I have been the raging goddess of doggy doom this morning. I woke to find doggy do on the bed. Yes, that's right, my friends. I was sleeping in dog poo. Well, dog poo was over my feet while I slept, but really, it's a technical difference and doesn't much alter the emotional impact.
Who does that? What dog does that? They sleep in the bed too. Isn't it a critical dog law that they never, ever poop where they sleep? If my dogs are going to poop in their bed and mine, where will they not poop? You see the dilema.
Are my dogs going through some terrible psychic altering trama that I don't know about? I mean, is this a message? And if so, it's a message I wouldn't copy onto my blog, because even I don't use that langauge.
By the size of the poop, I'm pretty sure it was my dog, but they both looked pretty darn guilty. They knew; oh they knew all right.
So now the huge, expensive comforter is in the wash again and I am determined to buy a duvet cover for it. Other than that, I don't know what to do.
In addition, Keith spent the entire day in the ER yesterday. He was feeling fine and then started throwing up again at work. He just kept right on throwing up, for a couple hours until he got everyone else set up and then he went to the ER where he continued to throw up.
Around one thirty he called me, because they had taken blood and were going to do some tests. I drove over there and we spent the rest of the afternoon waiting. By that time, he'd stopped vomitting and was feeling better.
It was a terribly long wait for anything and while we were waiting, we heard a woman come up to the PA in charge and state flatly that she was leaving and would be lodging a complaint.
"I've been here for six hours and I've been seen twice," she said.
There was a sudden flurry of activity and for once, there seemed to be people around, talking and getting stuff done. Keith couldn't just leave though; as active duty military he has to be signed out.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
February 27th
As though it knew it has only two days of misery left, February has dug in its heels and thrown a little more snow our way.
Let it do it's worst! Spring is alive under the crust, yesterday everything smelled warm and earthy and water ran down in sheer sheets along the roadside.
A word to the wise: don't tell your husband about plans to redecorate until after it's been accomplished. Firstly, he won't notice the changes unless they're pointed out to him after the fact, but he will most certainly object with mule like stubbornness before they are enacted. Secondly, he doesn't know how attached he is to John Deere place mats until their dominance on the dining room table is threatened. Best not to stir up this deep held, atavistic attachment until after the table has been reset.
The whole thing took me by surprise, as you can see. At first, I thought it was funny until I realized he was serious and then I got mad and then I got up and did the dinner dishes in order to kill any opportunity to say anything I would regret later.
"This is really important to you, isn't it?" asked my husband when I returned, his eyes opened.
"Yes!" I exploded, arms spread wide. "I'm a woman! This is what I do! I decorate! And it's not like I was going to go out and buy a whole new set of furniture, I just wanted new place mats and some new candles! I can do this, I can do it cheaply and I can do it well!"
(Passion, anyone?)
"Well, just don't throw anything away. And I want the John Deere place mats safe upstairs in the Man Room," he said, resigned and a little awed.
Wanna bet after all that I don't actually do anything at all? Heh.
I went shopping at Wal Mart yesterday...(I know, I said that I would eschew it. But where else is one going to find a reasonably priced humidifier as well as a gallon of milk? It's diabolic, I say. Or else the crowning achievement of capitalism.)
Keith called to suggest that we meet up for lunch, I told him I was in the meat department. A few minutes later, while I was examining the cuts of steak, a soldier grabbed me from behind and kissed me, causing a passing shopper to jump with alarm. I did too actually, I was expecting to see him coming.
There's nothing like being grabbed by a man in uniform and, my blood stirred, I made out with him in our car after lunch. Yum.
Two appointments are coming up, a Pap smear and an introductory counselling session, both of which I made weeks and weeks ago. I feel like cancelling them both, but what would life be like without something to dread, right?
I keep having this nagging feeling that something buried this way comes, to mangle a quote. I know myself and something is not quite right, internally. Will more buried memories come up in the next few months? Do I have to reprocess the old ones, in light of becoming a parent? I don't know. I wish I didn't have to find out.
I sat with my mom on the couch during this recent vacation, in the dim light of a lamp. It hit me, how powerful we are, as women. The strength of us are like gnarled oaks whose roots go down right into the heart of the earth and can't be overturned. We've lived through things most people can't even bear to imagine. We've looked them in the heart and walked right through, we commanded the pain. I love my mom, my battle buddy and my comforter.
I hope I have as good a therapist as I did the last time.
Let it do it's worst! Spring is alive under the crust, yesterday everything smelled warm and earthy and water ran down in sheer sheets along the roadside.
A word to the wise: don't tell your husband about plans to redecorate until after it's been accomplished. Firstly, he won't notice the changes unless they're pointed out to him after the fact, but he will most certainly object with mule like stubbornness before they are enacted. Secondly, he doesn't know how attached he is to John Deere place mats until their dominance on the dining room table is threatened. Best not to stir up this deep held, atavistic attachment until after the table has been reset.
The whole thing took me by surprise, as you can see. At first, I thought it was funny until I realized he was serious and then I got mad and then I got up and did the dinner dishes in order to kill any opportunity to say anything I would regret later.
"This is really important to you, isn't it?" asked my husband when I returned, his eyes opened.
"Yes!" I exploded, arms spread wide. "I'm a woman! This is what I do! I decorate! And it's not like I was going to go out and buy a whole new set of furniture, I just wanted new place mats and some new candles! I can do this, I can do it cheaply and I can do it well!"
(Passion, anyone?)
"Well, just don't throw anything away. And I want the John Deere place mats safe upstairs in the Man Room," he said, resigned and a little awed.
Wanna bet after all that I don't actually do anything at all? Heh.
I went shopping at Wal Mart yesterday...(I know, I said that I would eschew it. But where else is one going to find a reasonably priced humidifier as well as a gallon of milk? It's diabolic, I say. Or else the crowning achievement of capitalism.)
Keith called to suggest that we meet up for lunch, I told him I was in the meat department. A few minutes later, while I was examining the cuts of steak, a soldier grabbed me from behind and kissed me, causing a passing shopper to jump with alarm. I did too actually, I was expecting to see him coming.
There's nothing like being grabbed by a man in uniform and, my blood stirred, I made out with him in our car after lunch. Yum.
Two appointments are coming up, a Pap smear and an introductory counselling session, both of which I made weeks and weeks ago. I feel like cancelling them both, but what would life be like without something to dread, right?
