Vicarious Rising

Wearing My Insides Out

My husband's parents are prosperous enough to own multiple homes in multiple states, which allows them to enjoy fortuitous weather yearlong. It is also rather lucky for us, as we get to hop down to Florida in the winter time and we usually have a nice apartment in New York City to crash in whenever we want to visit the city.

But it does make for a little bit of a lonely winter as everyone packs up and leaves us up in the cold Northeast. But come May, everyone is returning.

This year is especially fun because we - finally - have our new home to show off. Just in the last two days we've had family guests over. I think one of my biggest thrills, however, was hearing my 13-year-old saying to his grandmother and her friends, "yes, we are all very proud of our house." I love that he feels ownership here. I know when I was a kid, the house I lived in was very much my parents' home and not mine at all.

One of our guests was the 80+ mother of my mother-in-law's best friend. She is having a lot of trouble with walking (she suffers from fibromyalgia, among other ailments) and her mind is going a bit. She walked around the first floor of the house, then settled down into one of our comfy chairs. At one point, I was standing across the room, about 30 feet away, and she shuffled her way over to me. I smiled at her and was about to ask if she needed something.

"You are more beautiful than ever," she said to me. "You've always been an attractive person, but you have never looked more beautiful. I just had to come over here and tell you that."

I swear I blushed and I thanked her. It was so sweet. Especially since I was shlepping around in raggedy jeans and a sweatshirt and I needed a shower. My husband teased her that she maybe needed new glasses (to which she responded, "actually, I do.") Maybe it is that thing that makes you dotty and loving when you're old, but I have had a lot of other people say how much different and better I look, that I carry myself differently and with more peace. You know what? I think this sober living agrees with me. I think my own skin is beginning to fit me right.

Doomsayers, Look Up

The first couple responses to my last post have kind of taken me by surprise, much in the same way my sponsor's coldness has. I'm not sure why. I guess I might think about it some more, but that isn't what I want to say here.

I do want to address a few things about the seeming concern about my meeting attendance. First, I wonder if my sponsor is that worried, wouldn't it be a better tactic to actually return my calls and/or perhaps take me up on my invitations to meet up for lunch to talk? For one thing, I have made it clear to her I am not rejecting AA - I am still a very strong believer in the program. I do believe I am practicing its principles in all my affairs - perhaps not to the literal level that some would wish me to, but I believe in the true spirit they are intended. I do think there will be times in my life where I will very much want to attend a meeting. I also think that sitting in meetings, day in, day out purely out of fear, guilt and habit is not doing myself any favors. Hearing the same people say the same thing every day was beginning to be boring. I wanted to spend my time living life, not hearing people stuck in thoughts of constant not drinking.

Second, I am not going to tell anyone else how to live their lives or what is best for them, although I think there are more inclusive ways to get healthy than solely with AA. For me, I needed my therapist, my husband's family and my friends with the catalyst of AA to get me through the necessary changes. I don't think I am done changing for the better. But as my therapist said to me not too long ago, therapy was never meant to be forever. I believe the same is true for AA meetings. You use the tools you learn in these places, sometimes you need refreshers, but the idea is that you grow. If I make myself go to AA meetings just because I believe that is what I am supposed to do and not because it is what feels right to me, I am stunting my growth.

Anyway, I wish I could hang with sober people without being beat on the head with meeting rhetoric. There is so much more to life than yammering about drinking and not drinking. I am more open to life and the stuff that I used to hide from through my drinking, so I think it is better to not avoid experiencing it by devoting all my time saturated in an AA-focused life. I'm just sad that it seems my AA buddies seem to think that means I am excluded from their gang.

Hey, I just want to be a better, sober person. I have said all along, there was something about many people in the meetings that did not have things that I wanted, that it was one of the hardest "sales" of the program to me. That so many of those in the rooms reminded me of beaten puppies and seemed more defeated than surrendered. What I have been coming to realize more and more as I recover is that I have what I want, I have been cultivating it for years. I just didn't believe I deserved it until I finally put down the drink and found my self worth. And, yes, AA has been and will continue to be a part of that discovery.

Well, I am sure those of you who think this spells doom still think so and those of you who are not pro-AA are still firmly there. But maybe some of you on the fence can understand my perspective and know that I'm alright.

No Place for the Non-Follower

This morning I went to my AA home group's meeting to return the business meeting's official secretary book. I have abdicated my position as secretary. It makes sense since I haven't been to a meeting in a couple months. The last one I went to was basically to meet my commitment as secretary.

I hadn't planned to stay - I arrived at the halfway point when they have a five minute smokers break, so I could pass off the notebook to one of the other officers. Instead, I ended up briefly talking to a woman who I don't know all that well who coerced me into sitting down for at least five minutes of the meeting. Five minutes I didn't really have because I had a doctor's appointment for my annual pap smear in 20 minutes. Nonetheless, I found myself guilted into a seat.

WTF?

I think part of the reason my butt got weighted down was that my sponsor greeted me with less than an enthusiastic hello. In fact, I think she seemed a little pissed. I know it might've been my imagination, but I have called her a few times, including asking if she wanted to get together so I could pass off the secretary book to her because I would love to have a visit with her. She hasn't returned my calls. She did, however, call once to leave me a message to inform me that I should oust myself as secretary and return the notebook ASAP.

I guess I feel a little hurt. I suppose I had hoped that my friendship was perhaps contingent on my sobriety, yes, but not necessarily my attachment to the tenents of the AA program. It seems those bonds were not so strong as I imagined. I have to walk the same walk in the same voice in the same language, conform.

This makes me sad. I can't say I think this is the fault of AA. I still plan to go to meetings on occasion as I need it. I saw my walking buddy David this morning, and I miss him terribly. Not keeping in touch with him is my own self-involved fault. But I think I am disappointed that the camraderie of a bunch of drunks was somewhat superficial.

Maybe it's just me. But anyway, I ain't gonna drink over it.

On another note, I've been following The Junky's Wife's blog for some time now, and she is struggling with stepping back to let her husband try to manage to put together a recovery for himself. She wrote that he recently had the brilliant idea that all he needs is a doctor to prescribe him all the drugs he needs to not feel the pain of withdrawal so he can wake up clean, refreshed and brand-sober-spanking-new.

Yah, that sounds familiar to this alcoholic. I also remember when I bought all these books about how I could drink all I wanted if I only ate the proper diet and vitamin supplements and drank a certain amount of water. What a crock.

After I returned from rehab, I sold all these books on Amazon.com. I felt a little remorseful about passing on that crap to other people who I am certain were idiots just like me. I even thought about sticking a little note in the package saying, "when you're done with all this crap, write me an email" or stuffing in an AA pamphlet. But I realized it would go on deaf ears. I wouldn't have heard it until it was my time.

