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Top 10 Reasons Saturday December 3, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Therapy.
There is an upside to losing memories.  Really.  You just have to look for it.  =)
In no particular order:
1.  During a fight, you always have the "I did NOT!" defense.  If you continue to swear up and down you didn’t do it, vehemently, and you have a clean record as I do, and he has a crappy memory too, as Mike does, pretty soon, the fight is over.
There are no witnesses, after all.
2.  In my journal, I am always sure to write down all of Mike’s offenses however, in explicit detail.  Sometimes with drawings.  Without the memory problem, I never would have needed the journal.  He can’t fight a written statement.  He can’t win.
3.  All the "Momma!  You suck!" (implied) fights my hormonal daughters and I are having…are gone in a few months.  I have no memories of tear-stained cheeks, flaming red eyes shooting accusatory angry hatred and meanness at me, doors slammed in my face, muttered curse words with my name mixed amongst them.  It’s a beautiful thing.  The sooner I forget those moments, the better, I say.
4.  People I meet and don’t like much at all.  Those nasty chance encounters, the unpleasant moments in stores, churches, doctors offices and occasionally teacher’s classrooms when I come away with my hand itching to bitch slap someone into their grave…gone, when otherwise those disturbing displays might have stayed with me for ages replaying over and over in my head…what I could or should have done or said differently, how it could have been handled better, what I did to cause it, or didn’t do.  The best part is how rarely you ever really deal with those people again, and how long those encounters bother you.  They are gone from me forever soon.  Hallelujah.
5.  The dumb stuff I do.  Bloop.  Gone.  Not the big stuff.  I write that down so I will learn from it.  But the little dumb stuff.  The embarassing stuff that again, for most of us we let prey on us and wear down our self-esteem.  Screw that.  I just release it.  Woo Hoo.
6.  LaLa’s destructive ‘Tear Mom’s Body Parts Off For Safe Keeping’. 
7.  When I pull my spring and summer clothes out next year, they’ll be new to me.  Mike LOVES that.  LOL
8.  I can reread favorite books over and over and over and over.  I get a sense of deja vu when reading them again…of warm familiarity, of knowing the characters well, even how the story will go, but the storyline is always a little bit of a mystery to me…it is a joy to an avid reader.
9.  Bad blogs I’ve written.  I refuse to delete blogs I write for some reason, some misplaced sense of integrity…I wrote it, I’ve got to own it now…I don’t know.
10.  It’s a great conversation piece.  It’s something to think about, something to ponder.  What would you like to forget…truly wipe from your memory if you could, gone forever, only to be recalled through other’s eyes and pictures?
For those wondering how this works…my aneurysm started to leak, a very small one on September 9, ’04.  No one knew.  But that was when the headache from hell happened, the stiff neck, the nausea that sent me crawling into bed and knocked me unconscious.   Like a lughead, I got up the next morning, and because I wasn’t dead, I dealt with the day.  LOL  Went on for 9 days…while blood leaked through my subarchnoid cavity.  The blood destroyed a lot of stuff.  I can’t explain it any better than that.  Neurons, pathways, connectors.  Then the leak got bigger and on the 18th of September it leaked BIG and I went into seizures.  Got real clear something was wrong, and Mike got me to the hospital.  Fixed me.
So, because of the long leakage, my memory is affected. Just stuff that happens since the aneurysm.  Not before.  Those memories are forever mine, thank the gods.  My eyesight is affected.  I can’t deal with bright colors…neons…bright whites…sunlight.  For some reason, after a few months, I forget things that happen.  It sucks, but…I have tools for dealing with it, and I do have bright spots. 
And I have my life.  That is what I can always remember.  I am HERE.  I am competent, aware.  I am ambulatory, and fully capable of holding my children in my arms and telling them I love them.  That is what matters to me, to them.

