Take a tour with me.

In the master suite, my husband is sleeping. He came home
today for a quick pit stop before heading out again at midnight for another
long absence behind the wheel of his semi. He brought me home a present –
laundry.

In the living room are piles of dirty clothes awaiting their
turn in the washer and dryer; then to be folded and put away in drawers or hung
on hangers in the closet.  I’m trying to
keep the house quiet so my husband can sleep, so I have to fold the clothes in
his den. When they’ll get put away is anyone’s guess. I still have clothes that
weren’t hung up from last week.

On the dining room table is a “project” I started last
night. I saw a book of counted cross stitch patterns I liked and knew I had
tons of embroidery thread, so I bought the book. Last night, after my soak in
the hot tub, I opened the huge box of pattern books and thread that my in-laws
picked up at a yard sale for me about four years ago. Some of the thread is
neatly wrapped around cards bearing the DMC number and put into little clear
boxes in numerical order. Most of the thread is in Wal Mart bags –willy nilly.
I decided to combine the willy nilly thread and the organized thread so it
would be easier to find the thread I needed for my new, cute, pattern.

I started the “project” by simply looking for the thread I
needed for the pattern and decided that the disorganization was going to drive
me crazy. I started the organization by taking one willy nilly bundle of thread
out of the Wal Mart bag, writing the DMC number on the blank card, and wrapping
the thread around the card. Then I tried to put the newly wrapped card in with
the other cards and discovered that the already wrapped cards in the clear
plastic boxes were not in any order. So, I took all the neatly wrapped cards
out of the boxes, put them in order (leaving room for all the other thread),
and put them back into the boxes. I felt it would be more efficient if I took
the unwrapped thread out of the Wal Mart bag and put them into some sort of order
before I wrapped them around the cards.

This took me into the kitchen to hunt for Ziplock bags. When
I went to look for them, I noticed that I was almost out of the sandwich size,
so I stopped to put that item on the grocery list. Then I noticed I was almost
out of milk, eggs, butter, potatoes, lettuce, and mayonnaise. I added these
items to the list and made a mental note to stop at the grocery store on my way
home tomorrow.

Then I had to pee. I can’t use the master bathroom because
my husband is snoring in the master bedroom so I went into the guest bathroom. In
the guest bathroom is a toilet full of vinegar and baking soda that needed to
be scrubbed and flushed. I’ve had it soaking for about three days and my
sinuses are wide open. (I highly recommend the combination to anyone who is
having trouble with seasonal allergies.) I scrubbed the toilet, flushed it
about 3 times and then did my business.

Upon leaving the bathroom, I noticed that the clothes needed
to be transferred from dryer to clothes basket
- washer to dryer – clothes basket to den – fold – living room floor to
washer.

As I passed by the dining room, I noticed the “project”
hiding every square inch of the table and the cute, little pattern book open to
the pattern I haven’t started yet because the thread isn’t organized so I can
find the colors I need to make it. Do I
have any needles?

Put the clothes in the washer, take the clothes out of the
dryer, fold, repeat.

At some point, in the near future, all these things will get
done or they will get put away for another day. (I have a closet full of
projects for another day.)

I am here, in my 10’ X 10’ computer/craft room, writing this
little blog about multitasking instead of actually multitasking. I needed a
break and this seemed like the thing to do.

Hmmm, I’m hungry. I wonder what I have around here for
dinner?

 We met in 1974. I was 18 and he was 16. If you believe in love at first sight, you will understand what happened next and why we got married so quickly. Otherwise, you’ll just say it was luck or stupidity – both are probably close to the truth. Anyway, we met young with no expectations for the future. I needed a date to the Rodeo dance – our mutual friend needed to borrow my car and an exchange was made. From our first date, we were inseparable and I knew the first time he kissed me that I was safe, protected, and home.

We were all googly eyed and in love at the beginning. Nothing could hurt us as long as we had each other, but the world is a cold place that throws obstacles in the way of googly eyed teenagers. Enough obstacles were thrown at us that anyone would have said it was totally alright if we just called it quits and grew up a little more. But that would have left our daughter with a broken family and our wonderful son never would have been born. So, with love in our hearts and stubbornness born from European ancestors, we tallied forth.