I hope the Junky's Wife's man will hit the point where he has had enough soon. No one can do it for you, especially not Dr. Feelgood.

Contentment Content

I haven't been feeling like blogging lately. It's funny how when things are going well, the need to gab dries up. I think some of it has to do with my inclination to keep my good news to myself, but generally speaking, I think most people tend to not gush on and on when life is good.

At any rate, spring time has begun on the top of my little hill here. I'm enjoying the changing of season and my amateurish antics at gardening and furniture assembly.

I still want to put up pics of my LA trip. We got to feed the hippo and rhino at the LA zoo because my husband's cousin has a friend who works there. It was the coolest thing and I got great photos of the animals.

In other news, my sister is getting married in October. I am happy for her. I think. I haven't met the guy. He can't be worse than the last guy she married. Right?

High Life

If anyone remembers a post from about two months ago, I won a trip to L.A. thanks to one of my favorite television shows. Welp, my son and I are off for our vacation tomorrow. The trip was supposed to include a meet-n-greet with one of the show's stars, but because of the writers strike and some other timing issues, that part of the grand prize will not be happening. Kind of a bummer, especially since I have a minor crush on the show's star. However, we will be staying at the Hollywood Roosevelt and dining at some rather excellent places courtesy the show and the USA Network. This chica is mighty excited.

Perhaps not so ironically, I didn't really want to share my good fortune with my family. I feel like they have this idea in their heads that I am "lucky". Or, perhaps better put, that I have an imbalance of too much good. Which is not to say they are deprived because they are far from it. But they have a way of making me feel terribly guilty when nice things happen to me. So, I tend not to tell them about them.

Actually, I tend to not tell them about much of anything. It seems safer to ask them about themselves and cluck at the appropriate times.

One of the big changes through recovery has been to allow myself to enjoy when good things happen to me. To not expect the hand of god to reach down and punish me for feeling joy and pleasure in the nice things around me. To indulge in the idea that maybe, just maybe, I do deserve a nice life for no other reason than that I am a nice person.

It really isn't funny how much time I spent destroying myself for every good thing that came my way. I really was my own worst enemy. In some ways, I got worse as I got better in my early recovery. I wonder if others have experienced that struggle. I'm sure many have. As I began to recognize reality and separate myself from what I had been told about myself, there was a real internal war going on that at times I wasn't sure I was going to survive.

It's too bad my family cannot share in my happiness. It would be nicer for me if I could share my life with them. But I have adapted, if not quite accepted.

Now, off to the land of make-believe. I'll try not to gawk like a total tourist. As if.

Let it Rain

My therapist and I are in the process of breaking up. It's a very strange thing to do with deliberation and discussion. I imagine this is the way we are supposed to grow up and leave home. But I think it seldom happens in this way. It is an unusual experience, and rather uncomfortable. I feel a lot of discordant emotions, pleasure and guilt, excitement and fear. But I think in the end sum, it feels right. It feels time.

Nearly.

Decorating my home has been a joy interspersed with headaches along the way. Most of the headaches seem to be shipping related, and unfortunately cannot be pegged on just one shipping company. This has me rather disgruntled, particularly since I am rather in love with online shopping. It give me the opportunity to patronize independent artisans and smaller boutique shops and discover new things the world over. But the merchandise needs to arrive and arrive in one piece. I never had much of a problem (except for the mail lady who smoked incessantly so everything smelled of cigarettes and she also would never bring packages to the door even when we were home: she always left the "sorry we missed you" slip in the mailbox right before I'd watch her drive off in her USPS truck.) until recently. I don't know what the deal is, but it isn't like everybody is spending tons of money shopping. You'd think the delivery folk wouldn't have much else to do but get their jobs done right.

One lovely item that just arrived is this Zen Rain Drop glass mobile I purchased from Leah Pellegrini's Glass Creations on Etsy. My office faces south and gets quite a lot of sunlight. I think this will look beautiful hanging in the windows over my desk.

Leah included a little business card-sized note on her inspiration of the mobile's design, and I thought I would share it because it reflects some of what I have been going through the past several months.:

In this image of lotus leaves in the early morning, we can see in the rippling of the water that one drop has just fallen. It is a precious moment, and one that is full of poignency. In surrendering to gravity and slipping off the leaf, the drop loses its previous identity and joins the vastness of the water below. We can imagine that it must have trembled before it fell, just on the edge between the known and the unknowable.

~Osho Zen Tarot

Leah says to "remember to let go and your life will thank you". I like the imagery of the lone, trembling drop of water setting itself free. But I don't like to think of it as wiping out its entire identity. Rather, that it is joining the part of itself it had been separated from, that it is being made whole. I kind of have to wonder if the vastness below is any more knowledgeable than the lone drop above. Or does it too change beyond the impact of superficial ripples when hit by the droplet? Maybe it doesn't matter. And I'm not so sure about surrendering to gravity. I'm not in any hurry to get wrinkles. But the rest sounds good.

There I go, ruining a perfectly good metaphor with literal interpretation. I'm having a hard time taking myself too seriously these days. I think that's progress.

Rolling With It

"In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintigration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways."

~Edith Wharton, A Backward Glance

I've been contentedly puttering around my new home, slowly arranging things in my nest. Saturday my husband and I celebrated our 11th anniversary. We went out for Indonesian food and had a really nice dinner in each others' company.  My son is really liking the new place. We all are.

I am glad I feel really and truly present to enjoy all that I have. I'm not sleepwalking through my life anymore.

Fountainhead

We closed on the house today. Picture me doing a happy dance. It's not pretty, but it's kind of cute. Trust me on this.

There's still details to be done before we officially relocate there, such as getting the glass doors put on the showers, but we can start the migration.

On another note, I'm feeling tense and pissed off that the Ass Clown has sent a couple emails to my husband trying to be all buddy-buddy with him. As of the moment, I haven't said anything to my husband about the fallout of our friendship (although my husband does know about this blog and I don't know if he's kept up with it or not). However, I seriously doubt my husband has missed that I have not said a single thing kind or nasty about my ex-friend in a rather long time. This is completely unlike me to not have mentioned Allen in conversation. That, added to the fact that Allen made a trip to the U.S. recently and made no attempt to visit us probably would be sending some curious red flags in my husband's head.

Frankly, I am of a couple suspicions. First, that the asshole might be trying to tick me off. I think this is not terribly likely, although I do rather like the idea that he might be trying to get back into my good graces via the backdoor of my husband. But that's my ego talking, not reality.

I think it more likely that the jerk is afraid of losing his business connections with my husband. The two of them have never really been particularly tight except through me. Now suddenly he has an attack of socialization and small talk? What bullshit. I smell a rat.

