgery. It feels like three months. I also knew that going in -- how time goes s-l-o-w-l-y in these blurry, isolated weeks.
On an up-note, I was able to drive for the first time this past Saturday. That means I can get out of the house independently.
My friend and temporary caregiver, Joy, left on Wednesday, 9/28. Hubby took off work and stayed home on 10/06 and 10/07. So this is my first full week home alone through the day hours. But not really alone because the physical therapist will come see me three days. Plus I can drive now, as my energy allows.
The grief vessel holds not just losses, but also love.
And then I read from Coryell's book, "Hidden in the shadow of loss is the power of love..."
What does that mean, "the power of love?"
For a moment, I felt elusive; the phrase held no substance. And in the next moment...
Sacrifice. Sacrifice is love. The "power" of it saves another.
My immediate thought was of Jesus Christ, the sacrificial lamb for all humanity...
*sigh* One of my sore spots with the scriptures and a question that was never answered to my satisfaction when I was a believer. Why is bloodshed required for redemption?
But I'm not thinking of that kind of sacrifice, the kind where one entity demands sacrifice of another, like where God commands his son to sacrifice himself or humans to sacrifice animals. But rather self-sacrifice, total benevolence, an action taken out of totally giving of oneself to save another, which, according to the scriptures, Jesus also did in order to "save" mankind from separation from God now and later. Again, according to the scriptures.
Which brings to mind Jesus's sacrifice from a René Girardian-sort-of angle, as a revolutionary or activist whom the community murdered as a scapegoat for its ills, the sad outcome of extreme greed from those whose only concern is their own advancement or that of their own pure ideology. Who is saved in such a sacrifice?
My next thought was a mental image of a headline I'd read in the morning news. Something like "Mother pushes child out of car's way and dies; child lives"...
That's the kind of sacrifice I'm thinking about. Her sacrifice saved another life. Isn't that the "power" of love?
*~*
Recovery from this revision hip surgery has been really rough.
As my hip continues to heal, the nerve damage continues its normal course of worsening as I get farther away from my last epidural.
I worked with my head on "this" before surgery, but I don't know how well I'm doing with "it." "This" and "it" refer to the fact that most often when a person goes through this type surgery, they will feel better as a result, as the recovery continues to progress.
That is not the case for me. I knew that going it. I know that now. It's a really, really hard reality, and depressing.
But, there is the hope that as months/years tick by, I might feel a difference. And, if not, we at least stopped the development of bone necrosis and the spread of metallosis. I keep telling myself that.
The surgery has "set me back" in the immediate, as far as the nerve damage. One reason (and only one), is because other parts of my body have to compensate for the functions of my surgical leg as it recovers and regains function. That can be rough on any body, especially one with widespread nerve damage.
I've had to temporarily (which feels like forever) give up one of my top relief remedies -- riding my bike. It not only relieves the physical, but also the mental and emotional challenges that come with my body's dysfunction. And I miss my pet sitting. Both riding my bike and pet sitting give me purpose and meaning, and they help my confidence.
Tomorrow will be six weeks from surgery. It feels like three months. I also knew that going in -- how time goes s-l-o-w-l-y in these blurry, isolated weeks.
On an up-note, I was able to drive for the first time this past Saturday. That means I can get out of the house independently.
My friend and temporary caregiver, Joy, left on Wednesday, 9/28. Hubby took off work and stayed home on 10/06 and 10/07. So this is my first full week home alone through the day hours. But not really alone because the physical therapist will come see me three days. Plus I can drive now, as my energy allows.
October 9, 2016
Grief Vessel
*~*
Intention. Observe. Breathe.
Three allies to help me stay present.
Which then helps me transform the pain of loss into something meaningful.
More morning embers while reading from Deborah Morris Coryell's book, Good Grief.
*~*
Three footsteps to staying open and present to the "challenge of loss" (and "the face of love, or the act of creation")
1) I need to have the desire, intention, commitment to keep my self present.
Can I find meaning in the losses? Grief is the vessel for loss(es).
This morning I got a mental image of losses as clay balls. Some are smaller than marbles; others are as large as ping pong balls. (The vessel is inside of me, in my torso area, so they can't be larger than ping pong balls. This morning, the vessel was in the shape of jug. Other times, I've seen it as a jar or vase. It's always cylindrical.)
At first a clay ball is soft. If too many fresh clay balls are added to the vessel at once and allowed to accumulate quickly without thought, the weight of the ones on top will compress and morph the ones beneath causing the beneath-ones to lose their spherical-shape or merge or become flat; their shapes change. If the clay balls collect more slowly over a span of time, they have time to harden and dry and keep their spherical shapes, until the weight of the top-ones cause beneath-ones to crack and fragment and become dust.
The temperature of the vessel is vital. If the vessel is kept at a too-cool temperature, the clay balls will be pliable for a longer period of time, but eventually they will dry and harden and crack and become fragments and dust. If the vessel is fiery hot, it will cure the clay too quickly and cause it to explode into tiny pieces and shards. Both the shards and dust collect in the bottom of the vessel.
But if the vessel's temperature is properly cared for, the clay balls come out as beautiful clay marbles or spheres, or other shapes if they've sat a while in the cool and morphed but not had time to turn to dust. The properly fired pieces may have bits of shard in them from previous clay balls when the vessel was too hot and caused some spheres to explode. Or they may have bits of dust from the clay that sat a long time and eventually fragmented. I can even use clear clay, since this is all imaginary, and the vessel produces crystal balls and shapes that make prisms.
It is my responsibility to tend to the vessel, to keep an eye on its temperature. If not, the vessel could get so full with misshapen hardened and brittle and exploded clay that it develops fissures and cracks.
The grief vessel isn't something to dwell on, but to be aware of and attend to, allowing it to do its job.
2) Objectively observe, be a witness, to the parade of thoughts in my head. Choose the thoughts that keep me present.
But don't suppress. Categorize. Maybe past, future, present?
