A Merry Disruption of Schedule

We traveled to Brother's house - which is no longer the same house Mom and Dad had - for Christmas. Mom woke me early on Sunday, calling upstairs, leaving me to emit a groaning sigh and rearranging my pile of pillows so I could emerge from my nest.

We prayed as we drove south, asking for peace and joy despite the Ones' moods.  Mom is getting better but remains wounded over her lack of contact with the girls.  Their mother is hateful - not in all areas, but with regard to my family - and we have only to accept that, to love despite it (not her - the Ones - we'll work on our feelings toward her as I doubt God endorses the gleeful hate that enters my heart when she crosses my mind).

We arrived safe and sound, my smile easy and genuine as Smallest raced from the house to cuddle her grandma as soon as the driver's door opened.

"I had the cat on my lap!" Little explained her her rush to the car, trailing her younger sister with a giggle.  Brother soon emerged and we formed a present-carrying train into the house, smiling over the giant teddy bears dressed in onesies and the felt Santa bags we've used since the girls were born and bags Mom found on clearance that we literally splitting at the seams.

We opened gifts.  Made crafts.  Cooked lunch.  Watched movies (Loved Finding Dory - though I cried and cried over the paths of shells; Stork was fine.  Secret Life of Pets was not my favorite.). Played games.  It was pretty lovely.

Smallest and I shared Brother's bed with her giant brown bear.  The white bear, Mom and Little slept in his only guest room while he took the couch with his faithful orange cat.  We shopped yesterday - wandering the mall and catching Pokemon (!!) and buying more things we don't need.  Lunch was followed by a re-loading of Mom's car to take the girls home and return north ourselves.

Chienne had opened her presents before we left - she wagged her tail and slowly nudged paper away from new squeakies.  A wonderful neighbor checked in on her while we were away.  Sprout batted at his new catnip banana and hid from said neighbor.  Trust No One.

Today I return to work and the gym.  I'm excited about neither but resolved to do both.  But the alteration of my schedule was very worthwhile this time.

Great!

I returned to work today, bag overflowing with coping tools (both literally and figuratively).

"Great!" I'd reply with a grin when asked how I was.  I accepted the hugs - lingering for a second longer than I normally would out of a place of pure-and-present love and gratitude for the people with whom I work.

"It was good - really good," I answered questions about my treatment.  "I am on a new medication - Zoloft - the seems to be working well.  But I feel more centered and accepting of myself.  Appreciative of myself in this moment.

"One of the lessons that struck me was that depression is for the past - sadness, regret, longing, pain - and anxiety is of the future - uncertainty, fear, stress and dread.  But we are in the present - in this moment - the one right now - and I'm OK.  I'm actually great.  I'm enjoying talking to you.  The way the sun dances sparkles off the snow.  The sounds of voices on the phone uttering impressive words.  The  pattern of the watercolor yarn as I crochet to keep myself present and focused on the teleconference.  The scent of my Twisted Peppermint lotion or the Fresh Laundry perfume I spritzed this morning.  Right now, we're all OK."

I talked about past-present-future a lot, offering that bit of wisdom rather than asking if someone wanted to pray with me.  Crochet.  Sit down, close our eyes and fully experience a Wintergreen LifeSaver.

Instead, I fully engaged in each meeting.  I made brief entries into my To Do Excel sheet (another coping strategy) and felt centered and strong.

"How perfect!" I called out, smiling widely as I strode down the hallway of the hospital - a hallway I'd walked at least twice daily for the past two weeks.  I'd returned today on lunch hour, hoping to speak to one of my fellow patients and finding her directly in my path as I moved toward the Partial Hospitalization Unit, only about halfway through my planned journey.  "I was coming to find you!"

I approached the woman - my friend - and blinked back tears as I thought of what she wrote in my good-bye journal.

You are a powerful woman of God.  And while I know you came here to receive help, I feel you were sent on a mission to help us.  To brighten rooms even before you entered them.  To listen, love and pray.

I cried over her words Friday night. I pondered them more on Saturday - after the gym and during my 90 minute massage.  I let my thoughts drift and invited God to speak.  I often don't hear Him in those times, mind eager to cling to distractions.  But that day, I waited.  And I heard.

So today, I tucked cash between the pages of my favorite devotional.  Wrote inside the cover of how much God loved her - how strongly I felt that - and how much He wanted her to be healthy and what great plans He had for her.

So I set the book gently on the meal tray she carried, patted the cover of the much-loved book I've used for years and met her eyes as we prayed, wept and embraced.  The peace I feel when doing God's work - set out for me - is profound.

And - for today - for right now - I feel worthy of His love and trust.  I feel capable of pouring out love and light.  Of doing work and being engaged with this world.

Oh, and I revised my affirmation a bit.  I am loved and worthy.  Now. Then. When.

Present.  Past.  Future in the positive sense.  I feel as though I'm walking with God - happily, fully myself and feeling great.

Day (Program) of Progress

I had my family meeting today in the partial hospitalization program.  Mom drove.  I had her valet the car.  And we walked side-by-side down the hallways to the elevator that descends to the program. I find this poetic somehow - I dig into my personal depths in that space and then reascend to real life.

Anyway.

Mom and I talk every day about what I think and what I've learned so there was little new there, except an overall review of what Ive done and how I plan to go forward.  And while it's been on my goals list (we make 3 goals per day according to our diagnoses - my categories are (1) depression, (2) anxiety and (3) relapse prevention) to journal, I've been distracted.  Monday I joined match.com.  Yesterday I took a bath, tried a mindfullness meditation and went to sleep.

[Side Note:  I'm having miserable pain in my right calf.  I've tried exercising through it.  I've tried different exercises.  I've tried resting.  I had a 60 minute massage focused exclusively on the backs of my legs.  I stretch.  I bought a massage stick thingie and tried rolling and just pushing the end of it into the muscle.  What the hell should I be doing to make this go away?!]

Where were we?  I had to go back and read what I'd written last week - you know most of the story so we can pick up on progress this week!  Cool.

I mentioned I'd visited a friend - and her baby - and ended up fleeing (hopefully gracefully?) when I got stressed.  I mentioned it at group - more in a 'how do I deal with this stuff at work - when someone unintentionally stresses me - and escape is not the healthy option" but then other stuff came out.

"I guess," I replied when someone asked what we'd been discussing when I got upset, "we were talking about dating.  She said she'd check with her husband to see if he knew anyone awesome enough for me."

"Oh, no," I had immediately replied, curled up on her couch and taking a sip of my water in the room decorated for Christmas and bathed in sunshine.

"OK," she offered, but cocked her head at me with supportive curiosity.  "Are you going to look online?"

"No," I smiled, appreciating the curiosity and action plans of those happily married.  "I'm not ready."

"OK," she repeated, smile slipping a bit.  "But you said you wanted someone."

"Oh, I do," I confirmed.  "But not yet.  I have to lose weight - get in better shape.  Figure out my mental health and make sure I'm fully recovered.  Be more spiritually connected.  Maybe volunteer somewhere."  I trailed off, feeling my face tug into frowning concern when she started to cry.  "What's happening?" I asked after a moment of wondering I missed while I was talking.

"You're wonderful!" She cried and I blinked at her again.  "You're beautiful now.  Smart and kind and so funny.  Now.  You love God today.  You help people all the time.  You don't need to be better to have someone love you!  It makes me so sad that you think that."

I might have rolled my eyes.  I know I thanked her, patting her hand in friendship.  And she dried her tears and we continued out conversation.  Before I reached my limit and left.

"Wow," my case manager said after I finished my story.  "So what do you take from that?"

"I thought it was weird?" I offered hesitantly, feeling uncomfortable and knowing we were uncovering something I liked being hidden.  "That her reaction was too strong when I was stating facts?"

"Are you worthy of love?" She asked and I cursed silently as I blinked back tears.

"Not really," I replied softly.  Honestly.  "I can be - I hope I will be if I try hard enough - but not yet."

"That's not true - can you recognize that as a distorted thinking?" And then the group - a wonderful group of wounded and wise people - confirmed that I was worthy - beautiful and charming and fun.  They had advice - men are never perfect, maybe I'd have to leave my comfort zone to meet someone - but I've since decided on a mantra.

I am worthy and loved.  Now.  Then.  And - romantically, sexually, wonderfully - in God's time.

