On Trauma, Triggers, And Thanksgiving

November 26, 2013 By

IMG_0934You’d think that by age seventy-one things would be different.  But, no, there are triggers that still get me wound up so tight I could burst.  Take Friday evening for example. I was on the phone talking to my friend, Sharon.  We started having weekly conversations back in 2010. She lives in Florida and I live in Virginia, so we can’t talk over the fence the same way I can chat with my neighbor, Harmon, who is also a dear friend.  Sharon has been traveling of late and we haven’t talked in almost a month.

I was sitting in my new chair (an early Christmas gift), enjoying Sharon’s musings about her travels. Both of us agree that life is tempestuous and both have a growing number of people we know who have been diagnosed with cancer.  It just doesn’t seem fair to either one of us, but then no one ever said that life would be fair, or a bed of roses, or without pain and unhappiness.

I’m at the age where I know better and have decided that I can’t worry about what is going to get me …an asteroid falling out of the sky or being hit by a dump truck full boulders, rendering me paralyzed from the neck down.  Life is what it is.  It has cancer, asteroids, boulders, dump trucks, along with a gazillion other things that could kill us or make life totally miserable.

Mind you, I always have and will probably continue to cry, carry on, and complain with all my might if and when something awful does happens to me.  But I’m working hard at being grateful for everything that I have, including the best family and friends in the universe.

So it took me by surprise that as I sitting in that cozy chair, talking my heart out, that I was being triggered by Bill’s sudden dash through the living room and out to his car. He looked befuddled and mad. He tore out of the driveway as if there were an emergency.  I started feeling my old companion, anxiety, arriving on the scene. My gut started feeling jittery and filled with rocks. Though I was still listening and talking to Sharon, another part of me was trying to figure out what I had done wrong to make Bill so mad.

Then I realized that Bill’s behavior had brought on a reaction in me that became ingrown years ago. My father was a tyrant.  To him, talking on the phone for more than two minutes was wasting time.  Staring into space was a mortal sin and taking naps was not acceptable.  When my dad was around, my brothers and I always had to be doing something “constructive.” If he caught us doing nothing, his face would become hard and frightening.  He would  yell at us and quickly gave us jobs to do. We were never relaxed when he was at home and it got to the point that one of us was always on the look-out, warning, “Here comes Dad.  Look busy.”

Had I been ten or twelve as I chatted with my friend, I would have quickly hung up the phone, charged into my bedroom, and pretended to be doing homework.  We all got pretty good at pretending and I’ve always been amazed that none of us ended up acting on the stage.  But it sure developed into a pattern in our lives. I’m beyond thankful for being able to recognize when I’m being triggered. Most of the time now, I may feel some anxiety or fear at first, but can quickly acknowledge that I’m safe and that no one is going to hurt me or tell me that I’m doing something terribly wrong.

Bill popped back in the house waving a bag of fresh Italian parsley in his hand. He was wearing a wide grin on his face as if he’d been out fishing and caught the biggest fish in the pond. I was still talking to Sharon and by then had calmed down.  I hadn’t hung up and hidden in my room. Bill had been preparing our dinner and when he discovered we had no parsley he went out without interrupting me to get some.  And yes, he had been a bit mad when he realized we didn’t have what he needed. But it wasn’t about me. It was about the inconvenience of having to rush out during traffic hour.

Life is all about things like that. I don’t enjoy being slammed back into my childhood by someone else’s behavior, but I’m accepting and grateful for being able to recognize when my cells and nervous system are simply reacting to something they remember from long ago. If you’d asked me five or six years ago if I thought I’d ever recover from the trauma in my life, I would have bitterly said no. But working with a therapist brought me back to my senses and I’ve learned to be mindful of my own behavior.

So yes, I have changed. Life is all about typhoons, tornados, friends dying, and not getting what I want. But it’s also about red roses that fill the air with their sweet essence, dear friends, and a husband who shares the cooking of meals and holds me tight when I’m scared.

 This Thanksgiving I’m especially thankful for you, dear readers, for the sun that rises daily, and my wonderful family.  May the holiday find you all filled with peace, love, and happiness.

And if you’re driving watch out for the weather along the East Coast.

Filed Under: Childhood, Fear, Friendships, Gratefulness, Growing Up, Healing, love, marriage, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, stories, Thanksgiving, Trauma Tagged With: , , , ,

Companionship

August 12, 2012 By

Sam the Man, also known as Sampson, Sambo, Little Sam and one big hearted dog.