If my thoughts are draining me instead of energizing me, ask, What will help me get my thoughts back on the path and out of the thicket? Do I need sleep? Do I need to move my body? Do I need a massage? Do I need connection with my energy-sources?
3) Breathe.
One with the in-breath... One with the out-breath... Two with the in-breath... Two with the out-breath...
For over 15 years, breathing was almost a daily struggle for me. That is no longer the case; remember.
*~*
Loss happens every day to every living creature.
It is as common as breathing.
Breath is vital for life.
What about "loss"?
*~*
Intention. Observe. Breathe.
Three allies to help me stay present.
Which then helps me transform the pain of loss into something meaningful.
More morning embers while reading from Deborah Morris Coryell's book, Good Grief.
*~*
Three footsteps to staying open and present to the "challenge of loss" (and "the face of love, or the act of creation")
1) I need to have the desire, intention, commitment to keep my self present.
Can I find meaning in the losses? Grief is the vessel for loss(es).
This morning I got a mental image of losses as clay balls. Some are smaller than marbles; others are as large as ping pong balls. (The vessel is inside of me, in my torso area, so they can't be larger than ping pong balls. This morning, the vessel was in the shape of jug. Other times, I've seen it as a jar or vase. It's always cylindrical.)
At first a clay ball is soft. If too many fresh clay balls are added to the vessel at once and allowed to accumulate quickly without thought, the weight of the ones on top will compress and morph the ones beneath causing the beneath-ones to lose their spherical-shape or merge or become flat; their shapes change. If the clay balls collect more slowly over a span of time, they have time to harden and dry and keep their spherical shapes, until the weight of the top-ones cause beneath-ones to crack and fragment and become dust.
The temperature of the vessel is vital. If the vessel is kept at a too-cool temperature, the clay balls will be pliable for a longer period of time, but eventually they will dry and harden and crack and become fragments and dust. If the vessel is fiery hot, it will cure the clay too quickly and cause it to explode into tiny pieces and shards. Both the shards and dust collect in the bottom of the vessel.
But if the vessel's temperature is properly cared for, the clay balls come out as beautiful clay marbles or spheres, or other shapes if they've sat a while in the cool and morphed but not had time to turn to dust. The properly fired pieces may have bits of shard in them from previous clay balls when the vessel was too hot and caused some spheres to explode. Or they may have bits of dust from the clay that sat a long time and eventually fragmented. I can even use clear clay, since this is all imaginary, and the vessel produces crystal balls and shapes that make prisms.
It is my responsibility to tend to the vessel, to keep an eye on its temperature. If not, the vessel could get so full with misshapen hardened and brittle and exploded clay that it develops fissures and cracks.
The grief vessel isn't something to dwell on, but to be aware of and attend to, allowing it to do its job.
2) Objectively observe, be a witness, to the parade of thoughts in my head. Choose the thoughts that keep me present.
But don't suppress. Categorize. Maybe past, future, present?
If my thoughts are draining me instead of energizing me, ask, What will help me get my thoughts back on the path and out of the thicket? Do I need sleep? Do I need to move my body? Do I need a massage? Do I need connection with my energy-sources?
3) Breathe.
One with the in-breath... One with the out-breath... Two with the in-breath... Two with the out-breath...
For over 15 years, breathing was almost a daily struggle for me. That is no longer the case; remember.
*~*
Loss happens every day to every living creature.
It is as common as breathing.
Breath is vital for life.
What about "loss"?
*~*
 |
| clay spheres by richard weber |
October 8, 2016
Morning embers: The Quest
*~*
This Quest is not a "conquest." It's not something to be overcome or conquered. I think of it more like "questions," and through those questions there is discovery. The Path is Openness.
Some morning thoughts sparked after reading from Deborah Morris Coryell's book, Good Grief, and Stephen King's book, On Writing.
*~*
The Quest: to feel connected to the source of life
My immediate response to "feeling connected to the source of life" is a feeling in my gut, in my womb. It's not a bad feeling; it's not a good feeling. Or maybe it is a good feeling. I just know, in that area of my body, I feel a source of groundedness. Isn't that connection? (The womb is one source of life, or a part of the source. Men don't have wombs. Or maybe they do? At least in their cells. It seems there would be a type of womb in every cell alive - an incubator for the source of life for that cell.)
Regardless, I have oft experienced the feeling of being connected to some sort of presence of life. I think it is a common trait shared with every living creature, and perhaps even plants, if they can "feel." In this current season of my life, I feel that connection most when being with the woods, or when bringing those woods-fellowship moments to remembrance.
I want to remember. I long to remember events of my past where there are giant blanks of nothingness. Even if they were "bad" things.
One of my least favorite scriptures is.: "Declaring null and void those things which are behind, and reaching forth to that which is before..." I don't like it at, all. To declare null and void those things which are behind? To void it out like it never happened? No, no. For me, that is no way to fully embrace life.
In order to "feel connected," I must show up.
Once I show up, I need to be present -- aware of my self, my space, my environment. Simply "to be" in that particular moment. Easier said than done at times, especially if I'm tired or fatigued.
But with practice, especially in the past couple years, I've gotten better at being in-the-present. I've had to be able to describe my all-over and ever-morphing symptoms. Then I could address them. And in order to do that, I had to be present and aware.
That awareness and observation poured over as I began seeing and feeling improvement, as my thighs first got "juice" back into them, as I rode Olivia through the woods, so very keen of my body, and then the sounds around me, and the sights, and the smells, and the analogies, and the wildlife. Sometimes I've felt like Snow White as rabbits and birds and deer and groundhogs accompany me, even if only for a moment. Those moments are eternal. And in those moments, I was embraced by the presence of it all.
By being present, whatever moment I am in leaves a clearer picture, less fuzzy. I want to say leaves a more "powerful imprint" than if I'm not aware, not present. But I don't know if that's the case. Everything leaves some sort of imprint. Do I know for sure that some imprints have a greater impact? What about the imprints of which I can't recall the stamp? What about the imprints that I'm not even aware of? Does that make them "less powerful"? Do I recall better the imprints made when I was most present?