PHP Perspective

I've never considered suicide or acute self-harm.  I tell you this the same way I would tell you my pupils are larger than normal - I can see pretty well in the dark and bright light often hurts my eyes.  Neither bring me any particular pride or shame - they're just the way I happen to be formed.

Personal safety - or something like it - is marked on my treatment plan (which is in my car and it's cold in the garage or I'd quote it exactly) but it says something about understanding how to not hurt myself in the future.

"I don't," I objected when I watched the intake therapist make rapid slashes across those boxes, looking up at her with my sternest frown.

"Think of your long-term health," she insisted.  "Excessive sleep and lack of activity can cause cardiovascular issues.  Diabetes.  You aren't doing your health any favors."  I shrugged, not really having a valid argument and deciding it wasn't worth the debate.

But I read this Buzzfeed article with a sense of sickness and sadness and rage.  It was my goal to journal through my experience to not only express this for me, but also to provide a data point for anyone struggling with mental health and considering more intensive treatment.  My path took me through a great primary care doctor and then to this partial hospitalization program.  And it's useful so far - I feel like I'm doing the work and making some progress.

I'd encourage people - even (especially?) those younger than my 37 years - to consider this treatment approach.  To know thyself better, gather some strategies to better cope with all the crap involved with being an adult.  To recognize joy and actively search for it.

But.

I have been asked - many, many times by many, many people - if I have thoughts of hurting myself or anyone else.

And I can honestly (and repeatedly) answer that I do not.  And I think - maybe - that could be part of what's kept this experience so empowering and healthy for me.

I listen to many people in the program stumble over the 'suicidal ideation' pronunciation and think 'those aren't your words' and I have a habit of questioning the truth of something when a person makes an odd word choice.  It would feel more authentic to me if a person said "I tried to kill myself" or "I cut my arm when I'm feeling overwhelmed."  But robotically reporting, "I'm here because of suicide... suicidal ideation..." I feel a frown want to replace my default supportive expression.

"Hey," I poked my head in the door of the therapists' office one day, about an hour before the program was due to end, "I'm going to head out - my head hurts and we're going to play a game and it's just not for me."

The therapist laughed, nodded and made a note on a post-it.  "No problem," she confirmed.  "Just sign out on the sheet, OK?  Oh, Katie," she said, and I'd turned to face her again, "are you safe?"

Not really knowing what she meant - did I feel comfortable in the program? Was I going to relapse into bad behavior and nap my brains out when I left? - I simply nodded, smiled and departed.

I don't know what would have happened if I'd said I wasn't - that I felt fragile and had thoughts I couldn't control.  People have told stories about arriving "upstairs" where the inpatient unit is after a family member made a concerned call to police.  Or after saying something threatening at work.

Most of me is so glad they're getting help - that I get to see them joke and laugh in a program they're free to leave at any time.  But that helplessness of being somewhere they didn't like, unable to leave, strikes a scary chord with me.

But I wanted to be clear that I don't approach this experience with that particularly burden.  I don't have advice on how to authentically engage in treatment - to be open and honest - with a possible threat of losing autonomy.  I don't like to think my therapists or nurses or psychiatrists are capable of taking advantage of someone at their most vulnerable.  But I don't know - and I literally ache with regret if someone is searching for answers and faces those fears.

I will say this - there is help.  Even if you're afraid.  Even if you've had a terrible experience in the past.  You are worthy of healing and love, joy and peace. Find someone you trust and - perhaps more importantly - trust yourself.  Those of us who struggle with depression or anxiety or suicidal ideation are capable of enduring miserable challenges and great pain.  So we can totally figure this out.

And if there's anything I can do, please reach out.

Is

Depression, one of the therapists says, exists when one dwells in the past - in sadness that has been.  Anxiety is of the future - when we are uncertain and afraid and unprepared.  So the real power is in the present - in experiencing the given moment, noting its worth and giving it due attention.

My homework is therefore mindfullness.  The click of keys on my newly-purchased keyboard that allows me to post from my friendly iPad rather than using my work computer.  The scent of chlorine that lingers on my skin from when Mom and I went to the pool.

"Push the water, push the water," I murmured quietly as I alternated between swimming (in an utterly graceful display I call "wounded dolphin") and jogging down the swim lane and doing different (yet still very elegant) movements to work out my arms.

"Look at the shade of blue in the water and the pretty reflections of those colorful flags overhead," I told myself, silently this time.  "Is that a hair floating there?  Gross."

"OK - what do I smell?  I like the chlorine.  See how the water feels soft against my skin?  The warm jets emerge into the colder pool?  The resistance when I turn at the end and try to go to the other direction?  That's neat.

"That lady swimming - more a healthy-dolphin style - splashes me when she goes by but the water doesn't hurt my eyes...  Hmmm.  That's all I got."

Mindfullness is hard for me.  I get bored.  Seems like I could play pretend or make a to-do list or agonize over some decision that's impossible to make.  But working out does recenter me - even if it's a painful reminder to really inhabit my body, there's the stretch of muscles, the warming of flesh - rather than looking at it as a foreign vessel that dutifully carries around my brain.

Today I met a baby - a friend gave birth months ago and I was sick and babies kind of freak me out so I procrasinated on saying hello.  When she learned I was out and in PHP, she sent a concerned email and I happily bought a gift and headed to her house to visit today.

I found, with this friend, I was pulled from the moment and my thoughts gripped that like a treasure. I know how to analyze past patterns, attempt to manipulate future meetings.  And so I checked my phone for the time and left feeling a bit shaky.  The personalities and politics at work offer a fascination for me - the challenge and intrigue.  But they shake the calm I'm trying to create - the stability and steadiness that I can remember when I feel myself start to disconnect again.

So I turned on NPR and learned about compassion and empathy.  Grabbed a hamburger and really tasted it as I made the trip through the back roads to my house.  Breathed and relaxed my muscles.  Wondered if my keyboard would come (it did) and if a paint-by-number kit would arrive.

I smiled when I noted that coloring - what many folks use to relax and be mindful - is not for me.  It was gently recommended - after art therapy one afternoon that turned out even worse than I feared - that perhaps a more guided approach would suit me.  So I'll open my other box and trace my fingers of the canvas.  See if I'm up for making some highly-guided art.

In the meantime, I wish us all peace in the present moment.

PHP - Acceptance of Pain

On day 1, I tried to be fully present.  To not expect too much of myself other than to engage, be attentive to the others in the program and to understand this new place and routine.

Day 2 brought some frustration.  "I'm not engaging fully," I admitted in group therapy.  "I know I'm unwell and I want to get better but I feel like I'm not ready to expose my pain.  I'm not even sure I know what it is."

I asked to meet the chaplain on day 3.  For the Holy Spirit inside me knows what breaks through to the Katie-core I so desperately protect.  And it's those who know God - who engage with grace and mercy, faith and light.  I was both eager for and dreading the chaplain's arrival though.  My head ached.  I was tired.  I just wanted to sleep.  So I left an hour early, proud I'd attended at all when I could have let them know I wasn't feeling well and a bit gleeful that I'd escaped without really achieving my goals.

I was given a large envelope this morning and I nodded at the post-it upon it.  The chaplain had visited yesterday after my departure and would return this morning to meet me.  There were four booklets inside the envelope - their glossy pages offering soothing pictures and hopeful text encouraging prayer and perseverance.

He arrived around 10AM on Day 4, removing me from one of our sessions about community support and we sat in a small room I'd not noticed before.

"I prayed on my drive in," I confessed, "and I thought I had a different topic for you.  That it was my impatience - my tendency to be either all-in or completely-out of any given situation.  But..." I pressed my lips together, shook my head and accepted I was going to cry.  I'd known this person - whomever God had sent - would crack my wall of self-preservation but there was still a sharp pang when it happened.

"I think I'm angry.  No, disappointed.  I don't know - something..." I stopped again, pulled a Kleenex from my pocket to dab at tears while I gathered the right words.

"I'm so blessed," I started again and he nodded kindly.  "I have a great job.  More money than I need.  Colleagues who like and respect me.  My mom lives with me and she's amazing.  I have friends I don't deserve - I don't put enough energy into keeping in touch.  And I know God."

"And where is your pain?" he asked when I fell silent again.

"I've always thought - well, I used to think - that I'd find someone to love.  Romantically.  To know and be known intimately and meaningfully.  To share all of myself with someone.  And I've failed every time.  God hasn't given that to me and I'm so sad about it sometimes."

