Depression

 In the last eight months, I went through a very severe depressive episode. I’ve written several posts about it on Facebook, and now I’m going to be bringing them over here. I’ll also be writing new ones here and posting them partly on Facebook. This post is the very first post that I put on Facebook.

September 20, 2025

Depression is…

… Saying you’re fine but inside, you’re drowning in negativity.

… Acting upbeat and making jokes when you’re around others but crying almost nonstop went alone.

… Not wanting to leave your home, even to be with family and friends.

… Hiding your real reality because you don’t want others to see how bad it’s become.

… A messy house because you can’t concentrate long enough to put things away or clean or do laundry or even eat properly.

… Watching a movie that makes you laugh and cry for the fifth time in three days because it keeps the dark thoughts at bay.

… Wishing you still had your best friend to talk with, because he never judged you. He understood you judged yourself harder than he ever could.

… Hating yourself for being a coward when you used to live life bravely in between demon battles and you’re not doing that now.

Depression is a demon you battle in waves, and those waves can come days, weeks, months, sometimes even years apart. You can treat it, but there’s ever really a cure. I’ve been battling it for 45 years. Three different failed suicide attempts, all many, many years ago. The absolute hardest part is knowing when you just can’t fight it by yourself anymore and finally asking for help, when you’re staring at that demon and it’s millimeters from winning and you’re so tired that you nearly let it. You know you can ride it out, but you’re exhausted and you’re almost willing to let it win so you can rest. 

I was at that point this week. I pride myself on always battling it out, but this week was the closest I’ve been in more than a decade to just letting go. And it took so much effort to stop hiding, to literally break down in tears and admit what was going on to one of the members of my professional team, and simply say “I need help.”

The battle rage is on. I think my Nurse prescriber Aley, My, Therapist, Rebekka, and most of all my big sister Melodie. We’re changing my meds, we’re doing the work, and we’re moving forward once again, inches at a time, one moment at a time

There is no shame in seeking help, in breaking down. I’m sharing this part of the battle so others who might be struggling as badly as I have been and still am this week, can know it’s OK to ask for help. Help IS out there, even if it takes years to find it. Ask for it. You probably don’t think so but you’re worth it. Really, you are!

I Miss My Friend

Originally written and posted on my other blog on 5/9/2016 at 11:58pm

I miss my friend.  I miss the man I was able to talk with for hours at a time, overnight, without grasping for something to say.  I miss being able to say what I felt without having to censor it because the person I was talking with might think it was the wrong thing for anyone to think or say.  I miss hearing his voice calling me for a couple of minutes a few times a week, just because.  And I miss it all because I was stupid enough to lose this friendship through my own actions.

Everyone does stupid things from time to time.  Me, I've made a life of doing them.  And it's even worse because I was supposed to be so darned smart, with so much potential.  Instead, I'm barely surviving from day to day.  And the people I live with don't even know me, even though we're related.

So, what did I do to lose this friendship?  I took advantage of someone who was sweet and kind and lost in his own way.  I told this person exactly who and what I am and he still wanted me in his life.  Even after lying to him about something rather major, he managed to get past that and still be a friend.  A wary one, for sure, but still a friend.  I listened to his words and went too far.  Know those people who, if you give them an inch, they'll take three miles?  Well, I didn't take three miles, I took 100.  And even when I tried to get him to see, he didn't.  He didn't until the end, when there was no choice left BUT to see.

The stupid thing is, even with that, he had still said we'd keep in touch.  And at first, we did.  Sporadically.  Once in a while, like maybe once a month.  Then one night, I get a text from him, telling me exactly what he thought of me and what I'd done.  And it ended with "I'm done."  And that was it.  Nothing more.

I don't blame him.  Not really.  I mean, anyone could say "But you knew what she was from the start so why'd you trust her so much without keeping tabs?  HOW could you?"  I could say some things I observed about him but that's not going to change the situation and it wouldn't help either of us.  He's still going to hate me and I'm still going to miss him.  I don't think time is going to change either of those facts.

So why write this now?  Because lately things haven't been so great in almost any way.  I mean, if you read my posts on FB, you'd think I'm pretty much okay.  But I'm really not.  And I don't think it's going to get any better.  And then, I heard that where he worked the last time we talked is gearing up to lay off people and I worry about whether he's going to be laid off.  Or I watched a tv show about something he'd explained to me and I wanted to text and ask if he'd seen the show and what he thought about it.  And his daughters are growing up and oh, so beautiful and I'd love to hear the pride in his voice when he talks about them.  And this election year, wow, I'd love to talk to him about that.