I doubt there are definitive answers to those questions. Regardless, it seems to me, that a clearer imprint and less fuzzy picture would produce a more-retrievable memory, and the feeling that goes with that memory. Then I can choose what to do with that memory and that feeling.
Being present, I am open.
So the key, or at least a key to being present, is to be open. To be open is to be vulnerable. It's risky. So how do I balance the risk with the benefit? Perhaps think of it like medicine? But not just a medicine that masks or controls symptoms; rather, a medicine that brings healing. By "thinking of it like medicine," I mean, do the side effects of the remedy outweigh the risks? What are the risks to being open and thus vulnerable? What are the benefits?
*~*
This Quest is not a "conquest." It's not something to be overcome or conquered. I think of it more like "questions," and through those questions there is discovery. The Path is Openness.
Some morning thoughts sparked after reading from Deborah Morris Coryell's book, Good Grief, and Stephen King's book, On Writing.
*~*
The Quest: to feel connected to the source of life
My immediate response to "feeling connected to the source of life" is a feeling in my gut, in my womb. It's not a bad feeling; it's not a good feeling. Or maybe it is a good feeling. I just know, in that area of my body, I feel a source of groundedness. Isn't that connection? (The womb is one source of life, or a part of the source. Men don't have wombs. Or maybe they do? At least in their cells. It seems there would be a type of womb in every cell alive - an incubator for the source of life for that cell.)
Regardless, I have oft experienced the feeling of being connected to some sort of presence of life. I think it is a common trait shared with every living creature, and perhaps even plants, if they can "feel." In this current season of my life, I feel that connection most when being with the woods, or when bringing those woods-fellowship moments to remembrance.
I want to remember. I long to remember events of my past where there are giant blanks of nothingness. Even if they were "bad" things.
One of my least favorite scriptures is.: "Declaring null and void those things which are behind, and reaching forth to that which is before..." I don't like it at, all. To declare null and void those things which are behind? To void it out like it never happened? No, no. For me, that is no way to fully embrace life.
In order to "feel connected," I must show up.
Once I show up, I need to be present -- aware of my self, my space, my environment. Simply "to be" in that particular moment. Easier said than done at times, especially if I'm tired or fatigued.
But with practice, especially in the past couple years, I've gotten better at being in-the-present. I've had to be able to describe my all-over and ever-morphing symptoms. Then I could address them. And in order to do that, I had to be present and aware.
That awareness and observation poured over as I began seeing and feeling improvement, as my thighs first got "juice" back into them, as I rode Olivia through the woods, so very keen of my body, and then the sounds around me, and the sights, and the smells, and the analogies, and the wildlife. Sometimes I've felt like Snow White as rabbits and birds and deer and groundhogs accompany me, even if only for a moment. Those moments are eternal. And in those moments, I was embraced by the presence of it all.
By being present, whatever moment I am in leaves a clearer picture, less fuzzy. I want to say leaves a more "powerful imprint" than if I'm not aware, not present. But I don't know if that's the case. Everything leaves some sort of imprint. Do I know for sure that some imprints have a greater impact? What about the imprints of which I can't recall the stamp? What about the imprints that I'm not even aware of? Does that make them "less powerful"? Do I recall better the imprints made when I was most present?
I doubt there are definitive answers to those questions. Regardless, it seems to me, that a clearer imprint and less fuzzy picture would produce a more-retrievable memory, and the feeling that goes with that memory. Then I can choose what to do with that memory and that feeling.
Being present, I am open.
So the key, or at least a key to being present, is to be open. To be open is to be vulnerable. It's risky. So how do I balance the risk with the benefit? Perhaps think of it like medicine? But not just a medicine that masks or controls symptoms; rather, a medicine that brings healing. By "thinking of it like medicine," I mean, do the side effects of the remedy outweigh the risks? What are the risks to being open and thus vulnerable? What are the benefits?
*~*
October 6, 2016
Loss and lost...
I sit
Exhausted
Reality again staring me in the face
My body wracked and broken
Tears pour
And I wail
And wail some more
A chasm in my soul
A too-often recurring scenario
In the past five years
Exhausted
Reality again staring me in the face
My body wracked and broken
Tears pour
And I wail
And wail some more
A chasm in my soul
A too-often recurring scenario
In the past five years
In the past thirty years, but for other reasons
I tell myself, I will heal from the recent surgery
Even though it feels like I'm stuck in this place
In this state of disrepair
I remind myself, I will heal from the surgery
But the nerve damage, the nerve damage
It may not go away
My heart beats faster
Fear, worry
Sometimes I feel I'm just waiting for the next bad thing to happen
For more bad news
It's terrifying as I recall just how bad it's been at its worst...
Body -- fatigued, heavy as if iron shards course through my every cell while Earth, like a giant magnet, tries to suck me into her very core
Limbs -- like concrete, struggle to propel
Arms -- strengthless, unable to rise past twenty
Biceps -- lightening bolts shoot through the muscle, deadening movement in its track
Forearms -- heavy, wet sand moves within like mercury, sinews pulled back and forth, side to side
Wrists -- weak, inflamed, moveable lumps
Fingers and hands -- swollen, unable to grip, numb, tingling
Palms of hands and soles of feet -- swollen, tender
Legs -- heavy, deadened, feeble
Knees -- inflamed, stiff
Ankles -- sporadic shooting pains
Bones -- ache, porous, about to buckle
Organs -- feel on the verge of failure
Brain -- tired, soupy, foggy, mud
Neck -- stiff, inflexible
Head -- weighted, a cumbersome ball
Jaws -- unable to fully open or clench and chew
Throat -- swallows slowly, deliberately
Mouth -- tiny pools of spit gather in the corners, but not enough to drool
Belly -- seethes, a cauldron filled with fiery juices, bloats like a pregnant guppy
Spine -- weak, collapsible
Dizziness -- as I rise or sit, the room jostles, but not enough to cause a fall
Dreams -- stolen, lost
Self -- dismembered
It's terrifying as I recall just how bad it was at its worst...