Sam has lost three of his best friends this past year.  Last November it was Molly, the little Maltese/Terrier mix with whom he fell head over heels in love with the first time he met her.  They were very close and when she died, he grieved along with the rest of us.  After a month or so it seemed as though he was okay with her being gone.  He enjoyed being the only dog in the house, finding it easy to break the rules we had set up for them when there were two dogs instead of just one.

We always allowed them up on the bed for afternoon naps, but at night they both slept on their own cushy beds on the floor next to us. They seemed to understand the difference between afternoon and night and rarely jumped up on the bed during the wee hours unless there was a thunderstorm or one of them had to pee.  After Molly died, Sam gradually made his way up onto the ottoman at the foot of our bed.  He’d get comfortable and when he was sure we were asleep and the sound of snoring filled the air, he’d quietly move up onto the bed.  If he dared, he’s snuggle up against a human leg. Not liking hot legs, we’d gently move him back to the ottoman, until one night we said, “The poor boy is lonely,” and left it at that.  By then, he knew he should sleep in the middle of the bed, not up against his human’s bodies.

Of late he’s been looking sad.  He wasn’t eating much and wasn’t bringing us his favorite toys for us to play with.  Just two weeks ago, the day after his best kitty friend, Peppermint died, Bill and I left for a week visiting our grandkids. Though Sam was here at home with his beloved, Bobbie, who always comes in to stay with him while we’re away, he got even more depressed. When we got home he wasn’t eating.  His tail, usually a happy wig-wag machine and a sign of how he is feeling, didn’t wag much. I was very concerned and knew he was deep in mourning for his three family members, Molly, Cleo the cat who died in June and now Peppermint.

I knew what the best medicine would be and sent a message out into the Universe to see what we could do about it.  The following day, when I went to the SPCA to pick up Pepper’s ashes, I took a walk past the dogs up for adoption.  They were mostly big hounds and pit bulls, not matches for Sam.

Next, I went to the pet supply store hoping to find a new exciting dog food that might tempt him into eating again.  I walked through the aisles and turning a corner entered into a larger open space. There right in front of me was the cutest little terrier mix I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.  He came over to me, greeting me as if we were long-lost friends.  Terry, was one of the dogs at an adoption event the store was hosting for Animal Connections, a local dog rescue group, that specializes in small dogs.  It was through them that we found Molly, ten or so years ago.  I knew this was the little angel dog that would be powerful medicine for Sam.  And if Sam and Molly had been able to have puppies together, this little man was what they would have looked like.

Terry. Sometimes I think of him as Terrence

I rushed home and brought Bill and Sam back to the store to meet  one year old, Terry.  When they met, Sam’s tail was waving a mile a minute and we took them both outside for a little pee party in the grass.  I was happy, Terry was happy, and Sam was happy. But Bill was reluctant.  We’d promised each other we that we wouldn’t fill the house back up with animals again and thought Sam would be fine after a while.  He’s also been wanting to travel more and knows I don’t like to be away  from my animal companions for very long.  He thought that the more animals there are in the house, the more reluctant I would be to leave them.  Not so.  When it comes to my furry friends, whether it’s one or ten, they are my special companions and I don’t like to be away from them for very long.  I’d find my life empty without them.

Lily and Terry

At the end of our meeting, we set up a day for Terry to come to our house for an overnight.  That would give him and Sam plenty of time to get to know each other. On Thursday morning when Terry’s foster mom, Lynette, brought him over, Sam was very excited.  Within two hours, beside myself with joy, I called Lynette to tell her that Terry would be staying with us forever.  We’ll sign the final adoption papers today. But in heart and soul, no papers are necessary. He’s ours and we’re his already.

Sam is eating again and playing for the first time in many months with a new companion who he wanted and needed. Terry has a new forever home and seems to be as delighted with us as we are with him.  He loves to play and this morning finally coaxed Lily, our remaining cat, to play with him.  The floors are a jumble of toys that haven’t been used in a long time and when Sam gets tired and needs a nap, Terry carries on by himself, chasing a tennis ball he tosses around for himself. Or sometimes he crashes next to Sam. Bill adores Terry as much as Sam and I do. He whispered to me that if I wanted him to, he’d put it in writing that I was right all along.  Companionship, of all kinds, is big, powerful medicine.

The Boys

Filed Under: Animals I Love, family, Friendships, Gratefulness, Life, love, marriage, Mental Health, Travels Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,

A Whirlwind Trip Down Memory Lane

June 16, 2012 By

My neices, Julia and Anya.