Each day turned into a week and each week turned into a month and before we knew it, we were celebrating a series of conquests which included two cancer diagnoses, one heart attack, 20 years in the Air Force, a truck accident that ended his business, and my inability to secure a job. Plus, two wonderful children and six incredible grandchildren were given to us.

So, here’s where I start the lecture – ready. In my humble opinion, forged from years of experience and observation – marriages break up because of boredom and the lack of energy to make it work. I can think of only two reasons any marriage should break up – abuse (physical, mental, sexual) or infidelity. “We grew apart” is just an excuse for “We stopped trying”. “He loves his hobbies more than he loves me”. Of course he does, but he does love you. “We just fell out of love” is poppycock.

Marriage is hard work – daily. And, like aging, it’s not for wimps. There have been times when I thought it just wasn’t worth it anymore and I had the lawyer on the phone. Times when we fought with each other so much that I felt it would be better if I just left. Times when I was so lonely, I literally wanted to die. Times when we look at each other and didn’t even have the strength to yell anymore.

So, here’s a little side note story to help illustrate my point. I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma when I was 40 years old. I was facing eight rounds of a very strong chemotherapy and there were no guarantees. We were devastated, but we knew I couldn’t do this by myself and no matter how difficult it was going to be, he would not leave my side. We went to a meeting at the American Cancer Society. A woman said her husband left her because he couldn’t stand it anymore. Her cancer was too much for him to bear. My husband was furious. When we left the meeting, he looked at me and said “How dare he? He couldn’t stand it? She’s the one with Cancer!” Then he held my hand and said, “That won’t happen. Ever.” He was there for every doctor’s appointment, every chemo treatment, every trip to the emergency room, every surgery, when my hair fell out, when I wanted to give up – he was there. It was hard for him, watching me suffer like that, but he never cried in front of me. And every year, we celebrate the anniversary of my diagnosis like it was a birthday.

Why does it work for us? Because we love each other more than all the bad, than all the obstacles – the good outweighs the bad. And it always will.

An acquaintance of mine wrote a story about asking his friends how to make his new marriage work. He said he went to a nursing home to give a speech and asked the question. One man gave him the answer in a short sentence that sums up why his marriage lasted – “Because I promised.”

In this day and age where a person’s word doesn’t mean much anymore, that promise should mean everything. It does for us. It binds us together to fight what each new day will bring and to enjoy what life has given us. It’s really that simple.

I have friends and I have Pals. There is a difference. I’m proud of my friends and love that they have come into my life. I’m always honored to have shared their paths. Friends are people you know, talk with, laugh with over coffee, but wouldn’t call upon them to say – go to battle with you over the death of your boss or anything.

Now a Pal…a Pal would stand right next to you as guns were blazing on the dirt covered streets of Tombstone. Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp were Pals.

I’ve never asked my Pals to fight a gun battle with me, but here are some of things they have done for and with me over the years.

When I lived in the middle of the country, far away from the white sands and ocean smells of the coast, I called a Pal and told her how I longed to have the sand between my toes and the water gently touching my ankles. She took me to a quiet lake in the Black Hills that afternoon. I walked on the beach and felt the sand between my toes and was content again to remember. 

When I moved close to the coast, I called a Pal and said “We’re going to the ocean”. She gladly went on my 18 hour frenzied drive to the coast and back. When we arrived at the beach, I opened the sunroof, breathed in, and said “Ahhhhhhhhhh”.

When I lived in Alaska, the stress of the lack of sun would make me very depressed. My Pal and I had a code phrase that told her I was getting close to the edge of my mind. When I called and said “I’m cleaning my oven”, she would arrive within the hour – Latte’ in hand – and take me shopping.

When I told a Pal I was lonely and needed something to love and keep my company, she arrived on my doorstep with a kitten.

When I needed help painting my new house, my Pals spent days helping me and pushed me to finish way past the time I was ready to give up.

I have a Pal who keeps my deepest secrets and she loves me anyway.  

Even though she was suffering from a much worse case of Cancer than I, my Pal would call daily and ask how I was and if I needed anything. She would remind me that I wasn’t in this fight alone. While I lived, I lost my Pal and I miss her every day.