The key word -- was
I have felt improvement in the last year
This surgery is a bump in the road
More like a mountain
But I've climbed mountains before
*~*
I peruse the books I'd pulled out a few weeks ago
When I thought I might do some reading during recovery from surgery
When I thought I'd have time and energy and inclination to read an actual book
That hasn't happened
But maybe something will spark in me this morning as I read the titles
One book stands out -- Good Grief: Healing Through the Shadow of Loss by Deborah Morris Coryell
I bought the book years ago at Borders
As I searched for an understanding of the overwhelming losses I felt after leaving The Way
Some that had been suppressed for decades gurgled at first
And then spewed like a geyser
This book helped me then
Maybe it will help me now
I open and begin to read
As I read, I cry
I tell myself, I will heal from the recent surgery
Even though it feels like I'm stuck in this place
In this state of disrepair
I remind myself, I will heal from the surgery
But the nerve damage, the nerve damage
It may not go away
My heart beats faster
Fear, worry
Sometimes I feel I'm just waiting for the next bad thing to happen
For more bad news
It's terrifying as I recall just how bad it's been at its worst...
Body -- fatigued, heavy as if iron shards course through my every cell while Earth, like a giant magnet, tries to suck me into her very core
Limbs -- like concrete, struggle to propel
Arms -- strengthless, unable to rise past twenty
Biceps -- lightening bolts shoot through the muscle, deadening movement in its track
Forearms -- heavy, wet sand moves within like mercury, sinews pulled back and forth, side to side
Wrists -- weak, inflamed, moveable lumps
Fingers and hands -- swollen, unable to grip, numb, tingling
Palms of hands and soles of feet -- swollen, tender
Legs -- heavy, deadened, feeble
Knees -- inflamed, stiff
Ankles -- sporadic shooting pains
Bones -- ache, porous, about to buckle
Organs -- feel on the verge of failure
Brain -- tired, soupy, foggy, mud
Neck -- stiff, inflexible
Head -- weighted, a cumbersome ball
Jaws -- unable to fully open or clench and chew
Throat -- swallows slowly, deliberately
Mouth -- tiny pools of spit gather in the corners, but not enough to drool
Belly -- seethes, a cauldron filled with fiery juices, bloats like a pregnant guppy
Spine -- weak, collapsible
Dizziness -- as I rise or sit, the room jostles, but not enough to cause a fall
Dreams -- stolen, lost
Self -- dismembered
It's terrifying as I recall just how bad it was at its worst...
The key word -- was
I have felt improvement in the last year
This surgery is a bump in the road
More like a mountain
But I've climbed mountains before
*~*
I peruse the books I'd pulled out a few weeks ago
When I thought I might do some reading during recovery from surgery
When I thought I'd have time and energy and inclination to read an actual book
That hasn't happened
But maybe something will spark in me this morning as I read the titles
One book stands out -- Good Grief: Healing Through the Shadow of Loss by Deborah Morris Coryell
I bought the book years ago at Borders
As I searched for an understanding of the overwhelming losses I felt after leaving The Way
Some that had been suppressed for decades gurgled at first
And then spewed like a geyser
This book helped me then
Maybe it will help me now
I open and begin to read
As I read, I cry
Coryell puts into words what I've been feeling
Not just from the nerve damage
Not just from the surgery
But from the repeated pounding of one loss after another
Of losing my sense of identity and purpose
Of trying to rediscover those again
Only to have them bashed and pulverized
Then to arise again in a different space
And then that too gets robbed in part or whole, temporarily or permanently
*~*
Page 5
...Within the idea of "lost" is the feeling of being alone. Are we saying "I have lost" and really meaning "I am lost"? When we are attached to someone or something and we become unattached, we lose our sense of being connected: of knowing where our place is in the world. We've lost our place. Whether it is temporarily lost or permanently lost is up to us. Part of the task of grieving is finding our place in the world again. Who am I if not Jim's wife? Laura's mom? Bob's daughter? Suzanne's friend? Head of the maintenance department? Owner of the beautiful home?...
Page 8
...The capacity to nourish ourselves with our memories is vastly underrated...
...When we want or need to be with someone or something from which we feel disconnected, we can call upon our stores of remembered experiences...
...from a biochemical standpoint, the organism's experience of being hugged by the self is no different from being hugged by another. In hugging one's self the same rise in T cells, immune response, and endorphins are experienced...
*~*
Yes, yes...
I've done this before...
I can do it again...
I will rise again and be stronger for it...
I will find my path again...
*~*
Not just from the nerve damage
Not just from the surgery
But from the repeated pounding of one loss after another
Of losing my sense of identity and purpose
Of trying to rediscover those again
Only to have them bashed and pulverized
Then to arise again in a different space
And then that too gets robbed in part or whole, temporarily or permanently
*~*
Page 5
...Within the idea of "lost" is the feeling of being alone. Are we saying "I have lost" and really meaning "I am lost"? When we are attached to someone or something and we become unattached, we lose our sense of being connected: of knowing where our place is in the world. We've lost our place. Whether it is temporarily lost or permanently lost is up to us. Part of the task of grieving is finding our place in the world again. Who am I if not Jim's wife? Laura's mom? Bob's daughter? Suzanne's friend? Head of the maintenance department? Owner of the beautiful home?...
Page 8
...The capacity to nourish ourselves with our memories is vastly underrated...
...When we want or need to be with someone or something from which we feel disconnected, we can call upon our stores of remembered experiences...
...from a biochemical standpoint, the organism's experience of being hugged by the self is no different from being hugged by another. In hugging one's self the same rise in T cells, immune response, and endorphins are experienced...
*~*
Yes, yes...
I've done this before...
I can do it again...
I will rise again and be stronger for it...
I will find my path again...
