Therapeutic Touch

Touch can be an issue if you have been sexually abused. I, myself, have varied degrees of tolerance to touch depending on numerous conditions.

Last Friday, I decided to indulge in the services of a professional massage. I have been hurting all over ALL the time. Retail pharmacy takes a beating on your hands, your neck, your back and, of course, your legs and feet. It's GOFAR season, so I have been training to run a 5K with my kids...on an injured foot! I hurt all the time. I ached for someone to touch me and make the pain go away.

I set up an appointment for after work, taking a chance and not even asking if the therapist would be a man or a woman. In the past, I had almost always requested that my massage therapist be a woman. It's not that I didn't care. I certainly was somewhat apprehensive about the possibility of receiving a massage from an unknown man, but something inside me told me that I would be OK. There was a grown woman inside me, a gentle mother, telling me that I was strong enough...that a professional massage from a professional man would not hurt me.

I walked into the spa with joy and confidence and was greeted by Mary Ann...my massage therapist :) Good thing I hadn't wasted time fretting.

When I walked into her beautiful and cozy escape of a room, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted to forget the world for an hour, to think of nothing and no one else but me (just for an hour). I wanted to relinquish my voluntary movements to someone who knew exactly how to manipulate every bone and every muscle in my body to counteract the repetitive pain and exhaustion that I have subjected it to.

I climbed into her toasted sheets and immediately felt cared for and safe. She touched me, and I wanted to sigh and exhale...like the feeling of your first cold drink after hours in the hot sun, or finally sitting down after a long day on your feet.


I surrendered and allowed her to heal me...my neck...my back...my arms. She made her way down my arms releasing...releasing...expelling stress and tension, eventually finding my wrists...my wrists whose cuts have healed beautifully and completely. I did not recoil when she touched my perfectly intact skin. For a change, I had nothing to hide or to be ashamed of. Her touch felt like a hug, like affirmation, like love. She had no idea the emotions that she was drawing from me. She had no idea how far I had come. "Do it again", I wanted to say.

It's Bedtime Again

It's bedtime again. Since my last EMDR session, it's been difficult to fall asleep. Unlike with previous EMDR sessions, this time I have been alright during the day. It is at bedtime that all the memories want to return.

Everything is fine until I lie down, turn out the lights and close my eyes. All the pictures come back. They roll by like the scenery outside the train window. I feel them. I inhale strength and exhale sighs in an effort to calm myself...and then, in my mind, I travel to my safe place - the only spot where I can sleep.

It's bedtime again, and I don't want to remember...so I don't go to bed.

It Will Never be OK

she took her power back ~

without permission
 

(Terri St. Cloud. "Her Power". Her White Tree)

I sometimes find myself inviting my STBX over to my house for a meal with the kids and me...not because I particularly want his company, but because the kids want to see him and still feel safe and warm when we all sit down for a meal together. I often find myself regretting my generosity. Sunday afternoon about three weeks ago was one of those times.

We had been to Mass together as a family, and things had been going relatively well, and I had a lot of food...so I invited him over for lunch, but made him aware that after lunch I would have chores to do and our older daughter would have homework to complete.

We had lunch...and then he wouldn't leave. I went upstairs to use my bathroom, and the kids went out to the backyard to play. He went upstairs and knocked on my bathroom door asking if I was alright. He was in my bedroom. WHAT??

When I came out, I found him sitting at the top of my stairs, blocking my way down. At this point, I realized that we were alone in the house and insisted that we go downstairs, as he continued to insist that I sit on the steps with him (there was only room for one, so the only way I could have done this would have been to straddle him...no way!).

When he finally got up and we made our way down the stairs, he continued to hug me and to want to kiss me, although I clearly wanted no part in that. After much prodding and insisting in my part, he eventually turned to leave...but not before adding, "Why do you want to hurt me?"

I simply responded that I was not trying to hurt him, but then realized that this was not enough...that it sounded too trite for the true and clear emotions that I felt when he touched me.