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. I’m fortunate to have Pals, some of them are people with whom I have formed a lifelong bond and some of them are my family. I hope I can be a Pal to each of them when they call upon me to fight their gun battles – no matter how big or small.

I would consider it an honor if someone wrote PALS on my tombstone.

Save one.

I stumbled upon a small booth with three women all dressed in black who were peddling two books. The author of these books was a wonderful woman with whom I felt a kindred spirit. Someone who has written, whose hopes and dreams centered around 250 pages of words telling a story for the general public to gobble up and talk about for centuries to come.

Finally, someone with whom I could relate. And relate I did, asking questions about being an author. How did she do it? Did she set aside hours each day to sit in front of her computer screen? Did she use a whiteboard? Was every character carefully described so that we feel we know them? Did she write down each plot twist? Did she have an agent? I was begging her to tell me all the hidden secrets of getting her book published when so many others have drawers full of rejection letters and broken dreams.

She answered all my questions and gleefully spoke of character development, plot twists, and whiteboards. And then she told me her secret to publication – do it yourself. But she took it one step past self publishing, she started a publishing company and served as her own agent. No middle man in this equation. No rejection letters in her drawer. No ma’am! She was taking no chances in getting this book to the masses. She showed up anywhere she could with book in hand and website address on cards. This particular evening, she offered a bottle of wine in a drawing to get people to her booth to look at her book and buy one.

She had a gimmick.

So, I ask myself as I look at the whiteboard in my office with characters and plot twists and timelines, do I really need to write a good book or do I just need a gimmick? Do I want to write a book that will get “published” or do I want to write a book people will enjoy reading? The one you can’t put down and quote lines from at dinner parties.

The answer came to me as I read the quote by Benjamin Franklin that sits above my computer monitor “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do the things worth the writing.” I want to write a book worth reading. If it never gets published, that’s fine. But it must get finished and I must want to read it. I must light up when I talk about it. It must be created to bring joy to myself and to anyone who wants to read it. The only gimmick I want is a well written, quotable, memorable book.

I never asked her what her books were about or if they were a good read and she never offered me the information. She didn’t beam about the fact that she had written quality work, but that she had found a way to get it published. And that, in a nutshell, is what it’s all about now.

There are books upon books about how to and where to and when to publish. There are magazines and classes and degrees. People who publish their own books, people who find an agent, people who serve as their own agent, people who have people to talk to your people – it’s mind boggling. But not one of them tells you how to have the talent to create a work of art, because that can’t be taught – it just is.

I don’t want to write a series, I have no ambitions to be a James Patterson or Lee Child. I would like to finish my book for myself, which sounds simple, but it is the hardest job I have ever done. One book, a few thousand words, a story taken from my head and put on paper for a reader’s enjoyment. That’s all I want.

And the only person who can do it is me. No gimmicks, no magic answers to all the questions in my head, just a simple fact – I have to write this book. I have delayed it long enough. It’s time.

I’ll let you read it when I’m done. You’ll be the first to enjoy it – right after me.

They named their little girl after my husband’s father. This is the second child in the family who has been named after him, my nephew and now my grand-niece. It’s an honor that he richly deserves.

My father-in-law is the kind of man who doesn’t ask for conditions with his love. He drops everything to help all of us, sometimes flying across the country to help us move. I have never heard him ask for a thing or criticize any of us for what we have done in our lives. And we have all made huge mistakes.

His smile is easy. His hands are calloused. He’s a working man. Even now, he starts early in the morning and does manual labor that a lot of men think is beneath them. My father-in-law is beneath no man. He is that rare combination of protector and friend that everyone wants from a father.

He loves his wife. He has loved her since he met her and has never wavered. The only picture he carries in his wallet is a picture of her – the first one she gave him many years ago.

He loves his family – all of us. He loves the wives and husbands of his children as much as his own, I believe. We must have, at times, disappointed him in some way or another. But he has never shown us that disappointment.

He loves to play cards – Euchre especially. He enjoys Lifetime movies. He likes Nascar. He enjoys vacationing in his travel trailer. He and mom plot out their adventures every year like school children ready to catch fireflies and see new sites.