But I can't do any of that because I was stupid and lost a friend.   And the words "I'm sorry" don't change a thing when you can't do anything to make it up, even if he'd let you.  Because some times, there just isn't enough "sorry" in the world to change the future.  And nothing will change the fact that... I miss my friend.

Trump

I'd love to talk about anything other than Trump but I have to say this and it's too long for a Facebook post.  

As a long-term morbidly obese woman, I'd always had the idea that I was protected from unwanted sexual attention.  Let's face it, not many guys talk about wanting to get into the (granny) panties of someone my size.  So it was a complete shock when it DID happen.  And I don't mean just the talking of it.  

In 1993, I moved to Nashville.  My mom had died 6 months earlier and I just wanted to go to a new location.  I worked at an upscale hotel and was on AOL often.  I'd been talking to a man who lived in Memphis and we planned on getting together in Jackson, about halfway between the two cities.  I took my roommate to work, and then drove to Jackson to meet this man at a McDonald's.  We talked and seemed to get along just fine.  The place got busy but we didn't want to stop talking just yet, so we moved outside to sit in our cars.  He asked me to sit in his vehicle, which I did.  We'd been talking for maybe 15 minutes about cars, believe it or not.  I told him I liked how his van was set up and got out to look in the back better.  As I did, he shoved me into the van, got on top of me and...do I really need to give more details?  I remember thinking it couldn't be happening.  I remember feeling like I was frozen.  I was screaming at myself to do something but I couldn't move.  When he was done, he told me to get out of his car because he had to go to work.

I drove back to the apartment I shared with a good friend and said nothing.  I didn't know what to say or do, so I did nothing.  Two days later, I called the police and reported it.  The officers I spoke with told me that they really couldn't do anything because it was a date, so it wasn't rape.  I found out a few months later that this man had been arrested for grabbing several women at the bus station, raping them and then killing them, so I guess I was lucky to still be alive.

So why am I saying something now?  Because rape doesn't just happen to young, beautiful women.  It happens to children, to handicapped women, to elderly women, to nuns, and even to someone as fat as I am.  You can't depend on the police or the judges to give you justice or closure.  The only one who can protect you to any degree is yourself. Donald Trump talking to Billy Bush, saying "I took her... I moved on her like a b****. I couldn't get there and she was married."  and "I'm automatically attracted to beautiful... I just start kissing them. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. I don't even wait. And when you're a star they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the p****. You can do anything."  This made me physically sick.  Literally, physically sick.

As bad as that is, what makes it worse is reading comments that dismiss what he says as locker-room talk, as nothing more than a private conversation. Or saying it's not as bad as what Bill Clinton did.  As if dismissing it as idle talk or deflecting the topic to someone else is going to make what Trump said go away.  As if women who heard this and were hurt by it are just being overly emotional.  As if any of this makes it right for him to even think that, let alone say it, and still be a good person to run this country.  

But what scares me most of all is that, given ALL of this, ALL of his inappropriate words and actions, he might still be voted in as President.  Because people really don't care.
    

Simon Biles & Planned Parenthood

The other day, I read a meme on Facebook about Simone Biles and Planned Parenthood.  It made me angry but I didn't comment because I'm consciously trying to keep negativity out of my life.  Today, I read an opinion piece on the same topic and it made me even angrier.  Enough so that I had to write a post on it.

There is a conservative blogger by the name of Matt Walsh who has a tag line saying he is a "blogger, writer, speaker, and professional truth sayer."  I agree that he's a blogger and a writer because the two things go hand in hand.  Speaker I can't say anything about because I've never had the (dubious) pleasure.  But professional truth sayer?  In his opinion, yep, but that's just it.  It's his opinion, the truth as he sees it.  And sometimes, it's not so truthful.  But I digress.

Ok, so this article mentions the story of Simone Biles' childhood.  If you've read anything, you know that she was born to a mother who was an addict and a father who wasn't in the picture at all.  Her maternal grandparents adopted the younger two siblings, including Simone, while her grandfather's brother adopted the oldest two.  They were the ones that helped Simone reach her dream of being an Olympic gymnast and she calls them her parents.

However, Matt Walsh and the makers of the meme like to say that, if Planned Parenthood had their way, Simone and her siblings would have been aborted from the jump.  Why?  Because she's a member of a minority who was born to an addict and those, according to Mr. Walsh, are the prime targets of PP.  In his eyes, if Simone's mother, Shanon, had gone to PP, we'd have had no Simone, period.