So I looked him frankly in the eyes and said, "I am not trying to hurt you. When someone does not want you to hug them, kiss them or touch them, it has nothing to do with wanting to hurt you, but everything to do with that person not wanting to get hurt. When you hug me, kiss me or touch me, it does not feel good. It always brings back bad memories, so when I don't want you to hug me, kiss me or touch me it is because I don't want to have those memories. It has nothing to do with wanting to hurt you."

"So it's just because of that one time?", he argued as if it had been such a small thing.

"No, that and everything else. That was just the last thing."

At this point, he began to argue that there were other good memories from our marriage. I agreed but explained that his hugging, kissing and touching never called upon these memories. His hugging, kissing and touching only brought me to a painful place. He must have felt as if he had broken through or something, because he continued to argue his point seemingly impervious to the fact that it was completely irrelevant to what I tried to make clear to him.

I felt my emotions simmering and knew I was near my boiling point. The more he continued to try to convince me to ignore my truth, the angrier I became...until I felt the need to look him square in the eyes and remind him.

"You raped me in my own bed!", I spelled out...then he got angry.

He began to deny things again. I never wavered. My gaze never unlocked from his.

"That wasn't rape!"

"Yes, it was. When someone says no to sex, and you proceed, it is rape."

"It wasn't sex."

"I asked you to stop and you never did."

"You're a liar! It's all a lie! Lie! Lie! Lie!"

...and on it went, with my eyes always locked on his, my words over his and his words over mine, like the argument scene from a drama film. I was convinced of the truth and realized that all he was trying to do was to erase my truth...obliterate it...smother my confidence with his aggressive words...as he had done in the past. It was not going to work this time.

I saw where this impasse was going and simply asked him to leave. He continued to call me a liar. I opened the door and pointed out, in case my words were inaudible in his raging head. He continued. He wasn't moving...and just before I once again got hooked on his rotten bait and melodically cursed him out, I remembered what my therapist had suggested in the past.

Get the fuck out of my house never left my lips. Instead, I clearly and evenly said, "If you don't leave, I am going to call the police."

It worked..."Yes, I'm leaving.", he finally said...and left (and returned for his phone...LOL).

I could not believe how satisfying and refreshing saying those words felt to me. You see, I wasn't screaming or crying or shaking when I said them. I felt completely in control, as if I had just asked my child to clean up her toys or she would lose privileges...and I knew I would follow through if I needed to.

The thing is that it will never be OK. No matter how much he tries to erase that awful night from history, it will never be OK that he took his pleasure with my body against my will. It will never be OK that he held my legs down and open, while I wept and remembered terrible things from my past. It will never be OK that he continued, while I tried to push him off me. It will never be OK that I said no, and he didn't stop.

There was Only One Way Home

I returned to EMDR today.

Over a month ago, I had had a panicky experience while driving over a bridge in the dark. It wasn't being on the bridge that incurred this sudden fear, it was looking at my GPS screen and seeing absolute nothingness around me. I couldn't tell where I was...there were no roads, no houses, not even trees...on the screen, it looked like wilderness...and it was completely dark (no street or road lights). I tightly grasped the steering wheel and drove in a panic, trying not to look at the GPS screen. It seemed like infinity before I reached a more developed area and began to calm down. It was an awful experience.

Today, my therapist and I decided to see where EMDR could take me with this...a very bad place, of course. It had not been the first time that feeling lost in the middle of uncharted territory had uprooted these fearful feelings in me, and each time this has occurred to me, the feelings have been akin to those of being stranded and lost in swampy terrain.

I don't know how old I was when my stepfather started taking me for rides in his van. I suppose the things he wanted to do with me where too much to be able to do discretely at home...so he took me in his van to a place that seemed like uncharted wilderness to me. I didn't know how he found this place. I just knew that I had no idea how to get back home.

These are the things that I saw during EMDR today. I saw him taking me for a ride in his van...I was lost in this uncharted wilderness. I felt that he had an enormous amount of power over me, because he was the only one who knew how to get me home.