There is nothing he can’t fix or figure out. He never went to college, but I would rank his intelligence far above that of any ivy league graduate, because he is schooled in life.

I married my husband because I love him, but also because I wanted to be a member of his family. Love abounds in their house. It’s not a word that is spoken, it’s an action that is taken.

My parents lived in a big house – not a mansion by any means. But it always seemed small. Never enough room for everyone and as each child left, the empty rooms were used for some other purpose. My husband’s parents live in a small trailer with an addition. They have lived there for 50 years. There has never been a time when we were not welcomed with open arms. There is always room for us and our family and our family’s family. And, this small house never seems crowded. Its walls seem to expand to accommodate all who enter.

And all who enter are loved and taken care of and cherished.

We name our children for various reasons – because the name is popular or we like the meaning. But the greatest name of all is the family name. You name your child after someone you hold in high regard. You want that name to carry on from generation to generation and you want to tell the story of how you picked that name.

In my mind, there is no greater tribute than to have a child named after you – a new life with new promises that will carry on the legacy for generations to come. And in my mind, there is no better name to give to a child than his. Congratulations little Emersyn Michelle. Carry your name with pride because you were named after one of the best.

Then he said something so profound. He said that he didn’t want to get all religious on me, but that he believed I was here for a reason. I have lived through Cancer twice and I’m still kicking.

But what is that reason?

Do I have a special talent I need to share with the world? My writing, perhaps. The books that sit in my computer and whisper to me, “Finish me” while I’m sleeping? Am I meant to be a famous author, but just can’t find the conviction to finish what I started?

Am I here to take up space? To fill a hole that would have been empty in so many people’s lives? And, if I weren’t here, would that hole have been filled by someone else?

For all the things that have gone wrong in my life, I have so many things that have gone right. For all the disasters and curses laid upon me, there have been as many blessings. For all the talent I don’t possess, there are many talents that I do possess.

So, if I may bore you a little, I’ve decided to make a list of my good qualities – talents, if you will – and not focus on the bad ones.

I am a great wife. What do I mean by that? I can keep my household running when my husband is on the road or in Korea. I can be ready for any occasion in about 30 minutes. I plan our vacations, balance our checkbook, shop for our groceries, and do our laundry. I buy his mother’s presents and cards. And I enjoy making love with my husband.

I am a good mother. I say “good” because I know I made a lot of mistakes. However, I made some good calls. I watched as my son crawled across the floor to change the channel on the TV set just days after his surgery to correct his club feet so he knew he could do things on his own even though they seemed insurmountable. I watched a cop arrest my daughter after she shoplifted so she understood the consequences of breaking the law. I cry every time I hear my daughter sing because I can’t believe that I gave birth to such an incredible voice. I say my piece, but back off quickly. My goal was to raise adults who are responsible for themselves and I did that. Are they rocket scientists or wealthy beyond their wildest dreams? No. Did they make mistakes? Yes. But I made them understand that mistakes come with consequences. And that trying hard has its rewards.

I am a good writer with a bad work ethic. I know some authors who work every day for a certain time period every day.  I don’t think of writing as a job – more as a hobby. No, more as a way to get my feelings on paper instead of locked inside my head. I need all the space in my head I can get.

I remember birthdays and special occasions. It’s important to someone that they be remembered on those days. Birthdays especially, because it is uniquely yours and it should be celebrated that you were born and have made a contribution to your life and all the people in it. Because there would be a hole that no one else could fill.

I make beautiful cards. I can crochet and sew. The jewelry I make is simple, but uniquely mine.

Looking back on this list, I’d say the doctor was right. I was put here for a reason. Well, several reasons actually. I am here to be the firefighter’s daughter, the Air Force wife, the mother of a daughter and a son, the nana of six, the glue that holds us all together, the friend, the organizer, the family photographer, the family genealogist, the keeper of secrets, the one who gives good hugs and remembers birthdays. If these are my purposes in this life, it’s enough.

So, I’ve gotten these thoughts out of my head and now there’s room for the grocery list.