I get his argument.  I really do.  Every human being has potential to be someone incredible, to offer the world something that no one else can offer.  But, just as equally, every human being has the potential to be a psychopath, to do horrific things that the world has never seen before.  The potential for both is there.  And it doesn't matter how a child is brought up.  Some of the worst serial killers came from average, everyday families, and some of the most incredible people came from the worst type of homes.  It's all up to the individual.

I don't like abortions.  It's not something I would have chosen for myself had I gotten pregnant after the age of 25.  But I'm not in charge of anyone but myself.  I can't and won't make a decision like that for someone else.  I don't know their circumstances.  I don't walk in their shoes.  And I'm not capable of saving someone else's life.  I can barely handle taking care of myself.  So I'm going to do exactly what I've been doing: Advocate for personal choice.  If a woman feels that having a baby is the best choice for her, wonderful. Congratulations.  And if a woman decides that having an abortion is the correct option for her, I'm going to support her fully.  Because in the end, the only decisions I have to live with are the ones I make myself.  I will comfort her if she needs to cry and be there for her to lean on.  I'll even stand in front of her if she needs a shield.  But I won't make a decision for her and I will not vote for anyone who thinks they have the right to make the decision for her, either.  It's the right thing to do.

Deeply held beliefs? Really?

The President of the U.S. announced that he will sign an executive order that will bar companies with federal contracts from discriminating against sexual orientation and gender identity when hiring.  On Tuesday, 7/1/2014, a group of 14 faith leaders wrote a letter to the President of the US, basically asking him to give them an exemption based on their "deeply-held religious beliefs" to this executive order.  

In their letter, they wrote "We believe that all persons are created in the divine image of the creator, and are worthy of respect and love, without exception."  And then, in the very next sentence, "Even so, it still may not be possible for all sides to reach a consensus on every issue."  Excuse me but you're the leaders of your faith communities.  If anyone should be able to lead people to accepting another human being, it should be you.  You've read your bibles.  You know that Christ never said to make people feel less deserving of life and love and respect.  You said in your letter yourselves and yet, you think that showing them respect and love means telling them they're not worthy of a job, simply because of the person they love?

Here in the United States, we have this wonderful tradition of accepting people as they are, into our melting pot of a society.  But we haven't always been that welcoming at first.  We took the natives and put them onto reservations.  We made it difficult for the Irish to find jobs.  We took Japanese-Americans and put them into camps during WW2.  And now, we have people trying to make other people feel like they're less than human.  All because they're different.  Because a book that was written centuries ago, in a different time and age, translated many many times from the original language by people who wanted to make their own agendas shine, we have people trying to tell others that their love isn't real or true.  That they don't deserve jobs or homes.  Some so called faith "leaders" have gone so far as to say they should be taken out of society, placed behind high walls so none can see them, and have food dropped to them every so often, until they all die.  We even had a candidate for office in one state say that he believed they should be stoned to death.  Is this showing them respect?  Is this how you believe they are worthy of love?

Years ago, I had a priest reach out to me and several other women and tell us that Christ had loved us so much, he chose to die among others just like us, criminals.  And yet, a year later, I had a priest tell me that people can't change who they are and once a criminal, always a criminal and we should shun criminals.  Respect?  Love?  I don't think so.

Anyone who knows me knows how much this frustrates me.  How these so-called leaders can be so ugly, I just don't understand and I'm pretty sure that NOTHING will ever be said that can change my mind.  It boils down to a few things for me.  As a Christian, you follow the words of Christ.  He never said anything about discriminating towards anyone.  When He was asked what the greatest law was, He said the first law was to love your God with all your heart, mind, and soul.  And then He said that the second greatest was just like it, that it was to love your neighbor as you love yourself.  Well, let me tell you: If these religious leaders are showing how they love themselves, I want no part of it.

I get it.  Sex with a person of the same gender is a sin and therefore it's wrong.  But there is nothing in the bible that says one sin is worse than another.  That's part of the reason why we have the saying "Hate the sin but love the sinner."  Because each of us is a sinner and none of us are any better than anybody else.  So tell me please, why is it that your faith, the same faith that Christ passed on, tells you that you can discriminate against someone because of their sin but you think your own is ok?