I saw us arrive at this desolate location in the middle of the wild...and then I could not get past a certain area in his van. I could not let my memory take me to the back of his van...I knew what was coming, and I couldn't bring myself to remember that. I remembered the kissing and how kissing my STBX against my will reminds me so much of this time with my stepfather

I struggled with the memory that I couldn't let in. Eventually, however, I was able to realize one thing. I realized that my stepfather was the only one who could take me home during these trips...and that there was only one way home. I had to say yes to him. I had to agree...or I would never get home. I saw and I profoundly felt that what I had done with him wasn't my fault...even if I had said yes.

...There was only one way home.

After this, I was exhausted. We stopped EMDR. I caught my breath and my soul and went to the back of my own van. I wrapped myself up in soft blankets and fell asleep, as I told myself that there had only been one way home and it was not my fault. When I awoke, the first thing I told myself was to go to a good place...and I did. I am being very gentle with myself today.

Finding Unsoiled Beauty Again

trembling, she opened her heart,

quietly, she whispered,

'let's go.'

  

(Terri St. Cloud. "Let's Go". Her White Tree)

 

 

"Open your heart", he says, but it's not my true heart he means...it's my vagina. I find the words in the poem above simply beautiful...touching...personally meaningful...yet soiled by my husband's expression.

 

How do I find unsoiled beauty in my life again?

You've Come a Long Way, Baby

 

 By the grace of God

I picked myself back up

I put one foot in front of the other

And I looked in the mirror

And decided to stay

Wasn’t gonna let love take me out that way

 

(from By the grace of God, Katy Perry)

"Write about...Virginia Slims". This was the assignment given to me by my therapist a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't the cigarettes, of course, that he intended for me to write about...it was the slogan. Many years ago (when we were still advertising cigarettes), Virginia Slims marketed its slim and femininely sophisticated brown cigarette to women using the slogan "You've come a long way, baby" - words with which I can relate.

When I first started this blog, I had just returned to therapy after a five year hiatus. I would not necessarily say this had been the beginning of the journey, but for the sake of comparison on this post, I will use that time as a starting point.

I had been buried in silence, and I have felt my way out from under the mound of garbage taking the proverbial leap of faith, sometimes blindly. I have allowed my voice to emerge and see the brightness of the day. It started out as a very small voice, too minuscule for the words it had to carry. But every day I feel it growing stronger and louder...sometimes trembling with the message but audible and clear. I've come a long way.

I had been captive in the bondage of fear, but I have untied the knots, loosened the ropes and walked away from my isolated confinement. My legs were insecure at first, but I put one foot in front of the other and each step was more certain and firmer than the last. I now see myself as brave, and I believe it internally...courageous describes me like it's the color of my eyes. I've come a long way.

My pain had been dark and desperate. I was consumed with self destruction, finding relief from the oppressive emotional agony only through physical harm to my body. I fell low, sometimes seeing no other way but death, but my therapist held my hand and never let go. With his arm as leverage, I was able to pick myself up and inhale life. I am now living the moments I once thought impossible, and I am surrounded by light. I've come a long way.

It has been a long, arduous journey, and I know that I am still traveling. The road, however, does get grassier for me as I carry on. Along the way, I have picked up nourishment and strength that will sustain me through further arid patches. I stand on different ground now. I've come a long way.

Emotions in Music

Deny this emptiness, this hole that I'm inside
These tears, they tell their own story

 

You told me not to cry when you were gone
But the feeling's overwhelming, it's much too strong
Can I lay by your side, next to you, you
And make sure you're alright

 

(from Lay Me Down, Sam Smith)

 

He sings like I write - with gut wrenching emotion. That's what attracts me to his music. He is wide open and brutally honest with his voice. Listening to him sing is like touching his soul.

I have not had the opportunity to write in quite some time, but the emotions are still in there, I have longed to write, to express...but I couldn't. In place of the writing, I had been listening to music...a lot of it. Today, I found myself singing "Lay Me Down" along with Sam Smith. Like him, I offered all my emotions as I sang, leaving nothing behind...to the point of tears.

