Forbidden Fruit

Since I poured out my agony online, I have been feeling a bit better. But I'm still crying all the time. In fact tonight, as I lie down to sleep - my daughter curled up on the other end of my king bed, I started sobbing. I can't pray and not cry. It's the mixture of despair and "Why God?" and acceptance, however grudgingly rendered.

At the same time, I can't get rid of the thought, "What is the point to this life?" I believe that a huge reason for our human existence is to love other people with our whole hearts, selflessly, as God loves us. But that love is inextricably interwoven with pain and hurt and sorrow and grief. To which my glass-half-empty state of mind then reads, "The point of life is to be sad."

Following that thought, I stretch out to eternity and the next life....perhaps it will be better? But one of my deepest, darkest fears (and I've wondered about this since I was a teenager) is that the next life won't be any better. According to my beliefs, part of the next life is living life as my Father does and having spirit children who I will love, deeply. And they in turn, while rendering wonderful men and women as Daniel and Mary, will also yield Lucifer, Cain, Judas and Adolph Hitler. My fear, then, is that we never hear about Heavenly Mother because she spends eternity in her solar, sobbing. My fear, then, is that this is the destiny of my soul.

And I hate crying. Especially over things I can't change.

Overwhelmed

I wish, at times, that I could just plug a USB cable into my head and let all the posts I've written mentally pour out onto the screen.

We spent last week on the Oregon coast with my mother-in-law. It was an adventure, to say the least. I was following my sister-in-law on our way to the coast Monday afternoon when my car began to make a HORRIBLE noise coming directly from the engine block. I pulled over at the next gas station and began making calls (I finally have my very own cell phone - amazing what happens when your husband can't get a hold of you in an emergency). When Robert heard the noise (he's an automotive mechanic in case I never mentioned that), he said the van was T.O.A.S.T. I called a wrecking yard and they were willing to take the van in exchange for towing it to their yard for free. Good news: no large towing bill (did you know it costs $65-85 just to hook up?). Bad news: no vehicle.

We played at the coast and Robert and I began to figure out what to do. Sometimes I really hate being an adult.

The short story: I am still carless (I have some friends who have lent me vehicles as needed so I do have transportation, I just don't happen to actually have a vehicle of my very own) and so there was no need to take the ferry north (plus, how would I get to the ferry terminal?). The kids and I will now be flying to Alaska with Robert on July 6th (which is when we dump all of our household goods with the barge lines), which puts me leaving Oregon two weeks early than planned and getting into Alaska three weeks earlier than planned.

And this is the whole point of this post: I am so hopelessly overwhelmed. This week is my week to work on the shop's books so I can get everything together for our fiscal year end (June 30) and get the paperwork to the accountant. Next week Rob will be here to help pack up the house. Then I was to have a week at cub camp with the boys and a week to play and say good bye and another week to visit friends on my way up to Alaska before catching the ferry. Now that timetable has been collapsed into just two weeks. I'm stressed about work. I'm stressed about packing. I'm stressed about saying good bye.

This has been my home for the last 9 years. (And no, the house has not sold or even had an offer on it.) Rhys has lived here since he was less than one year old. Their friends are here, the places they know and love. My friends are here. I had finally relaxed and let go and decided that I would live in this town, in this home, forever. It was, seriously, about two months later when we decided (thanks, God) to move to my hometown.

I don't want to go.

I'm scared.

For me. For my kids.

I talked with a dear friend about all this this morning. She gave me much of the same ol' rhetoric about God's ways being better and higher than our own and how He has a plan for us.

I hear that. I can logically agree to that.

But I feel like He just keeps telling me no.

I believe that He is omnipotent and I know that He can't always say "yes" but can't He do so on occastion? He allowed my mom to die instead of healing her. And now we're leaving when I so desperately want to stay. I can't lose weight to save my life nor end my addiction to chocolate and food. It seems everytime something is big, I get told, "No." So what is the point of even asking?

I then I feel guilt on top of that for whining at these small things when there are so many others around the world who struggle with far greater problems than I will ever have to.