I keep having this nagging feeling that something buried this way comes, to mangle a quote. I know myself and something is not quite right, internally. Will more buried memories come up in the next few months? Do I have to reprocess the old ones, in light of becoming a parent? I don't know. I wish I didn't have to find out.
I sat with my mom on the couch during this recent vacation, in the dim light of a lamp. It hit me, how powerful we are, as women. The strength of us are like gnarled oaks whose roots go down right into the heart of the earth and can't be overturned. We've lived through things most people can't even bear to imagine. We've looked them in the heart and walked right through, we commanded the pain. I love my mom, my battle buddy and my comforter.
I hope I have as good a therapist as I did the last time.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
February 25th
Well, I didn't go home in a towel, but I did get patted down by a female security officer. I was instructed to go stand in a clear plastic box that was open on one side and had a door on the opposite side. The function of this structure eluded me. It could not be for privacy, being clear. It could not be for containment, because, although it had a functioning door, it also was missing an entire wall.
Mystery aside, I stood inside it until ushered through the door and instructed to look at my property. I took a step toward my property, but was quickly told not to take another step, but merely to look. So I did. It did look a tad suspicious, my black wool coat and cheap Mary Janes.
After being patted down, I was assured this was merely a random thing they were doing and was released back into the throng of slightly battered and shoeless travelers.
I have to write about air travel because it helps alleviate my nervousness, which has tripled lately. In any case, I am home and I was going to begin this blog by saying "Oh joy! Joy to be home!"
The statement still stands, though it has been only slightly tarnished by seven loads of laundry, a disgusting kitchen floor, a dog who pooped on the carpet this morning and a sickly husband who requires round the clock care, mostly consisting of kisses.
He insisted, at four thirty this morning, to head into work. I didn't argue; I know better by now. His coworkers, however, promptly returned him to my care by seven thirty, after he had thrown up several times as well as consumed an entire bag of cough drops, two instances which I believe are related.
Afternoon. I seem to have gotten spring fever. Keith, feeling better, headed back into work which gave me free reign. I have rearranged the kitchen and the dining room table decorations. It feels lighter, gives me more counter space and displays the antique white with ivy tea pot I purchased on vacation.
A door mat disintegrated in the wash and I took on too much too finish in one day, but all together a successful day. However, now I want to go and purchase lovely grass weave place mats, white curtains, white candlesticks and cat tails to put in tall jugs on the side of the fire place. And pansies.
Mystery aside, I stood inside it until ushered through the door and instructed to look at my property. I took a step toward my property, but was quickly told not to take another step, but merely to look. So I did. It did look a tad suspicious, my black wool coat and cheap Mary Janes.
After being patted down, I was assured this was merely a random thing they were doing and was released back into the throng of slightly battered and shoeless travelers.
I have to write about air travel because it helps alleviate my nervousness, which has tripled lately. In any case, I am home and I was going to begin this blog by saying "Oh joy! Joy to be home!"
The statement still stands, though it has been only slightly tarnished by seven loads of laundry, a disgusting kitchen floor, a dog who pooped on the carpet this morning and a sickly husband who requires round the clock care, mostly consisting of kisses.
He insisted, at four thirty this morning, to head into work. I didn't argue; I know better by now. His coworkers, however, promptly returned him to my care by seven thirty, after he had thrown up several times as well as consumed an entire bag of cough drops, two instances which I believe are related.
Afternoon. I seem to have gotten spring fever. Keith, feeling better, headed back into work which gave me free reign. I have rearranged the kitchen and the dining room table decorations. It feels lighter, gives me more counter space and displays the antique white with ivy tea pot I purchased on vacation.
A door mat disintegrated in the wash and I took on too much too finish in one day, but all together a successful day. However, now I want to go and purchase lovely grass weave place mats, white curtains, white candlesticks and cat tails to put in tall jugs on the side of the fire place. And pansies.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
February 23rd
I found spring! It's living down here in North Carolina. My friend has daffodils growing up beside her house and pansies in pots. I do dearly love pansies in pots; I'm going to get some when I return home tomorrow.
This vacation has been marvelous. (Marvelous is a word I use a lot, I've noticed. There's nothing like blogging for a year or so to let one know what words, phrases and metaphors one gravitates toward. My apologies.)
I have dined like Mary Antoinette, I have socialized like one of those affluent aunts in a Jane Austin novel-you know the type-the ones that are fond of going to Bath.
Even better, the eldest of my friend's children has befriended me. He is a precocious five year old and without warning will come up and lean against me and tell me things. Cute things. He also stuck a glittery blue sticker on my coat and takes my hand without my asking when we cross the street. I have been completely charmed.
Oh, and I got my period. So I figured out that if my period is late, it doesn't mean that I'm pregnant, it means that I have to go to someone else's house and spend the night. Good to know.
Tomorrow I'm returning home. I'll have a little ceramic frog and a cheeky bird to put on my windowsill. Also, ten more pounds on my waist and some fabulously embarrassing pictures that will be posted on facebook and memories that I wouldn't trade for the world.
Oh, and new sayings that we all discovered on a shopping trip up in the mountains. Keith told me I can't put them up in our house, but I'll find a way.
"First God created man. And then He had a better idea."
"If at first you don't succeed, try doing it the way your wife told you to."
Lastly: "Drink Coffee: Do stupid things faster with more enthusiasm!"
(I've had some coffee actually, can you tell?)
Now, if only tomorrow I can make it safely through security. It gets harder and harder. I try not to be nervous, because then I'll look like a suspicious person and be pulled aside and wand-ed in public by a female security officer until they've discovered my missing tonsils and the rivets on my jeans. And those will be taken away and I'll be able to go through wearing a towel, very meekly.
So instead, I'll look both cheerful and compliant (which is tricky) and avoid the gaze of the guy who sits on this elevated chair thing, surveying the oncoming, disrobing crowds for anything out of the ordinary.
Remember when everyone boarded the plane with bottles of water? Remember that? And no one would ever think of taking off one's shoes. And they served you food on the flight and people would take these huge bags to carry on and they probably had nail clippers in their purses.
Those were the days.
This vacation has been marvelous. (Marvelous is a word I use a lot, I've noticed. There's nothing like blogging for a year or so to let one know what words, phrases and metaphors one gravitates toward. My apologies.)
I have dined like Mary Antoinette, I have socialized like one of those affluent aunts in a Jane Austin novel-you know the type-the ones that are fond of going to Bath.