But in all fairness, I do need to ask myself if I am displaying sour grapes over his solicitous behavior towards my husband. Perhaps I am being petty, paranoid and jealous? I must admit there may be some of that.

But I do feel disconcerted by his actions, between contacting my husband and his har-dee-har-har birthday email to me. If I cannot trust him, I want him to stay the hell away from my family. At one time, I thought I wanted him to care for my son should anything happen to me and my husband. Now I am horrified at the idea of this person who has never been accountable for anyone but himself raising my boy to be like him. But, shit, my son's middle name is Allen after him. Once upon a time, I thought the sun shined out his ass.

I am so fucking broken over this. Still, I need to look hard at myself and be sure I am not being defensive fully out of anger. The last thing I need is to let this ass clown get me to poison myself.

I just want to do the right thing. Everything in my life is so good today. I want to stay on this path.

Tunnel Vision

It looks like we have the closing of our house scheduled on Wednesday afternoon. Knock on wood. We have to pass inspection tomorrow.

Everyone cross fingers for me. The inspector is a bit of a (ahem) stickler.

Meanwhile, I found out I don't qualify for the writing scholarship because I am not a full time student in a writing program. Oh well. I still need to get off my bum and apply for the summer program regardless of whether I pay for it or not.

My therapist and I decided it was time to cut back therapy to once a week. I'm thrilled, but feel a bit like I did when I first left rehab: ready but a little wobbly on my feet. I told him it felt like he and I have more of a regular parent/child relationship that I never had with my own parents. That I want to break free and be on my own, but a part of me wants to stay in the safety of a loving parent too.

Lately I feel like such a cheeseball because all I can do is grin. I probably ought not admit that. Isn't that when the Cosmos punishes you for your good fortune?

Or maybe it's just time for me to sabotage myself. E-mail the old Ass Clown or do some other self-destructive ill-advised thing. How about I don't do that? Making things harder on myself's an old bad habit I could do without.

I hope you listen to this song from the late 80s, Dream Kitchen by the Brit group Frazier Chorus. I couldn't find a single upload of it online and only a scant few references, so I uploaded it myself. Can't even Google the lyrics as far as I can tell. It's a gem, imho, and especially appropriate for today's post.

A Foundation for Building Dreams

I swear I'm not dwelling on it, but I am kind of rankled by the ass clown email I got a couple days ago. It certainly underscores the immaturity of the sender and helps me know that he truly is not my friend, if he ever was. It also was a blatant act of hostility from a guy who likes to claim he isn't emotional. It was provocative. I don't know what he was looking for from me, whether it was a fight or just to ruin my birthday.

Ok, I'm going to get right on letting it go. Any time now.

I finally have some photos to share of my house. Please excuse the construction mess. You can click on them to see a bigger view. I didn't get any of the exterior because there were a ton of trucks parked out front yesterday. We had our first inspection (and failed), but will have another on Friday. A light at the end of the tunnel, for real this time.

We still have a lot of furniture to buy, but we are going to take our time picking the right pieces. I haven't mentioned my quest for intimacy and the issues within my marriage here in my blog in awhile. I suppose it is because I am taking things slowly. I recognize that I am a bit of an intimacy idiot, not really understanding what my needs are. I cannot expect someone else to fulfill these for me when I can't define them myself. And one thing I have been certain of all along is that I love my husband and that he loves me, whatever shape or form that means. That alone is enough to hang on and see what develops.

What pics I put up here are the kitchen/great room, another of the kitchen (you can see the pantry a bit in the doorway, the counters are slate and the island is granite), the antique apothecary we had converted into a vanity (we got the granite sink from China), the inside of the "sleeping porch" off my office, and lastly, the walk-out basement rec room.

We may be closing next week if all goes well with the inspection. Then there will be a few more things to be done, including some more finish on the hickory floors. Then we can start to move in.

I can't hardly wait to get settled into my beautiful house on the hill.

Revisionary Mystory

I had a swell birthday. It was very low-key, as I prefer. My husband made me pasta with a homemade tomato basil sauce. Very yummy.

An amazing thing happened yesterday. My mother called me to wish me a happy birthday. She hasn't called me for my birthday in probably 12 years. She sounded a little nervous. "I thought it was about time," she said to me with a slight giggle in her voice.

We had a very nice chat. I guess she and my dad had a nostalgic walk down memory lane about the day of my birth this weekend. I guess I am glad they are remembering it as a blessed event. They sometimes tell the story as me being born during a horrible ice storm in the middle of the night on purpose just to be difficult. Yes, I realize it is an exaggeration on their part, but there were times when I felt like nothing I ever did was right and that my existence in their life was nothing but a hassle.

It seems like today things are in a beneficial light. I am going to try not to take too much excitement out of it, which is my tendency. I know I want the mom and dad of my dreams. But I also know that I have been working hard this past two years at the relationship we are building now. That this relationship is something positive in my life. It may not be all I wish it to be, that their memories of my childhood may make me cringe and angry because it paints a false pretty picture. But none of that matters. What matters is today. I've changed how I deal with them, what I expect of them and I can accept that this is enough.

My mom called me to wish me a happy birthday. And she meant it. Well, I'll be damned. Good things can happen when you are sober.

Asses Will Be Asses

True to form, despite that he is not speaking to me, I received an e-card from my ex-best friend this morning for my birthday.

It was of a clown dropping trow, mooning me.

And he says I need help.

Booby Prizes

I'm glad I wrote about my sudden melancholy regarding my broken friendship yesterday. To tell the truth, I was a little ashamed to bring it up because I was feeling like I ought to be over it already. Spending over an entire year in a tug-o-war with myself over the whole fiasco seemed like way too much time already. Then I'd spent two relatively quiet months at peace with myself over the decision to get the hell out. It felt like I was backsliding to indulge in mournfulness even for a moment.

I have to remember a couple things, though. This friendship lasted for 15 years. It was and will remain perhaps one of the most significant relationships in my life, regardless of whether it was based on the real him or not. I trusted him with parts of myself I gave to no one else. He mattered to me. A lot. It doesn't signify that he had been fooling me all along in regards to how deep my feelings went for him. How I felt was real.

Part of my annoyance is that I feel duped. I am someone who prides herself at good intuition about people, and it so utterly failed me in this case, I am embarrassed to my core. The funny thing is, my first impression of my best friend was so poor, I cannot believe I allowed myself to change my mind at all. I thought he was a self-centered boor with a stick up his ass. How and why I reversed my initial reaction to him is a real mystery to me that I may never solve.