So I'm trying to work and trying not to cry all day (and yes, I am still taking my meds). And I'm trying not to think about everything we will be leaving behind. And I'm trying not to assume the worst about everything we are moving to. (No, we still don't have a home there.) And I'm trying not to freak out.

And in reality all I can think about is how much mortality sucks. I hate goodbyes. I hate loving people only to lose them. I hate how ephemeral everything is. I hate always feeling alone and lost.

My undergrad thesis was on Pascal's wager. I couldn't, at the time, see why someone would not accept the risk and wager that there is indeed a God, as they had nothing to lose. I later understood that even risking nothing, we are still risking ourselves, our hearts, our beliefs, our choices, everything that makes us US; our "ousia," if you will. That's how I feel about this move. And instead of jumping in and trusting my all to His tender care, I'm sticking out my arms and claws and digging in and howling at the moon about having to leave. I don't want to surrender everything. It hurts too much. And bad things always seem to follow. People get baptized and then hardships inevitably follow. Moms die instead of being healed. Homes get broken up. It hurts. Mortality sucks.

Hormones Shmormones

I suppose this is what happens with hubris; I was feeling so pleased with myself last month when I was sad over Rob leaving, cried it out and awoke reborn - I was thinking I had this depression stuff licked or at least better understood.

Whatever.

Yeah, my period showed up and so did my tears, my black funk and blue fog. I spent yesterday escaping into work (volunteering at a school function) or into lalaland (I watched a few new episodes of my favorite TV shows).

This morning I finished reading the third book in the Uglies series. Once the book came to an end, the sadness descended.

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate this aspect of my personality? Z described it as being a wind swept moor as opposed to a sunny, tropical beach. But there are days when I am tired of the darkness, the emotions and the drama. I just want to be flatline, still and at peace with everything around me. Sometimes numbness seems like such a welcome relief from the onslaught of drama.

When I'm depressed, everything just seems to grow to gargantuan proportions and I shrink away into nothing; I become a meaningless non-entity and I wonder at being allowed to exist at all. The dishes and laundry and children and need to worship God all become so, so heavy until I can't do them at all and I lie in bed overwhelmed with enormity of it all.

Like I said, drama.

And I revert to a two-year old. "I want my mom! I want my Robert!" which all only serves to make me sadder. As if their presences would solve anything.

And then I think of all the people in the world who have real problems and not artificially induced sadness and I feel guilt.

More drama.

So today I'm back to wondering why it would be such a bad thing really for a 33yo to have a radical hysterectomy and live without any female hormones at all.

But in the back of my mind is my real fear, that all of this would keep going on even without my hormones.

Letting Go

In the midst of moving, some decisions have to be made, the whole "what to keep and what to get rid of" quandary. One of the items I've been thinking about is a rabbit fur camel. (Not terribly PC, but it is what it is.) An odd item, I know. But one year, I remember it to be my 12th birthday (although that could be debatable my memory being what it is). My mom missed the blessed day (for some reason that I can't recall) and brought me this camel home for my present.

This was in the days of actual in-flight service. She brought it onboard and the stewardesses tucked it away in their little cupboard. I was amazed and awed and in love.

I used to sit on the thing, between the humps, and pretend to ride (that red thing is a harness and at one point looped up over his head with reins for me to grasp).

I used to rub my face against the lush fur.

We used to joke about him being a well-endowed camel.

I moved it south with me when I married and from house to house every time Rob and I moved. It has lived next to my bed for the last several years. But I just can't justify paying the money to move him north. I barely let my kids touch him as his fur is rubbing off.

I know. It's a silly thing to worry about but it was a gift from my madre. I have to consciously tell myself that it's just a thing and that letting go of a thing doesn't mean letting go of my mother or my memories.

And so I have moved it into our garage sale pile and I can only hope some happy child (dare I hope girl?) gets a new rabbit fur camel to love.