Even better, the eldest of my friend's children has befriended me. He is a precocious five year old and without warning will come up and lean against me and tell me things. Cute things. He also stuck a glittery blue sticker on my coat and takes my hand without my asking when we cross the street. I have been completely charmed.
Oh, and I got my period. So I figured out that if my period is late, it doesn't mean that I'm pregnant, it means that I have to go to someone else's house and spend the night. Good to know.
Tomorrow I'm returning home. I'll have a little ceramic frog and a cheeky bird to put on my windowsill. Also, ten more pounds on my waist and some fabulously embarrassing pictures that will be posted on facebook and memories that I wouldn't trade for the world.
Oh, and new sayings that we all discovered on a shopping trip up in the mountains. Keith told me I can't put them up in our house, but I'll find a way.
"First God created man. And then He had a better idea."
"If at first you don't succeed, try doing it the way your wife told you to."
Lastly: "Drink Coffee: Do stupid things faster with more enthusiasm!"
(I've had some coffee actually, can you tell?)
Now, if only tomorrow I can make it safely through security. It gets harder and harder. I try not to be nervous, because then I'll look like a suspicious person and be pulled aside and wand-ed in public by a female security officer until they've discovered my missing tonsils and the rivets on my jeans. And those will be taken away and I'll be able to go through wearing a towel, very meekly.
So instead, I'll look both cheerful and compliant (which is tricky) and avoid the gaze of the guy who sits on this elevated chair thing, surveying the oncoming, disrobing crowds for anything out of the ordinary.
Remember when everyone boarded the plane with bottles of water? Remember that? And no one would ever think of taking off one's shoes. And they served you food on the flight and people would take these huge bags to carry on and they probably had nail clippers in their purses.
Those were the days.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
February 17th
My hunny, by the way, was not one of the men scrambling. Mostly because I guided him like one of those people who wave flags before the imposing airplanes, calm and stately.
"You have to let me know about this stuff four days in advance!" he cried, the week before, after hearing a radio commercial.
"I will, I will," I assured him.
I think the stress got to him though; he went out and got a bonanza of Valentine's goodies a day early and then, too excited to wait, laid it all out on the table and called me down from the bedroom, where he'd instructed me to hide.
He was especially proud of the card, which blared forth, "I am the man who will fight for your honor and the glory of love!" as soon as it was opened. My heart melted. It now sits on the mantel.
I gave him a John Deere shelf that matches the John Deere curtains that Jenkins and I made him. They are flat valences, which is a fancy way of saying that they are the absolutely easiest curtains ever to make.
Poor Keith is lately trying to come to terms with the fact that I will be gone for a week, starting tomorrow.
"What will I have for dinner?" he asked in a small, small voice. "Who will make my bed? Do my laundry?"
Ah, the beauty of those words; the very stuff of life for the one who does those chores every day, day in and out.
"You'll appreciate me so much more when I come back," I say, reassuring.
"But I appreciate you now!" he countered, eyes wide with sincerity.
"You'll have fun; you'll have mac 'n cheese and pizza rolls for dinner."
"I won't! I'll sleep in the bathtub with a whiskey bottle!"
A burst of laughter escaped me.
"I will! And then in the morning, all I'll have to do is turn the water on..."
Speaking of dinner, we've been scraping by without a shopping trip since the beginning of the month, consequently last night's dinner was going to be tuna fish sandwiches with mac 'n cheese. This was derailed by the discovery of some pork chops which had been intended for a corn bread crust but were instead forgotten until that moment.
Tuna discarded, I de-thawed the pork and made up a honey barbecue marinade (1tb honey, 1tb Worchestshire, 1tb barbecue sauce, 1ts lemon juice, 2tb catchup). Keith emerged from the Man Room in the middle of this process.
"What happened to tuna fish?" he cried in dismay. "And I don't like pork."
"You love pork," I countered, with the calm of experience. "You think you don't, but every time I make it you think it's amazing."
"No, I don't," he said, looking disdainfully at the innocent chops, searing in olive oil and smoking.
About an hour later, he admitted that the kitchen smelled damn good and five minutes later he was declaring that it was the best thing he'd ever eaten and how on earth do I do that and to stop reading him like a book; it wasn't allowed.
We went up to Indiana yesterday, I think it was. We took his mother out to eat at a Mexican restaurant in the middle of a snow storm. This winter almost anything one does is going to be in the middle of a snow storm; there's almost no use trying to plan around them.
Afterward, we went shopping at the local Good Will. I was browsing through a rack when I felt some one's presence.
"How you doin'?" asked my husband from the other side of the rack, with a significant tilt of the head and come hither eye brow.
A giggle escaped me. "I don't talk to strangers," I replied coy, with an accompanying flutter of eyelash.
He cleared his throat, preparatory: "My name's Keith...I'm a tank commander..." He was wandering on down to the end of the isle.
"Oh yeah?" I asked, archly, meeting him there and looking up at him through eye lashes, fingering a sweater, "Whadaya drive?"
"A Can," he declared, making a clean breast of it and taking me by surprise, naming his dented work truck and not the sexy HD. "Wanna take a ride around the town?"
"Yeah," I admitted, and received several thrilling kisses.
I have to go start packing! Ugh. I am not looking forward to flying. What exactly awaits me in the security line this time around? As long as I don't carry on any really dangerous items, like water and shoes, I should be fine.
"You have to let me know about this stuff four days in advance!" he cried, the week before, after hearing a radio commercial.
"I will, I will," I assured him.
I think the stress got to him though; he went out and got a bonanza of Valentine's goodies a day early and then, too excited to wait, laid it all out on the table and called me down from the bedroom, where he'd instructed me to hide.
He was especially proud of the card, which blared forth, "I am the man who will fight for your honor and the glory of love!" as soon as it was opened. My heart melted. It now sits on the mantel.
I gave him a John Deere shelf that matches the John Deere curtains that Jenkins and I made him. They are flat valences, which is a fancy way of saying that they are the absolutely easiest curtains ever to make.
Poor Keith is lately trying to come to terms with the fact that I will be gone for a week, starting tomorrow.
"What will I have for dinner?" he asked in a small, small voice. "Who will make my bed? Do my laundry?"
Ah, the beauty of those words; the very stuff of life for the one who does those chores every day, day in and out.
"You'll appreciate me so much more when I come back," I say, reassuring.