Last week Bill and I flew up to Vermont to do a tour of our old stomping grounds.  We visited family and friends, made new friends, and revisited homes we once lived in. We spent every minute living in the rush of memories and events that took place over a span of fifteen years. It was a trip I’ll never forget.

Arriving in Burlington, we spent our first evening with my brother Zed, his son Ben, and friend, Terri.  The next morning we had a lovely breakfast with Ben’s sweet mom, Brenda, and then drove south down the Champlain Valley, with spectacular views of the Green Mountains on the left and the Adirondacks on the right. Lake Champlain inserted itself every so often between us and the New York State line. It was startlingly beautiful and I wondered why we had decided to leave this unforgettable landscape. But then I remembered the long winters, heavy snows that blanketed the countryside and the biting cold that once upon a time I found invigorating.

Zed with Mousse, Bill, Ben, and Terri on our first night in Vermont

In Rutland, we turned west toward Killington where I spent my college years waiting on tables and making beds at my parent’s ski lodge. I drove that route five days a week in sun, snow, and subzero temperatures to Castleton State College where I earned a Bachelor of Science degree in elementary education.  Killington is also where Bill and I first met in 1962 when he fell in love with Vermont, bought three and a half acres of land and began building a round, stone ski chalet that was finally finished just before we were married in 1965.

The Round Rough House

Driving up the mountain gave me goose bumps and as we drove into the driveway at the round house, my anxiety over revisiting the past in-person, turned into pure excitement.  We were met at the door by current owners, Wiley and Kay, who moved there from New Orleans, after Katrina destroyed their city and peace of mind.  They, coincidentally, are friends of very old friends of ours, who out of the blue discovered that their New Orleans friends were moving into a house in Vermont built and designed by their Virginia friends. We had a delightful time sitting and reminiscing about the process of acquiring the land and building this one-of-a-kind house that is still known in the area as the Round Rough House. Ralph and Carol, our mutual friends, drove up from Washington, DC to be at this meeting of the new owners and us old owners.

Looking down into the livingroom area.

After a delicious meal we pressed on toward our next destination. But before we left the area we peeked in on the Summit Lodge, built and run by my parents. I thought of Hernando, our gray Sicilian donkey, who wandered about the property and often welcomed guests when they arrived with his large floppy ears pinned back ready to take a nip out of any hand that reached out to him.

Lots of old stories, both good and bad, haunted the drive further west to Quechee where we spent two nights in the lovely Apple Butter Bed and Breakfast. Exhausted and overwhelmed by the pace and intensity of the trip so far, we fell asleep to the rumble of thunder and rain on the roof above our heads.

We headed over to Meriden, New Hampshire, the next morning to spend the day with my nephew Jesse, his new wife, Lisa, and Jesse’s two girls, Anya and Julia, two of the most beautiful little women I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. They live in my brother Reid’s house that he built years ago in a sunny glade.  I played with five-year-old Anya, pushing her on her new “horsey” swing and tried to get Julia to play. I did get a kiss out of her at one point, but she’s only two and a shy little munchkin.

While he was still alive, Reid often rented out his house to earn some income, while he lived in the old red barn a short distance from the house. It is still filled with his belongings. Jesse invited us inside to see if there was anything we might want as a keepsake. It was the very first time ever that I stepped into that barn and knew for certain that my brother had been a hoarder.  Jesse has done some cleaning up, but much stuff is still where Reid had left it.  Imagine three floors of barn packed to the rooftop with junk of unimaginable quantity. There are bits and pieces of metal, several refrigerators, a basket overflowing with cork floats, a few antiques, several beautiful birdhouses that Reid built and wove from tree limbs, along with notes he wrote to himself on scraps of wood tucked in every nook and cranny.  I was deeply touched and saddened seeing for myself the way my brother had lived. He had been happy at times but underneath there always seemed to be a bed of burning anger, fear and blame.

We met with Amanda, (Anya and Julia’s mom) and her partner, Liz, the next morning over a stack of blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup, then drove north to St. Johnsbury where our kids, Mark and Lisa, were born. We had a reunion with old friends whom we haven’t seen in years.  All teachers, they had come together along with Bill in 1973 to create The Peacham School, an alternative private school for grades 7 through 12.

Our house in Danville.