*~*
October 4, 2016
A New Page
For months or more, when I'd open my blog and see the side bar with the three "pages" listed in regard to information on one of my former mental health therapist who lost his license in 2014, I'd think, I really want those off my side bar. And Knapp's name; I don't like seeing it on my side bar. But I want to keep the information up here; Knapp may still be preying just in a different mask. The information may help a next Knapp target. I could change the titles of the pages, but I don't want to do that either. And I want to keep the links in tact because they are posted elsewhere online by myself and others.
"Pages" and "posts" are published differently on Blogger. If I could change the "pages" to "posts" and redirect to the new links, I could display them differently. But I couldn't find a way to do that.
Then last night finally a solution came to me. However, I still lose two of the links. But one link would still be in tact. I decided I can live with that arrangement.
The link that has gotten the most hits is the "Complaint Overview." Even while my blog was not listed on search engines the last couple years, that link still got hits. So, I kept that page link in tact but changed the content of the page. The new content includes new links to the three previous "pages," which are now "posts." (I realize folks who don't blog, and maybe those who do, may not follow what I just typed, but that's the best I can do for now even though it's as clear as mud.)
Here's the link to the page with the new content: Therapist Abuse
I continue to work through the after-effects of the trauma endured from my relationship with John Knapp, I'm not the only client whom he preyed upon. At least now, he can no longer prey as a licensed mental health therapist.
I have again listed my blog on public search engines, at least for now.
*~*
On the surgery front:
At my September 28 post-op appointment, I got permission to start putting weight on my surgery leg. I'm now alternating between cane and walker. Other restrictions were lifted as well. No more wedge between my legs; I can change positions in my sleep. No more blood-clot-prevention belly injections. No more compression sock. I can begin using my leg as it gains strength and ability. The physical therapist will continue home visits through October 14. I then have an order for out-patient physical therapy at a clinic.
I received my cervical neck shots on Monday, 10/03. They should help some. My arms were getting bad and I couldn't lift them well at all. I receive my next epidural and more neck injections on 10/31. I'm eager to get back on track with addressing the (hopefully) continued improvement of the nerve damage. I am having dizziness again and I hope that clears soon. Thankfully, it only lasts a moment at a time upon rising and sitting/laying.
I'm pining to get back on my bike and ride the Greenways, but I have to wait until my walking is stable. That might take 'til sometime in December. I got some pedals to keep my feet a twirling. Maybe I'll name my pedaler Shirley...or Surely. lol
*~*
"Pages" and "posts" are published differently on Blogger. If I could change the "pages" to "posts" and redirect to the new links, I could display them differently. But I couldn't find a way to do that.
Then last night finally a solution came to me. However, I still lose two of the links. But one link would still be in tact. I decided I can live with that arrangement.
The link that has gotten the most hits is the "Complaint Overview." Even while my blog was not listed on search engines the last couple years, that link still got hits. So, I kept that page link in tact but changed the content of the page. The new content includes new links to the three previous "pages," which are now "posts." (I realize folks who don't blog, and maybe those who do, may not follow what I just typed, but that's the best I can do for now even though it's as clear as mud.)
Here's the link to the page with the new content: Therapist Abuse
I continue to work through the after-effects of the trauma endured from my relationship with John Knapp, I'm not the only client whom he preyed upon. At least now, he can no longer prey as a licensed mental health therapist.
I have again listed my blog on public search engines, at least for now.
*~*
On the surgery front:
At my September 28 post-op appointment, I got permission to start putting weight on my surgery leg. I'm now alternating between cane and walker. Other restrictions were lifted as well. No more wedge between my legs; I can change positions in my sleep. No more blood-clot-prevention belly injections. No more compression sock. I can begin using my leg as it gains strength and ability. The physical therapist will continue home visits through October 14. I then have an order for out-patient physical therapy at a clinic.
I received my cervical neck shots on Monday, 10/03. They should help some. My arms were getting bad and I couldn't lift them well at all. I receive my next epidural and more neck injections on 10/31. I'm eager to get back on track with addressing the (hopefully) continued improvement of the nerve damage. I am having dizziness again and I hope that clears soon. Thankfully, it only lasts a moment at a time upon rising and sitting/laying.
I'm pining to get back on my bike and ride the Greenways, but I have to wait until my walking is stable. That might take 'til sometime in December. I got some pedals to keep my feet a twirling. Maybe I'll name my pedaler Shirley...or Surely. lol
*~*
September 21, 2016
Wally and Wilson
I named my walker "Wally."
A stuffed lemur rides on Wally.
I named the lemur "Wilson."
*~*
One-and-a-half weeks later....
So, when I saw the neurologist (who is not the surgery doc) on 10/03, I introduced him to my side kick, "This is my lemur, Wilson." :)
He chuckled and picked up Wilson and said, "He doesn't look like a lemur."
I said, "Really? Maybe he's not. I thought he was a lemur. I bought him at the lemur place at the Duke Primate Center. Have you ever been there?"
"I've not been there," he responded and then continued enthusiastically, "but I've been to that place in Mooresville." He pauses trying to recall the name of the place.
"Lazy 5 Ranch? I've been there a few times on field trips."
"No. Not that one. This place, we got to pet and spend time with baby lemurs who were jumping around the room. And then the folks brought in a baby lion and then a baby zebra!"
"Wow," I responded as he messed with his cell phone. "I'm gonna have to go on a field trip!"
"I found it!" He showed hubby and I his cell phone. "Zootastic, that's the name!" as he expounded more about his family's field trip. :D
Hubby and I and the neurologist were smiling ear to ear.
As I've said before, I really like my neurologist. He always makes me smile or chuckle...even the times when I'm on the verge of tears from pain and suffering and despair.
I looked up Zootastic online a bit later. It's actually in Troutman, not too far from Mooresville.
Hubby and I are thinking of taking a field trip sometime in the next year.
*~*
A stuffed lemur rides on Wally.
I named the lemur "Wilson."
*~*
One-and-a-half weeks later....
So, when I saw the neurologist (who is not the surgery doc) on 10/03, I introduced him to my side kick, "This is my lemur, Wilson." :)
He chuckled and picked up Wilson and said, "He doesn't look like a lemur."