"But I appreciate you now!" he countered, eyes wide with sincerity.
"You'll have fun; you'll have mac 'n cheese and pizza rolls for dinner."
"I won't! I'll sleep in the bathtub with a whiskey bottle!"
A burst of laughter escaped me.
"I will! And then in the morning, all I'll have to do is turn the water on..."
Speaking of dinner, we've been scraping by without a shopping trip since the beginning of the month, consequently last night's dinner was going to be tuna fish sandwiches with mac 'n cheese. This was derailed by the discovery of some pork chops which had been intended for a corn bread crust but were instead forgotten until that moment.
Tuna discarded, I de-thawed the pork and made up a honey barbecue marinade (1tb honey, 1tb Worchestshire, 1tb barbecue sauce, 1ts lemon juice, 2tb catchup). Keith emerged from the Man Room in the middle of this process.
"What happened to tuna fish?" he cried in dismay. "And I don't like pork."
"You love pork," I countered, with the calm of experience. "You think you don't, but every time I make it you think it's amazing."
"No, I don't," he said, looking disdainfully at the innocent chops, searing in olive oil and smoking.
About an hour later, he admitted that the kitchen smelled damn good and five minutes later he was declaring that it was the best thing he'd ever eaten and how on earth do I do that and to stop reading him like a book; it wasn't allowed.
We went up to Indiana yesterday, I think it was. We took his mother out to eat at a Mexican restaurant in the middle of a snow storm. This winter almost anything one does is going to be in the middle of a snow storm; there's almost no use trying to plan around them.
Afterward, we went shopping at the local Good Will. I was browsing through a rack when I felt some one's presence.
"How you doin'?" asked my husband from the other side of the rack, with a significant tilt of the head and come hither eye brow.
A giggle escaped me. "I don't talk to strangers," I replied coy, with an accompanying flutter of eyelash.
He cleared his throat, preparatory: "My name's Keith...I'm a tank commander..." He was wandering on down to the end of the isle.
"Oh yeah?" I asked, archly, meeting him there and looking up at him through eye lashes, fingering a sweater, "Whadaya drive?"
"A Can," he declared, making a clean breast of it and taking me by surprise, naming his dented work truck and not the sexy HD. "Wanna take a ride around the town?"
"Yeah," I admitted, and received several thrilling kisses.
I have to go start packing! Ugh. I am not looking forward to flying. What exactly awaits me in the security line this time around? As long as I don't carry on any really dangerous items, like water and shoes, I should be fine.
February 9th and 13th
(I know; I wrote these a while ago and didn't publish them. Actually, I've written a ton of posts lately that I haven't published. The thing is, if I write them in the morning and then don't finish them to my standards, I never go back to them at all, even though I tell myself that I will. So they just add up. But here's two, released!)
February 9th
I investigated the long list of blogs I follow and found a lot of them are dead and gone.
It's a funny thing; blogging. I don't know those people from Adam, but I've followed along in their lives, some of them for over a year. When I don't hear from them, I miss them. I wonder, did their husband get the job, how did the move go, how did reintegration go?
Others I do get to know a little better and its amazing how much of an encouragement and positive impact they have on my life. Those women have walked though and continue to walk through some very difficult things and they not only continue to choose life, but they write it out, with honesty and grace.
Speaking of women, in a few weeks I'm heading down to North Carolina to meet up with my mom, her best friend and her daughter, who just happens to be my very best friend from childhood, in what we are calling the Great Ya Ya Meet up of 2010.
I'm a little nervous because I haven't seen my friend in years and she has three absolutely beautiful children. I always have this feeling of awe when I see the offspring of my childhood friends running about and laughing and doing their adorable childhood things.
Not having had children myself, I wonder how it happened; how they presented the world with living, breathing pieces of themselves. I mean, I know how it happened, but it's such a strange and marvelous thing.
February 13th
Valentine's Day tomorrow: cue desperation for a large percent of the male population who only today are going to scramble to procure the necessary articles.
The sky is grey and sneezing snow; the house behind me is in shambles, but that's only because for the first time in two weeks or more, my husband has the day off. He's upstairs watching some kind of action movie with thunderous sound affects that echo down through the ceiling.
This month I didn't get my period at all. At about the tenth, I decided that I had better take a pregnancy test, since naturally I thought it likely that I was pregnant. I wasn't.
(In fact, the pregnancy test said "-no." Not just "no" but a negative no. I was less than not pregnant. Great.)
Actually, about fifteen minutes later on the couch the tears spilled over and I sat watching the Barefoot Contessa and feeling all the savor of life gone. I don't exaggerate. I wanted nothing more than to sink forever into the embrace of the couch, limpid, mildewed.
Then I was deeply ashamed of myself. The grief and the shame of what I felt to be the disproportionate nature of the grief lived side by side in me for about twenty four hours.
My internal conversations at the time were acutely miserable: I was a selfish, shallow person with no sense of perspective; other people suffer far, far worse things with much more strength. I was little in soul and lost in envy for other people's lives and therefor abandoning my own. I wasn't grateful for what God gave me. I was so stressed out about getting pregnant that I was literally going backward, my own body was shutting up on me. Serves me right.
The amount of self loathing behind these thoughts was disturbing. I called my dad.
"I feel humiliated by the envy," I confessed. "I have a great life, why can't I just enjoy my life?"
"Envy isn't a sin," Dad said, "it's an emotion. You can be happy you're feeling emotion, it's an indication that you're emotionally alive. You're a thirty two year old woman who wants a baby and envy is perfectly appropriate."
I was so relieved I wept. Envy wasn't a moral discrepancy.
"I have to take the intensity of getting pregnant away," I continued. "The intensity itself is hindering getting pregnant, but I have no idea what that internal conversation would sound like."
"Well," said Dad, just warming up, because I'm speaking his language now, "it requires two things. One is altitude and the other is neutrality."
"What does that mean?" I asked, lost but hopeful.
Altitude, it turns out, is perspective above the experience; it's the ability to observe oneself and one's emotions. Neutrality is the ability to do this without judgement, without labeling something as good or bad. The easiest way to reach this perspective is to notice what is happening, usually through a journal.
I'm going to do so on my blog. So here are some things I've noticed about myself.