Funny how it is… Friday December 2, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Therapy.
I’ve noticed before people get all hinky and uncomfortable and quiet when I’m mad or depressed.  That’s not what people come here to read.  I’m Lynn, the Mommy with the Weird Kids who says Funny Stuff about them.
It might interest everyone to know this blog was started as a hiding place for my journal, because Mike and Emmy are nosy.  They get all in my business, everywhere.  Mike’s pretty much computer illiterate, and Em can’t find this, so I knew I’d be safe journaling online.  I knew about blogs and msnspaces from someone on the mom group I belonged to at the time.  It was strictly for ranting, raving and thrashing out my feelings about the aneurysm and how I was going to move on with my life.  I don’t even know how I got my first ‘reader’.  Through Updated Spaces I suppose.  Then I got another one while I was looking for poems, and we liked each others poems.  I lost his space addy though…and it’s too long and far back to slog through the archives right now to look.
I didn’t start this to be a blogger.  I just…became one.  I definitely didn’t start to write about the kids and how goofy silly nuts my family life is…and yet sometimes I feel like I should, that I have to, that it is expected of me, and I hate to disappoint people. 
But then I have a day like today, when I feel horrible because of a remark Mike made that reminded me that I’m not going to remember La’s birthday coming up, that we need to make sure and get lots and lots of pictures and video. 
And people seem to be afraid to comment.  My sadness repels. 

Here’s a quote from a poem I am trying to work, a stanza at a time…The Invitation, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I have touched the center.  I am open, and I am not afraid to look, to face it, to admit it, to talk about it.  Hiding from it only lets it grow and hurt me more.  This is my blog, my journal, my outpouring of what I need to say, good sad or goofy. 
Another quote from the same poem:
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
Sis today was trying to jostle me out of the depression…she’s usually good at it, I owe her thousands in counselling bills by now.  But I asked her to stop, because some things…should be mourned for a little while.  Some things…deserve a time of sadness.  Leave it be, be with me if you will, that would be a comfort, but don’t push me away, don’t push my pain away or try to make it smaller than it is, or the problem smaller than it is.  It only makes you smaller in my eyes and diminishes your place in my heart if you do that. 