I said, "Really? Maybe he's not. I thought he was a lemur. I bought him at the lemur place at the Duke Primate Center. Have you ever been there?"
"I've not been there," he responded and then continued enthusiastically, "but I've been to that place in Mooresville." He pauses trying to recall the name of the place.
"Lazy 5 Ranch? I've been there a few times on field trips."
"No. Not that one. This place, we got to pet and spend time with baby lemurs who were jumping around the room. And then the folks brought in a baby lion and then a baby zebra!"
"Wow," I responded as he messed with his cell phone. "I'm gonna have to go on a field trip!"
"I found it!" He showed hubby and I his cell phone. "Zootastic, that's the name!" as he expounded more about his family's field trip. :D
Hubby and I and the neurologist were smiling ear to ear.
As I've said before, I really like my neurologist. He always makes me smile or chuckle...even the times when I'm on the verge of tears from pain and suffering and despair.
I looked up Zootastic online a bit later. It's actually in Troutman, not too far from Mooresville.
Hubby and I are thinking of taking a field trip sometime in the next year.
*~*
September 17, 2016
Day 19...
Today is Day 19 since surgery, counting the day of surgery, (8/30).
Yesterday, with the help of my home health physical therapist, I succeeded in going down 7 stairs. I then limp-walked with my walker through the living room and dining room and kitchen, and then we tackled back up the 7 stairs.
Son is visiting this weekend. So today, Son and Hubby will help me make it all the way downstairs to the ground level. We'll do 7 stairs down to the mid-level. I'll rest. Then we'll do the 9 stairs down to ground level, where my wheelchair awaits me. I'll get to go outside today in my wheelchair!! Yay! I'm so excited!
I'll also watch some TV. I don't have any TV on the third level, where my cocoon is. It'd be kind of nice if I did, but I don't. I do have my computer, but I can't stream because we've had such terrible wifi at our house, we dropped wifi. We use a hotspot which uses data. Streaming eats data. But I can watch DVDs on my computer. And I can watch youtube videos; they don't eat data like streaming does.
My friend Joy, who moved in with us on 9/06, has the weekend off. She left last night around 6:15 and will return Sunday evening around 7:00 for another week of potty chair duty, adjusting my wedge, helping me shower, putting on my compression sock, other help when I need it, doing household chores, and keeping me fed. She's a real trooper, and I'm beyond thankful for her help. I know it's not easy being on call 24/7.
I have eleven days until post-op and (hopefully) will be given permission (and freedom) to bear some weight on my surgery leg. There are sixteen days until neck injections when I'll get better nerve damage relief and be able to lower my daily prednisone. I'm counting down the days. I'm quite bothered about having to increase my daily prednisone, but I have to in order for my arms to be able to continue to bear my body weight. And it was expected. I'm telling myself I'll get back on track with the lower daily pred dose, but it may take a whole epidural round.
That ends today's report for now....
Yesterday, with the help of my home health physical therapist, I succeeded in going down 7 stairs. I then limp-walked with my walker through the living room and dining room and kitchen, and then we tackled back up the 7 stairs.
Son is visiting this weekend. So today, Son and Hubby will help me make it all the way downstairs to the ground level. We'll do 7 stairs down to the mid-level. I'll rest. Then we'll do the 9 stairs down to ground level, where my wheelchair awaits me. I'll get to go outside today in my wheelchair!! Yay! I'm so excited!
I'll also watch some TV. I don't have any TV on the third level, where my cocoon is. It'd be kind of nice if I did, but I don't. I do have my computer, but I can't stream because we've had such terrible wifi at our house, we dropped wifi. We use a hotspot which uses data. Streaming eats data. But I can watch DVDs on my computer. And I can watch youtube videos; they don't eat data like streaming does.
My friend Joy, who moved in with us on 9/06, has the weekend off. She left last night around 6:15 and will return Sunday evening around 7:00 for another week of potty chair duty, adjusting my wedge, helping me shower, putting on my compression sock, other help when I need it, doing household chores, and keeping me fed. She's a real trooper, and I'm beyond thankful for her help. I know it's not easy being on call 24/7.
I have eleven days until post-op and (hopefully) will be given permission (and freedom) to bear some weight on my surgery leg. There are sixteen days until neck injections when I'll get better nerve damage relief and be able to lower my daily prednisone. I'm counting down the days. I'm quite bothered about having to increase my daily prednisone, but I have to in order for my arms to be able to continue to bear my body weight. And it was expected. I'm telling myself I'll get back on track with the lower daily pred dose, but it may take a whole epidural round.
That ends today's report for now....
September 15, 2016
The Wedge
Tuesday, 9/13, was a good day. After getting my 25 staples removed, I was able to shower. My last shower had been on Wednesday, 9/07. The warm water felt good; clean hair too. And my new tub transfer bench is comfortable and efficient. I need a shelf though. We'll figure something out.
When I awoke Wednesday morning, 9/14, my arms were in pain and weakened. My heart sank.
So, I had to adapt:
Rest my arms and back.
Adjust my meds and herbs.
Less arm exercises and no weights.
Rest, rest, rest.
I'll continue those things until my neck injections on 10/03.
I was going to conquer stairs again on Wednesday with the home health physical therapist. But due to my weakened arms, we decided to wait 'til Friday. I'm resting up for the feat.
I reached a milestone on Wednesday. I was able to perform my leg lifts with my surgery leg without assistance. I can now do all my physical therapy exercises without a spotter.
During my nap this morning on Thursday, 9/15, I dreamed.
I was out riding my bike, but I can't recall where at the moment.
Then I was somewhere else, but don't know where, and I was doing all sorts of movements with my legs that I'm not supposed to do yet. I also was reclining in a recliner, which I can't do yet either.
In my dreams I'd tell myself, "You can't move that way yet."
