To Everything There is a Season–Part 2

Has it been almost a year since I posted?  Holy Smokes!!  I found Seasons Part 2,  but if you need to get caught up a bit, here’s the link for Seasons Part 1:  http://wp.me/prf6k-eQ  Let me know if the link is messed up or I won’t know to fix it.  I promise it won’t be another year before Part 3 gets posted!  Lol!

May 20, 2011

Have you ever had a recurring dream?  It doesn’t even have to be a nightmare—just some mental illusion that visits you night after night starting and/or ending  the same way with perhaps a few details here and there added or omitted.  Has it woke you up or just caused you to question the meaning behind the embedded symbology?  I have had three recurring dreams in my life.  I remember them vividly.  The first came in my childhood.  It would haunt me each night with images of crossing a bridge in a car only to find that the bridge was out.  The car would drive off the end and begin to plummet.  I woke up shaking for nights and months on end.  I remember trying to turn my pillow over, searching for the cool side.  I would sleep on the other side of my full sized mattress.  I would even sleep at the foot of the bed figuring if I changed my position and thought of something happy, the dream would vanish for good. At the time, I knew nothing of dream analysis or what any of it meant, but I do know to this day it has changed me in a couple ways—I now carry one of those thing-a-ma-bobs in every car that would readily cut through a seatbelt while the other end applies enough pressure to the glass and allowing it to shatter should the vehicle become submerged and render the power windows useless.  The thought of not making it to the surface and ultimately drowning is a very real fear of mine.

I know now that if you dream of a bridge it usually symbolizes a solution to a problem  If it is impassable you need to choose a different path because the one you’re on isn’t giving you positive results.  So, I researched falling dreams.  They are among the most common and tend to symbolize a loss of control (there it is again—CONTROL—something I have issues with).  According to one source, if your dream resembles a fall from some dramatic place, you are “anxious about who you are , where you’re going in life, and what it all means”.  As a young girl, I could see that being a plausible explanation.  This source also goes on to state that falling into water means fearing your passions may get the best of you.  What are passions anyway—just really strong emotions, so when I looked up just water—that;s exactly what it meant, but in various forms.  To dream of a river (which is what my dream back then showed), it was a symbol of emotional communication.  And since rivers flow in one direction or another and sometimes change course—it all seemed somewhat understandable.  In a nutshell, I think I may have been increasingly anxious about crossing into puberty—growing up.  The key to the dream was that I never died.  I always woke up.  Maybe my way of telling myself that this too shall pass, that if you able to keep your wits about you—you’ll manage somehow to make it out of this.

The second recurrence was in my early 20’s when I was pregnant with my first daughter.  I dreamt each night that I was going grocery shopping with my newborn. In the dream, I would place one of those cloth protectors in the shopping cart before letting my baby sit in the front position.  Each time I unwrapped my swaddled child, I would discover I had given birth to a frog.  I would wake up horrified.  I knew then that it was just anxiety about me having a baby, a momentous change in a woman’s life and the worry about all those things mothers worry about—would I be a good mom, would I be able to take care of the child, give it everything it needed, and would I love it even if it wasn’t perfect.  Something that has been tested over and over again in the past three years.

This third dream, though, was unlike the others.  It was rich in color and details.  I could smell the blossoms in the dream!  I could feel the grass beneath my bare feet.  I could hear myself giggling and squealing with delight as well as hear the “voice” which spoke to my childhood image.  I dreamt this dream every single night for 6 months following my mastectomy.  At first, I chalked it up to coincidence.  Then, over time, I told myself that since I was falling asleep wondering if I would dream about it again, I surely had it in my subconscious, and therefore, DID dream about it again.  Each night, though, a new clue would appear in the dream (or, maybe they were always there and I was picking and choosing which detail to focus on that particular night). I spent a great deal of time researching all the elements of this dream and trying to connect the dots.

Picture this…

It’s a beautiful spring day.  There was a slight breeze even though there wasn’t a cloud in the bright blue sky.  The sun is shining bright and warm on a little girl with the face of my youth.

I have long, ash colored hair with traces of bleached white highlights framing my face left over from the very light blonde wisps of my toddler days.  It was tousled with a crown of fly-aways—the kind you get from waking up and immediately running outside to play instead of combing your hair first.

I was wearing a pale, lemon-yellow sundress.  It had a gingham checked pattern that was rouched in through the bodice.  My skin was already sunkissed a bit and a faint tan line over the shoulders could be detected if you looked hard enough.