That’s what surviving is all about, really. Being able to do all those things that need to be done for yourself and others. Filling that hole in people’s lives. Being the best you you can be. I won’t be happy every day, I won’t thank my lucky stars every day, I won’t be the best me every day – but most days I’ll be grateful for what I’ve been given and I’ll remind myself of this list.

And I’ll keep on living – until it’s time for me to stop.

Since I’ve moved to the place I was raised, I’ve had two opportunities to put the past in the past and say my final good-byes.  Okay, get some “closure”.

My mother died almost three years ago and I hadn’t even spoken with her for years before that.  I came home after her death more to be with my brothers than for her benefit.  There was no will.  All her belongings, save the very personal ones, were given to the care center where she lived.  My brothers and I paid for her cremation.  I don’t know exactly how she died, but she had been craving it for a long time, so I didn’t really ask.  I thought the trip would give me some sort of instant forgiveness from her.  I was wrong.

My mother wasn’t finished with me yet.

A few months ago, I started hearing her in my head, reminding me of things she had told me when I was young.  She had a list of rules for a young lady and I started replaying them over and over again.  “Do your nails every Sunday.  You won’t have time during the week.”  “Don’t let your perfume enter the room before you do.  Put a dab on each wrist, between your boobs, behind your knees, and on the tip of your nose – so you can smell it, too.”  “Always wear lipstick, it adds color to your face.”  “Wear a hat when you are outside.  Ladies don’t have sunburns.” 

I got tired of hearing her voice in my head.  So, I asked my brother to take me to the place where he had put her ashes.  It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon.  All of us went -  my brothers and their wives and kids.  I went alone.  After searching for the correct tree in the wilderness, he finally found the place.  We all looked at it for a while, took some pictures, and got back in our vehicles.  I stayed behind.  I needed a minute.  I didn’t know what to say to her or why I was talking to the ground at the foot of a tree.  I wasn’t even sure it was the right tree.  But it was a place and I needed to say my peace.  I asked her to forgive me, I told her thank you for all the rules, I asked her to be happy wherever she was, and I asked her to get out of my head.  I stood and remembered her as the wind swept my hair across my eyes (I wasn’t wearing a hat).  Then I got back in my car and drove away.

She hasn’t been rattling around in my head since, but I find myself dabbing perfume on the tip of my nose and searching for my lipstick before I leave the house.  She’ll always be there, but now it’s a much happier memory.

My second opportunity for “closure” came this weekend at a beautiful surprise party for my sister-in-law.  My brother out did himself.  At the party, was the man I had loved so many years ago.  We took each other’s virginity.  We were in love.  Then, with a few words from him, it was over.

I didn’t recognize him at first.  His black curly hair had been tamed and trimmed into a more sophisticated look.  He wore glasses and, of all things, cowboy boots.  Not really his style back then, but I appreciate a good pair of tight wranglers and cowboy boots on men.  He wore the new look comfortably.  But the dimples were missing.  He didn’t smile much.  He seemed stiff.   He looked like a man who had been through hell and was just emerging from the other side, not really sure of what had happened, but trying to get his bearings back.  I spent most of the evening glancing his way and I caught him glancing my way until I could bear it no longer. 

After asking my husband if he would mind if I said hello to him (they have history), I walked to his table.  He immediately stood and hugged me.  No spark.  No underlying passion left on the table.  Nothing.  I looked toward where my husband was sitting.  He was talking to someone and had his back was to us.  I looked back at my old lover and I knew where I belonged.  I said my good-byes, walked to my husband, and put my hand on his back, edging my way seamlessly into the conversation.  I never looked back.

Do I still believe it’s a politically correct term to help with mental well being?  Not really.  I will seek it out again, if I feel the need.  It’s helped me close those doors that needed to be closed.  And it has given me a better understanding of myself and my life.  Everyone who enters our lives makes an impact on us.  Some people stay with us physically and some remain in our heads.  My mother and my former boyfriend will always be a part of who I am, but they will no longer dominate my thoughts and I no longer wonder what might have been. 

Closure.  I was fortunate enough to find it twice in one year, because I was looking for it.  Because I craved it.  An ending to a head full of questions that I needed answers for.  For whatever reason, it helped me.