Every night I sleep with a large, wedge-shaped, firm, foam "pillow" between my legs that is held in place with Velcro straps. The wedge keeps my legs and hips and torso from moving around while I sleep at night so that I don't get into positions that I shouldn't. I'm now able to loosen and take off the wedge by myself, but can't yet put it in place and attach it. I'll have to wear the wedge until at least 9/28, when I see the surgeon for my post-op. During day naps, instead of using the wedge, I place a pillow vertically between my legs with the top portion of the pillow laying over my surgery leg, to help remind me to not move my surgery leg.
When I awoke Wednesday morning, 9/14, my arms were in pain and weakened. My heart sank.
So, I had to adapt:
Rest my arms and back.
Adjust my meds and herbs.
Less arm exercises and no weights.
Rest, rest, rest.
I'll continue those things until my neck injections on 10/03.
I was going to conquer stairs again on Wednesday with the home health physical therapist. But due to my weakened arms, we decided to wait 'til Friday. I'm resting up for the feat.
I reached a milestone on Wednesday. I was able to perform my leg lifts with my surgery leg without assistance. I can now do all my physical therapy exercises without a spotter.
During my nap this morning on Thursday, 9/15, I dreamed.
I was out riding my bike, but I can't recall where at the moment.
Then I was somewhere else, but don't know where, and I was doing all sorts of movements with my legs that I'm not supposed to do yet. I also was reclining in a recliner, which I can't do yet either.
In my dreams I'd tell myself, "You can't move that way yet."
Every night I sleep with a large, wedge-shaped, firm, foam "pillow" between my legs that is held in place with Velcro straps. The wedge keeps my legs and hips and torso from moving around while I sleep at night so that I don't get into positions that I shouldn't. I'm now able to loosen and take off the wedge by myself, but can't yet put it in place and attach it. I'll have to wear the wedge until at least 9/28, when I see the surgeon for my post-op. During day naps, instead of using the wedge, I place a pillow vertically between my legs with the top portion of the pillow laying over my surgery leg, to help remind me to not move my surgery leg.
 |
| The Wedge |
September 14, 2016
Squirrels in tree tops
I am keeping a handwritten journal through this recovery time. A spiral bound journal that the insurance company gave me. I wrote it in Day 1, 8/30/16, the day of the surgery.
I picked it up again on Day 12 or Day 13, and began to write. I can't recall the Day Number at the moment, and the journal is not within reach. To retrieve it right now would take some major body movement...like Beethoven's 5th, or something.
Along with that handwritten journal, I may blog my thoughts regularly -- journaling, stream of consciousness, scribbles. Blogging gives me some sort of connection with the outside world...or a sense of it. I can get to my laptop a couple times a day for limited amounts of time. Texting from my phone is difficult right now.
Monday night, 9/12, was rough emotionally. I felt myself sinking into that dark, narrow, hole of depression, as my mind replayed the upcoming worsening of my limbs. Limbs which I really need to be strong enough to support my weight until I'm given permission to bear weight on my surgery leg, which should happen on 9/28/16. Limbs which need to be strong enough until my neck injections on 10/03. And my back too. It gets weak sitting up or standing. Another nerve damage symptom which will get the needed relief with my 10/03 neck injections. And my jaws and neck too, but they aren't crucial right now. My arms and back are.
(10/03 is Post Week Eight from my last epidural. Usually I receive my neck injections at Post Week Six. And usually my arms aren't having to bear my body weight. So they are weakening even more quickly than typical. I'll simply have to manage with oral prednisone boosts to keep my arms somewhat functioning until Post Week Eight. I did my first prednisone boost on 9/08. I did my 2nd this morning, 9/14. I boost and then titrate down and then boost again, if needed. I'm sure it will be needed again. I've also upped some of my herbs to help me manage. And I'm using my heated rice socks and frozen ice packs. And I need to rest my arms and back more.)
I worked with my head Monday night as I found myself slipping into "the hole."
Carol, you can't allow your mind to go down that hole. You have to cocoon for 2 more weeks and 2 days. But you can't isolate. Somehow you have to stay connected with purpose, with life. You can do this. You've done it before. The two weeks will click by. Figure it out. What will help?
I came up with a strategy to try to help keep my spirits up. Nothing new. Same stuff I've used for the last 5+ years to manage the dark weeks living with nerve damage. Music. Journaling. Laughter. Drawing. Books. Observing the little things, like watching an acrobatic squirrel traverse the limbs in the tops of the two Bradford pear trees which I can see outside my two cocoon windows. And then there are memories.
Memories. Memories...
Specific songs bring certain memories to mind, and in an instant, I'm reliving life...
Some memory-movies come back to mind as I reread journal and blog entries. That helps too. They remind me I will recover. I will be riding Olivia again. Of course then, the worst-case-scenario part of my brain chimes in. And I tell it, "Go away!"
I recall the times I've been alone on adventures and a need would arise and someone was always there, out of the blue, to provide the assistance needed. They were just...there. I tell myself that one day, they will not be there. Perhaps that is the day it all ends. And that will be that.
I recently thought that once a person is at peace with death, they are at peace with life.
Yesterday, Tuesday, 9/13, my spirits were up. It was a good day. My staples were removed by the home health nurse. I had 25 staples! Oh my. Glad they are out!
I picked it up again on Day 12 or Day 13, and began to write. I can't recall the Day Number at the moment, and the journal is not within reach. To retrieve it right now would take some major body movement...like Beethoven's 5th, or something.
Along with that handwritten journal, I may blog my thoughts regularly -- journaling, stream of consciousness, scribbles. Blogging gives me some sort of connection with the outside world...or a sense of it. I can get to my laptop a couple times a day for limited amounts of time. Texting from my phone is difficult right now.
Monday night, 9/12, was rough emotionally. I felt myself sinking into that dark, narrow, hole of depression, as my mind replayed the upcoming worsening of my limbs. Limbs which I really need to be strong enough to support my weight until I'm given permission to bear weight on my surgery leg, which should happen on 9/28/16. Limbs which need to be strong enough until my neck injections on 10/03. And my back too. It gets weak sitting up or standing. Another nerve damage symptom which will get the needed relief with my 10/03 neck injections. And my jaws and neck too, but they aren't crucial right now. My arms and back are.