Neuroses

Do you ever have days when you just want to curl up in bed? But you force yourself to participate anyway? And then you wonder, as you sit and type on your self-indulgent blog at home, if anyone even cares? I mean, people love you but do you ever think that they love you because God gifted them with love for you and so they tolerate you but really they're hoping you'll find a new set of friends? Soon? Then you leave comments with random people on the internet, hoping to sound friendly and smart and you're afraid you just sound like a big dweeb and people are hoping you'll find a new blog to stalk? And that when you try and comment on important things, theodicy and such, that people think you're an idiot with your head up your ass and wonder why you bother contributing on such topics when clearly you could contribute better to society by baking chocolate chip cookies? And then you start to hover over the "delete this whole damn blog" button but then think that would be too dramatic so you try to think of a way to just fade from the blogging scene? And then you just sigh to yourself and suck it up and realize that you started all this to keep in touch with loved ones (who really do love you) and then to stick your neck out just a bit, to exercise that brain so that maybe some day you'll stop sounding like such an idiot and to be brave and risk mistakes hoping that eventually you start getting better and make less mistakes? And that you should just go to bed because the real problem is lack of sleep because you stayed up way too late (midnight) the night before playing Build-a-Lot at a friends house?

No? You never have days like that?

Good, 'cuz I don't either.

Nope.

Not me.

Perfectly sane on this end.

Just ask my therapist.

Sad Tonight

I grew up with computers. You'd think I would know better but apparently not. My laptop bit the dust. It's dead, "Whoohoo, see ya, gone, bye-bye." That computer, while it was technically for all my work for my dad's shop, was also my personal computer. It has all my mother's journal entries that I transcribed. It has all my digital photos for the last three years. It has all my journal entries for the last three years. It has everything. I was assured that even though the computer doesn't work, we should be able to retrieve all the data off the hard drive. No problem. Yeah, they lied. The first attempt rendered nothing other than the verdict that my hard drive is deader than a doornail. I cried. I sobbed. I blubbered all over my little brother and then my husband (blubbering long distance is not nearly as effective as the real thing). Every one is telling me that I should remain optimistic, but really? I'm not.

Moral of the story: save to an external drive. Be like Jesus - Jesus saves.

*sigh* God willing this is a lesson learned.

God willing this is just a small bump and (since this is my year of miracles) I will get everything restored to me in pristine condition.

I wouldn't reject any prayers on behalf of me and my dead computer data.

Happy Mother's Day!

Thank you for making me practice piano over and over again. Even more, thank you for praising my attempts to play and for encouraging me over and over again. Thank you for always saying how much you loved to hear me play and how it made your heart happy.

Thank you for calling my brothers "heartless dolts" when they were mocking me for crying at a movie, thereby implying that if they had a heart, they'd be crying too.

Thank you for answering all of my questions, no matter how personal (Mom, do you douche?) honestly and openly. OK, I never asked the aforementioned but I do remember asking you if oral sex was okay and that you didn't stammer or hem and haw and change the subject; you gave me a frank discussion about the subject.

Thank you for all of the homemade love over the years. I cannot count the ways your nimble hands have blessed my life: dresses, dolls, clothes for my children (including their beautiful blessing outfits), moccasins, sweaters, wall-hangings, sock monkeys and even a pink poncho (which will be Lulu's someday).

Thank you for so much love. I remember you constantly saying how happy you were that we decided to come and live at your house. I remember one of the "popular girls" in high school being astounded and disbelieving that my mother said such things, but you did.

Thank you for loving my dad and for teaching me how to have a good marriage.

Thank you for being so brave. I remember about a week before you passed as you were contemplating continuing dialysis that you wanted them to use your central line instead of your fistula because the fistula would hurt too much and you were a coward. You broke my heart and I wanted to scream to you that you are one of the bravest people I have ever met. You were sick all of my life but never, ever complained. You often thought of those around you despite whatever challenge you were facing. You were/are awesome!

Thank you for being there when all of my children were born. Thank you for taking photos of those first miracles (even at inappropriate angels) and for helping me at home when the reality of each new miracle became apparent.

Thank you for teaching me how to clean a bathroom, scrub a floor, wash dishes and make my bed. Thank you for passing on recipes for Chicken Divan, Pula and Octopus. Thank you for introducing me to the rule, "You cook, you clean;" unbeknownst to me at the time, my husband would also believe in that rule.

Thank you for letting me find my own dreams and for letting me make my own choices no matter how strongly you disagreed.