The real question remains, why did I allow myself to become so involved in this fantasy? What does or did this man represent to me that was so important for me to hang on to? I have recognized that a large portion of my love/infatuation with him was an attempt on my part to hang on and get closer to someone that I felt was an enigma. The more distant he felt to me, the more I became convinced I needed to be closer. Pretty rudimentary stupidity psychology on my part, but given my history with my mother, hardly surprising. With my new sobriety and confusion about my sexuality and marriage, the whole thing snowballed into a romantic fantasy. I desperately wanted to talk about all of it with this person who was my friend and confidant, but he would have none of it. I'd never had a relationship outside my parents run so afoul, heck, my first marriage ended with less acrimony. The man I thought my best friend was would not have ever treated a friend with the disrespect he treated me. Not only was it a rude awakening, but I kept trying to convince myself that I had it wrong - that he had to be the good guy, not the asshole.

I should have done a better job of recognizing the warning signs that my friend was a man with a lot of sociopathy of his own. At 38, he's never married or even been close to it. By his own admission, he has never been in love. And every single one of his relationships has gone down because of his emotional immaturity, inability to communicate and fear of commitment. His way of handling conflict in a relationship is to make the other person feel like there is something defective with them and just flat out refuse to speak to them until they change the subject and are "rational" (re: not saying anything that makes him squirm) again. None of this had ever come up in our friendship before I got sober. My sobriety, I guess, changed how I related to him. It was the last relationship I expected to be a casualty of my getting well. It seems to be the only relationship to suffer for it.

I also think that a part of me thought that he was single because he held some sort of torch for me all this time. Very self-indulgent, I know. Now that harebrained idea has gone the way of the dodo, and I am left with little to console me.

I really screwed up here. I need to take an inventory and understand what happened and why. Try not to rip myself a new one over it. And most of all, try not to let what happened keep me from trusting another person again. I don't think I will ever stop missing the closeness I felt to him, even if it was a chimera.

Friends Will Be Friends

I shouldn't be doing this. It irritates me to no end. Times like these I wish I were made of stone.

I really have turned a corner, realized that someone I adored was not the person I believed him to be. That our friendship was disposable and flimsy, easily shattered under the slightest scrutiny. He only cared about me so long as I was his unquestioning admirer, his most loyal fan. The second I poked around his dubious behavior or pushed for discussion, he called me a drama queen, troubled and bitter. He would refuse to talk to me. End of conversation if he didn't like what was being said.

In the past two months, I haven't cried at all over losing my best friend. I've actually felt rather relieved at not riding the rollarcoaster I'd been on with him since I'd gotten sober. I cried a lot during the turmoil, but when I realized he really didn't give a shit, I felt calm and surprisingly not sad. Until today.

Today I missed something I'm not even sure was ever real. How can I feel such grief over a friend who has been so cruel to me in the past year, someone who thinks so little of me? Someone who would rather belittle me than try to understand me? I shouldn't care at all about such a person. I don't want to care at all.

I hate him so much right now. What I wouldn't give for him to apologize. I'd probably forgive him anything.

The World We Live In

Just a quick update on my nieces: my ex-brother-inlaw unexpectedly agreed to the change in jurisdiction for the custody hearing from Kentucky (where he lives) to Massachusetts (where my sister and the kids primarily live) and also to the Guardian ad Litem being put in place for the girls. He also agreed to the guardian of my sister (and, it should be said, my parents') choice, which is a woman and a psychiatrist and from what I hear, quite expensive.

So, all of these things were approved in court, which is very good for the children and my sister's lawyer says is in my sister's favor. Personally, I am rooting for the kids, whatever that ends up meaning. My therapist says these Guardian programs usually are quite effective at looking out for the needs of the children. I am praying this will be the case here.

Thank you to all who left comments and made kind thoughts and prayers for these little girls. They are sweethearts caught up in the middle of a clash they should be being protected from.

On another note, I feel like I have a bunch of huge blog posts inside me, but not the time to flesh them out. However, I would like to direct people to Slutty McWhore's blog (formerly The Judgemental Whore, which I was kind of partial to, but she can be Slutty if she wants). Part of what's been going through my own head lately is what is feminism. In part, I've been trying to come to grips about what it is to be a woman, which is partly tied in to my romantic and sexual needs and how it relates to my marriage and even how it related to my failed friendship and the politics of my relationship with my parents. I shied away from my feminine side for most of my life, and I am trying to understand this better also within the context of society.

For those of you who have not met Slutty, she is a Scottish woman living in the US working on getting her master's degree and supporting herself as a erotic masseuse. She is a wonderful writer and quite outspoken, and I consider her a strong feminist voice, maybe not because of or despite of her job. Frankly, I haven't decided which. Maybe I just think she breaks the mould. And, perhaps, maybe that's what I think feminism should be about.

Breaking the Cycle of Hurt

I just have a second to post this morning, and without getting too into it, my sister is going to court today to try to get a Guardian Ad Litum (or something like that - this info is from my mother and might be slightly faulty) established for my two little nieces who are six and nine. To make a long story short, there has been a long, drawn out custody battle between my sister and her ex-husband and the girls have been hustled between Kentucky and Massachusetts and subjected to a lot of shit they should not have had to deal with. Both are in therapy. The older one is developing serious OCD problems. Both are very anxious.

Anyway, I have hopes that an outside advocate (this Guardian person) might be the best bet for these kids. I know I feel completely helpless in stepping in and doing anything at risk of being cut off  from my relationship with them or worse. So, for those of you inclined to send good karma vibes or pray, if you could send some nice thoughts for my little nieces, it would be wonderful.

Thank you.

Send Out the Flying Monkeys

The other day we bought a t-shirt at Target for my son that had some saying about it's all fun and games until the flying monkeys show. For those of us old enough (my son came up with this terrific word "decrapitated" to describe his dad and I) to have watched The Wizard of Oz when it was only on television once a year, this is a reference to the Wicked Witch of the West's army of freaky primates. My son, on the other hand, has never seen the movie, has no real desire to and doesn't get the reference. But he still thinks the shirt is hilarious. For him, it's a non-sequiteur sort of humor. I guess I don't know which way makes it funnier. It makes me a little sad not sharing Wizard of Oz with him.

I know I've been a bad blogging buddy, but it still depresses me that no one left comments on my last post. Ok, it wasn't pulitzer stuff and I wrote it in about 15 minutes, but... wahhhhhhh.

Alrighty. Tantrum over.

My house is still another two weeks off from finished, that ubiquitous marker ever elusive, and we had a leaky toilet debacle. I'm still more or less zen. Ok, less zen. I want in. My patience is a little thin. I was promised to be in well before my February 4 birthday and it's looking less and less promising.