Do I write it or not? Monday November 21, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Therapy.
I come from a family of alcoholics.  My dad is a recovering alcoholic, 30 years sober.  My uncles all drank like madmen all through my childhood, gradually sobering up as they all were put on lithium, depakote, valium, lexapro and various mood disorder drugs to treat the bipolar that also runs rampant through the paternal side of my family.  Mom’s side are all Scot-Irish Catholics.  I’ll let you decide how many of them like to tip back the ole bottle; the stereotypes are oh so true though for them all, good Scot-Irish Chicago Catholics most of them that they be.  So booze is a familiar thing to me, I learned a great deal about it during my early childhood, as did my younger brother by two years, TJ.
Mom and dad both drank back then, before I was twelve.  Dad mainly, mom I think just not to be left out of the party atmosphere, she certainly didn’t get wasted enough not to still be able to at least minimally care for TJ and me.  But every weekend was a party.  My first memory of my dad was waking up one morning and finding him nude in the bathroom, hanging over the tub ass end up.  Nice.  Mom trailing in behind me to roughly grab me by the arm and shove me out of the room as she kicked dad and tried to rouse him, calling his name, calling him names.  
Dad coming in drunk one night when I was seven, TJ five, both of us engrossed in The Six Million Dollar Man, sprawled out on the floor and HIM yelling drunkenly about goddamn bikes in the driveway and boots suddenly kicking us both repeatedly until mom shoved him backwards into a wall as we screamed and ran into our bedroom and slammed and locked the door.  The only time he ever hurt either of us while drunk, but…the shock of it was so much worse than the blows.
Mom and dad screaming and fighting in the house.  TJ and I outside on the swingset, calmly swinging back and forth in the dusk light, discussing who would go with who if they should split up this time.  TJ firmly stating he was going with mommy, would never ever leave mommy.  Dad was just mean and stupid and should stop drinking and this would stop.  A good argument for a seven year old.  The truth, probably.  I, daddy’s girl for so many reasons beyond the complexes Freud gave us, declared that daddy would need someone to help him, he didn’t know how to do anything, I would stay with him.  Cook him fried bologna and tomato soup and grilled cheese since momma never made him things he liked when he asked.  That was all settled, TJ went in to move his Star Wars figures around in his room.  I climbed a tree.  The noises had stopped in the house.  Finally.  Mercifully.  It was getting dark, I felt almost safe at last, if not remotely peaceful or protected.  The John Denver song came into my head for some strange reason, Country Roads.  I started to sing, something I rarely did aloud, as no one in our family could carry a note in a bucket.
Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River
Life is old there, Older than the trees
Younger than the mountains
Blowin like a breeze
Country Roads take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia Mountain Momma
Take me home where I belong….
Dad’s voice comes to me…."Sister?  Is that you?  You singing?  I thought that was a radio at first it was so pretty, but a woman doesn’t sing that song.  Come eat dinner."
And he walked away.
Mom told dad he could stop drinking or she was taking TJ and I and leaving when she found out she was pregnant with my brother Brian when I was nine and TJ was eight.  Dad quit cold turkey.  Went to AA for two years, worked the program and quit.  Amazes me how he did it.  Still does.  My dad IS the man.
When Brian was 15 he got so drunk he had to be taken to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.  Mom took all these pictures of him, in the coma, with the charcoal running out of his mouth, lovely shots.  They were very *sobering* to Bri when he came home.  He stopped throwing back the beers.  Now occasionally has a glass of wine with his wife, but isn’t a drinker.
I tied one on now and again sometimes in my youth.  But I’d been told alcoholism is a genetic disease, and I wanted NO damn part of the dance my parents went through so I have always been very careful.  I don’t want to push that "drunk button".
TJ…the one who lived through it with me…the one who always begged dad to quit drinking the next morning…the one who cried himself to sleep nights dad came home loaded, or didn’t come home…is now a drunk.  A married, with three sons of his own, drunk every night drunk.  I am so angry, so furious, so helpless in my rage with him mad I don’t know what to do.  I’ve tried the subtle approach.  Mom and dad have tried the stern parent approach.  The incredulous "wtf are you doing, son?" approach.  He and his wife even split up at one point over it, and he was quite ready to divorce over it.  He’d rather divorce than stop drinking.  She gave in and promised to let up on him, fix "what made him want to drink"  ARGH!!!!!  We went to their house for a ‘Summer’s Over’ get together in September, and I sat down next to him and got a whiff of his drink.  I swear, if you poured it into a pitcher, poured a 2 liter of soda into it, stirred it up and THEN poured a glass of it out, it still would have been a stiff drink.  Which is what I told him.  He asked me if I wanted a drink.  Then he asked dad if *he* wanted one.  Our 30 year recovering alcoholic father.  I thought mom was going to come across the table and kill him.  Probably would have saved his wife and sons a lot of misery.  But dad just said no thank you, and mom saved her right to kill her offspring for another day.  
I want to sit down and write a letter to him.  Remind him of the days we spent, talking about how miserable we were because of dad’s drinking.  How we didn’t want to have friends over in case dad came home early.  How we hated when he came home, but hated more when he came home late, because it made mom tense, but hated the most when he didn’t come home at all because it made mom cry.  Remind him of the swingset talks…ask him how many he supposes his sons have had now.  Wake him up to the possibilities of how much pain he is inflicting upon his children every day.  Because what I do know about addiction is that it is a very selfish disease.  There is no we in it.  It is a blinders on disease.  Unless someone somehow smacks the addict in the head with the concept that they are harming others and themselves they just never seem to get it.  Dad didn’t love TJ and me enough to quit…but he worshipped mom the way Aztecs worshipped the Sun.  He quit for her.  TJ doesn’t love his wife much, I don’t think.  But he adores being a father to those boys.  I can’t think what has happened to make him lose sight of them in this.
But if he’s not ready, I will push him further away.  I don’t want to lose my brother either.  Everyone’s relationship in this family besides me and my father is so tenuous.  I am so confused.  Messing with an addict when they’re not ready to be messed with…
I don’t know what to do yet.
Doing nothing is a decision, and I hate that.  Every day I do nothing, I am silently letting this continue, in a way, putting my stamp of approval on it.  My nephews…I see their faces, I see my own at their age.  All of them are sad.
I don’t want to continue this anymore…