He quoted Genesis and the Psalms.  He advised that God knows my pain already - that it's my task to expose it (to myself and others in therapy), to walk with it, understand it and begin to heal it.  He reminded me that God loves me - knows me intimately and meaningfully - and that when I find my person (I was polite enough not to roll my eyes at "when") - I would meet him as my whole-hearted self.  Someone who knew pain and joy, hope and disappointment.  And who valued being the version of myself that God wanted - spiritually, mentally and physically.

I went to the bathroom and cried alone after we prayed.  I mopped myself up and then shared at group therapy - did some more crying there.  Asked if it were possible that my professional unreliability could be related to my oft-ignored romantic-failures and that the sadness over the latter became overwhelming yet unhonored, causing me to escape into sleep, hiding where no one can find me.

After group, our therapist played The Power of Vulnerability for those interested while we had lunch. I watched and took notes, retreated into knowledge rather than my messy emotions.  I asked about mindfulness and how to do it when I'm so painfully bad at it.  After the program, I went to the gym and worked out with my trainer, trying to focus on my breath as it sped up.  My muscles as they warmed and worked.

It feels significant - the progress today.  And uncomfortable and tenuous.  So I'm trying to sit with it.  Allow it to be.

"Keep a journal," the chaplain advised and I thought of my little place on the internet.  "Focus on the is-ness.  Not what was.  Not what might be or what you want to be.  But what is.  Describe it.  Honor it.  Revise it so it's authentic.  Then share it."

PHP - What to Expect

I had So Many Questions on partial hospitalization programs for mental health issues.  While I did find some useful information online - example schedules, brief descriptions of different programs - I didn't find a resource to address all my questions.

I'm going to guess that programs vary in many ways.  My program is at a local, suburban hospital, so I'm happy to disclose my experience with the knowledge that it's not going to reflect everyone's experience.  But I really wanted to read a blog as I was stressing out about my first day and I couldn't find one!

My Questions (and Answers)
1. What do I wear? The intake specialist told me to be comfortable and wear layers.  She was right - the women tend to wear sweats or thinner sleepy-pants (as I like to call them) or work-out gear.  Men also wear sweats but tend toward jeans a bit more than us ladies.  Ponytails are common.  Make-up is not.

2.  May I keep stuff with me?  Yes!  I packed my bag - my favorite one that I bought myself with a bonus - with all sorts of items.  I carry it with me all day and it sits under my feet during sessions.  Nobody has asked what's in it or if I really need it.

3.  Wait - what's in the bag?  Lip gloss and moisturizer - I don't like my face to get dry.  Tylenol for headaches and Benedryl for allergies - I think those are technically supposed to be with the nurse but nobody's enforced that.  A tennis ball that I use when traveling if my muscles knot up - I'm not sure why I take it to program.  My wallet, keys, make-up wipes, extra Kleenex, my reusable water bottle I use at the gym. A snack.  And my phone.

4. How often are phones permitted?  There's a request/rule that phones are off during sessions and it's generally followed - out of respect for each other more than respect for the rule, I think.  But there are very frequent breaks where I check email, text Mom and Friend, chase Pokemon, etc.

I think my biggest worry was how respectful they'd be - if we'd be allowed to make our own decisions, have our own items around - and it's even better than I'd hoped.

5. Food?  Hospital lunches are my least favorite part.  Both the menus that we complete a day in advance and the actual trays that are delivered make it obvious that we're in an actual hospital.  Receiving actual, serious treatment.

Otherwise, the common room has coffee and tea.  We're welcome to bring our own drinks, though alcohol is not allowed given the addictions of some, obviously.  There are a few snacks - little jello cups, crackers and peanut butter.  I've been bringing a little pack with cashews, dried fruit and little cheese cubes.  I could have it anytime but had it yesterday during break.  Today I skipped it.

6. Are we locked in?  Not at all.  I sign in an out each day at the reception desk in the unit.  I've not left our space personally but people can - and do - walk upstairs to go outside and smoke.  Or take a walk.  I can go buy something from the cafeteria.  Leave early.  And the admission process make it clear I'm welcome to leave the program completely at any time.

The one Big Rule is that you have to show up or call in.  If I'm absent without notice, they'll attempt to reach me and emergency contact.  If neither of us answer, they'll ask the police to do a safety check.  The staff take that very seriously.

7. What kinds of people are there?  We're unwell to varying degrees.  Suicidal thoughts are pretty common in my group, though it's not something I've experienced.  Depression/anxiety diagnoses are the most common, by far, but anger issues, past trauma and co-existing addition disorders are also present and accounted for.

We range in age from college (so early 20s?) to seniors (70s).  About evenly split between men and women.  Different races, economic backgrounds, educational pedigrees.

Despite being ill - or perhaps because of it? - they are intensely open and without judgment.  There are some who are heartbreakingly kind and gentle.  Others who are delightfully funny.  But everyone seems focused on recovery - not just personally but for those in group with us - which is inspiring to me.

I feel very safe - both mentally and physically.

8.  What do you do?  Everyone is given a packet upon admission that holds the schedule and a bunch of worksheets.  Each day is different but the structure is constant.  Our schedule is 8:30-4:30 though I've seen online that many programs are shorter, some offering Intensive Outpatient Programs that are only half-days.

• Arrival - complete menu, daily rating score on various items (depression, anxiety, desire to self-harm or harm others), a form on medication taken and any issues or concerns, goals for the day.
• Goal Group - we go around the table in a smaller group to discuss yesterday's goals, how we did and what our goals are for today.  We all focus on 3 goals per day - 1 per treatment-plan category (mine are reduce depression, manage anxiety and prevent relapse).
• Focused Therapy - again in groups (sometimes different ones), each day is different - triggers and coping strategies, reframing negative thoughts a la cognitive behavioral therapy.
• Group Therapy - this is unstructured and, again, therapist-lead.  Yesterday, a few people spoke for longer times.  Today we went around the circle and all spoke a little.  The group offers feedback and encouragement and the therapist will suggest new goals or encourage us to focus on how to recover.
• Lunch
• Expressive Therapy - in the afternoon, the work is easier (which works great for my morning-person-ness).  There's an art project (yesterday we made stones with pictures pasted to them to remind us of our safe place) or music therapy or another activity or game.  It's a different group of therapists and while I was wondering if I could just skip the afternoons and head to work instead, I'm finding it useful.  Something about the distraction or the slight shift in focus enables a different perspective which can be useful.  
• Closing

Individual work is on an as-needed basis.  There are staff psychiatrists available to address medication questions or issues.  The therapists are also available for individual discussions during breaks for in the afternoons.  A chaplain visited today and offered to pray or talk with us whenever we'd like.  And that's where tomorrow's story begins.

PHP - The Referral

I've been referred to a partial hospitalization program, a less friendly name than 'day program' as it was initially presented to me.

"Oh," I replied when my doctor suggested it.  It's what I say when I'm dismayed over something but don't have an immediate argument.

"Katie," she explained gently, "we've tried four medicines.  None have helped.  Two have made you worse.  You're still missing work somewhat regularly.  I don't want you to keep suffering when there is a potential solution.  I just called and I can get you in this week."

"Oh," I said again, trying to gather my thoughts frantically as I pictured pieces of them scattered around me in shards.  I was prepared to complain - I'm trying so hard!  Going to the gym of all places! I've been tracking food and water intake!  Attempting mightily to engage at work and keep promises.
"I don't want to be this sick," I finally said, blinking at tears.  "I want to say that I can figure this out - I'll try harder or do more or be better - but I don't know how to do it.  I'm out of ideas.  And I don't want to be like this forever."

She nodded, blinking a bit faster against tears herself.  "I failed you," she admitted softly and I immediately shook my head.  "Not because I wanted to," she clarified, "but because I don't know what else to prescribe.  I can't get you into therapy any sooner and your appointments are a month away.  You can do this now and other patients have responded very well.  If I were you, I'd do it without question."

"OK," I replied, nodding continuously in an attempt to convince myself.  "Yes.  I'll go."  So with a referral submitted and a request to call in hand, I left the office I'd visited twice-thrice monthly since May or June.

I wept when I told Mom, feeling desperately ashamed.  She held my hand as I waited on hold with the mental health intake line and made encouraging expressions when I offered to come on Wednesday, two days later (as this happened Monday last week).