I subscribe to Merriam-Webster's word of the day because I like having fun with words. Today's was

weasel word - a word used in order to mislead a person or to avoid a straight answer

This cracked me up for a number of reasons. How many of you know people who utilize this tactic? What I found even more interesting was the follow up info:

Some people believe that weasels can suck the insides out of an egg without damaging the shell. An egg thus weasel-treated would look fine on the outside, but it would actually be empty and useless. We don't know if weasels can really do that, but the belief that they could caused people to start using "weasel word" to refer to any term intended to give the impression that everything is fine when the speaker is really trying to avoid answering a question, telling the truth, or taking the blame for something.

I definitely know some people who tend to have a script and say the same words and phrases over and over (weasel words?) in a way that seems to obfuscate the truth while giving some sort of plausible, nice sounding answer. It makes it sound as if they have conviction in what they are saying when the reality is that they can't afford to stray from the script. Pretty sophisticated tap dancing. Annoying, if you ask me.

I don't know what weasels have to do with flying monkeys, but this is where my brain is at today. Maybe my sanity check did not go as well as I had originally thought.

Sanity Check

I think it is true that the people who need the most therapy are the ones most likely to avoid getting it. The people who acknowledge they are a little off usually have their shit a bit more together than those who are so laced up that they will crack should anything go even slightly astray.

My mom is one of those people. She used to be given to saying she was perfect without a trace of irony. I don't know if she still says this anymore. I do know I used to fully believe her as a child when she said this. It would depress me because I knew utterly that I was not anywhere near perfect, if for no other reason than for the angry thoughts I could not restrain from running through my head from time to time. Such as, I do not like my parents. No good girl would ever entertain such evil notions.

My mother refuses to see or even be in the same room as a mental health worker, even if said worker is for someone other than herself. She also does not leave her house for weeks if my father is out of town and no longer "does highways," in her own words. To name a few things that she thinks are within a perfectly normal range of behaviors. Her current favorite television program is Monk, which she says makes her feel less odd for her idiosyncracies. I wish she'd take the hint that Mr. Monk is actually in therapy and is seen as having a major disability while also being a wonderful human being. Alas, this message is lost.

My son sometimes has trouble with changing gears, and I worry that this is somehow related to him needing things to be just so. I've tried to teach him that perfectionism is not a necessary goal. But at the same time, he does get messages that he is to do his best and that we have high expectations of him. How to draw the proper line is difficult.

One of the reasons I feel like I am doing so well mentally right now is not so much that I am rolling with the punches that are being thrown outside of me, it is that I am not throwing so many at myself. But I do have to stop myself from time to time to ensure I am not just covering up some torrent of anxiety with my avalanche of work surrounding my new home project. In the past, I have been successful at masking troubled feelings by taking on a "worthy" or "proper" task. Something that I thought morally and socially was correct to do. A fine home for my husband and son (and I) falls into that category. I did something like this when I got married the first time and planned a traditional wedding for all my guests, but not myself.

It is important I make sure the smile I have is on the inside. Certainly, there are things that have not gone as I would like and some bumps in the road, but I feel like I have really begun to understand what it is that I am looking for in my life. Things with my husband have improved, and a good deal of it has been a shift in my own attitude. Part of my problem was not having clarity on what I wanted, and therefore not knowing how to go about asking for it. My husband is never going to be a mind reader or one for deep, introspective conversations. But we do have a terrific unspoken rhythm and communication that I had not been connecting to while I was running around trying to figure out what I need. I'm not saying I know everything I need or want, but I do know that my husband is there for me in his way.

My head is not entirely on straight. My temper still exists. I don't know how to handle all my newly teenaged son's cropping issues and tensions with his dad. I still miss not having the relationships I want with my sister and parents. There are plenty of things I would like to improve about myself. But mostly, I am enjoying my life and being me. The grin on my face is not just a facade to keep people away.

My kid says that "sick" is the new "cool." So, I wonder if being an alcoholic and being sick makes me extra cool or just extra fucked up or if we are finally embracing mental illness as a good thing?

Bleh. I'm starting to show my age. And it's all good.

License to Revel

A few other bloggers I follow were picking a single word as sort of a mantra for the new year. I think this is an interesting idea, as I dislike resolutions. I chose BALANCE as my word. I'd love to hear anyone else's word, if you decide to pick this up as well.

Balance is a tricky thing to maintain. More often than not, things keep an equilibrium by swinging back and forth between extremes rather than staying still in a peaceful center. At the same time, I've tried to live in a place where nothing moved, and that was numb and probably a lot like death. I wouldn't call it living at any rate. That state of being, for me, was about fear and retribution.

When I was a kid, I learned not to be too excited or happy about anything. My parents were certain to rain on my parade, whether it was through criticism or by taking away the things I cared most about. My most prized thoughts and possessions became secrets. Sometimes they became secrets even to me. I didn't dare love too deeply, celebrate too much or enjoy too fully. Because one thing I could count on is that whatever pleasure I derived from that action, person or thing would be taken away.

I'm learning to do away with this extreme view of balance and recognize I am entitled to have a good life and enjoy it just because I am. I've been having dreams about having fun with my friends, dreams that I used to have about going out with a bunch of strangers and getting hammered and not remembering picking up the drink or why I did it. It is a marked change that the dreams are about being with people I love and not including me poisoning myself. However, I am still not remembering our nights out having fun. I'm still holding myself back experiencing the joy of conviviality. I can't quite allow myself to have fun.

Slowly I am peeling away my defense mechanisms and letting myself believe that this life I've created is one I deserve and that the hand of God isn't going to come whisk it away. I really like this happy feeling, the one that makes me each day a little closer to being grateful just to be me.

Yes, I think I am actually having fun.

Loose Ends

I've been having pretty extravagent dreams lately, completely new ones in which I am not my typical useless dolt who can barely stand up or is constantly being pursued just because I am too pathetic to live. I still often have something I am either running away from or towards, but it has much more of a quest-like feel to it. The people or things I am running from feel more like obstacles being placed in my way because I am succeeding instead of some greater power determining that I ought to be snuffed out for the greater good of mankind.

All these dreams have an episodic quality about them. A lot of times, while I am dreaming, I am certain I am not dreaming, although the stuff going on really isn't like anything that's happened in my reality and most of the time the people in my dreams are complete strangers. But I am supposed to know them. And some part of me does know them. But at that particular moment, I'm a little muddled. One of my questions in the dreams is whether I should let in on this vulnerability to any of these strangers. Who are my friends and foes? Can I trust my gut instincts about them? I know this is something I am wrestling with in my waking life.