Alas, the whispering and turning away didn’t keep me from becoming infected. I was diagnosed with it 14 years ago. Cancer. To be precise, Stage Four, small cleaved, Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

I remember the first time I heard the word associated with my health. I don’t remember much of what the doctor was saying, just that I wanted him to whisper and turn his head so it wasn’t real. And, much like a cough, it would keep the germs from spreading into my body. I wanted so badly for it to be a bad dream. I wanted to believe that if I simply ignored it, it would go away.

But it didn’t go away.

At some point, I began to fight. I believe it was my first oncologist’s appointment in Seattle. I saw a woman wearing a blue jeans hat with a large, rather gaudy, daisy holding up the front of the brim. She had no hair, but she didn’t look sick. She was smiling. She was laughing. I said, “That’s the kind of cancer patient I want to be.” I found a hat just like that and wore it, thinking some of its magical powers would rub off on me. Some of them did, I guess.

Don’t get me wrong, I took the whole thing very seriously. I did everything the doctors said I should do, save one, whom I fired. I guess I decided that this was going to be a huge part of my life and I didn’t want to spend it badly. There were days when getting out of bed was a chore, so I didn’t, but those days were few and I let the depression cover me like a warm quilt. I wrapped myself in it and cried, but only a few times and only when I just couldn’t stand it anymore.

Cancer is a succession of doctor’s appointments, treatments, blood tests, shots, CT scans, emergency room visits, huge bills, and sad faces. People are amazed that you are walking around in public. People praise you for going to work or stopping at the coffee shop. Everyday things that I continued to do became huge feats of wonder and superhuman powers.

But I wasn’t superhuman. I couldn’t save the patients who died while I lived. I couldn’t stop the pain that showed on my family’s face. I couldn’t promise them that everything would be fine, although I tried.

The day I started chemotherapy I refer to as my “second birthday”. This year was my 14th. I guess I’ll remember it more than any other because I got the diagnosis again. This time it’s Endometrial Cancer. When the doctor called, he said I showed pre-cancer cells in my endometrial lining. He thought I should have more tests and the insurance company may agree with him. However, the doctor he referred me to is agreeing with me and says, let’s just do the surgery. Take it all out and not worry about it anymore, because this is an “easy” one. Very curable. All they have to do is take my uterus, ovaries and whatever else is hanging out that looks bad and I’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine. After the succession of tests and doctor’s appointments and shots and CT scans and surgery, I’ll be just fine.

But at this moment, on this day, I don’t feel fine. That warm quilt called depression is calling my name and I am fighting it – for today. Perhaps after the holidays I will allow it to consume me every once in a while, we’ll see.

I guess the reason for this whole banter is to ask for a couple of things:

First, I’m not a superhero, I’m a person who’s scared and every once in a while I’ll need a hug or an encouraging word or a prayer.

Second, to let you know that by not saying the word you’re not stopping the disease. Shout it from the roof tops! If you’re a survivor, wear it proudly. If you have lost someone, talk about them. Donate to the American Cancer Society with your time or your money. Walk the walks, run the runs. Do whatever you can.

Third, I promise I won’t infect you with it. So, come see me or call or write.

And last, I’m going to beat this one just like I beat the first one. I just wanted you to know that. I just want you to believe that. Because I do.

      One day, my husband and I were riding home from work together.  I asked him to stop at the commissary to pick up a few things.  We arrived in the parking lot just in time for the flag lowering ceremony.  I wanted to run for the store, but I turned to look at my husband.  He turned towards the flag.  His spine became instantly rigid and his body followed.  His right hand snapped toward his forehead and rested just a few inches from his eyebrow.  I watched him with awe.  I looked around the parking lot and saw men and women in uniform snapping to attention.  And I began to know what this ceremony was all about.  I began to understand the respect they felt.

      But not only respect for the flag or the ceremony, but respect for the meaning behind it.  All these men and women understood what this ceremony was all about.  What the music being played really meant.  And each one of them understood what was expected of them when they put on that uniform and went to work each day.  And I began to understand that I was in the presence of heroes.

      These people would lay down their lives for that flag, for that ceremony, for me.  Each one of them knows that they could be called upon to defend a way of life that we take for granted.  Each one of them knows that we will never know who they are and that their lives would be given without ceremony or monuments.  But they are willing to do that, because they believe so strongly in what this country stands for.  They believe so strongly in what others have died to defend.