I need advice!!! Monday October 31, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Therapy.
I have been trying to decide whether to do this or not for 3 months now.  I cannot make up my mind.  It haunts me.
In the September archives is the story of my aneurysm, so I won’t go into that here, other than to say WHOA was I a negative ninny a month ago!  What a difference it makes to have been there then and here now.  Amazing how much help this space HAS been to me.  All hail Vicky the therapist!  She KNOWS her stuff.  She’s the one who nagged me into doing journalling and getting outside myself *and* inside myself at the same time.  I feel so much better about me now, getting away from thinking aneurysm 24/7 and more about the rest of my world, who I am, what I want and can do.
I digress, as always.
Okay.  While I was in the hospital, stoned beyond belief on morphine, and by the way  WOOOOWWWWW what a drug!  I remember nothing about 80% of my time in the ICU, and I mean nothing!  Mom, Jess, Beck, Mike all say I’d wake up, say "Hi!  How are the kids?  Yes, I feel fine!  Go home and take care of the kids!  When can I go home?  Is the baby okay? How are the kids?  Go home and take care of the kids!"  Fall back into the stupor, wake up ten minutes later and repeat the same thing, never realizing I’d been awake before.  That’s some good druggin’. 
I was in for two weeks.  The kids weren’t allowed in to see me and I was too drugged up to use the phone apparently most of the time.  But mom brought the camcorder up to the hospital up and in about 30 takes and 3 hours got enough useable film of me to bring home for the kids to see me looking presentable to allay their fears that I was up there dying. 
I didn’t know they’d filmed me until a few months ago when Katie said something to me about it.  I freaked out completely.  I was always very glad there were no pictures of me with half my head shaved, nasty black stitches running down my head, eyes sunken in, patches all over my head and chest and all those lovely IV lines.  Nope, no pictures, something even better:  VIDEO.  Mommy stoned out of her mind looking like a science experiment.  Great.
Now the kids want to see it again.  Mom thinks I should see it, so I can put it behind me, and let that part of my life go, face it, etc.  Mike is dead set against it, but then he hates dealing with any negativity.  I’m haunted, frightened.  What if I freak?  Once I have that image behind my eyes, it will be there permanently.  I doubt even my short term memory problems will be able to get rid of those images.  I don’t know what to do.  I feel like such a coward for not watching the video.  My kids saw it.  It is only me, a part of my life.  My reality a year ago.  What is there to fear?  But then, I have real issues with my self-esteem when it comes to the fallout about who I am now because of this aneurysm event.  That is the reality.  I need to deal with this and make a decision.

The Exhaustion of Forgiveness Sunday October 30, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Therapy.
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I’ve always been a forgiving person.  I’ve been fussed at for it all my life by my parents.  Funny really, since if I hadn’t been, I’d have cut my mother out of my life by the time I was 21.  She realizes that now and thanks me for it, but that didn’t come until this year.  I get it from my grandmother’s family.  The Mann’s were ‘soft-hearted’ according to her, a bunch of rubes who took in all stray dogs, cats, chickens and bums who needed shelter and food and went broke because of it.  I always wondered how their souls were though, and how mom’s was faring.
I can’t imagine going through life closing the door on people who have made mistakes, feel regret and wish to make amends for them.  Turn your back on that and walk away?  How do you do that and look at yourself the next morning?  Of course there are unpardonable sins.  We’re not talking about those.  We’re talking people who get on your nerves, hurt your feelings, snub you, make you angry for the ‘last time, young lady!’ and you walk away.  Your spouse, your childhood friend, your cousin, grandma, next-door neighbor, sister, child, father.  How is that possible?
I guess the same part of my soul that makes it impossible for me to dislike another person simply because of the color of their skin, or who they worship, or which sex they fall in love and have sex with is the part that makes it impossible for me to be unforgiving.  I am incapable of holding onto a grudge.  I have tried.  I have been sinned against in such a manner that it has been well within my rights to turn my back forever on someone who has asked my forgiveness.  Yet, I could not do it.  I had to extend my hand and heart and bless them in their effort to try to redeem themselves.
It is exhausting.  There is a strength necessary in loving someone who has hurt you that is an almost unbearable weight.  The heaviness makes your knees buckle, your ankles quiver, your brow crease, your very soul ache with the absolute shock of the knowledge of what is happening.  And yet, once the deal has been made, the relief is immeasurable.  Joy floods
through your system, taking over your body, mind and soul and for that one moment…you know what it is to be free.
And then it is over.  And you are simply standing there awkwardly with the person, listening to them telling you again how sorry they are for whatever they did to make you so angry to begin with.  And you just want them to stop, so you can capture that feeling of bliss again, or forget the whole thing and go back to life as normal.  The whole thing is just so exhausting.  It’d be so much easier if you could just be like most everyone else and just tell them to go screw themselves.