I frequently hold myself to a rigid moral standard and allow myself very little mercy. This is partially because I fear that chaos would happen if I didn't have a clear, black and white grid on which to chart my character. It pairs nicely with this internal image I had as a teenager; of myself on a cliff, clinging desperately to the rock wall of Godly behavior as if my life depended on it, while below me the safety net of God's grace waited. But I felt it would be weak to let myself fall into it, it would be...cheap grace, that utter degredation of God's salvation, the use of it purely out of sloth or selfishness. So I forced myself to go on clinging, hoping this would gain me God's favor.
This is a very old way of thinking; I no longer believe God's grace is a safety net, I think of it more as the very air I breathe. But from time to time the past grips me and I have to remind myself to let my aching fingers loose and fall back. God's not afraid of chaos, after all, in fact, it's the stuff with which He created everything in the first place.
I also noticed that I was living in a very narrow framework: I had to get pregnant now, time was slipping away. I had to penny pinch and couldn't buy this or that....or else what? The reality is, I'm going to have a family one way or another, in the natural course of time. The resources are there; if we don't get pregnant naturally, we have access to other venues if we should choose those. If we don't, or if that doesn't work, we'll adopt.
So one way or another, quite naturally, I will have a family. In the meantime, I can just relax and enjoy my life as it is right now.
After the phone call, liberated, I got dressed and went out. I went to the library, finally, and what did I find but "The Scent of Water," which I'd been wanting to read for a while and "A Tree Grows in Brooklynn," which is one of the most beautifully descriptive books I've read in a long time.
I went to the dry goods store and bought stuff, because the resources are there. I don't have to use stained, falling apart oven mitts. My husband makes more than enough for me to buy new ones, of my own choosing. Also, a new sheet set so I can have a well stocked linen closet, a vision of mine from old. I bought my husband a John Deere shelf for Valentine's Day and a Snicker's bar because that is his love language.
Last, and certainly not least, I just picked up a call from the young Army wife who's been over with her husband a few times. I didn't want to, I wanted to avoid the call, because she'd invited us to go bowling with her and some friends, about six people, and I knew I'd be miserable if I went, but I felt guilty about saying no.
But I picked it up! And I went with the jaw dropping truth. I said cheerfully that I was a terribly shy person and I would simply be a complete dork in a large group of people I didn't know, but that it was so nice of her to invite us, and did she want to meet up, just the two of us to go shopping on Sunday instead?
She did! And everything was fine, amazing how that happens so often.
February 9th
I investigated the long list of blogs I follow and found a lot of them are dead and gone.
It's a funny thing; blogging. I don't know those people from Adam, but I've followed along in their lives, some of them for over a year. When I don't hear from them, I miss them. I wonder, did their husband get the job, how did the move go, how did reintegration go?
Others I do get to know a little better and its amazing how much of an encouragement and positive impact they have on my life. Those women have walked though and continue to walk through some very difficult things and they not only continue to choose life, but they write it out, with honesty and grace.
Speaking of women, in a few weeks I'm heading down to North Carolina to meet up with my mom, her best friend and her daughter, who just happens to be my very best friend from childhood, in what we are calling the Great Ya Ya Meet up of 2010.
I'm a little nervous because I haven't seen my friend in years and she has three absolutely beautiful children. I always have this feeling of awe when I see the offspring of my childhood friends running about and laughing and doing their adorable childhood things.
Not having had children myself, I wonder how it happened; how they presented the world with living, breathing pieces of themselves. I mean, I know how it happened, but it's such a strange and marvelous thing.
February 13th
Valentine's Day tomorrow: cue desperation for a large percent of the male population who only today are going to scramble to procure the necessary articles.
The sky is grey and sneezing snow; the house behind me is in shambles, but that's only because for the first time in two weeks or more, my husband has the day off. He's upstairs watching some kind of action movie with thunderous sound affects that echo down through the ceiling.
This month I didn't get my period at all. At about the tenth, I decided that I had better take a pregnancy test, since naturally I thought it likely that I was pregnant. I wasn't.
(In fact, the pregnancy test said "-no." Not just "no" but a negative no. I was less than not pregnant. Great.)
Actually, about fifteen minutes later on the couch the tears spilled over and I sat watching the Barefoot Contessa and feeling all the savor of life gone. I don't exaggerate. I wanted nothing more than to sink forever into the embrace of the couch, limpid, mildewed.
Then I was deeply ashamed of myself. The grief and the shame of what I felt to be the disproportionate nature of the grief lived side by side in me for about twenty four hours.
My internal conversations at the time were acutely miserable: I was a selfish, shallow person with no sense of perspective; other people suffer far, far worse things with much more strength. I was little in soul and lost in envy for other people's lives and therefor abandoning my own. I wasn't grateful for what God gave me. I was so stressed out about getting pregnant that I was literally going backward, my own body was shutting up on me. Serves me right.
The amount of self loathing behind these thoughts was disturbing. I called my dad.
"I feel humiliated by the envy," I confessed. "I have a great life, why can't I just enjoy my life?"
"Envy isn't a sin," Dad said, "it's an emotion. You can be happy you're feeling emotion, it's an indication that you're emotionally alive. You're a thirty two year old woman who wants a baby and envy is perfectly appropriate."
I was so relieved I wept. Envy wasn't a moral discrepancy.
"I have to take the intensity of getting pregnant away," I continued. "The intensity itself is hindering getting pregnant, but I have no idea what that internal conversation would sound like."
"Well," said Dad, just warming up, because I'm speaking his language now, "it requires two things. One is altitude and the other is neutrality."
"What does that mean?" I asked, lost but hopeful.
Altitude, it turns out, is perspective above the experience; it's the ability to observe oneself and one's emotions. Neutrality is the ability to do this without judgement, without labeling something as good or bad. The easiest way to reach this perspective is to notice what is happening, usually through a journal.
I'm going to do so on my blog. So here are some things I've noticed about myself.
I frequently hold myself to a rigid moral standard and allow myself very little mercy. This is partially because I fear that chaos would happen if I didn't have a clear, black and white grid on which to chart my character. It pairs nicely with this internal image I had as a teenager; of myself on a cliff, clinging desperately to the rock wall of Godly behavior as if my life depended on it, while below me the safety net of God's grace waited. But I felt it would be weak to let myself fall into it, it would be...cheap grace, that utter degredation of God's salvation, the use of it purely out of sloth or selfishness. So I forced myself to go on clinging, hoping this would gain me God's favor.