      And I cried.  I stopped my movement toward the store, turned toward the flag and put my hand over my heart.  I reflected on this epifany and remembered that one of those people who were willing to die for their country was the man to whom I was married.  I never loved him more than I did at that moment and I never felt more respect for the person he was.

      Even though my husband has retired his uniform, let his hair grow and his face is covered with whiskers, I know that, if called, he would defend this country and her ideals with his life.  A part of me is afraid of that and a part of me is in awe of that.  I do not have that kind of commitment or courage.  But I admire and thank all of those who do.

I used to believe that I was quite special.  That I possessed talents that no one else could match.  At times, even extraordinary.

But, alas, I possess no such talents.  I am not extraordinary.  I am, at best, mediocre.  On a good day: average.  Average gets you nowhere in this world.  And mediocre….well, that keeps you in hell.

And that is exactly where I seem to be.  Hell.  Smack dab in the middle of a world that I openly admit I created by making some pretty bad choices.

My choices were not illegal – I never did drugs, or committed any crimes.  I’m not behind bars, except those of my own making.  But they were bad choices, none the less.  And I feel as if I will pay for them for the rest of my life.

How can that be?  If I was fully capable of making bad choices, am I not fully capable of making good choices?  Obviously not, since every time I make a choice it seems to me to be the right one.  The choice that will bring me up to my proper place.  A place of serenity…with a job.

Take for example, some of my early choices.  I was bound and determined never to be a housewife.  I hated the thought of it.  Being at someone’s beck and call.  Picking up dirty clothes, wiping off sinks, cleaning up piles of dirty dishes.  So, because I never wanted to do this, because I believed I was better than that, I did it all wrong.  I am not a good housewife.  Sometimes, not even a good wife.  And the beautiful children that I was blessed with didn’t get the best mom because I never wanted it.  I wanted my kids, but I never wanted to be the mom who drove them to activities and supported them.  I was too busy trying to be the best secretary or data entry person I could be.  Choices.

I wanted to go to college – always.  I loved school, loved it so much that I wanted to be a teacher.  But when I did go back to college, I mucked that up also.  I couldn’t decide on a major and I changed schools halfway through because I made another bad choice.  Being a teacher would have taken too long and besides it didn’t matter what your degree was in, as long as you had one.  Don’t believe that crap for a minute.  It matters.  My hard won degree might as well say “Would you like fries with that?” instead of Bachelor of Arts.

So, here I sit.  I’m 55 years old.  I’ve been married for 35 years.  My children never remember my birthday or Mother’s Day.  My husband talks to me like I’m his employee instead of his wife.  I have a useless college degree and over 30 years of useless experience.  I’ve been looking for a job for a very long time and can’t figure out why no one will hire me.

Until now.

Choices.  So many bad choices.  So much time wasted on seeking something I would never attain when what was really important was staring me in the face all the time.  And I missed it.  I missed it and I’ll never get it back.

I’ve lost more than my ability to have a career.  I’ve lost my ability to stand up for myself.  I’ve lost my ability to truly believe in myself and what I can achieve.  I’ve lost the respect of my husband and my children.  And I don’t respect myself. 

My mind is all aflutter.  I can’t finish moving into my house.  I get bogged down by minor details and can’t see the big picture anymore.  I can’t possibly fit all this stuff into this house, so what do I do with the rest of it?  We need to get a better car, but I can’t possibly sell the one we have or I’ll be left without a vehicle until we find one.  I have a list I can’t possibly complete because none of it makes sense to me. 

How can I exist without a job?  Who am I?  If I can’t show the world my special talents, do I even have any?

Classic depression.  I can deal with depression.  This is something else.  This is the bad kind of self realization.  When you look in the mirror and you don’t like what you see and you totally understand why no one will hire you.  You, my dear, fucked up.  And no amount of good thoughts, yoga, dieting, plastic surgery, or dentistry is going to change that.  Because in your head, you will always know that you fucked up and that digs away at your self confidence every single day.

Regrets are eating me alive.  My friend says you live with your choices.  She’s right.  I’m living with mine.