The following day at our old homestead, Circa 1844, in Danville, the Dowsing Capitol of the World, we soaked in the memories of planting the now huge weeping willow out back and fishing for blue perch in the pond we had dug, now surrounded by a tangle of trees and shrubs. I imagined I heard the sweet sound of bells that my sheep and goats wore around their necks.  There I learned to spin yarn from the fleeces of my flock, dye the yarn with natural dyes, and then weave those fibers into a variety of products I sold at craft fairs. Invited to see the inside of the house as well, I traveled back in time to the winter when we couldn’t see out of the picture window on the north side of the house because the snow was drifted so high that it was almost touching the eaves.

The Pond

Later we returned to Burlington where we flew out early the next morning to return home.  My brother, Zed, had arranged a reception for us where we were introduced to his friends. I was extremely honored by the hospitality and love that we found ourselves surrounded by in every place we visited.

Happy and delighted to see my people, I was also overwhelmed, sad, and missing those who are no longer there. We’d visited Vermont two years ago for Reid’s memorial service, but had only two days. In the midst of moving and a new job for Bill, sadly there was no time to explore the roads we had once traveled.  This trip wasn’t much longer, but as Bill put it on our last day there, “We dotted all of our ‘i’s, crossed all of our ‘t’s and made peace with a segment of our past lives.”

The only remaining willow tree we planted.

Vermont is a very special place.  Those who live there are true Yankees: fiercely independent, highly spirited and able to withstand whatever the climate and the land chooses to throw their way.  Last August when Hurricane Irene raged through the state with torrential rains and flooding, everyone came together to clean up and make things right again. Independent construction companies rushed out to rebuild roads and bridges after the storm without being asked to.  There are still scars remaining but the spirit of the place reigns far above anything still needing to be fixed.

Zed and Mousse.

Filed Under: Animals I Love, family, Friendships, Gratefulness, marriage, Memoir, stories, Travels, Vermont Tagged With:

April In The Big Apple

April 22, 2012 By

Up on the High Line.

My husband, Bill, makes at least one or two trips to New York City each year to catch up on the latest in theatre and also movies that most likely will never make it to Charlottesville. We have one small independent movie house that does its best, but the same film often plays for weeks on end, while good Indi flicks whiz by us.  Charlottesville is known for hosting the Virginia Film Festival every fall and you’d think we’d get all the good ones but that isn’t the case.  In summer especially, the movie theatres show nothing but violence, fantasy and whatever junk is out there.

For those who don’t know him, Bill is a director, an actor and a playwright who has also taught for many years on the high school and college levels.  His trips are usually 4 or 5 days in length and in that span of time he’ll usually take in 6 or 7 plays and whatever number of movies he can fit in, usually 2 or 3.  He then writes his take on what he sees  and his experiences on his blog, View In The Dark.

I don’t usually accompany him on his binges because I’m not fond of  sitting for hour upon hour in dark rooms where the only light is focused on stage, even for the world’s best in theatre.  It’s great for him to get away so that he can focus on what he’s seeing and I get some time to do nothing but take care of my own needs here at home.

We do however always plan an additional trip when together, we spend time doing other favorite city things.  Although, seeing top Broadway shows is always on the list, we’ll often go to an art museum or two and take in sites like Ellis Island or riding the ferry to and from Staten Island while we recite Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem, Recuerdo.  And we always spend time in the City’s green spaces so that I don’t become overwhelmed by the energy of such a large metropolitan area.  When I’m in Manhattan, I need continual grounding and the parks are the place for me to find solace amidst the crush and noise that is a constant in the City.

The week before last, I spent five days in New York City sitting in dark, crowded rooms with my Love, seeing some of the world’s finest theatre.  The shows we saw were at night when the sun wasn’t shining so I got to spend most of my days out-of-doors.  We did go to two afternoon movies I’m sorry we chose, but when you’re film starved as I’ve been, you pay your money and take your chances.  The weather was perfect and too nice to waste time indoors seeing stuff that we weren’t moved by.

The Broadway shows we did go to were mostly spectacular, especially Death of a Salesman, with Philip Seymour Hoffman. Anything Goes, was refreshing, funny, and I wanted to get up onstage to dance and sing those old, wonderfully familiar Cole Porter tunes myself.

Porgy and Bess, left me wanting more of Gershwin. Though the story is a tragic one, music of the Gershwins’ always speaks to my soul, leaving me immersed in it even as I sleep. I’m still humming Summertime, I Got Plenty of Nothing, and I Loves You, Porgy, long after having the privilege of being in the theatre to see and hear this marvelous show.