In the meantime, I went to work.  I cleaned up projects and made plans to be out for the two week duration of this program.  I told select colleagues and received unanimous and enthusiastic support.

The intake meeting was straightforward - she asked questions, I answered and - because I do like to talk - elaborated.  And after 40 minutes, she reviewed my worksheets and her notes and smiled.

"This program will be great for you," she said.  "I'm completely confident.  When can you start?"

"Monday?" I offered hesitantly.  "I have meetings scheduled, want to wrap up a few things...  I don't know."

"Monday," she confirmed.  "It's going to be fine.  You're going to get better."

Never say Never

I joined a gym.

Even over the months that I typed nothing here, I often composed posts in my head, pondering how I'd start that opening paragraph - capture attention, initiate a story.  I can think of nothing more shocking than the statement above though.  I've been in exactly one gym - as a reluctant visitor when I weighed perhaps 80 lbs less than I do now, upwards of 15 years ago.

"Why," I remember asking Carrie, a friend from grad school, "would people pay to come here?"  The rows of machines, brightly-lit free weights, people pulling and pushing and bouncing around.  I shook my head - even if I liked working out (I don't), there are options at home!  Videos, games on X-Box, walks through nature!

So it was with no small amount of trepidation (read intense anxiety) that I drove to the building with the neon-orange sign, walked to the door, opened it then another door and hovered just inside the lobby that smelled strongly of rubber.  Like brand-new shoes or those mats that sort of give under your feet when you step on them?

I stuttered when the manager, wearing a bright orange bandanna around hair that emerged vertically from the top of his head, asked if he could help me.  I finally managed to explain that I wanted to look around, consider joining?  Or I could just escape - scamper back to my car, I thought when he called for a young man from the pack of them huddled around desks stacked with those giant tubs of protein powder.

"I don't belong here," I told Cam, staring at his elaborate hair style briefly before shaking my head and wondering if I were old enough to be his mother.  (Answer: probably.)  "But I'm not doing well - I'm sick all the time and I'm getting older.  And maybe if I take better care of myself, I'll feel better."

He nodded encouragingly, showing off the features of the building over the the thumping pop music that urged people to move.  I only relaxed for the moments we were in the pool area - the chlorine scent soothing me as did the quiet splashes and slow movements of the elderly folks drifting through the water.

"OK," I agreed when he asked me to join, returning his happy grin almost involuntarily and handing over my credit card.  It's like money, I told myself as I watched him painstakingly enter my information - once I was in the habit of saving, the dollars just accumulated.  And now I have more than enough, even when I splurge on things.

"You'll hit a positive spiral here," the guy I saw the next day promised, echoing my thoughts.  I laughed when he wrote down "help" over the spot where I was supposed to list my strength and cardio routines.

"I can't even think of a plausible lie," I told him.  "I have no idea what a routine would even be."

Then - after 3 days of going to this gym that stresses me out and sitting at a desk talking about my goals (My goal, by the way?  To show up there and try to exercise without hating every second.  That's it - that's my goal.), I finally met my trainer, hired to coach me twice a week for the next two months.

His name's Pete.  He wears a little topknot.  He's unphased by my distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"Slower through the resistance," he coached after teaching me how to adjust the leg machine.  I winced when my knees crackled.  "No, pull from your back," he corrected, touching the right muscles while I frowned and tried to get them to pull accordingly.  "Ass out," he noted when I was doing squats (Good gracious but I hate squats).  "Knees can't go over your toes."

I see him again tomorrow.  This trainer I hired.  At the gym I joined.

Because I'm taking afternoons off on FMLA to try to get better.  And while I wait for a new medicine to work, taking care of this body that carries around my mind and soul seems like a reasonable plan.

"Track your food," Pete requested after having me download an app on my phone.

"I'm never going to do that," I told him.  "My plan was cardio.  I'll do strength training since you feel so strongly about it.  But food?  That's mine still."

"Just track it," he said.  "Some of it - baby steps."

Never, I thought - or at least not soon.

I've tracked every single morsel since I left the gym last Thursday.  And when I wondered who in the world I am, I remind myself that I'm trying to get better and wonder if I might be wrong when I think this will never work.

Disability? Personal problem?

My dad, when confronted with a complaint he considered invalid, would often turn his pale blue eyes on me and remark, "Sounds like a personal problem."  Then he'd grin within his snow-white beard while I'd roll my eyes.  I blink back tears now because he's been gone upwards of four years and some of his phrases have fallen from my vocabulary - I used to use "sounds like a personal problem" a lot but just as the sharpness of grief dulls, so do the... strength? frequency? of those little links that connect you to those you love and see most.

It is not the worst of times of late.  It's not good, per se, but it's not the worst.

"Katie," my current boss said, eyes kind but mouth screwed into an impatient grimace, "I need you to get better.  Fix this."  And I nodded because I agree.  I'm great - brilliant, even! - for a sequence of days.  I fix problems, progress projects, coach team members and giggle with the team.

Then the fog I call "depression" settles over everything and I feel sick and disconnected.  I don't much care, but when my feelings spark to existence, they're bad - dark dread, crackling anxiety, hunched-over-please-don't-notice-me guilt.

One day, I was settled in a private office in southern India, half a world away.  Staying at a five-star hotel after a business class flight, I was staggered by the contrast of feeling like such a special, pampered snowflake versus gazing wide-eyed behind prescription sunglasses through the windows of my chauffeured car at the masses of people in the narrow, dirty streets with the endless honking of horns.

Despite the guilt of privilege, I was productive.  I had tough meetings, made big decisions, guided discussions with knowledge, humor and grace.  One evening, flushed with success, I FaceTimed Mom, as was my daily routine, and found her weeping.  Chienne's lipomas had grown heavy and grotesque and we'd waited too long to have them removed, fearing the surgery would not return my old, blind girl.  I'd made the appointment before leaving but procrastination punished Mom rather than me.  The chest tumor had broken, leaving the house liberally splashed with blood and Mom inconsolable.

So I sat in my beautiful room overlooking the gracious pool in the foreground and slums farther afield and made frantic phone calls, begging for help from home - an earlier surgery date, please.  "My mom," I explained, "she can't do this.  We lost my dad - Jim - and were helpless to save him.  This feels the same - we need help."  But three clinics apologetically declined and I was reminded that power and self-sufficiency are elusive.  I could get anything I wanted there in Bengaluru - food or drink, fabrics or jewels, massages, laundry service, towels folded into whimsical animals.

But I have little control over matters of importance.  I bowed my head and prayed, reciting the Lord's Prayer, my favorite arrangement of words, and waiting in silence for guidance and peace.

I returned home to a post-surgery puppy-dog who'd done well.  Mom clung to my hand after I tossed luggage in the back and rode home from the airport.  Brother was here too, smoothing his hand over Chienne's greying-brindle head and softly speaking in soothing tones.

But as my canine companion recovered, I did not.  Her wounds, carefully tended, oozed and scabbed grotesquely but slowly closed.

Mine did not.  I was missing more work.  Listless even when present.  My favorite phrase - "I don't care" - came from illness, the fog that surrounded me rather than the Katie-ness that exists within me.
"I need to fix this," I told the nurse who shares my employer on the phone, headphones in my ears while I parked by the river and waited for Pokemon to happen by, desperate for the distraction.  "I want time off, I think - half days?  To join a gym.  Actually go to the therapist my doctor has recommended.  Try to learn to live within this disease and understand how to thin the fog if I can't clear it."

"You have a couple of choices," she explained, not unkindly.  "It's either disability - where you'd be off full-time, likely inpatient care or daily therapy appointments.  Or you could take personal time off - get your life together, organize your closet, stuff like that."

My eyebrows raised, the fog gleefully separating enough to let irritation arrow in.  "Organize my closet?" I clarified, not waiting for a response before continuing.  "It's between those.  I'm not completely incapable nor I am completely capable.  At least not on most days."

But she didn't understand - I suppose it's difficult unless you've dwelled within the fog of mental illness to truly appreciate the effects.  So I thanked her for her time and looked forward to my doctor appointment the next day, preparing to beg for help again.

2H, 2015: Executive Summary

July
The Ones came to visit - Little went to a STEM camp and Smallest stayed at my house.  I went all out with the spoiling - candy, ice cream, endless quarters for those claw machines, cartoons - but made one fatal error.