Plus, I hate it that everyone else in my dreams seems to get what the heck is going on better than I do. I know that is a familiar feeling in real life that I have been working on dissipating. It's a serious inferiority complex issue that's got to go. I've just never been one of those who pretended I knew things when I didn't, so when other people acted as if they did, I stupidly took them at face value. Can you say naive?

I've also noticed I've had this hyper attention to details in my dreams: colors, textures, shapes, patterns, sounds. I'm rather fascinated with this as well as impressed with my own memory. Although I wonder if this isn't all some trick of the mind: am I only thinking that I am seeing such amazing beauty? After all, none of it is really being experienced.

What I like about these dreams is that they represent a major change in my conscious-self. I know I am not still stuck in victim mode. I've moved into another phase. I even had a silly little vignette of a dream the other day. I spoke to my mother on the phone a couple nights ago (this actually happened -- and it was the first time in, oh, years and prolly warrants a post of its own), and this triggered a dream in which I was talking to some character that looked at me and said:

"Yah, so? You survived a phone chat, it went fine. What did you expect would happen next? Your whole life would change? Flowers would start blooming out your ass and angels would sing? What do you want to have happen now?"

I kind of blinked at this blunt stranger and realized she was rather wise.

See, the confounding thing is, I feel a bit like I am still keeping secrets from myself. Like some part of me gets this thing called life, but is only sharing in stops and starts. I'm trying to learn to work at that pace, but the much less mature me wants to barrel in and get all the serenity and cookies NOW NOW NOW.

I want everything cleaned up and tied with a pretty bow, no funny feelings laying around waiting to bite me when I least expect it.

Fate-Free and Practically No Calories!

As much as I like to gab about my horoscope, I don't really believe in them. How could millions of other people who happened to be born in the same month as I possibly be having the same day as me? Statistically that would be impossible. Not to mention quite dangerous given some of the days I've had.

But I do like to gauge my reaction to what is written, and some astrologers are better than others at making shit up. I also think there probably is something to how the stars and planets being aligned having something or other to do with how you are, but hell if I could ever predict it or understand it. A big ole generalization of it for an entire month? I guess I like a lot about being an aquarius, the description et al. Some things just fail entirely, like the social butterfly aspect (since when?!). I suppose most people would like to be described as a social butterfly, but I would not. I like the eccentricity label, but don't want any of the look-at-me persona that might go with it.

I like to toy with the idea of a master plan, but really, I don't know if there is one, can't really fathom it and don't think I'm ever meant to if there is one. If there's some big Kahuna up there pulling strings, like he really is going to let me in on his gig? And he has this big puppet show going on and I should fret about whether I am playing my part his way or not? And there's Some Big Deal Out There who created this and everything else, and he's going to worry over whether I drank a glass of wine or 20 today or if I even called my mama a bad name? I think someone with Creator credentials has better things to do than nitpick on Judy. Judy is quite adept at tearing herself apart. I don't think the Big Celestial One is toodling around out there mapping out a great plan. How dull would that be? Would you do that if you created everything? Plan it all out then....... wow, boring.

All of this is too much for me. I think that's why I have my higher power being my inner voice rather than some celestial being. Trying to anticipate what someone else might want of me gives me indigestion. It's been hell just trying to figure out what I want for myself. I haven't even gotten that entirely straight yet.

This may be why I can be optimistic. If no outcome is written in stone, it always has the chance to turn out right. Of course, it could turn out wrong. But why should it?

The main problem I have had with this philosophy is the head banging I've run against in trying to make everything alright for my mother. Sometimes I really don't know when to give up. I have to work hard to change my goal and point of view in order to stop self-destructing. With my family, instead of trying to change myself, I had to come to an understanding with myself that I needed to want a different relationship with them. Getting myself to accept that I wasn't going to have the family I wanted was my biggest hurdle. But if I couldn't get myself to change that, I was going to kill myself trying to make the shiny-happy family happen at my expense. Trying to figure out what any of those folks wanted from me was a nightmare, one I didn't even realize I was locked into until I realized I had no self worth and didn't care what happened to me. I just had one little thought in my head that maybe I should get help because that was, perhaps, not a good way to be thinking. My family told me not to get outside help, to talk to them. I defied them and got counseling. I don't think I'd still be around if I didn't listen to that little thought.

To some degree this self-destructive behavior was going on with my bygone friendship too. I was trying to make it something it was never going to be, him someone he never was. Until it finally dawned that he was not going to change, so I had to change my relationship with him. Plus, I have to admit at some point you can't work out a problem with someone who refuses to engage in a conversation with you the second you show one iota of emotion. I'll be damned if I am going to deadpan my way through life just because some chicken-shit is afraid to be exposed to feelings.

Fate is flexible, can move at any time. I can feel sad about the changes made, the routes not taken, but I also usually feel good about the movement forward rather than being stuck or being forced into a certain path. Maybe I can't go back, but I can learn from my mistakes. Regrets? They just weigh me down. I'm learning to let those go.

It's a new year. I'm gonna just watch me mosey on. The Kahuna can get his kicks watching me too, if he wants to let me exercise that free will thing I've heard advertised. I bet it'd be a lot like watching my son grow up. Scary and awe inspiring.

Don't Call Me Pollyanna

I've always been an optimist, which is probably the only reason I didn't march down sociopath road. Some low grade hum of Uncle Remus' "zippidy-doo-dah" must've been coursing through my veins to keep me from turning to the dark side. I look at my nasty, critical family and know this has to be true. Whenever they thought the world was out to get them and they thought the worst outcome was the most likely, I was always making my mental flowcharts of possible routes in the event of any outcome. No outcome was bad and I could make anything work. A little adjustment here or there, I'd make it mine. All was well, no worries... next issue, please.

Which is not to say I am easy to please, malleable or even all that flexible, if you ask me. In fact, I'd say I have an ironwill and I'll be damned if that cat won't get skinned one way or another. But I will keep trying until the job gets done.

I don't know if any of the above rant makes sense to anyone. I'm sure it does to some people who think the same way. Today I am not really of a mind to explain myself. But today is a wonderful day, if I do say so myself, Uncle Remus. Say hi to Bre'er Rabbit for me. And that tar baby.

No, I am not drunk or high, although I do have a head cold I knew I'd catch as soon as I quit moving things and running around for the holidays. My son thinks I am a fortune teller because I predicted my sickness a week ahead of time. He's been a good boy and bringing me tea. I think he's a little freaked out that I can read his mind too much also since I have a knack for catching him doing things he's not supposed to. His 13th birthday is coming up in less than two weeks and he wants to be in my good graces.