(10/03 is Post Week Eight from my last epidural. Usually I receive my neck injections at Post Week Six. And usually my arms aren't having to bear my body weight. So they are weakening even more quickly than typical. I'll simply have to manage with oral prednisone boosts to keep my arms somewhat functioning until Post Week Eight. I did my first prednisone boost on 9/08. I did my 2nd this morning, 9/14. I boost and then titrate down and then boost again, if needed. I'm sure it will be needed again. I've also upped some of my herbs to help me manage. And I'm using my heated rice socks and frozen ice packs. And I need to rest my arms and back more.)
I worked with my head Monday night as I found myself slipping into "the hole."
Carol, you can't allow your mind to go down that hole. You have to cocoon for 2 more weeks and 2 days. But you can't isolate. Somehow you have to stay connected with purpose, with life. You can do this. You've done it before. The two weeks will click by. Figure it out. What will help?
I came up with a strategy to try to help keep my spirits up. Nothing new. Same stuff I've used for the last 5+ years to manage the dark weeks living with nerve damage. Music. Journaling. Laughter. Drawing. Books. Observing the little things, like watching an acrobatic squirrel traverse the limbs in the tops of the two Bradford pear trees which I can see outside my two cocoon windows. And then there are memories.
Memories. Memories...
Specific songs bring certain memories to mind, and in an instant, I'm reliving life...
....Riding my bike on the Blue Ridge Parkway with three deer cantering beside me.
Hiking the balds of Roan, all my senses awed by the magic of the scene around me -- an ocean of mountains.
Hikers I've met. Conversations. Life stories. Openness. Wilderness. Trust. Good, good people.
My bicycle rides around Salem Lake. Deer. Geese. Rabbits. A gray fox. Groundhogs. Kudzu. Red dirt. Sweat. Muscles flex as I ascend the hills. I effortlessly glide through the wind as I descend the hills...me and Olivia. I hear the gravel under her tires. I hear my breath. Openness. Wilderness. Freedom. Relief. Life.
The feral ponies of Grayson. Snorting. Cantering. Laughing. Playing. Tussling.
Climbing the boulders of Grayson and drinking in the incredible view stretching as far as eye can see.
The time I met Rising Tide, the thru hiker who had been a quadriplegic, at Thomas Knob Shelter.
The time Olivia and I got caught in the creek on one or our approaches to Salem Lake. Maybe I'll write about that story. Quite something. It happened a few months ago.
The lock smith appearing out of nowhere right when I needed him. That happened years ago.
The old van's alternator dying on the Parkway just as I was driving down a hill and able to pull into Mabry Mill's parking area on an off-season weekday at dusk. No cell service and no cars anywhere, except for one belonging to a maintenance guy who just happened to be in the main building who made a call to AAA from a landline. Oh my, another funny story because the kids were with me. What a funny time that was.
And the lightening bugs, some 18ish years ago, in the Smokies. Hundreds and hundreds of fireflies putting on a magical light show for us.
Grandfather Fir at Grayson.
The big evergreen at Roan.
The old pine tree in our back yard.
The tall pine at the rehab center.
The deer family in our back yard. They visited last week after I got home, 5 deer. I didn't see them. But Joy and her little long-haired Dachshund (who is staying with Joy in our home) saw them. It's nice to know they visited.
Real-life happenings that remind me, I'm not alone.
A plethora of memories.....
Hiking the balds of Roan, all my senses awed by the magic of the scene around me -- an ocean of mountains.
Hikers I've met. Conversations. Life stories. Openness. Wilderness. Trust. Good, good people.
My bicycle rides around Salem Lake. Deer. Geese. Rabbits. A gray fox. Groundhogs. Kudzu. Red dirt. Sweat. Muscles flex as I ascend the hills. I effortlessly glide through the wind as I descend the hills...me and Olivia. I hear the gravel under her tires. I hear my breath. Openness. Wilderness. Freedom. Relief. Life.
The feral ponies of Grayson. Snorting. Cantering. Laughing. Playing. Tussling.
Climbing the boulders of Grayson and drinking in the incredible view stretching as far as eye can see.
The time I met Rising Tide, the thru hiker who had been a quadriplegic, at Thomas Knob Shelter.
The time Olivia and I got caught in the creek on one or our approaches to Salem Lake. Maybe I'll write about that story. Quite something. It happened a few months ago.
The lock smith appearing out of nowhere right when I needed him. That happened years ago.
The old van's alternator dying on the Parkway just as I was driving down a hill and able to pull into Mabry Mill's parking area on an off-season weekday at dusk. No cell service and no cars anywhere, except for one belonging to a maintenance guy who just happened to be in the main building who made a call to AAA from a landline. Oh my, another funny story because the kids were with me. What a funny time that was.
And the lightening bugs, some 18ish years ago, in the Smokies. Hundreds and hundreds of fireflies putting on a magical light show for us.
Grandfather Fir at Grayson.
The big evergreen at Roan.
The old pine tree in our back yard.
The tall pine at the rehab center.
The deer family in our back yard. They visited last week after I got home, 5 deer. I didn't see them. But Joy and her little long-haired Dachshund (who is staying with Joy in our home) saw them. It's nice to know they visited.
Real-life happenings that remind me, I'm not alone.
A plethora of memories.....
Some memory-movies come back to mind as I reread journal and blog entries. That helps too. They remind me I will recover. I will be riding Olivia again. Of course then, the worst-case-scenario part of my brain chimes in. And I tell it, "Go away!"
I recall the times I've been alone on adventures and a need would arise and someone was always there, out of the blue, to provide the assistance needed. They were just...there. I tell myself that one day, they will not be there. Perhaps that is the day it all ends. And that will be that.
I recently thought that once a person is at peace with death, they are at peace with life.
Yesterday, Tuesday, 9/13, my spirits were up. It was a good day. My staples were removed by the home health nurse. I had 25 staples! Oh my. Glad they are out!