Thank you for your faith in and love of Jesus. Thank you for speaking of Him and not being shy about the difficulties in living life His way. Thank you for having the courage to have me and T, regardless of what those darn doctors said. Thank you for believing God more than anyone else.

Thank you for hugs, endless squishy hugs. Thank you for back scratches - every time it itches I still think of you. Thank you for your laughter and for all your songs; I wish we could have sung a duet together and you would have the soprano to my alto.

I miss you Mom. I miss you so much that sometimes I can't breathe. I wish you could hug my kids and tell them stories about life growing up in back woods Alaska. I wish you could sing me "In the sleepy treetops..." just one more time. I wish you weren't so far away. I wish I could email you photos and quirky forwards that I know would make you laugh. I wish I could just hear your voice.

I wish we had lived closer and that I'd never moved away from home. I wish I'd spent more time with you, just was you warned me oh so many years ago that I would. I wish...I wish...I wish for so much.

I wish you happy. I wish that today is a glorious Mother's Day for you. I wish that you are loving on your mother as much as I wish I could love on you. I wish for you to be smiling and singing.

I love you, Mom.

Yesterday's Therapy (FUN STUFF!)

I went to my therapist yesterday. We discussed my current planning for grad school and a teaching license. We even found that we know someone in common - a little odd for me. I don't really want to go up to my friend and say, "Hey, I hear you know my therapist...." Incidentally, it's the same friend who likes to wield our hatchets when I answer the door. Maybe their connection is just the obvious one....

We also discussed my continuing grief for my mother and the fact that even after three years (THREE YEARS!!) I am still actively grieving her. I long to be done with this part of the process. I have come to accept that I will always be sad, for the rest of my life, that she's not here to share this with me, but I want to reach some level of happiness regarding her passing and her memory. Jo (my therapist) has helped in telling me to be mindful that I am grieving only my loss and not trying to grieve for my brothers, their wives or my father. At first I thought she had found my smoking stash, but when I told myself that I didn't need to grieve on behalf of anyone else, my whole body just sighed. Apparently, emotional members of families (me) tend to take on the emotions of other people. Yea -- good times. As if I didn't have enough baggage of my own!

I do long to talk to someone about her but I find it awkward with my father (he's remarried), my older brother (he's the most unemotional person I know) and my little brother (he shares everything with his wife and she, in turn, shares everything with others). Everyone I know down south barely knew my mother and there are no shared memories of her. Also, I'm not sure how to bring up the conversation (again with this theme). I have talked some with Mia but I'm never quite sure what to say. When I think about my mother, it's not as though certain stories come to mind; it is just this overwhelming ache in my core that I miss her. How do you share that, short of just sobbing in someone's ear? (And, yes, I have done that as well.)

Good news, though. Jo said, in response to my yet again plaintive cries, that I was working on graduate level stuff and that I was moving along in the grief process. Yea me!

My current assignment? I need to create a comforting story about where my mother is now. This creates a few dilemmas for me. One, while the LDS faith teaches about the afterlife, so much of it is vague and I'm uncertain of the realities of heaven. Second, I do picture my mother very happy in heaven. She gets to see her Savior - I imagine her touching the prints in His hands and feet and worshiping and praising Him; she gets to see her parents (her own mother died when she was just 1.5 years old); she is without pain; I imagine her weight at a more manageable level; she gets to talk - a lot - and preach the gospel; oh, yeah, and I imagine her singing. All lovely images. I am certain of her happiness. But in a way, that breaks my heart. I want her to miss me. I want her to weep over our separation as much as I have.