I'm going to have him call my mother today to thank her for the wonderful Christmas gifts she sent him. Although my mother was god-awful at gift-giving for me, she has turned out to be supremely talented at putting together Christmas gifts for my son. She usually picks a theme, then goes all out in putting together an adventure for him to open. Even when she refused to speak to me, I would have my son call her (he was nice to her, but sort of perplexed because he was mad at her on my behalf, the dear boy) because she did such a marvelous job and whatever she feels about me, she obviously does not pass on to her grandson. At any rate, I do not want to make it a tug of war because that would be dumb.

This year she did a James Bond theme and had secret codes to crack and some really great digital microscopes, two way watch radios, etc. He had to open things in a particular order and it took him hours to get through the package. My mother is brilliant and creative and clever. I so wish we could share time together. It could be so much fun.

I wish everyone a wonderful new year. Here is to the potential for great things to happen in all of your lives....

Closer to Free

My horoscope is all over the place lately, telling me my head and heart and intuition are not in cahoots. I'm supposed to listen to my head and not my intuition, ignore my feelings, follow the advice of the guy in a red hat or some such nonsense. WTF? I think I am going to ignore horoscope man. He's going to paralyze me into hiding under the covers.

Said covers are not exactly a bad place to be... I am officially homeless. Yep. As of December 24, we were run out of our temporary townhouse living arrangement. And our new home is not yet finished with construction. The days leading up to Christmas Eve were complete chaos of moving shit out and into storage, cleaning up our former living space and hauling ass to Connecticut to see my mother-in-law. We missed Christmas Eve dinner. We made it onto Mrs. Claus's bad list. I would've skipped going to her house altogether if I didn't think she'd guillotine us all if we tried. Bad list is much better than headless.

Mrs. Claus-a.k.a. my mother-in-law also has her birthday the day after Christmas. We did the obligatory hoo-ha for that, and hauled ass back north to supervise the continuing saga of our home building project. Our homeless shelter is one rather elegant structure that pretty much is an upgrade of anything we'll ever live in. I'm not exactly sufferring.

At any rate, I've been too busy to do more than cursory blog reads, but I want to catch up with everyone. I also, fortunately, have not been crying in my cornflakes about best friends who I have finally realized were kind of lousy people all along (why I ever doubt my first impression of people is beyond me. It always ends up to be the dead on truth in the end.). It's amazing how little you miss someone when you realize you were creating all the good elements of their personality out of your own fertile imagination.

But I am not kicking myself for the pretty delusion. I required a knight in shining armor. He was the lucky recipient of my needful dreams. I can't hate him for not being Sir Lancelot. I can't hate me for wanting a man of honor, principles, loyalty and integrity in my life. I had a hard past filled with people I couldn't trust or love. I needed to believe in something, someone, better. He served his purpose. Now the fairytale has ended. Now, I can believe in me.

Today I feel good. Just plain good. Nothing more, nothing less. I feel ready to write, no urges to drink. I also want to write a couple posts about my mom's reaction to the necklace and about my husband breaking the no gift rule (naughty boy. one of his gifts is the Raw 7 tee to the left with argyle and a motorcycle on it. defnly me. i love it. weird it happens to be the exact same color as the everybody lies tee).

But not yet. Right now, just going to enjoy not feeling heavy. I'm glad you're here.

Froid, Freud, Fraud

The television show "House," with Hugh Laurie starring as the ill mannered yet effective doctor, remains one of my all-time favorite programs. House holds a belief that 'everybody lies,' especially patients. Even ones risking death. How many alcoholics have told the true number of daily booze consumption?

For Christmas, because of the large outflow of cash due to the new house, my husband and I have agreed not to exchange gifts. But while reading a magazine, I saw an ad for t-shirts for the tv show "House" that had proceeds going to the National Alliance on Mental Illness charity. The front of the shirt had one of Dr. Gregory House's favorite sayings: "Everyone lies."

And I thought this shirt was the perfect gift for my husband. I also bought a shirt for myself and our son. I packaged all three together and had my son and husband open it.

In the wee hours of the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Morn, I mused to myself, given the gamut of emotions I've run through this past year - what peculiar inner workings of my mind thinks that this House-ism is the most succinct motto for our little family to wear emblazoned on our chests?

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Are You Talking to Me?

When I post about my past, I sometimes fear that my readers will begin to groan about my bellyaching. While there is lingering anger at what happened to me, which I think I am entitled to as I would be angry on behalf of another human being if he or she had been treated as I was by either parent, I have let go of most of my anger towards my mother. The retelling of these stories is more part of explaining my recovery and how I got here.

In the case of the clothing rack, for instance, I was attempting to show how deeply ingrained my mother's opinion and criticisms were in me, to the point that even when she wasn't speaking to me, even when I knew she was mentally ill, even when I knew she no longer had a direct influence over me, she was still inhabiting my psyche. I could not blame my mother any longer for the misery I was still carrying around. It was a part of me that I was allowing a forum, with a megaphone, no less. That godawful critical shrew that I hated was inside me and I was feeding it by listening and acting to please it.

Recovery has been about listening to the voices that like me a whole lot better than that bitch. I hold myself fully responsible for supervising that task.

One of the most difficult aspects of this process is the idea that you are supposed to want recovery for yourself and not for anyone else. No one else can love you into recovery, squash your fears and hug your cravings away. Yet at the same time, you are told in 12-step programs that you shouldn't do anything without your sponsor and you shouldn't isolate. To some degree, I find this to be bit more of a tug-o-war than I would like. Maybe I just find it annoying when I am happy to see my sponsor just because I like her, only to have her nag me about the number of meetings I've been to. I've got enough of a peanut gallery in my head having a go at me, telling me what to do. Either I want this for myself or I don't. Sigh. I know she's just trying to help.

It is so striking to me how my behavior today has been affected down to such little things, like how I dry my laundry or something larger, like how I respond to the silent treatment (or even perceived silent treatment) that my mother was so fond of using. Mom doesn't have to be in the vicinity for her voice to be in my head barking at me, telling me how badly I suck and have ruined everything... again. Certain things trigger me that way, and learning to identify those things and go back to figure out their origins is the way that I have been able to learn to heal.

It also helps to tell that voice to shut the fuck up. The nice Judy voice is getting stronger and she's getting good at cutting off mean Judy-voice before she even makes a snotty sniff.

I got a chuckle out of my horoscope for yesterday, given the way things have been going for me lately:

You think you know what you want, but you might not be able to figure out how to get it. You could have trouble expressing your basic needs now. Perhaps your fears of rejection trigger past hurts that can prevent you from showing your true colors. Remember that if you remain kind and strive toward awareness, your current uncertainty won't slow you down for long.

Me, have trouble expressing my basic needs? You must be joking? I have needs?