"Are ghosts real?" she asked as we watched a horror movie preview during American Ninja Warrior.  And because I thought we were friends who could be honest, I answered her thoughtfully.

"I don't know," I replied.  "I've never seen or experienced one but there are people who believe they have and I don't know enough to claim they're incorrect."  Pleased with myself, I was astounded when she burst into tears, fleeing from the house as if the gates of Hell were inside.

Frustrated after 30 minutes of trying to reason with a 7 year old at the end of my driveway at dusk, I called my mom.  Then Smallest's mom.  Then I picked her up and carried her inside to go to bed, disgusted with both of us.

A mother, I am not. And while I mourned that bitterly once, I'm pretty cool with it now. 

As a proud aunt though, I do OK.  Little gave the best closing speech at her group's presentation and I beamed while taking video on my phone. 

Mom and I also took them to Great Wolf Lodge and King's Island.  It was difficult.  And exhausting.

August
I started reading infertility blogs before moving to academic ones and starting my own.  So as I watched a colleague struggle, I became increasingly certain she was going through something reproductive-y.  So I gently nudged until she talked to me about it, holding her hand and grabbing Kleenex and trying to remember all I'd read about being supportive and not judgmental at all.

Utterly convinced I was put in her path for a reason, I returned home one day after having lunch with her.

"I'm going to Colorado," I told Mom.  So I shared some of the story - how she'd lost twins recently, how devastated and guilty she felt, overwhelmed at work and unable to have her husband make the trip.  "So I'm going to book a ticket and a room and just show up.  Then if she needs someone, I'm there.  If not, I'll hang out and do work from out west for a week."

My colleague - and friend - was thrilled and we spent an intense, yet somehow wonderful, week just focused on doing things that made us happy - always getting dessert, driving in the mountains, wandering the botanical gardens and marveling at the flowers.  Spending time in prayer and exchanging little gifts to add light and love to the world that seemed too dark to bear at times.

"You saved me," she said when we met just before Christmas.  I demurred, of course, because she saved herself, but I reminder her that Friend saved me during my post-doc.  Being present and reminding me to be kind to myself, to seek help when I needed it, that there were amazing, wonderful, loving, supportive people out there and that maybe I could grow into someone who could be someone's angel for a little while someday.

So I was.  And it was the best thing I did in 2015 - feeling God's close proximity, spending time in peaceful prayer and graceful support.

"My dad died 3 years ago today," I told her while we were having dinner one night, having forgotten until Mom reminded me when we talked on the phone.  And it was her turn to clutch my hand and fetch tissues.

September

I kept asking - reading books, doing exercises in career building, networking, making spreadsheets, sitting with small groups, excelling at my everyday tasks and taking on additional projects for the organization.  Yet I was at a dead end and increasingly frustrated that my attempts to forge a path forward were failing.

So - when I wasn't beating All The People at Soda Crush (!) - I started interviewing back where I started my career in Industry.  And while I didn't get the first job I wanted, I did get the second one that I wanted even more!

It's my dream job, honestly - I have a team (my very own team!) and we do super-cool stuff and talk about interesting projects that can really make a difference and it will be wonderful!

Almost immediately after being hired, I returned to Europe for a visit.  And while in past trips to Europe, I'd fantasized about bringing along a suitably sexy man, I took Mom!  Which was odd and delightful - we really had a wonderful time. 

October

"Would you like to play?" I asked over and over, smiling down at children dressed as angels and witches, superheroes and scary spiders.  "Pick a sucker - any one you want!"  Then I'd hold the homemade cardboard stand steady while they carefully selected a flavor.

Mom has really made a home with me - she has a walking group, takes water Zumba, knits with the ladies at church, goes and sees shows and talks with her new friends.  I'm so proud of her - this wasn't what either of us wanted - we'd much rather have her with Dad back in the house where Brother now lives - but we're happy together. 

"They wanted 40 volunteers and they only have 8," she told me one morning.  And I sighed - working at a kids' Halloween party didn't really interest me, but by the time we wandered through the field to find our car afterward, my cheeks ached from smiling.

The challenge with the new job is that it keeps me away from Mom a lot more - I'm at the office more, doing more at home, just ramping up and being more mentally engaged.  So when she asks me to do something, I suck it up and offer candy to strangers.  

November
For as well as we did in August with the anniversary of Dad going to Heaven, my parents' anniversary and Daddy's birthday hit us hard.  We were sad.

We cried after having someone come to the house to fix the front door and look at the vent fan in the master bathroom - Dad would have fixed both of those for us.

The snow thrower that Dad bought me, brought to me and taught me how to use didn't start after its summer rest.  And I wanted to curl up and cuddle it - it's precious to me, even if it doesn't really fit in the garage anymore with both Mom and my cars.

So we went north - drove around, relaxed by the fire and hung out.  I took calls at 11PM and 4AM, creeping downstairs and starting the fire before muting the phone before I yawned.  Work is intense but rewarding. 

"I want to go home," Mom said a day before we were due to leave.  "Dad would leave early so we're leaving now."  So we threw stuff in bags, got in the car, dismissed my sweetheart of a dog-sitter and headed home. 

December
I'm settling in at work - wrote my performance review and am pleased with my progress and path forward.  It's a good feeling.

I write this from a hotel room in Florida - we spent Christmas with the Ones at the family home where Brother now lives.  Then we drove south - which Mom loves and I strongly dislike - and while we stopped each night, I managed to worsen my back spasms until I needed Many Pills here in Tarpon Springs (we bought sponges - they're awesome).  So I'm a bit drugged and was missing all of you so I thought I'd pop in and wish you a very Happy New Year!

I do have an Instagram account - it's my real name since Little One pressured me to get one so I could like her photos - but I do use that more frequently if anyone's interested.  I hope you're all very well and enjoy a wonderful 2016.

Wet

"Hello, princess!" I greeted Smallest One, resplendent in a white sundress as she ran gracefully toward me at the door of the church.  I scooped her up, pushing her blonde locks behind her shoulder and smiling down at Little One, smoothing hair that was darkening to match my deep brunette.

"What'd you bring me?" Smallest asked and I reached for the jewelry boxes I'd had for years, smoothing the dust from the velvety top with my thumb before flipping both of them open.

"I bought these," I showed her the cross necklaces - one simple, one containing a sparkling ruby, "years ago but I saved them for your baptism.  I carried your sister at hers - she was just a baby - but you get to wear yours today!"

She selected the one with the ruby, turning and holding her hair off her neck so I could fasten the clasp and admire the sparkle once she flounced around again.

She's just finished 2nd grade, Smallest One has, and Little will go into 5th grade in the Fall.  Their mother remarried and I rather like their stepdad.  He coaches softball.  Helps with homework.  Cooks dinner.  And takes them to church where he plays in the band.

He - Stepdad - was baptized first, wading into the pool on stage while the lights went deep blue and the electric guitars quieted.  The pastor prayed over him before motioning for him to cross his arms under his chest and lean back into the water.  I smiled when Stepdad plugged his nose, emerging to slick the water from face.

He hovered while Smallest carefully went down the steps into the pool.  She looked angelic as she grinned at Stepdad then her pastor.

And I wept as we prayed over her.  I was just so proud - feeling that rush of 'I remember when you were born!' that hits me at dance recitals or school plays.  But this - the cementing of a relationship with Christ - an immersion in a faith I pray will sustain and strengthen her - was profound.

"She will serve God valiantly," the pastor said and I nodded, gulping back a sob and dabbing at my eyes with wet fingertips.  For she is valiant - a powerful force who shares snacks with those who have none, plays with the friendless, gives freely of what she has with the simple trust that she'll find more.

We had lunch about a week later and I grinned back at her after handing over a $50 bill.

"Katie," Mom scolded, "she doesn't need that."

"Yes, I do!" Smallest insisted.  "That's why I made her feel sorry for me - so she'd give me money!"  For she is as manipulative as she is darling and I shake my head at how very often she gets her way.

But, watching her on that stage, plugging her nose, closing her eyes and reclining into the water, I said my own prayers and curled my hand on the empty chair beside me, praying that Dad got to see and rejoice with us, and cried a bit more.

For while I may feel stagnant at times, the Ones rarely are.  So I brace myself for exhaustion as they visit again today.

Friendly Visit

I smiled and kicked my legs with delight, eliciting a widening of Friend's eyes as she stood above and behind the couch on which I reclined.

"I saved all the bears from the honey!" I declared victoriously, causing said eyes to roll.  "Now what were you telling me?"