I was running barefooted through the grass in between two endless rows of orchard trees.   If you looked up you would see the petals from the spring blossoms giving way to gravity and drifting through the air as they all began to fall.

My head was turned back over my right shoulder and I was laughing with delight.  Why was I running, though?  Was I running to something?  Away from something?  I couldn’t quite tell, but I could see that  I wasn’t scared.

Something or someone is behind me and was taunting me, “I’m gonna getcha”, it said over and over.  It was a male voice…a deep voice…not the thick Belgian brogue of my father’s dialect, but something familiar and yet foreign.  I can’t explain it.  In the dream, I’m obviously not scared of it.  I am delighted to be playing the game.  Yet, the voice never lets up.

And…that’s it.  Over and over again…night after night.  For six months.  What did it all mean?  It would take another surgery to find out…

To be continued…

May 8, 2012

Now—I need you to bear with me.  I realize it has been close to a year since I last posted. I have been under the most unbearable stress, all of which I will attempt to purge as I am emotionally ready to do so.  I am busy hunting up supportive photographs, former thoughts scribbled on notebook pages, and half finished posts that have sat in que for quite some time.  I would like to give as chronological of an account of what happened even though many might jump back and forth a bit.  My son was commenting on the fact that I hadn’t blogged in a long time.  We used to talk about where all the readers and hits to my blog would come from around the world.  We can see it in some of the monitors I have in place and we would talk about that a lot and get excited about it also.  I was explaining how I felt like I didn’t know where to start up again.  He said, “mom, you know how much I love flashbacks in movies?  Your readers will too.  Just do it.  You’ll feel better”.  So, I am taking his now 8yr old advice.  I hate setting up specific posting dates becuz if you’ve ever followed me, you’ll know something always pulls me away.  I won’t put it out to the universe, but if you want to re-follow, begin following, or make sure you don’t miss posts, be sure to sign up along the side for RSS feeds and let me know if that thing isn’t working—I have put it on there, but don’t know if it works.  There’s always Networked Blogs on here too which will come to your facebook alerts notifying you of a new post.  I have many things to tweak around here since I was last on and so check back for new videos and pics.  I am re-dedicating myself to writing again–here anyway–I never really stop.  Wish me luck and leave me some feedback!

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To Everything There is a Season–PART 1

SEEING RED

Written on 5/8/11

(flashback)

Summer ’09 was the worst summer of my life—to date. The diagnosis of Ductal Carcinoma In Situ and subsequent mastectomy had left me angry at the world and seriously depressed. So much, in fact, that it was all I could do to get through my days with all the children in care and then shut the world out when the last child left each evening. I tried to make the most of moments when they would come my way, but I can say, matter-of-factly, that I was not someone you’d want to socialize with that year. Bitter resentment along with despair were the facial expressions of choice. I didn’t want to hear words of encouragement. I didn’t want to pray. I didn’t want to find the humor in things (although I tried hard to each day and it just came out biting, sarcastic, and crass sounding). I didn’t want to do anything but cry, or scream, or punch something or someone. I had to hold it all in, though. I had to maintain so I could just get through each day and holding it in just made me an even hotter mess. If you were to ask me now if I ever exhaled that summer, I would honestly tell you no.

I know NOW that was the most unhealthy way I could have lived. Hell, I knew it then, too, but chose to ignore the signs–Defeat-est mentality at its finest and those of you who know the Type A that I am probably can’t ever imagine me getting that low. But that Type A began working overtime on my self-destruction. For example,

Why should I worry about my grades anymore– is God really gonna care that I was on the President’s List or made it into the National Honor Society?

Why should I bother turning in any paperwork for any agencies I’m accountable to for my business, like they really give a damn what I’m fighting here anyway.

Why should I bother fighting for my oldest daughter, after all, so many others had given up on her.

Why should I care what I look like, I’m just gonna lose my hair anyway… I’m just gonna look ridiculous wearing makeup…I’m just gonna have to find shirts covered with such loud prints that it will distract anyone from noticing I don’t have a chest anymore…

Why should I bother with anything…I’m just gonna be 6 feet under by the end of the year.

Why should I bother with reconstruction—I’ll finally get the boob job I always wanted just to have the best looking chest standing at attention from my coffin as everyone passes it by during the visitation.