Who Do You Blog For? Wednesday October 26, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Therapy.
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I had a brain aneurysm rupture last September.  I almost died.  For those who may read this and don’t know, that’s when a blood vessel in your brain thins out, blows out like a balloon and then pops a hole and blood starts leaking into the subarachnoid section of your brain.  Half the people this happens to die pretty quickly, mostly because no one is around to get them help, or because the blood spurts so fast that it floods into the brain and they die immediately.  Brain no like blood on it.  I was lucky.  I was in the car with the hubs at the time, and he got me to the hospital, I had a craniotomy and lived.  Some nasty fallout from it, but I’m not gonna bitch here, I’ve got other blogs for that.  😉
But my memory is shot because of it, so I started this blog to help me write down stuff, and because it was suggested that just writing would help my brain make connections again quicker.
So I started blogging for me.  I didn’t even know what the term blogging was for a long time.  I am such a Luddite, as much as society and my kids allow me to be, anyway.  I didn’t look at other people’s blogs, and I didn’t give this space addy to anyone else.  It never occured to me.  I just ranted, raved, wrote what I thought, it was like my diary when I was a kid.  And then Becca told me what Blogging was.  !!!!  Oh my, I had no idea I had submerged myself into a *trend*.  LOL  Ick.  I started looking around.  Stopped doing that the day I found JohnThomas’ space and got treated to a site devoted to nothing but pics of some guy’s dick.  WTF is that about?  How sad his poor small world must be.  Then I happened on some really nice spaces, from just average people like me, who for whatever reason chose to write about their average world and day to day lives.  It felt voyeuristic.  I felt weird, looking in their lives and at their pictures of their children, seeing what their bedrooms looked like, knowing what Liza’s daughter’s pj’s color was.  It’s creepy in a way.  Then it hit me!  Shit!  MY KIDS ARE ONLINE!  ARGH!  MY PIC IS ONLINE!  MY WORDS ARE ONLINE!
Laugh my ass off to think of that moment now.  And it was only weeks ago now.  How naive can a forty year old woman be?!
Then I really started reading these blogs and some of them felt contrived.  As if they were being written to be read by an audience.  D’uh!  Of course they are!  It is after all a media driven society, is it not, Lynn?  Not everyone is in therapy after a life-threatening event and needs a blog for memory help, ya dingbat!  And there’s nothing wrong with writing for an audience, hell, you spend a ton of money every year supporting authors that do it, girlie! 
I have a tendency to measure people by my own stick.  It’s a fault.  At least I own up to it.  And now here I am, writing for an audience, and now I have to ask myself everytime I sit down to write, who am I writing for?  Am I writing for me now?  Can I write with the same openness?  The same blind passion, now that I know people could wander onto the site and read it?  I wrote completely openly before because I knew no one would, could read it.  I was free to express myself without the onus of judgement hanging over my head.  Now I have to find the strength to throw aside the fear and get my Fuck It factor back out and cover myself with it again.  Simply remind myself this is *myspace*. 
I write for me.

Dealing With It Wednesday October 19, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Therapy.
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I think I love most about my life is the topsy-turvy rollercoaster
aspect of it.  Last week was nuts.  Something crazed, chaotic
and unexpected in every day.  Libby suddenly turns into the poster
child for lice nits.  Ugh!  Jess and the Fornicator and the
laundry psychodrama.  Nice, normal neuro follow up turns into an
EEG and oh, by the way, have some glaucoma, Lynn! freak out.  But
hey!  LOL  This week has been so peaceful I am beginning to
worry about narcolepsy. 

Thank goodness for WTMB!  I honestly don’t know what’d I do
without those women.  They keep me (laugh all you want)
sane.  Centered, focussed on what’s real in life; kids and dishes
and storms and recipes and husbands who don’t pick up the socks or make
stupid comments about losing weight.  All the things that make the
mommy world go around.  Melissa is quickly turning into my
therapist, bless the poor woman.  I’m going to have to start
sending her cash.  Brady’s college will be paid for in no time at
all!  She’s so damn logical and SMART.  She keeps me grounded
in a quick, no nonsense way no one ever has before, it’s almost
creepy.  SMACK!  Back to reality, Lynnie!  And with
compassion, too.  I hope she goes to University.  She needs
to be a counselor.  She’s already an excellent one. 