This is a very old way of thinking; I no longer believe God's grace is a safety net, I think of it more as the very air I breathe. But from time to time the past grips me and I have to remind myself to let my aching fingers loose and fall back. God's not afraid of chaos, after all, in fact, it's the stuff with which He created everything in the first place.
I also noticed that I was living in a very narrow framework: I had to get pregnant now, time was slipping away. I had to penny pinch and couldn't buy this or that....or else what? The reality is, I'm going to have a family one way or another, in the natural course of time. The resources are there; if we don't get pregnant naturally, we have access to other venues if we should choose those. If we don't, or if that doesn't work, we'll adopt.
So one way or another, quite naturally, I will have a family. In the meantime, I can just relax and enjoy my life as it is right now.
After the phone call, liberated, I got dressed and went out. I went to the library, finally, and what did I find but "The Scent of Water," which I'd been wanting to read for a while and "A Tree Grows in Brooklynn," which is one of the most beautifully descriptive books I've read in a long time.
I went to the dry goods store and bought stuff, because the resources are there. I don't have to use stained, falling apart oven mitts. My husband makes more than enough for me to buy new ones, of my own choosing. Also, a new sheet set so I can have a well stocked linen closet, a vision of mine from old. I bought my husband a John Deere shelf for Valentine's Day and a Snicker's bar because that is his love language.
Last, and certainly not least, I just picked up a call from the young Army wife who's been over with her husband a few times. I didn't want to, I wanted to avoid the call, because she'd invited us to go bowling with her and some friends, about six people, and I knew I'd be miserable if I went, but I felt guilty about saying no.
But I picked it up! And I went with the jaw dropping truth. I said cheerfully that I was a terribly shy person and I would simply be a complete dork in a large group of people I didn't know, but that it was so nice of her to invite us, and did she want to meet up, just the two of us to go shopping on Sunday instead?
She did! And everything was fine, amazing how that happens so often.
Monday, February 8, 2010
February 8th
Remind me never to go shopping on Super Bowl Sunday again. Unless I wish to join in the Great American Surge for the snack isle; you know, be part of something much, much bigger than myself.
It was a mad house, a great writhing mass of beleaguered shoppers in pursuit of salty snacks, their carts jammed, hopelessly entangled, looking about with bewildered eyes, wondering, no doubt, how they got there and how on earth they will ever get out.
I, cartless, wound my sinuous way through, snagged a bag of corn chips without stopping and popped out of the isle at the other end, not much the worse for wear. I did have to abandon the gallon of milk; there was just no going back for anything, there was no head way possible against that current.
We were pretty excited at home too; it was the first time in years that Keith has been in America for the Super Bowl and was still expecting to see marching bands play during half time.
What a rockin' bunch of old guys The Who are! I thought it was cute but I was a little worried the guitarist would have a heart attack on stage. If he had, at least he would have gone doing something he clearly loved.
Keith made a pizza for the occasion. There was some ricotta cheese left over from the mid week lasagna I'd made, and he was inspired to put a layer of this cheese over the crust before adding the sauce.
I was dubious. He also decided to broil the pizza for a few moments after putting the pizza in the oven before it was properly pre heated. Horrors.
It's just a pizza, Jenny, I had to tell myself. What's more important; letting him be happy or nagging him to death over a food item?
If he comes in the kitchen when I'm cooking, that's a different story. He fiddles with the burners, eats stuff out of the pot when my back is turned and adds stuff over my shoulder.
I have to chase him away with a dish towel.
The pizza turned out remarkably delicious and filling.
Today my mission is deep clean the kitchen, which is looking a little scuzzy around the corners, put away the scraps from the pillow case adventure and prepare for John Deere curtains. I have four yards of material, a working pair of scissors and a fair amount of optimism. We'll see what happens.
It was a mad house, a great writhing mass of beleaguered shoppers in pursuit of salty snacks, their carts jammed, hopelessly entangled, looking about with bewildered eyes, wondering, no doubt, how they got there and how on earth they will ever get out.
I, cartless, wound my sinuous way through, snagged a bag of corn chips without stopping and popped out of the isle at the other end, not much the worse for wear. I did have to abandon the gallon of milk; there was just no going back for anything, there was no head way possible against that current.
We were pretty excited at home too; it was the first time in years that Keith has been in America for the Super Bowl and was still expecting to see marching bands play during half time.
What a rockin' bunch of old guys The Who are! I thought it was cute but I was a little worried the guitarist would have a heart attack on stage. If he had, at least he would have gone doing something he clearly loved.
Keith made a pizza for the occasion. There was some ricotta cheese left over from the mid week lasagna I'd made, and he was inspired to put a layer of this cheese over the crust before adding the sauce.
I was dubious. He also decided to broil the pizza for a few moments after putting the pizza in the oven before it was properly pre heated. Horrors.
It's just a pizza, Jenny, I had to tell myself. What's more important; letting him be happy or nagging him to death over a food item?
If he comes in the kitchen when I'm cooking, that's a different story. He fiddles with the burners, eats stuff out of the pot when my back is turned and adds stuff over my shoulder.
I have to chase him away with a dish towel.
The pizza turned out remarkably delicious and filling.
Today my mission is deep clean the kitchen, which is looking a little scuzzy around the corners, put away the scraps from the pillow case adventure and prepare for John Deere curtains. I have four yards of material, a working pair of scissors and a fair amount of optimism. We'll see what happens.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
February 4th
This morning I heard the low, calming song of the morning dove when I took the girls out. It brought to mind the long, saturated green of lawns and trimmed fur trees of my childhood, endless peaceful summer evenings.
Blogging about my internal struggles proved to be a huge relief. I finished yesterday's blog and took the girls out. I felt liberated, exhausted, emptied out. Writing privately is cathartic, but public writing is emancipating. What I write in the open becomes public property, is no longer mine and I can view it from a much appreciated distance.
It requires a lot of practise, but the practise is useful, I think. There's a great deal of value to be found in the editing of oneself.
It's hard to transition out of, though. Yesterday's post: how childhood sexual abuse compounds the woes already associated with trouble getting pregnant. Today's post: cooking! But that's life, isn't it? It goes on and it catches us up in it; the grace of ordinary things.
So, along those lines I am trying out a new Sweet and Tangy Loose Beef BBQ recipe and the house is full of the smell of roasting meat (which is driving the dogs crazy). It has yet to fall apart though, and I'm getting a little nervous. It must fall apart soon, because only then is it seasoned, and then cooked for two to four hours more.