I knew that this time it wasn't the lyrics that I was identifying with. It was the pain that he expressed that somehow touched something untouchable inside of me. There are feelings that I have been afraid to feel, afraid to explore, and his voice went there and fingered the precise strings that freed my tears.

I am still afraid to write these things down but am glad that at least there is music.

Christmas 2014

"Our First Christmas Apart" - I wish they made an ornament that said that. We have the one that says "Our First Christmas Together" - a beautiful Spode china Christmas bell with the year of our wedding painted on it...it did not go on the tree this year.

They don't make an "Our First Christmas Apart" ornament, because it would cause too many awkward moments when people see it hanging on our tree. They would not understand that, for us, it was the Best Christmas Ever! Please allow me to tell out story...

It started with the lights...

Lighting the outside of the house for Christmas had traditionally been my husband's job, while I decorated the inside of the home. It was the weekend after Thanksgiving, and all the men on our street were diligently and dutifully setting up their mini light shows. My girls and I marched into our local home improvement store and selected the lights for our own front yard. For the bushes, we chose netting lights that twinkled - "In rainbow colors!", they requested - a set of old fashioned huge bulbs for the scraggly pine on our side yard...the Charlie Brown Tree, and giant candy canes to line our driveway!

I got timers, extension cords, stake outlets, and all the paraphernalia necessary for this illumination. Who knew there were so many cool gadgets available specifically for this purpose!

Together we set up our little display. The two girls owned the candy cane job, while I spread lights all over the bushes. I quickly learned the ins and outs of extension cords, outlets and timers, and I set the show up to begin and end exactly when I wanted it to (a decision that I had previously relinquished to my husband).

I pressed "On", we stood back and admired. I liked it, but for them, it was just OK. Something was missing. They wanted more...and I somehow felt the obligation to wow them! It was, of course, the Christmas when I did not want to disappoint. Part of the problem came from the neighbors...yes, we were having "the Jones' problem". Our new street was so bright! There were lights and icicles hanging from almost all the eaves. The trees had beautiful strings of lights...strung way high! And the inflatables...snowmen, Santas, Nativities, and even the M&M guys!

"I thought we were going to have the best lights in the neighborhood!", said my youngest. "Instead, we have the most low-key lights", added her sister. I couldn't compete...nor did I want to...that wasn't the point.

The point was to love what we had...to make it the most special Christmas ever for us. I explained that to them, and they tried to understand...but still there was something missing. The second floor needed lighting.

When I left my husband's house, I took a shoot-now-ask-questions-later approach when it came to the Christmas decorations. I had been the curator of all our memories and mementos, so I felt I should keep them. Besides, in his very dismissive manner, he had told me to take everything. He wanted to start completely fresh.

I have since realized that there are objects that are bought for a specific home...and they belong there, they should stay there. Like a secret Santa, I started to return some of these items...leaving them at his house when he wasn't home - the wreaths that I thought I wanted so much, because my good friend and I made them together the first year I lived in that house. It turns out this new house doesn't really have the windows for those wreaths. They were made for that home, and there I returned them.

There were candles that illuminated the upstairs windows of the old house. I was not going to use them, because they reminded me too much of those old Christmases...those years when I worked so diligently to plug all the lights in at the same time and at the right time so that they would light up together and turn off at a reasonable time (they stay on for 8 hours from the time they are plugged in and relight at the same time every day). He would unplug one or two of them every night, even though I repeatedly explained to him how the timers worked and how unplugging them ruined the timing that I had worked so hard to synchronize...it didn't matter to him.

I was not going to use the candles here...but the upstairs needed lighting, and I was not going to get on any ladders to hang lights from any eaves! So I took the candles out...and plugged them in...at relatively the same time...at the right time...and no one has unplugged them. They were perfect and beautiful...and the girls approved with, "It's nice to have the elegant house in the neighborhood."

Oh Christmas Tree...