I have to start seriously thinking about what I am going to do with the
next 30 years of my life.  Laura’s only going on 2, but she won’t
be home forever.  In another 4 years she’ll be in school. 
Then what will I do with myself all day?  Whether I get disability
or not, I need to have something to occupy myself.  Something to
make me something other than just mom.  I am not just the keeper
of this house, mother of these children, as important and special as
this job is.  I’m bound for more.  I thought I’d found that
when I went to college, but that’s not meant to be.  I may not
find it right away, I’ve accepted that.  But I have to keep
looking.  It was the giving up on looking that had me bogged down
and in the middle of the depression that almost sucked me under a few
months ago.  I can’t go back to that.  I won’t.  The
Gingerbread Man didn’t stop to cry in the woods, did he?

I hate epiphanies. Really really do. Wednesday September 21, 2005

Posted by gingerbreadman in Therapy.
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    This is my homework assignment from my therapist.  Sorta.  We had a small breakthrough yesterday when I realized I wasn’t feeling quite as guilty and angry at myself about what the kids were losing out on as I’d previously thought.  Compared to what I was given as a child, compared to what Jess and Becca were given and went through in their childhoods, the trips as I call them are spoiled menaces!  Well, not like Hilary Duff spoiled, but certainly indulged.  So they can’t participate in every sport they could last year?  It isn’t all because of my disability.  Some of it is because Mike is working service calls now and wouldn’t be able to take them to and fro either.  Some of it is simple logistics-there are 3 of them, one of me.  Yes, a big part is that I can’t drive and I can’t be out amongst people cheering for the team or sitting out in the outdoors for hours.  But that’s not all of it.  And I’m not owning all the blame. 
   So where is all this anger and guilt and self-loathing that I didn’t have before the aneurysm coming from?  Where’d the most confident bitch on the planet I was a year ago move to and how do I coax her back to my body?  We finally…okay, she probably already knew it, the sadistic bitch, and was waiting for me to figure it out GRRRR!…decided  *EPIPHANY* that perhaps it was coming from the fact that I’ve been on hold for the past year.  I’m a doer.  I’m an independent, 6 things at once, love the pressure, multi-tasking, ‘it’s not fun if it’s not a little frenzied’ kind of person.  I didn’t raise five kids, work 2 jobs and go to college full-time at 30 something by being a lackadaiscal type person. 
   Yet here I have been for a year now.  In this house.  Stoned on pain killers.  Healing.  ‘Recovering’.  Funny how little recovered I feel.  I suppose if I remembered how I was when I got out of the hospital, I would feel the difference.  If I remembered how I was 7 months ago…5 months ago.  That’s part of the problem.  The things that would make me feel recovered aren’t here.  My memory, the ability to get around comfortably.   *Yeah, fuckin-A, this is a whine-bitch session, if ya don’t like it, get off my journal*  So I don’t feel like I’ve done anything in the last year but take up space.  I  *KNOW*  that’s wrong.  This kid currently climbing my back, pulling my ear and screeching banshee-like as she tries to strangle me is proof I’ve been busy and productive.  She’s healthy, beautiful, strong.  That’s thanks to me.  God knows Mike sure doesn’t help with that.  She’s smart as all get out because I read to her 40 times a day for the past year.  We’re each other’s only company all day.  She’s funny because I have exposed her to my twisted sense of humor.  Of course, she’s also certifiable, and they can blame that on me too, but hey, nobody’s perfect!
   I love my sense of humor about all this.  I still get a kick out of the elephant story.  God, I’m whacked even when I’m not trying.  I hate slogging through all this melodramatic crap to get past it and get back to me again.  I’m sick of feeling down, introspective, hormonal when I’m not, sad and disabled.  Yet I have to get through this to get back to ME.  And the sooner I just face it and drag my ass through the muck the better.  Ya know what gets me?  It’s funny in a sick, ‘aren’t you all fucked up Lynn?!’ sort of way….I feel like I’m letting down people at WTMB by being like this right now.  Mickey, Rikki, Abby…people who like and respect the sassy ‘strong’ fighting laughing bitch.  They just don’t understand I have to go through this to be that.  Or that I’m both.  I can be strong as I’m fighting through the boohoo woowoo’s.  Only the strong could survive these bh/ww’s.  So I guess they’ll just have to get over it, won’t they?  And I’ll have to get over worrying about their opinion of me. 
   Today I am going to work on this space.  That is my step toward my future.  My looking out the window since the door was closed.  This space is going to be my vent for everything.  It is going to be the place I come to write down my ideas.  My dreams.  My plans.  My fears.  I am going to have forward thoughts here.  Very little room for the past here.  It’s an OPEN space…lots of room for adding things…new things.  Like the new Lynn.