Friend is - as she ever was - intensely intelligent, thoughtful, sharp and more wonderful adjectives.  I've learned about cells and students, rocks and NIH, theoretical scientist tracks and sexism.  She educates, Friend does, and it delights me to watch, even when directed at yours truly.

"It's silly," she said, driving me from the airport which delivered me to the land of drawling accents, sweet tea and cars abandoned on the sides of highways.  "But I feel like I'd either veer too far into talking about students or that I should join the conversation for reals."

I opened my mouth to respond to her thoughts on blogging - for mine independently are more shallow (I use an iPad to play games rather than a laptop to generate content for fun - when I have my laptop, I'm working - defining strategy, convincing people to agree with me, sending email, progressing projects) but paused.

"For realz?"  I repeated?  "Like with a z?"

"I work," she responded haughtily, "with 20 year olds.  And it's with an s."

So I giggled at us - for as rarely as we talk (I'm terrible at maintaining long-distance relationships - it's a serious character flaw) - it's as easy as ever to slip back into familiar patterns even in circumstances that are dramatically different (as they remain refreshingly and eerily similar).  The more things change, the more they stay the same and all that.

"I read a book on the plane," I told her, "that talked about online presence as people look for jobs or establish the groundwork for promotion."

"I should update my LinkedIn profile," she mused.

"Yes!" I confirmed, remembering my highlighted sections on the iPad.  "Add a photo, update at least monthly, fill in all the sections with stories that differentiate you, but not too much.  But it also talked about having a YouTube channel (I watch PewDiePie, BTW.), having a professional blog..."  I trailed off, unable to remember the other items without checking and I was still too hot to put my bag (clearance!  I love that bag even though I keep losing stuff in its many pockets) on my lap to retrieve my device.

But I read career paths (in order to gain more power and money as well as fulfilling my mission in life, as fuzzy as that may seem sometimes) while she reads pedagogy (determining how to best shape young(er) minds).  And I ponder that while I am a good person - I love God, I try to do good and be kind - Friend is ever-so-much better.

"You are," I told her over cheese biscuits and honey butter (God bless the South), "inherently kind.  Non-judgmental.  Not to everyone - not to stupid people - but to those who approach with real pain and problems.  You are good."

Then I blinked back a tear or two because she is and I love her and that's profound.

"She saved you," Mom reminded me when I sighed over having to get on a plane (which I hate less than before but still don't enjoy - the "look at me going places!" excitement is eclipsed by the "don't like prolonged contact with strangers stealing my half of the armrest" and "I have landed - don't leave me on the tarmac while I want off this plane.")

"I know.  I remember," I said, giving kisses and "love yous" before departing.  Brother has been struggling with his mental health of late and I adopt the gentle tone Friend used with me when speaking to him at his most fragile.  "It's fine to just sleep.  This will get better.  Don't be afraid of the medicine.  Let's say the Lord's prayer.  If you can get outside and take a walk, that may help.  Just breathe.  Try to eat something.  Be patient and kind with yourself.  We love you."

And now I miss you, my bloggy friends who may still keep me in in reader lists.  So Rudoguil may have to wait for my help with finding the spectral blade for the new king frozen in rock while I try to write a bit again.  We shall see.

But - for now - Friend and I are well, trying to make our small corners of the world better.  I very much hope you're the same.

Mapping, part 2

 On a Saturday evening, after mowing my lawn and showering, I began to draft my journey map.  In Excel.  Because I'm super-cool like that. 

I'd be percolating on this since Wednesday, not thinking about it very hard, but letting myself absorb that I wanted to devote it some attention. 

Is it bad to confess I was a bit afraid of this?  I have a friend who did an intensive yoga retreat in Vietnam last year.  Even listening to her talk about it Freaked Me Out.  I don't want to explore the depths of my soul.  Or reach the boundaries of my consciousness.  That's releasing control over your boundaries and I like my boundaries. 

I still have recurring dreams of being driven somewhere - often in a school bus - and very suddenly going over an edge and down a deep incline.  Though the bus remains on the road, I am unanchored and lift up, plucked from my seat by forces beyond me.  I typically wake, frantically looking around and ahead, seeking something to which I can cling or hoping the road levels so I can find a seat to support me again.

Point is why would I want to delve deeper into a brain so scary?  I'm good with superficial knowledge, thanks.   

Anyway.  Back to mapping!

I had three columns - (1) Month, Year (2) Feelings on an arbitrary scale from -10 to 10, (3) Notes.   I added the colors later - ignore those if you're following along on your own journey map.  (In Excel.  Because you're super-cool like that too!)

I quickly found that I could best assess my past if I looked at May as that's when the academic year typically ended for me.  I added extra time points as they struck me as important but I set my minimum sampling at May.    I finished with May, 2014, so I have a current state.  There's no particular reason I started in 7th grade - it felt like my first "professional" accomplishment and gave me upwards of 20 years to consider patterns. 

I may have scrunched up my face in thought to get a Feelings Number but I tried not to think about it too much.  I made it a 'your first answer is probably the right answer' exercise so I worked pretty quickly, going back and inserting rows if I realized I'd forgotten something I wanted to capture or adjusting values if I found my scale was a bit off. 

Also recall that I did this at night.  I'm sharp in the mornings - my brain is nimble and fast.  Like a ninja.  Or an otter.  An otter ninja!  At night, my brain more resembles a befuddled yet emotional elephant  - the edges of thoughts blur, I'm much more likely to get upset - angry, sad, anxious - depends on the day.  So I tapped into the emotions that tend to linger closer to the surface at night for me. 

I was oddly disappointed when I inserted myself a line graph and did not find my squiggly line profoundly informative.  I poked the screen of my laptop with my finger, befuddled-elephant-brain wanting it to tell me something.  Upon admitting it was going to remain a squiggle and smiling over how I could see some Ms - "M is my middle initial!" I giggled - I closed the laptop and went to bed.

When I realized the ends of those Ms looked remarkably like my dreams.  Sharp, surprising declines that leave me floating frighteningly above the ground, grasping for help that won't come fast enough.

Closing the laptop quickly, I calmed myself and climbed the stairs to snuggle in bed and sleep.  I'd think about the rest later.  

Mom Flies Solo

My parents spent February, 2012, just south of Tampa Bay.  Dad didn't feel well during that trip, though they did have a nice time.  Returning home the first of March, Mom made an appointment for him to see our family doctor and he was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer on March 16. 

Aunt and Uncle have taken this February Florida trip for years now and while they let Mom stay with me in 2013, they nudged her to join them this year.  She agonized over the decision - she and Aunt talked, she and I talked, she and Uncle talked.  Repeatedly. 

It was at last decided that she didn't want to stay the whole month.  She would instead fly to join them for the middle two weeks.

I blinked at her when she told me, but quickly recovered to smile encouragingly.  "Great!" I said.  "I'll fly down with you and then fly back the same day.  And we'll do that again when you return."

"No," she replied firmly, though her chin quivered nervously.  "I can do this." 

So I watched her make reservations.  Helped her pack, walked her through what would happen at check-in and security and while boarding.  Told her to ask for help if she grew confused - she's such a sweet lady.  People would help her.

I checked her in the day before, frowning thoughtfully at her ticket.  It had merged her middle initial with her first name - making her a Judithe.  But there were three letters - lower case i - at the end of our last name.  I snorted, almost choking myself when I figured it out.

"You must have accidentally filled in the suffix when you made reservations," I told her, chuckling at her outraged denial.  "You made yourself Judithe, the third."  After assuring her it wouldn't matter and showing her the websites that reassured her, we giggled about it.  I took to calling her "i-i-i."

We drove to the airport in the predawn hours on a Sunday.  I kept expecting her to refuse to go so I could whisk her safely home. 

She did not.  We checked in, printing her boarding passes and asking the nice airline representative about the "iii."  She told us it was fine, smiling warmly at my mother and promising she would be fine.  I walked with her to security, leading her to the entrance of the empty maze of ropes before a TSA guy waved her over to the first class line instead. 

"I'm proud of you," I whispered, hugging tightly and pressing a kiss to her cheek.  She nodded, chin trembling, and took her bags from me and moved toward the ID-checker.  She turned to wave before moving to unpack her luggage as we'd practiced and I waved back, standing on tip-toes so I could continue to watch. 