When the time came to pick out a Christmas tree for us, I knew only one thing: my husband would not be involved in any part of the process this year. There are traditions that I thought we should maintain, and others I thought we should make new. We would pick out the tree from the farmers market where we always get our tree, but only we three girls would go. It would be our tree, picked out especially by us.

We strolled through the various lots, comparing the different firs - all beautiful and fragrant, all indigenous to our lovely state. It did not take long for the girls to zoom in on the perfect tree. The vendor swiftly wrapped it up for us and slid it into the back of our minivan.

During our drive home, I finally took a call from my husband (he had been calling incessantly during our entire time at the farmers market; I had ignored the calls, wanting the experience to be exclusively ours). The girls were so excited, of course they told him that we had just purchased a Christmas tree...and of course he expressed his disappointment (party pooper move number one).

"Awww...I wanted to take you on Saturday. I was going to put it in the van for you", he said specifically to me.

I could think of nothing worse than to have him helping me pick out a Christmas tree for my house during his weekend to keep the children!

"Oh, well...I didn't know. You can still go on Saturday with the girls", I replied.

He stammered and hmmed and ummed, waiting for me to invite him over to help me put up the tree. I had no idea how I was going to get that tree into my house and onto a stand, but I was certain that he would have no part in it. It was the girls' tree and only us girls would be involved in the placement and decorating of it. I did not invite him.

In anticipation of this moment, I had bought a very cool tree stand that makes it possible for one person alone to put up a Christmas tree. It has a receptacle that would slide onto the tree trunk while the tree is lying on it's side. One would then insert into the trunk the three screws that would stabilize the tree. The tree would then be turned upright, placing the receptacle into the stand. At this point the tree would, of course, be tilted in all kinds of weird ways...so one would press a pedal on the stand that allows the tree to be moved and tilted into the perfect position...brilliant!

While the girls blissfully rode their scooters in our cul-de-sac, I proceeded with the first step...only to find that the trunk was too thick to completely fit into the receptacle, it needed to be tapered. No worries...I grabbed an old chef knife from my kitchen and proceeded to chip away at the trunk until it was the perfect shape for the perfect fit. I did all this in my driveway, looking as graceful and elegant as one could look while chopping at a tree while dressed in a wool coat and leather boots.

Afterwards, I picked up my tree the way that I had seen the vendors effortlessly pick it up, walked it into my house and tilted it into the tree stand. I pressed the pedal and magically straightened the tree out into beautiful perfection!

He called again...and I let the kids answer, while I gave the tree some finishing touches.

"Mom put up the Christmas tree!", exclaimed my older daughter with unrestrained joy.

"You're happy and you're sad?", I then heard her repeat after his response (party pooper move number two). He couldn't let them just enjoy their joy and their moment with me. He had to introduce that tinge of darkness to their cheer. I felt my daughter's composition change from happy and innocent little girl to daddy's caretaker as she replied to him, "It's OK, Daddy, we can still go get a tree for you on Saturday".

I wanted to protect their delight and happiness over our gorgeous Christmas tree, so I talked to them over the next few days while we decorated the tree. I let them know how proud I was of our tree and how special it was to me. I wanted to let them know that it was OK to feel this way...it was OK to enjoy something that was just for us girls...it was OK to be happy about something that was just for our new house.

At the end, the tree was (and still is) spectacular! It wears the pink lights that the girls insisted I buy (for a truly feminine tree). I added vintage pearl bulbs that I had picked up at a local antique shop. Our old ornaments went up (only the ones that brought us joy). Everyone contributed, even our little one was allowed to handle the ornaments...and I did not move anything that they placed on the tree (my husband was known to reorganize the ornaments after we had put them up, so that they would look "just right").

"Our First Christmas Together" and "First Year in Our Home" never went up, but all the "Baby's First Christmas" did and so did everything that had been handmade by my children.

The tree is stunning!!

Christmas Day...

Before I begin this account, let me give you some background on my history with Christmas. In my culture, Christmas Eve was always a big celebration. There was a very large meal with an abundance of family and friends. There was lively music and plenty of dancing. The women usually worked hard to put the meal and the party together, often spending the entire day in the kitchen but always looking fabulous in the evening as they received their guests!