I'm also sorting through the paperwork that piles up so. I do have a file box already established, with hanging folders for exciting categories like "car insurance." I just procrastinate on putting them away. But at least I have one! It's a marvelous step up.
And Jenkins! Poor fellow experienced a serious internal condition which caused him to produce long, tangled skeins of thread instead of a nice, neat stitch. I fiddled and fiddled with the adjustments, but to no avail. I called Mom, she of the ancient and reliable Singer, and I fixed him!
Maybe tomorrow I'll go to the local library and get loads and loads of books.
Blogging about my internal struggles proved to be a huge relief. I finished yesterday's blog and took the girls out. I felt liberated, exhausted, emptied out. Writing privately is cathartic, but public writing is emancipating. What I write in the open becomes public property, is no longer mine and I can view it from a much appreciated distance.
It requires a lot of practise, but the practise is useful, I think. There's a great deal of value to be found in the editing of oneself.
It's hard to transition out of, though. Yesterday's post: how childhood sexual abuse compounds the woes already associated with trouble getting pregnant. Today's post: cooking! But that's life, isn't it? It goes on and it catches us up in it; the grace of ordinary things.
So, along those lines I am trying out a new Sweet and Tangy Loose Beef BBQ recipe and the house is full of the smell of roasting meat (which is driving the dogs crazy). It has yet to fall apart though, and I'm getting a little nervous. It must fall apart soon, because only then is it seasoned, and then cooked for two to four hours more.
I'm also sorting through the paperwork that piles up so. I do have a file box already established, with hanging folders for exciting categories like "car insurance." I just procrastinate on putting them away. But at least I have one! It's a marvelous step up.
And Jenkins! Poor fellow experienced a serious internal condition which caused him to produce long, tangled skeins of thread instead of a nice, neat stitch. I fiddled and fiddled with the adjustments, but to no avail. I called Mom, she of the ancient and reliable Singer, and I fixed him!
Maybe tomorrow I'll go to the local library and get loads and loads of books.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
February 3rd
Well, dear readers, I must confess, despite the company of Jenkins the sewing machine, I am just not doing well.
I should be. It's been sunny for four days now, sunny and warm and the grass is showing through, everything smells damp, earthy and when I take the dogs out in the morning, I can hear the liquid, trilling notes of hidden birds.
Keith is settling into his new job and has about finished with being "the new guy" and is enjoying the responsibilities of his position. He recently sat on a mock promotion board.
"I failed every one of 'em," he confessed to me, yesterday. "Do you think that's bad?"
"No," I said stoutly, actually having no idea but backing up my husband anyway.
"I knew more than that as a Private! It's basic Army stuff; they should know it."
I am making the bed, taking long walks, keeping up with the housework, making dinner schedules and shopping lists and bonding with Jenkins.
But I am not getting better. I feel worn down, hollowed out. I feel rusty on the inside. I hated to admit it, but there comes a time when pretense is impossible. Something has overwhelmed my internal system and must be processed through.
At first I thought it must be a new memory of abuse, pushing its fetid way through the layers of my defenses, unsettling everything in its path and needing to be shed. But I don't think so. It could be, I live always with the possibility of that happening.
But I don't think so. I think my failure to get pregnant right away is bring up stuff, so much stuff that I'm clogged.
Should I publicly process through this on my blog? I will, at least in part. But I must warn you, gentle readers all, that this will not be pretty and not well written and possibly not even interesting.
And as I know must of my readers are friends and family, I want to assure you now that I am fine. I have been through worse in the course of trauma therapy. I'm incredibly strong, capable, insightful and resourceful.
Firstly, there is the line of thinking that God is punishing me for my earlier sins. I have been a bad girl, headstrong, disobedient and willful. I have gone my own way and now He is withholding children. He is holding them out at arm's length, tantalizing; the one thing that I cannot say, "Screw you" and take anyway. I can't control getting pregnant. I am being humbled.
But this predisposes the character of God being vengeful, remembering sins and waiting in the wings to punish when the time is ripe for punishment. I did grow up with this God, the God of indelible memory.
This is not the God I have learned to know, however. The God that followed me down every single path, every single emotional meat grinder that I threw myself into, is of an entirely different make up. He is tenacious as well, infinitely creative and His mercies are new every morning, no matter how grimy the night. There are no dead ends with Him, nothing can thwart the creative power of His redemption.
No, if there is punishment being dealt out, it is most certainly of self origin. Yes, that settles down nicely unto the inner bull's eye. I am lacerating myself. No doubt I believe I should be punished.
I believe I will fail. I believe I will be a failure as a mother. I'm too selfish as a mother, I'm too immature, self absorbed, shattered on the inside, I don't have enough self control, I'm not warm enough, connected enough. I'll be distant, I'll be angry, I'll be absent.
God knows this; He knows it and is withholding a child for the child's own safety. I don't deserve to have a child, I'll never grow up, people like me don't ever become whole again, we can't keep children safe. Because what if what happened to me happens to my own child?
And the shame that rises up from this internal dialogue is so thick that I can't see through it and that is what is driving me underwater. I was hoping, unconsciously, that if I got pregnant quickly I could push off this internal crisis until later, or avoid it entirely. And that would have been impossible; I would simply have been miserable pregnant, inside and out and everything would have been worse.
It's time's like these when I hate, with a great and tearing rage, what happened to me. I wish to shred everything- my mother, my father, my church, my entire family, the whole system that failed, that let me fall down into the filth, the hadalpelagec zone of hell, the very bottom of human experience where the darkness is complete and the pressure crushes all the life out, where the dead things fall and make a silt so deep things disappear into it. (Who's been watching shows on the Science channel about the ocean? Me.)
Why can't I be perfect, whole? Blithely going through my life with solid foundation, surrounded and upheld by all kinds of internal and external supports, things I would take for granted because I couldn't imagine a life without them.
Instead of this twisted fear and shame, I'd be happy! Glowingly pregnant! A whole circle of chirping friends to give me a pink and blue baby shower with chocolate poopy diapers and crepe paper. I would be blissfully unaware of the depths, the horror and also the strength, the desecration and the profoundly good.
I would never need to know how strong I could be. I would never need to know how to consciously choose life over crippling bitterness. There would be no shards inside, razor sharp pieces of memory left behind to trouble each phase of life. To resist, constantly, the choice to live a life of the victim, caught in self pity like a fly in honey, static and stuffed with a heavy, cloying sorrow.