She motioned to her knees - they've been replaced - and leaned closer to listen as they explained the stance you take in the scanner.  And then I smiled as she gathered her bags and walked toward her gate, dutifully checking the monitor as we'd discussed. 

She texted me from Atlanta, saying she'd made friends on the plane and they helped her find the train to her connecting flight, despite ATL being their final destination.  Then she made another friend who watched her bags while she went to the restroom.

She enjoyed the weeks at the beach - wandering the shore, exploring shops and restaurants and spending time with Aunt, Uncle and other couples.  And she missed my Dad.  But she did OK.

I went to fetch her late one Thursday, rushing to meet her as she emerged from the concourse, looking exhausted but happy. 

"Hi!" I greeted her, practically bouncing.  "I missed you!  You did it!  How was it?!" 

"It was hard," she told me, smoothing my hair as I took her luggage and widened my eyes and how heavy it was.  "Presents," she noted, nodding at the smaller - and heavier - of the bags.  "But I did it," she said and I nodded, immeasurably proud of her.  "Let's go home."

Mapping, part 1

"Where do you see yourself next?" he asked and I cocked my head at him. 

We'd been discussing organizational changes.  Growing pains.  What was working and what wasn't.  I find I'm fond of him - this new manager with a team parallel to my own.  So when he asked if I had a moment after we completed a meeting early, I strode - in my nude kitten heels - toward his office.  We sat around his desk and talked - I tried to answer his questions fairly but offered enough criticism to be helpful.

"For my next role?" I clarified and pressed my lips together when he nodded.  "I don't know."

"You must know," he replied, smiling, for I am a thoughtful person to the point of being neurotic.

"Not really," I stated slowly.  "I want to be a better person. That's what I know."

"What does that mean?" he asked, leaning toward me behind the closed door in his office.

"I don't know, exactly," I sighed.   "I had a plan once.  And then my parents got cancer and..."

"You told me," he offered when I trailed off and I nodded, not recalling that conversation.  I tried to remember, wondering how often I repeat it.  My parents diagnosed.  My dad died.  I miss him so much and remain so sad that it all happened. 

Life doesn't always work out, I wanted to confide.  You don't know what will happen and you plan and train and fight and win and then when the biggest battle is before you?  You're as helpless as if you'd done nothing at all.  All the knowledge and contacts and strings to pull?  It matters not.  God's will be done.

"The business won't tell you what you want," he finally said as he watched me struggle, sympathy lingering in his dark eyes.  "You have to decide where you find purpose and joy and then drive toward that.  You have talent, Katie.  I see you being capable of so much.  But you need direction and must find that for yourself."

"I don't know how," I admitted softly.  "I mean, I've thought about it.  I really have.  I want to do good work - find something important and do really well at it.  I want to work with people who are happy and fulfilled.  I want to be good at what I'm doing now."

"You are," he stated quickly.  "Let's move to what's next."  At my raised eyebrow, he rose from his chair and began to draw on the board.  The green marker moved, creating axes with little pluses and minuses and a wiggly line moving in the space they defined. 

"Draw a journey map," he assigned.  "Take the last 10 years - 20, 30, whatever - and remember what made you happy, hopeful, strong and what was sad, difficult, upsetting.  Your parents - that's the low point.  You're climbing back from there and that's hard.  So think back to when you felt good and figure out how to get there again."

"OK," I said, staring at the green squiggle for a moment before deciding I would try.  Go back through blog posts.  Think.  I would use Excel to assign numerical scores to my mood and what happened in my life. 

"Two weeks," he said before rushing off to a meeting.  "We review your map and define next steps."

I nodded before gathering my bag and glancing at the board one more time.  I seem to have inadvertently found a mentor, I decided, somewhat bemused.  Maybe things do happen when they're supposed to happen.

God's will be done. 

The More Things Change...

I felt my lips curve from involuntary amusement when I realized my last three purchases had been bags.  I can recall arranging my purses and totes, carryalls and laptop bags to demonstrate the breadth of options I required once upon a time. 

I've donated many of those.  Decided to simplify.  Feel proud that I consistently carry the same navy bag, ensuring its designer label faces outward proudly.  I purchased it with a work award, beaming at it upon arrival for I now have a nice bag. 

Then, awaiting a trip to Europe, I delved into credit card points and bought a new backpack.  My old one is literally falling apart.  I accidentally became infatuated with a Coach wristlet while browsing so I decided to have that as my very own too. 

So despite despairing that I have lost some essential element of myself, I remain constantly Katie.  I buy too many bags.  I have an inordinate fondness for cut flowers.  I try to be kind but am too impatient and irritable to consistently succeed.  I love God.  But too often absently - without the dedication and devotion that relationship deserves. 

"Do you miss it?" Two friends - old ones with whom I've not spoken much since taking my new job almost 2 years ago - asked gently when we connected for lunch.  In response to my inquiring expression and cocked head, they elaborated.  "The travel.  The stress.  The potential for promotion." 

"Ah," I replied, considering it.  "Sometimes?  Not often.  Work stuff aligned the way it should have.  I love being here for my mom.  I needed the steadiness.  The knowledge that I could do a good job but not kill myself.  But I do miss the travel - I'm craving Europe like you wouldn't believe."

But just when I was feeling increasingly unsettled - am I not important enough to travel?  Why am I not recognized for the work I do for projects that are increasingly high-profile?  Is this organization career-limiting?  And, if so, given my salary and stress level, do I care? - circumstances shifted. 

I was granted permission to go to Europe at the end of May, an event that sends me researching hotels on my iPad twice daily.  I'm visiting two new places (to me - centuries old unto themselves) and one familiar locale.  I was appointed to a different project and somehow gained the visibility I seem to seek.  And I was appointed to a committee that aims to address some shortcomings in my group - a difficult task to be sure, but one I feel is important and urgent.  I recognize such talent and passion and creativity in my peers (and managers) that I feel is being misunderstood and unused. 

It pleases me that when I have little energy for much of anything, I remain - or perhaps have become - an outspoken advocate for morale. 

I listened - over a different lunch - to a brand new colleague talk about her long-term plans.  I smiled and nodded over promotions and leadership roles she had in mind.  Offered advice when asked.  Made encouraging comments when appropriate. 

"What about you?" she asked when we were nearly out of soda.

"Long-term?" I asked and shrugged when she nodded. 

"I want to be a better person," I told her.  "I'm not sure what that means exactly but that's the goal."

Year in Review

There is an odd disconnect.  

I attended a conference recently (ish) and found myself embracing colleagues I'd not seen in over a year.  

"Hello," I'd say, sometimes still holding tight.  

"I'm fine," I'd answer when asked and would elaborate that I was quite good at my new job and, yes, it could be viewed as a stumble back when most expected me to pounce forward.

"My parents got cancer," I'd explain, trying to remember the Katie who existed before March, 2012.  "And we lost my dad."  Sometimes I'd cry.  Others I could blink back tears.  Mourning, I think, not only Daddy and for Mom - who just hasn't been happy since - but me.  That brightness that I seem to recall but may be getting wrong.

When I think back over 2013, I recognize that I was aware of days passing.  I sign a lot of documents so I'm aware of the progression of days.  But considering events?  Moments of joy or surprise or laughter or that sharpness of longing?  I look up and to the left expectantly, hoping my brain is embarrassed at my prompting gaze and comes up with something I could write down.

January

I turned 34...  Oh!  They decorated my desk at work - my second of three spots since taking this job - with balloons and streamers and magnets.  I got flowers.  It was actually really lovely.  (Good job, brain!)

February

I'm pretty sure I was in Europe.  I say that because my desktop photo on this AirBook I rarely open is of Zurich.  So I think that was when I did a Switzerland, France, Germany swing.  I threw up all over a hotel room outside Paris - I remember that more than I wish I did.  

I recall the train from Zurich to Paris though - of staring out the window as the countryside rushed by and thinking that it was still amazing to be in Europe.  Exciting.  Beautiful.  

As I spoke to new colleagues in the airport, I realized I didn't want my old job anymore.  And I was walked through Munich in the snow with my new boss, searching for beer and sausages and pretzels, I watched the snowflakes fall on old fountains and swirl around ornate steeples and smiled, even as I rushed to catch up with him.  

March

Mom turned 64.  I think we started seriously considering having her move in with me around then.  Otherwise, I probably played on my iPad.

April

Worked?  More playing on iPad?