My father tells me that he thinks she misses me. I think that she may miss me, but I'm afraid to embrace this idea as that means there is sorrow in heaven. And then I spiral downward from there: if my mom misses me (and the rest of her friends and family), then she is full of grief and sorrow; when I die, I will miss all those I leave behind and instead of passing onto a world without grief, I will continue in sadness. Add this to my concerns about exaltation [if I become like Heavenly Father/Mother (Mormon theology) and have spirit children of my own who then need to experience their own earth life, then I will have to watch my own children become Hitler and other horrible humans - how does God not spend His days weeping over His children?] and I begin to have an image of myself sobbing throughout the eternities. I'm so sick of sorrow in this life. I'm so sick of crying. I can't stand this idea that I will be sad in the next life. So I return to happier thoughts: we will receive a fullness of joy; there will be much happiness and rejoicing in heaven. But like a vicious circle I return to, "Then does my mom miss me?" I can't reconcile the idea of being sublimely happy with experiencing loss or any kind of sadness. I think, really, this is where I stand in the grieving process: I can't reconcile my deep grief and sorrow with being able to be happy and while I find moments of happiness, there seems to be a great underlying sorrow about the loss of my mother and the fear that this sorrow will grow as I lose other people in the course of my life.

But I Want To Be Data

I went to see my OB today. He asked all sorts of questions (much more in-depth than I thought he would) about how I was feeling, how the circumstances of my life were going, etc. Of course I started crying as I answered the questions and kept crying as I asked how long would I have to be on these pills (he said we could try to wean off in July but then I mentioned that was the anniversary of Mom's death so then we moved that to mid-August) and that I hate to cry so much. He said that I have been blessed with strong emotions. I said that I wanted to just be Data. Brilliant and wonderful man that he is, he got the reference and responded, "What did Data always want?" Touche. Damn smart people! Or rather, damn closet Trekkies!

I told him that it didn't go so well for Data once he got the emotions chip. Dr. OB said that eventually all the gliches were worked out and everything was good. He said I was an empath and not everyone had that depth of emotion. "Oh, great!" thought I, "I used to long to be Deanna Troy; she was so beautiful and had the love of Riker (whom I thought was cute at the time - no accounting for taste) and she was an empath. I guess you get what you wish for. Darn. Rascals! Oh, Snap!" Perhaps I should have clarified that I wanted her empathy (reading other people's emotions almost as if mind reading) versus my empathy (which I translate as absorbing other people's emotions a/k/a crying all the time).

Is it to late to wish to be Data?

Happy Pills

I like euphemisms. They make my world so much more livable. Depression just becomes "the blues." So nice, so soft; it makes me think of that old New Era poster with a bunch of blue balloons. Manic children who fill my thoughts with wishes that a caravan of gypsies would come strolling by are simply "energetic rascals." Credit cards with five digits of debt become "magic cards," that magically pay for anything we need or want; somehow, though, it wasn't my trip to Paris! My medication to manage my depression so I don't have any "hmm, think I'm done with life," kind of thoughts becomes "happy pills." See, so much better! Could have been "anti-suicide-or-voices-in-my-head pills," but instead they are simply happy pills. How can a pill that makes you happy be all that bad?

When I first started taking these things I was so distraught. I thought that here was one more way in which I had failed. "Clearly, I suck at living life. Oh well, might as well get some help because I wasn't capable of getting better on my own. " The happy pills helped so much that almost overnight all those nasty voices in my head stopped and I could function again. Why had I fought so hard against this? Now, though, I am discovery that apparently the whole world has had similar experiences and everyone seems to be on happy pills.

I spoke to a woman for whom I have become her IUD friend and she asks me all questions IUD related. Yea me! Apparently she is using happy pills too. My former visiting teacher, whose children are all my age, is on a happy pill. My husband joked that being married to her hubby (he's not so nice) for 30+ years would require her to take them. I asked him if that was true, what does that say about him since we've only been married for 10.

One friend took pills to get through the bar exam. Someone else took happy pills to help when she quit smoking. Another SAHM has bad anxiety and has been on happy pills for 2 years now. Another friend took them when she was leaving her husband. (FYI, they made her lose a bunch of weight - why can't I have that side effect?!) Another friend takes them to avoid being crazy (like me).

So, I'm feeling less like a freak and now wondering, "Should I be on these?" Is it a statement of how much being a SAHM sucks your life blood out of your soul that so many of us are on happy pills? Is it a statement of the last days and turbulent times that we have to have help to get through the day? Has our DNA been so drastically altered over years of pollution and corruption that we can no longer produce the chemicals needed for a happy brain?