The next day - Christmas Day - was a day of rest...for everyone. We woke up excited and eager to open presents, we went to Mass, and we returned home to play with our new toys. Everyone was happy, Mom and Dad were resting, and the kids were playing blissfully. Dinner was always the leftovers from the abundant meal of Christmas Eve. Seriously, after all the hours that Mom had put in shopping, wrapping, cleaning, cooking, and essentially making Christmas, she did not lift a finger on Christmas Day...it was a Holy Day of Obligation!

You can imagine my shock and dismay when I got married and learned that my husband expected a full-fledged Thanksgiving-sized meal on Christmas night! When I explained to him what my family's (and my culture's) tradition was and tried to bargain for a compromise, he said that I could still have my Christmas Eve party if I wanted, but he still expected a Christmas night dinner...leftovers were just not going to cut it for him.

Of course, I could not do that. Two big dinners on two consecutive nights were just too much, especially if I was the only one doing everything...the cooking, the cleaning, the organizing, the decorating, the shopping, the wrapping...while he rested. So as the years went on, my culture's traditions were forgotten, as I spent every Christmas Day exhausted in the kitchen and pretty much looked like a zombie by the time I sat down to dinner on Christmas night. I recall being envious of other women in my family when I talked to them on Christmas Day and learned that they were taking it easy and having frozen lasagna for dinner, or just leftovers from the night before.

This is how things went this year:

My cousin invited us over to her Christmas Eve party. Each guest was to contribute something to the meal, so that one person would not have to do the bulk of the preparations. I was asked to bring dessert, drinks and ice. I bought drinks and ice, and made a to-die-for lemon chess pie...done.

My husband had also been invited, but he declined. I went with my daughters and  my nephew and his mother, who recently moved from my hometown to the area where I now live (it's good to have family around sometimes). We had a wonderful cheerful time. The dancing was beautiful. All night long she played my favorite genre of all the music of my country...and they danced like tops. We talked, we ate, and the children played. When they tired, we went home to tuck them safely into their warm little beds where they each awaited the great Santa Clause.

It was a late night for me (two hours of sleep), with all the elf work that needed to be done...but it was Our First Christmas Apart, and I could not disappoint. As for the husband? I asked him to come over very early on Christmas morning to watch the kids open presents (it would not have been the same for them if both of us were not there). I also told him that we could come over in the afternoon to open presents that he had at his house. This would give him an opportunity to make Christmas dinner himself if it truly meant that much to him.

I would bring over a HoneyBaked Ham. He was making a kind of spinach casserole (fancy Southern Living recipe) and asked if I could bring another vegetable...all he had was canned creamed corn.

"Creamed corn sounds good", I offered.

"You want to keep it simple, don't you", he realized.

"I don't want to cook tomorrow", I made clear.

"I will make mashed potatoes, would you bring some bread?"

"Yes, I don't have to cook bread."

"I guess we won't have dessert", he tried.

"I could buy dessert", I drove in.

"Well, do whatever you think is best."

Christmas morning was a dream! Everything the children had wanted and expected and more! I particularly enjoyed the look on his face when he learned that his sister and his mother had each sent a gift for me...priceless.

We enjoyed my French toast casserole for breakfast...easy to prepare, and a kids' favorite, can't go wrong. Afterwards, we celebrated Jesus with a soul-lifting Christmas Day Mass. He then went home to begin his dinner preparations, and the kids and I went home to rest and play...how perfect :)

That afternoon at his house we sat around his tree and opened more gifts. He told the kids that it was "dessert" after the "banquet" of gifts they had had that morning at our house. He gave me an expensive gift, which I had not been expecting nor had reciprocated. I thanked him and accepted it as the gift that it was, without feeling any obligation to match it. It was so liberating!

Dinner was wonderful, and afterwards, we enjoyed a drive to view neighborhood Christmas lights. Upon our return, I let the kids know that it was time to go home and that they could bring whatever they wanted with them, or leave anything at Daddy's house that they wanted to use there.