Might have gone on a short business trip?

May

Please see April.  

June

We were launching a new process that I was to manage.  So I was working a lot.  (Still found time to play on iPad.)

July

Alaskan Cruise!  With the otters and elderly people and gospel singers!  I actually had a really lovely time - marveled at nature, learned songs about Jesus, hung out with my mom.

August

Mom and the Ones (my nieces) were here for the day Dad died.  We stayed busy.  Took a tour of a nearby city on a boat and bus.  Did projects.  Took long walks.  It was actually far less terrible than I expected.

Then the girls went back to school and Mom moved in.  Sort of.  She still goes back and forth fairly regularly but rarely stays at my parents' house.  She'll mostly be here or with Aunt and Uncle.  But it's going reasonably well.  Mostly.

"My son had on a stained shirt this morning for school," NewBoss sighed while we were waiting for everyone to join a conference call.

"My son had to have Nike socks so I spent a fortune on Nike socks and then he wouldn't wear the Nike socks today!" A colleague exclaimed.  

After we'd laughed for a minute, I offered that my mom had asked if I was really going to wear this top with this skirt as I'd walked out the door.  "So maybe you parents should calm down about us kids," I decided.  

September

I visited Friend!  It was long-overdue and probably too short but we talked and ate and shopped and visited the waterfall-that-wasn't.  (I think those 2 sentences cover the extent of my socialization in 2013.)

Massive documentation exercise in owning this new program.  So Many Forms.  

October

Audit on September's work.  

Audits are tough - I've now had three.  With a good auditor, I understand the benefit.  She may have ideas on how to better manage certain sub-processes.  Can identify common errors and make some off-the-record suggestions on how to correct those.  May mix encouraging statements in with the demeaning "this is how you failed at your job" listing of offenses.  

With a bad auditor?  It's soul-sucking - makes me want to stab someone with a pencil, make sarcastic comments and list my qualifications because I get so miserably defensive.  

November

Depression.  Visited new doctor to get more medication.  With Dad's birthday and my parents' anniversary looming near the end of the month, I was down-down-down.  Luckily, my new job is way flexible and I can work on projects when I can't sleep at night or fuss with documentation even when I'm blank and sad.  So while I was down, I wasn't self-destructive.  And that was a comfort.  

December

Mom and I have settled in at a new church - by far the most liberal religious institution I've ever experienced - but it's nice.  I think I like it.  

Mom had the main floor of my house painted as a Christmas gift - it's Navajo white with some accents of Ivoire.  We left the ceilings white so the contrast - while very gentle - makes me happy.  

We had a nice, low-key Christmas.  We did go back to Illinois for a day to spend time with my Aunt's family - we'd skipped it last year so the kids look so old to me.  (They're in 3rd grade.)  I cuddled with the puppies (!!!) and kept asking them when they'd become dogs.  

The Ones returned to the frozen north with us and convinced me to give them their gifts.  (I had purchased Saige and Emily from American Girl.  Even though they creep me out a little bit - they really are lovely dolls.)  

[Side Note:  Little One is beautiful.  Quiet and smart and bookish like her Aunt Katie.  (Also selfish and overly sensitive.  Like her Aunt Katie...)  She loves to read and plays with dolls and went hunting (WTF?!) this year with her mom's boyfriend.  But that's OK - nobody needs to be exactly like Aunt Katie (obviously) - so I'm proud of her for exploring.  I just wish there were less dead animals in said exploration.

[Smallest One is a character.  Precocious and charming and quick and ever-so-funny.  She's learning karate and made Mom cry when - after breaking a board with a backward kick - she presented the pieces to her grandmother as a sign of respect and love.  She still drinks pink milk and watches my SpongeBob DVDs when she comes to visit.]

Brother followed the next day, having managed one more shift before heading north.  He's largely the same - doing well at work and I'm proud of his stability and talent.  He's funny and loving yet still has the quick temper that we try to work around.  

They all resent me a bit for taking Mom away, which I understand and accept without comment.  The truth is that she needs someone around regularly and Brother and the Ones aren't able to offer that.  Their Years-in-Review would be too full already and occasional visits are no longer enough.  Mom is without part of herself.  And I'm obviously in a position to offer support and attention and my regular presence and I'm honored to do that.  

But perhaps that's a story for another time.

January 1, 2014

After moving all the furniture for painting, we reorganized.  I moved a chaise into my office and relocated my oft-ignored Mac to the room with my books.  

Today, I moved some large pillows to said chaise to make it more inviting.  Then I sat and began to type.  Perhaps I want to remember more.  Or try to find that person I was before.  Be a better person - more centered and thoughtful and loving.  

So without grand promises or resolutions, I hope I find that here.  And that - for any of you left - you have a happy and blessed New Year.

In Search of Sea Otters

I love otters.  The flippers.  Their noses.  The soft, dense fur.  The speed and elegance with which they move through the water despite their cuddly appearance.  

And so, when we dropped anchor and floated near Sitka, I convinced Mom to de-boat, as she called it, on a tender and we boarded a smaller watercraft for a pricey fee but with a guarantee that we'd see wildlife.  An otter, whale or bear or we each would get $100.

And so we set off on the Sea Otter Express.  Settling inside the heated cabin, we arranged ourselves with binoculars and cameras and sighed over the beauty - the shades of blue, the multitude of islands, the forest.  

I smiled every time someone would gasp over a sighting - the fin of a whale or flight of an eagle or jumping of a random fish.  I soon grew antsy, impatient with the barrier between the animals and my camera, and zipped my sweatshirt and climbed up the narrow steps to perch on the open deck.  

There was a certain sort of wonder up there.  Of whimsy.  Of peace.  Breathing in the air that was the perfect cool-not-cold.  Feeling the wind tangle my hair as I sighed and searched the horizon for bumps on the water.

"That's an island," our guide noted when people took too many pictures of a small rock jutting from the water.  "We sometimes confuse it for a critter, but it isn't."

When we frowned our disappointment, he smiled and promised we'd find something alive to photograph.  And we did, slowing to follow an orca as she swept across the water near the surface, emerging so we could admire her white markings that just barely broke the surface.

We watched people fish for salmon in a sheltered cove.   I pondered the jellyfish - the giant gelatinous masses floating below the surface - and wrinkled my nose at them.  I focused my attention on the orange starfish that rested just below the surface.

"They're very tough creatures," our guide noted.  "Sometimes under water.  Sometimes above.  Sometimes hot in the sun.  Often frozen from the cold.  Subjected to salt in the ocean and fresh water from rain.  They just adapt."

So I admired that resilience until we sped away in search of the treasure - the otters I'd so wanted to see.

 "There they are," our guide noted.  "See those dots in the water?  There's a raft of them resting over there.  We'll try to get closer and hope they don't mind us watching them."

So we did.  And they didn't.

Utterly (otterly!) charmed, I took upwards of 40 pictures that are all a bit blurry.  You have to want to see the otters to truly appreciate these photos.  But they napped as they floated, occasionally one would grow curious and pop up to look at us.  Finding us acceptable, they would return to their supine position, tucking furry chin to sleek chest and resting once again.

 We floated there for long minutes, leaving only after we'd alerted the other tours and not wanting to form a crowd and cause the otters to depart.

"It's a humpback," the guide cried a bit later and we paused in open ocean in hopes of watching it dive.

And that's when I grew queasy.  The bobbing motion of the boat at odds with the gentle sway of the cruise ship to which I'd adjusted.  I blinked rapidly.  Focused on the horizon.  Sipped some peppermint tea while sitting back inside with my 'having a lovely time/not sick at all!' mother.

But as we lingered and rode the waves up and down and up and down, I swallowed against the nausea.  And when the kindly tour people offered salmon for a snack, I had to escape to the aft deck again.

"Salmon?" the guide asked as I stood there, clinging to the railing and trying to think of the otters who'd  made me so happy such a short time before.

"I will throw it up all over this boat," I replied and he looked closer and told me I was a bit green.  Patting the hand that clung to the railing, he promised it would pass and departed.  Leaving me to give myself hiccups in an attempt not to vomit.

"I was fine," Mom offered happily when she helped me up the ramp on the dock as my head was still swimming.  "I had a great time!"

I made a noise in response, found a soda and found that I rapidly felt better once the world stabilized around me.

A sea star, I am not.

But I do have otter pictures.  And because I want to see that they're otters, I do.  So now you can too.