On the other hand, The Best Man, a political piece about a 1960 president election, written by Gore Vidal, starring James Earl Jones and Angela Lansbury, left me cold.  About the same kind of hateful campaigning we’re experiencing right this minute, I could have simply stayed home and watched the evening news. The only difference between the ‘60s and now is the amount of money being spent to buy this years election.  And even with those two all-time favorite stars it was nothing special.

The biggest surprise and absolutely stunning was a benefit performance of the gospel/musical, Momma, I Want To Sing, up in Harlem, at the MaMa Foundation for the Arts’, Dempsey Theater.  We’d seen a segment about the Foundation and its work on CBS’ Sixty Minutes, a while back and agreed we’d love to see what they do in person. We both love music in all genres and especially soulful, African-American gospel. Aware of how important music is in everyone’s life, we find the Foundation’s mission of presenting, preserving and promoting gospel, jazz and the R&B arts through programs like Gospel for Teens, to be extremely important. Especially since music, as with most art curriculums, is disappearing from many a school program during these hard economic times.

Twice a year, the Foundation, auditions kids between the ages of thirteen and nineteen for a spot in the Gospel For Teens Choir. Those selected are immersed in gospel music, and then move on to an advanced class in performing for live audiences.  They’ve won numerous awards and have traveled all over the globe bringing music and joy to those who have the opportunity to see and hear them.  I’d go see it again in a heartbeat for the   pure, inspiring energy they bring to my soul.

Up on the High Line.

However, the best part of the trip for me was taking a subway ride downtown to walk on the High Line, one of the Manhattan’s newest green spaces, above the City’s canyons, on a mile long stretch of old rail road tracks.  It’s beautifully designed and planted with native trees, shrubs and perennials, many of them in bloom when we were there. We walked it twice in as many days and the back pain I usually experience walking the streets of New York, surrounded by concrete and steel, was not in evidence for the rest of those days. Unlike the more serious faces of the hoards who hang out on Times Square, everyone walking the High Line was smiling.  It has topped the list of my favorite parks in the City, closely followed by Bryant Park and of course, Central Park, where watching people with their dogs is one of my favorite NYC past times.

If you’re interested in theatre, movies and some stupendous writing do check out Bill’s blog, View In The Dark.

Art up on the High Line.

Filed Under: Life, love, marriage, Music, Poetry, Travels

One Day At A Time

January 16, 2012 By

Lily having a cat nap. I may join her!

Today is the beginning of my weeklong retreat right here in my house.  Bill ships out in the morning for one of his “New York Theatre Binges.”  He is a theatre man, through and through.  He acts, he directs, he writes plays and teaches about most of the above.  His binges entail going up to the Big Apple and seeing as many On, Off, and Off-Off Broadway shows he can fit in during four or five days.  On matinee days he sees two.  On days when there are no matinees, he’ll also take in a movie or two … mostly Independent films that will likely never make it to Charlottesville.  He has five days this time. There will be a host of people waiting to hear his opinions about what he saw on his blog, View in the Dark, which he only seems to keep up with after one of his treks to the big city.

I don’t join him on these binges because I don’t like to spend my days sitting in dark rooms, no matter how good the play.  When I do go with him it’s a different trip entirely.  If the weather is nice and warm they we will take a trip to Central Park to just sit and watch people living their real-life dramas … walking their dogs, rushing, arguing, playing soccer or baseball.  We will see a number of plays and movies, but we’ll also go to at least one art museum or gallery.  I like to just ride the bus sometimes and watch the city unfold from my window seat. We might visit Ellis Island or some other place of interest.  We always eat extremely well, having a big meal at noon and snacking in the evening.  It’s lots of fun and I love going with him, just not in January, when cold winds whistle through New York’s grand canyons.

So it’s here I’ll stay this time to look after myself, the cats and the dog.  I’ve not got much planned.  I will pretend I am not here, I will write, I will read, I will eat well and I will exercise.  I have no appointments and can do whatever I want to do, whenever I want, without worrying about anyone else. I will miss my man very much, but these little mini-breaks from each other are what I swear keeps our marriage so delicious.  He’ll get the same kind of break at the end of this month when I go off to visit a friend in Florida for a week.  We both love our at-home-alone times.

Even though Bill is still here, I’ve already started doing my own thing.  I’m sitting here in damp sweats having exercised and stretched.  It’s almost noon and it feels good to not have to be anywhere.  I love to let the day unfold before me without a long list of places to be and things that must get done. Last week I started cleaning up the clutter on my desk and there is only one stack of papers left to go through.  Maybe this afternoon, maybe not.  One breath, one day at a time.

Filed Under: marriage, Retreats, Travels
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