Well, here's the thing; life is a battle, whether we live it out or not. And who cares about how other people get to live their life, I have mine. And I get to choose to live it with honor, I get to choose the bright and shining steel strength. I can choose, looking down into the abyss, to stare fascinated down into it or to look up and acknowledge the sky. It's that simple.
And right now, I am having a great deal of trouble thinking about not being able to get pregnant. This is how I face motherhood, this is what comes up for me. It doesn't make me a weak person, it doesn't make me some strange, twisted version of a woman. It's the off shoot of a crime that raped me of my own integrity. I can choose to live it out, and perpetuate that crime long after it was committed, or I can face it, acknowledge it, and choose something else.
I hate that I have to do it all over again, I hate that it's infecting this part of my life, my own self perceptions about being a mother. But it is, of course it is, how could it not? And having faced it will in the end, I have faith, make me a better mother, more prepared for the chaos of that transition, the emotional chaos that comes up for every mother.
But I'm going to have to tell myself this over and over again for a while.
I should be. It's been sunny for four days now, sunny and warm and the grass is showing through, everything smells damp, earthy and when I take the dogs out in the morning, I can hear the liquid, trilling notes of hidden birds.
Keith is settling into his new job and has about finished with being "the new guy" and is enjoying the responsibilities of his position. He recently sat on a mock promotion board.
"I failed every one of 'em," he confessed to me, yesterday. "Do you think that's bad?"
"No," I said stoutly, actually having no idea but backing up my husband anyway.
"I knew more than that as a Private! It's basic Army stuff; they should know it."
I am making the bed, taking long walks, keeping up with the housework, making dinner schedules and shopping lists and bonding with Jenkins.
But I am not getting better. I feel worn down, hollowed out. I feel rusty on the inside. I hated to admit it, but there comes a time when pretense is impossible. Something has overwhelmed my internal system and must be processed through.
At first I thought it must be a new memory of abuse, pushing its fetid way through the layers of my defenses, unsettling everything in its path and needing to be shed. But I don't think so. It could be, I live always with the possibility of that happening.
But I don't think so. I think my failure to get pregnant right away is bring up stuff, so much stuff that I'm clogged.
Should I publicly process through this on my blog? I will, at least in part. But I must warn you, gentle readers all, that this will not be pretty and not well written and possibly not even interesting.
And as I know must of my readers are friends and family, I want to assure you now that I am fine. I have been through worse in the course of trauma therapy. I'm incredibly strong, capable, insightful and resourceful.
Firstly, there is the line of thinking that God is punishing me for my earlier sins. I have been a bad girl, headstrong, disobedient and willful. I have gone my own way and now He is withholding children. He is holding them out at arm's length, tantalizing; the one thing that I cannot say, "Screw you" and take anyway. I can't control getting pregnant. I am being humbled.
But this predisposes the character of God being vengeful, remembering sins and waiting in the wings to punish when the time is ripe for punishment. I did grow up with this God, the God of indelible memory.
This is not the God I have learned to know, however. The God that followed me down every single path, every single emotional meat grinder that I threw myself into, is of an entirely different make up. He is tenacious as well, infinitely creative and His mercies are new every morning, no matter how grimy the night. There are no dead ends with Him, nothing can thwart the creative power of His redemption.
No, if there is punishment being dealt out, it is most certainly of self origin. Yes, that settles down nicely unto the inner bull's eye. I am lacerating myself. No doubt I believe I should be punished.
I believe I will fail. I believe I will be a failure as a mother. I'm too selfish as a mother, I'm too immature, self absorbed, shattered on the inside, I don't have enough self control, I'm not warm enough, connected enough. I'll be distant, I'll be angry, I'll be absent.
God knows this; He knows it and is withholding a child for the child's own safety. I don't deserve to have a child, I'll never grow up, people like me don't ever become whole again, we can't keep children safe. Because what if what happened to me happens to my own child?
And the shame that rises up from this internal dialogue is so thick that I can't see through it and that is what is driving me underwater. I was hoping, unconsciously, that if I got pregnant quickly I could push off this internal crisis until later, or avoid it entirely. And that would have been impossible; I would simply have been miserable pregnant, inside and out and everything would have been worse.
It's time's like these when I hate, with a great and tearing rage, what happened to me. I wish to shred everything- my mother, my father, my church, my entire family, the whole system that failed, that let me fall down into the filth, the hadalpelagec zone of hell, the very bottom of human experience where the darkness is complete and the pressure crushes all the life out, where the dead things fall and make a silt so deep things disappear into it. (Who's been watching shows on the Science channel about the ocean? Me.)
Why can't I be perfect, whole? Blithely going through my life with solid foundation, surrounded and upheld by all kinds of internal and external supports, things I would take for granted because I couldn't imagine a life without them.
Instead of this twisted fear and shame, I'd be happy! Glowingly pregnant! A whole circle of chirping friends to give me a pink and blue baby shower with chocolate poopy diapers and crepe paper. I would be blissfully unaware of the depths, the horror and also the strength, the desecration and the profoundly good.
I would never need to know how strong I could be. I would never need to know how to consciously choose life over crippling bitterness. There would be no shards inside, razor sharp pieces of memory left behind to trouble each phase of life. To resist, constantly, the choice to live a life of the victim, caught in self pity like a fly in honey, static and stuffed with a heavy, cloying sorrow.
Well, here's the thing; life is a battle, whether we live it out or not. And who cares about how other people get to live their life, I have mine. And I get to choose to live it with honor, I get to choose the bright and shining steel strength. I can choose, looking down into the abyss, to stare fascinated down into it or to look up and acknowledge the sky. It's that simple.
And right now, I am having a great deal of trouble thinking about not being able to get pregnant. This is how I face motherhood, this is what comes up for me. It doesn't make me a weak person, it doesn't make me some strange, twisted version of a woman. It's the off shoot of a crime that raped me of my own integrity. I can choose to live it out, and perpetuate that crime long after it was committed, or I can face it, acknowledge it, and choose something else.
I hate that I have to do it all over again, I hate that it's infecting this part of my life, my own self perceptions about being a mother. But it is, of course it is, how could it not? And having faced it will in the end, I have faith, make me a better mother, more prepared for the chaos of that transition, the emotional chaos that comes up for every mother.
But I'm going to have to tell myself this over and over again for a while.
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