"No! We want to take everything!", they shouted...I laughed internally.

Once settled in the van as we started to drive off, my youngest said sort of thinking aloud, "So this is how Christmas works..."

I asked, "Did it work out OK?"

"Yes! It was the best Christmas ever!", they both shouted back :)

I Don't Cut Anymore

I don't cut anymore...it's what I tell myself. I haven't done it in so long that I really want to believe it.

I don't cut...just a little ice sometimes...when I'm very agitated...or when the thoughts of it start to become concrete.

...like tonight...I didn't cut...I just iced my wrist until the numbness felt like electricity through my hand. I breathed deeply several times and felt myself calm down. It works...I don't know why, but it works.

I'm not exactly clear on why these thoughts returned to me tonight. It happened while I was feeling claustrophobic in my STBX's vehicle while on our way to see a Christmas light show with the kids. I had said that it felt a little chilly inside, so he turned the heat up some...but just a degree or so too high. My sinuses are congested from a cold, and it was difficult to breathe the dry warm air. I started to feel like I would suffocate...the same feeling I get when I feel trapped in a small or crowded space. I considered opening my window but imagined that he had the child safety locks on like he had in his previous vehicle. I didn't want to ask him to open the window for me, but I was afraid to push the button and find that the window would not open...that would have just put me in panic mode.

So I spent some time "talking myself down" - telling myself that there was plenty of air to breathe and that I was not trapped in the vehicle...and visualizing a blade across my wrist.

I do not cut anymore.

Checked Out

I would like to thank  those of you who have been reading and those of you who have been commenting. As always, I appreciate your support. I apologize for my absence. Ultimately, I realized that I needed to withdraw.

Things had gotten a bit too intense for a while, so I decided to take some time off - time off from work, from the carpool, from the role of Super Woman, and yes even from the blog. The week when I wrote my last post, I was truly trying to be every woman...and be amazing at it.

At work, I was secretly taking pride in being the one sent on jobs that normally it would take two people to do. I could orchestrate five different flu clinics in six days while still getting my children to two different locations on time in the morning, as well as dance and piano in the afternoon. I was doing it, and I was damn good at it!

I didn't skip a beat when my STBX had to take a position working 400 miles away and was no longer able to take the kids to school in the morning. I simply called on some friends and arranged for them to take the girls to school for me on the days that I could not...never mind that their houses are fifteen minutes apart from each other, and I have to leave my house about thirty minutes earlier in order to be on time. The fact that I'm doing it without him is another source of pride for me.

So at what point did the seams start to unravel? Was it when I forgot to bring the needles for the flu clinic and had to have someone deliver them to me? Or was it when I realized that my daughter had been complaining of feeling generally crappy, and I couldn't take time off to take her to the doctor? Even at a time when most people would come to a screeching halt (a needle stick), I continued until I was sure that my exit would be discreet and inconspicuous.

Even after the needle stick, I intended to run another clinic the next day. What the fuck?? Was I sick?? It was my daughter who made me stop...or it was my daughter whom I used to make myself  stop...because I couldn't bring myself to say that I could not give another vaccine, but I could say that I needed a day off to take my daughter to the doctor. After that, I did not return to work for a week...and that was for a short four-hour shift before I took off again to chaperone a three day field trip with my daughter in beautiful Colonial Williamsburg.

I checked out. It was necessary...and it was good. I took the kids to school myself and played stay at home mom. I didn't write, and I didn't read. I just lived simply without processing anything. In the interim, the needle stick nightmare woke up. By the grace of God, the woman whose needle I had been pricked with drove twenty-five miles after work on the same day of the clinic to have herself tested for all the blood-borne pathogens that we were concerned about. She tested negative for everything, and an ordeal that could have lasted over six months was over in two days for me. Many, many blessings to her.

I never cried, and I never got the opportunity to sit with my therapist...but I retreated and I breathed and I healed...and in that I take pride also.