I. don't. know. I just know that I am currently up in the air. The pills have helped, no question, but the week before my period (Hello?! right now!) still turns me into a bluesy girl. The pills have also made me fatigued. All. the. time. Argh! It's hard to find motivation to do anything when all I want to do is sleep. Seriously though, I had been bumped up to 20mg and have moved myself back down to 10mg to try and combat the somnolence. Not working so well. So now the questions is, "Do I have to try a new happy pill?" Blech. This is worse than trying to find a birth control pill that works for you. Then, I just gave up the whole mess. No big deal. Sure, surprise, surprise, I got preggers, but we wanted a baby and 9 years later, it's not so bad. With happy pills though, if I give up the whole mess, will I go back to being crazy sad chic? Will I still be married in 9 months if I do? Somehow the situation seems a wee bit more convoluted than the birth control pills did. Perhaps I should just go back to looking for that violin playing goat.

This was meant to be funny. I think I missed the boat.

My Reality and Why I've Been Loathe To Share

Alright. I suppose after all this time that I should post a bit more about my life than just some cryptic quotes about violin-playing goats, random quizzes and the occasional conversation with my children. The purpose of this blog is to update those who don't live near me on my life and I've been failing at that purpose.

I haven't wanted to post anything too personal because I am struggling far more than I would like to be. In November it was easy to see a cause for my struggles, a cause outside of myself. Right now, I know that the cause is deeply rooted in my soul and psyche and I struggle with further evidence that I am anything but perfect. I know, no one but Jesus has been perfect but I always hope I will be better than I am and, oddly, I am always surprised when those hopes are crushed.

My depression eased for a bit, enough to get me through the holidays and Rhys' birthday. When January began, I really was feeling quite hopeful that I could put this all behind me and become a reborn, confident and happy woman. But then, mid-January, my depression returned with a vengeance. It hasn't ever gone away again and I suppose part of the reason is that I've just quit fighting. The voices in my head (negative tapes but I like the psychotic sound of voices though my therapist calls them something else altogether and assures me I'm not actually psychotic) became so loud that I had a hard time hearing anything beyond them. Logically, I knew that those thoughts were lies but my heart ate them up like a slice of chocolate cake. It got to be so I couldn't be left alone with my own head and so I was constantly reading escapist literature, watching movies and running (mentally not physically - heaven forbid that I should do anything positive!) as fast as I could. I stopped going to church because all I would do when I was there was either daydream I was somewhere else or cry. I stopped really praying for the same reason. Anytime the Spirit touched my heart, I would sob and sob. No. Fun.

On February 20, I went in to see my OB/GYN. After being examined as thoroughly as only a gynecologist can examine, we discussed medications. I am now taking Lexapro. The first day I was so nauseous I survived on saltine crackers and ginger tea. The second day I got better and within a few days the nauseousness left completely and was replaced by ravenous hunger. All. Day. So much for weight loss. I felt happy without being short-tempered for the first time in months! This week (week two) the blues have started making their presence known a bit more forcefully and I'm not sure if I will need to up my dosage or if this is merely my body adjusting to the meds or if it's just my period effecting everything as my cycle is wont to do. But the good news is that the voices in my head are quiet and, God willing, fairly ineffectual. I'm basically caught up on laundry and have started doing dishes before they grow furry friends. I even, hallelujah, used the vacuum!! (Literally, this is the first time in....months...I can't remember when I last turned it on.) Now, if I could just get my bathroom clean (again, months and can't remember the last time is was cleaned only that my husband was the one to do it and Robert rarely cleans the bathroom, so I'm sure you'll understand the length of time involved here), I could begin to feel on top of my house at least and hopefully, slowly, my life.

I go back to my OB (thankfully no more thorough exams for another year. At least. Longer if my typical procrastination of the dreaded visit comes into play. Incidentally, my OB is male and as a little tit-for-tat I asked for a female urologist for my husband. Hee, hee, hee.) on the 19th and we're going to discuss the medications. But I'm hopeful that they will continue to help and hopeful that I needn't be on them the rest of my life but who knows? As previously discussed, I'm terrified of menopause so just maybe...the next twenty years?