Hanging the Dirty Laundry

Tonight I was washing clothes and dutifully hanging my delicates on the wooden clothes rack I have had since I went to college. My bras, which get severely abused by my rather generously proportioned chest relative to my petite size, last longer when the elastic is not cooked by the dryer. I learned everything I needed to know about doing laundry from my mother. Most of all, I learned that I do not do it right. But please don't ask me what exactly that means. It has something to do with her exacting standards and I think she mentioned that I didn't use her brand detergent and so when her machine died, it was my fault and she wouldn't let me bring my clothes home from college anymore (I wasn't allowed to use her stash of detergent and she used that Amway stuff). It made sense to her. The fact that the washer was 15 years old had nothing to do with it.

I will heartily admit, I am a very bad folder, especially of sheets. To resolve that problem, I usually just put clean ones on the bed and have the set of dirty ones in the laundry. As for my weekends home from college, my boyfriend's mom gladly let me use her machines. I think she thought I just wanted to spend more time with her son and try out letting our undies take a spin together.

Although my mother was stingy about sharing her laundry detergent and use of her facilities, she did give me a hand-me-down clothes drying rack. It was in fine condition, but she thought she needed a new one. It's one of those plain wood ones. She had three and all of them had Saran Wrap carefully covering each bar and taped securely with Scotch Tape. You see, the wood would warp otherwise. Due to the wet clothing hung to dry. You cannot have warped clothes racks. Naturally.

I was thrilled as punch to get this clothes rack, as my mother seldom handed down anything, and yes, this clothes rack is still with me now. It made it through all the moves and construction and even the sale of most of my earthly possessions last year when we sold the New Jersey house. What also lasted up until last summer was the original Saran Wrap and tape, almost pristinely intact, protecting the wood from the evils of damp brassieres.

My mother probably had that clothes rack for a good five to eight years before passing it on to me and I've had it for nearly, egads, 20 myself. I'll tell ya, that wood was a whole lot less warped than I am.

And in a beautiful act of freedom and defiance, last summer I took that plastic wrap off.

I wonder if the Guiness Book of World Records has an entry for the World's longest exorcism.

Ramshackled

A number of people have mentioned that any major home construction project is nearly always a major test of a marriage. Anyone endeavoring even to rent a place with another person, then a faucet goes drippy or a lightbulb needs to be bought and replaced, wait and watch the power plays and resentments begin. One need not be married for this relationship litmus to occur. In fact, starting with my sister and "get off my side of the car," learning to share space with anyone is difficult. Determining how to live harmoniously and combine your styles and living habits is a whole different level of game play. Add in all the other fun relationship nuances, and, boy, it's a cocktail of unstable proportions. Add too much of the wrong personality ingredients, and you've got "Molotov" written all over your Home-Sweet-Home.

My husband and I have lived in one rented apartment together and owned one townhouse (first owners, bought the model with all the whiz-bang extras), one Philadelphia historic (1865) row house and a retro New Jersey 1970s Colonial split level house. We have been living in a temporary furnished rental condo for nearly a year and a half. Back when we were in Philly, we also spent six months abroad living in a Milan "residence" (a tiny furnished room much like a Residence Inn, but much, much smaller) with our son for a semester of our MBA studies. Our son slept on an armchair - this was a neat exercise in family proximity. We even had my dear-departed best friend Allen (ok, he's not dead, just a mean, cold bastard ex-friend - did that sound pissy?) come stay with us a few nights in this ridiculous room. I think he slept on the floor. (There was another time I slept in the same bed between him and my husband. Alas, it sounds alot more titillating than it actually was). Since July of 2006 we have been working on building a house right from the drawing board.

The house in Philly badly needed a new kitchen, and being the enterprising MBA students we were, we went to Ikea and bought ourselves a bunch of boxes and built us a kitchen. Fitting those things into the not-so-regular walls of a home built in 1865 was the cause of considerable swearing primarily from the male half. Our then two-year-old spent a lot of time wanting to help hammer. It would have been cute if we didn't think he'd kill himself on the treacherous spiral staircases (which, not so ironically, I nearly did myself in on when imbibing too much more than once. Who's the real baby?) Did you know they used horse hair for insulation between the floors and walls back then? The kitchen came out great, we made a little money on our investment and got to be all proud.

In NJ we bought a house with great bones, land, location and floorplan but in real need of updates. It still had some rust shag carpet and kitchen cabinets falling apart. Termites. Leaky skylights. It was not exactly 70s groovey. Over the course of our seven years there, we did a kitchen addition, remodeled all three bathrooms and updated every room. When we sold the place, we nearly doubled what we paid for it, made a considerable profit over our improvement spendings and survived living in constant construction. I learned to do some basic electrical wiring. My husband "accidentally" tried to electricute me (our one fight). We also vowed never to do that again. We did the bathrooms simultaneously (although we did always have one working shower and toilet), and I never want to do dishes in the bathtub again.

Now, ask me about how my husband and I did during these projects? Unbelievably well. Probably sickeningly well. Not in a mushy, gushy way, but we complement each other, have similar tastes, know how we live, how to live well together, use our space and how to efficiently design, order, save money and manage these projects. We don't fight. We rarely disagree about decisions (granted, I usually make them, but he approves and it's not just to keep the peace, it's because he genuinely is very pleased with my choices). When it comes to dealing with the hired help, we're basically good cop/bad cop, but neither one of us is really all extreme. At the end of the day, it's the quality that matters and we are also respectful (unless the worker is really flagrantly awful. Then my husband deals with it.). We've never hired a decorator or designer. The only architect work done was stuff for the technical permits, etc. We do have a builder and both he and his foreman have great ideas. But this is definitely a collaborative project and we've had our fingers intimately on every step (to which I think much of the crew wishes we would get lost once in awhile, especially my husband who is at the site daily, often pitching in to work. But he does also bring coffee, lunch and praise too).

I would say for about three quarters of the process this go around with this new house, I'd been dragging my feet. I have not gone to the site anywhere near close to everyday, or even every other day. I have many, many reasons for it, none of them particularly good or bad. But I took my therapist's advice and just felt what I needed to feel and didn't do anything nuts. But I sure let my emotions go all the way where they wanted, even though I was terrified they -- and by extension, I -- might not ever come back.

And thank god I listened for once. But, hey, to give myself a little credit, somewhere inside I knew that it was what I needed to do. It was just fucking scary as all hell and ferociously uncomfortable.

I think it's going to be worth it. I'm worth it. Maybe I can begin to believe I deserve the home that I have so ardously built.

[The two photos are actual antiques I bought for the house. The first is a circa 1890 antique Japanese merchant choba chest I bought on eBay from an importer in California. The last is a Danish two door armoire from circa 1880 that was restored by a really cool couple in Vermont of T