I was feeding the beast inside me by continuing such inner destructive self-talk. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t get out of the quick sand that kept pulling me back into that pit of despair. Each time a friend would throw me a lifeline, I’d only hang on half-heartedly. I was giving up–giving in. It was all too much. I didn’t know how to process all of the stimuli attacking me. It was just easier to retreat into a comfortable cocoon of anger. I was prescribed medication after medication from anti-depressants, to anti-anxiety, to sleeping pills so I could just shut off my brain at night–all of them addictive. At least I had enough sense about me to avoid filling any of those Rx’s. My doctor wasn’t happy about that. I argued that–I drive children to schools and I won’t drive under the influence of something. I won’t take something that would make me feel loopy or jittery. I won’t take something I would only later have to fight to get off of. I knew that it was up to me to pull myself out. I just didn’t have a clue how I would go about doing that.

I know there are some women that handle such extreme stress with grace. I wish I could say I was one of them. There were times—fleeting nanoseconds that would allow me the courage to hold my head up high as I walked into a room, but they vanished as quickly as they appeared. I’ll give you a glimpse back at who I was that summer. It’s written all over my face and my body language screams, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT—HAVEN’T YOU EVER SEEN SOMEONE WITH ONE boob!.” Yes, for me to bring about a change…it would probably take more courage then for me to walk into a hospital and have my chest cut off–and since that had already happened, the fight was only just beginning. Not a physical one, though—a purely mental knock-down, drag out fight that Mr. Miagi wouldn’t be able to help me get out of.

As you can see, I had truly succumbed to the anger. It overrode most of my emotions. It had itself manifested into a type of cancer that was once again invading every area of my life. The problem was that I breathed life into this type and it was by far Stage 10. By summer, it had become a comfortable friend. Letting go of the anger would have been just too easy. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I was ever going to be ready. I held tight to it and slammed the door on anyone trying to get in including my family. There were times when I I would look out that door’s peephole to view the world that was still going on without me. That made me angrier, still!

Then there was the crippling events surrounding my oldest daughter who had gone missing. We were dealing with the loss of a child we weren’t sure was even alive or dead at this point, and I was going through the painstaking process of supplying dental records to the police in case remains were found. The stress of just the cancer would have been enough to anyone but combine it with the stress of losing a child and the infuriating lack of help I received in trying to find her along with the judgmental advice I was getting at all turns was enough to push me into a spiraling depression. “No…I’ll hold onto this anger just a while longer,” I thought.

As if things weren’t bad enough… I was told once again our family would be losing insurance. My husband’s job of 17 yrs. was coming to an explosive brink. The business was trying to function with a severely alcoholic boss. My husband was the only one keeping it afloat. The boss was his childhood and lifelong friend, best man in our wedding, and Godfather to our oldest daughter. If you have ever dealt with alcoholism, you may be able to appreciate the horrific strain it can put on relationships. So, as I dealt with my cancer, Jeff dealt with his friend/boss/job and the fact he knew he was losing all three to a self-destructive personality who had also begun an affair with my former best friend of 17 years and maid of honor in our wedding. It was all too much.

Then, the insurance—this bastard—this corporate structure we had paid money into our whole lives decides to begin cutting our benefits and raising our premiums. It began a vicious cycle where the teasing thought of a couple more months worth of benefits dangled in front of me like carrots–causing complete panic on my part–how will I get the rest of my surgeries?  How will I pay for medicine?  What if this metastasizes and I can’t pay for treatment?  What do I do?  I braced for the worst–complete denial altogether once Jeff had been fired from his job. Denial in mid-treatment. What kind of insurance company does this? Mind you, this was before Obama’s healthcare reform where pre-existing conditions would be grandfathered in (or so I thought at the time).  I realized I better get a game plan…and fast.

With all that, my mental state really started nose diving. I was becoming scatterbrained–unable to focus–very attention deficit disorder–without a doubt. The strain on our marriage, our family, our lives had become nothing short of catastrophic. No amount of counseling could help. There was no way to sort it all out. Prayers were offered up just to get drowned out by the yelling—whether my own or a chorus of frustrated cries by everyone under the same roof. I stopped writing because I could no longer process any stimuli coming in or going out.

In the midst of it all, I began having a recurring dream. It continued every night for 6 months straight. I began to realize it was a sign…and once that sign revealed itself and what it meant to my life…it was the catalyst for all things that followed…

SEASONS PART 2 will be posted on Monday morning 5/23/11. Don’t miss what the dream reveals! You can do that by subscribing to this blog through RSS feeds, the subscribe by email feature, or the Networked Blogs link in the side bar (the easiest way)!  Cya soon!

Started Tracking on 12-1-09

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