I saw my therapist on Wednesday and will see her again on the 19th. We're working on my grief over my mom's death and my father's family changing so dramatically. I always have known that humans die and, because of my faith, had a positive outlook on crossing over for people like my mom. I just never realized and comprehended how much I would miss her presence in my life. That's been the hardest thing to deal with; I just miss her so much that at times my heart aches and I still cry until I can't breathe. So, we're working on it and, again God willing, I won't be quite so distraught in 2009.

So actually, I'm okay now and working on being hopeful and optimistic. I'm going to church this Sunday and plan to stay the whole four hours (including choir) for the first time since January. I'm more patient with my kids and less prone to irritability (that seemed to be my MO -- depression followed by not quite happy but not depressed periods of irritability). Maybe, just maybe, I can finally get my Christmas decorations put away!

One of my biggest losses (slight exaggeration) is that I never got to post on February 29....Rascals!

The Secret to Happiness

"Happiness isn't happiness without a violin playing goat." Anna Scott

Now if I could just find that damn violin playing goat.

Salty Rain

When I was a child, I loved the imagery of rain being the tears of angels. I suppose that now it stands as proof that I will never be an angel; God did promise never to flood the earth in its entirety every again.

I have been depressed. I have knitted a blanket and am now working on a scarf. Knitting and watching already run TV shows online, that is how I've been spending my days. Laundry stacks up, children run amok and I sit in self-imposed exile and denial -- valiantly solving complex murders while ignoring the reality of my state. It continues, however, to boggle my mind as to why I'm so depressed. Robert has been generous to a fault while I have struggled with my emotions. He has taken all three kids for the last two Saturdays giving me peace for a day. He has come home from work only to enmesh himself in the work of our home. All with no complaint. My children have been children, no better or worse than they normally are.

I went to see my therapist yesterday after not seeing her for six months. As I talked and talked and talked and cried and cried (more talking that actual crying -- yea!) for an hour and a half, I found myself talking at length about the family I was raised in and the dysfunction into which it has fallen. My family has always been my root, my strength, the place where I belonged and the place where I was accepted unconditionally. I find that since the passing of my mother this is no longer true. Each time I try to deal with the grief of losing my mother, I find that there is more grief to conquer: my father's new marriage and how to deal with a step-mother; my younger sister-in-law's bid for power and manipulations to affect that; my little brother's distance; my father's struggle to make his new marriage work; wondering if my little nuclear family will end up like the family I grew up in -- dysfunctional and distant with little communication. Am I raising children and pouring my love into them only to lose them completely in about fifteen to twenty years?

My fears and worries and sadness then make me question my faith: if I had enough of it, would I really be in this state? Why can't I just turn all of this over to God, who is really in control, and trust His hand? I try and I try but for every time I lay my burdens at Jesus' feet, I snatch them back. Do I want to be beyond His reach? Sometimes I feel like I do; I want to wrap my misery and sadness around me like a warm, wet blanket and feel the weight of its oppression. I want to be alone. If I'm alone and not loving anyone, there will be no further grief. If I don't love my children, I won't miss them when they decide they don't like me anymore. If I don't love my husband or family or friends, I won't grieve them when they die, as we all eventually will.

I don't know. I don't know. I feel a mess for all the convoluted thoughts I have. Every time I try to find a path through the fog, I feel diverted to another path and on and on it goes through the maze until I find myself back where I started. So while I know that Chuck didn't fake her death like Olive thinks but that she was brought back to life by the pie-maker; and that Addison and Pete make each other feel all tingly; and that Dan really does go back in time, not that his brother Jack would ever believe him; and that the riddle of who is Gormogan has not been settled yet, I don't know how to let go of my fears and my hurts and my sorrows and griefs. While I know that I miss my mother desperately and long for her advice, I don't know when I will feel her arms again. While I know what I want life to be, I don't know that God would agree.

So I sit and wonder and write and try to make the maze a straight path. I remember my mother and try to let her go even as I struggle to hold on to the memories that are becoming hazier. I try to let go of my expectations and dreams of who my family is and form new relationships, or even non-relationships, with the people they actually are. I try to find peace amid the emotions of my heart and focus on the fact that the greater the sorrow, the greater the eventual joy. And I try to trust God's hand as to the timing of that gift.