The bible said in Leviticus that lying with a man as you would a woman is an abomination.  But it also said in Proverbs that that a lying tongue is an abomination.  So saying that you respect and love everyone, without exception, in one sentence and then asking for the right to discriminate (which means you DON'T respect THAT person) against someone, anyone... what's that?  In my book, that's a lie.  Either you believe that everyone deserves respect or you don't believe it.  But don't try to tell me that your faith, your deeply held religious beliefs, is demanding that you do that.  Because it just isn't the truth.  No way, no how.  And someday, as you keep telling everyone, YOU will be judged for your words and your actions.  I'm just not sure the judgment you get is going to be what you THINK it will be. 

For me, the bottom line is simple.  Treat others how you want to be treated and leave the judgment to whoever your God is.  You'll be a lot happier and less stressed out when you stop worrying about everyone else's future and concentrate on your own.

Realistic, not bitter

As much as I've wanted to blog lately, my mind has been so fragmented that nothing made sense enough to post.  I'll say it upfront right now, this post is the result of a situation on Facebook that is ongoing but hopefully will be resolved later today.

3 years.  It's been 3 years since my pancreatic cancer diagnosis.  In that 3 years, I've done things I never thought possible.  I've met with congressional aides, met the widow of one of my heroes, raised more than $500 for pancreatic cancer research, and spoke during an internet chat radio show.  I've also had some interesting plans percolating in my head for the future that I'm really hoping to complete.  All of this is more than I dreamed of in the year leading up to my diagnosis. 

All of that makes me feel like a really lucky person.  Every single day when I wake up, I celebrate with a blessing ceremony taught to me by an incredible shaman.  I thank the Universe for being alive and ask to be shown my lesson for the day.  I also ask for healing energy to be sent to my friends and to people who are in difficult situations.  And then, I start my day to day living.

I work hard to keep my balance of positivity and truth because my life has been out of balance and filled with lies for a long time.  For reasons I'm not going to go into here, truth hasn't always been a part of my life but fr the last 4 years, I've worked to be truthful more than not.  For someone who used lies as easily as eating favorite foods, it's not easy but it is worth it.  So it's hard when someone I barely know starts in on me, especially when I feel I've done nothing as terrible as they seem to think.

On October 17, I had a phone call with someone who had been told by a new doctor that they were near the end of their life.  I felt they were panicking at the news, (who wouldn't?) and felt that they needed to take a deep breath and calm down a bit.  We talked for about an hour and I gave them my standard advice: try to calm down, get more opinions if they thought it best, then carefully think about the options.  Make a decision based on what's right for you, not what everyone else wants you to do.

And then, I said something that is now being used against me.  I told this person that doctors aren't always right, and that I saw this person being alive at least 18 months more, not the 1-5 months the doctor had told them.  It was my opinion that this person felt some relief upon hearing that.  Maybe I was wrong and I shouldn't have said anything at all about time.  I know one thing from personal experience:  I would have loved hearing someone tell me 18 months when my doctor said I'd be dead in 6.  But then again, not everyone is like me. 

Two weeks and one day later, I had an online message chat with this person because I had expected to call them and hadn't.  We talked about results from my doctor's visit and about her latest doctor's visit. I ended that chat with the words "Remember, I said 18 months and not one day less."  12 hours later, I received a personal message from this person that told me not to give a time frame again, that while I might mean it positively, all it did was add to their confusion and pain.  I accepted what this person said and responded simply with an "As you wish."

In the days after that message, several people online posted about their own personal issues.  Most of my responses were my usual "I'm sending positive thoughts and energy your way" messages.  I've gone over those responses and not once have I said anything about a time frame.  I've also reviewed my private messages with the individual and my last message to them was the one mentioned above, the "As you wish" comment. 

Imagine my surprise and confusion and finally, anger, when this person posted a message on our closed forum, saying they wouldn't name me personally but that I wasn't who I claimed to be, that I gave out death time frames that only hurt people, that sending energy was only a game for me, and that I'd pestered them with repeated phone calls and requests for them to call me, that they were not going to respond to me further and would never again trust me in anything I said.  All this 5 days after my last exchange with this person.

I shut down my browser and tried to read.  I tried to calm my thoughts and meditate.  Nothing stopped my feelings of anger and hurt.  I'd done exactly what this person had asked and yet, 5 days later, they were still upset enough to post such a message?  I opened my browser and started to write a note on Facebook to post.  I wanted to quote their comment and went to the closed forum, only to find that post was gone.  The person appeared to be gone, as well.  I asked another friend to verify that the comment was gone and they did.  It looked like this person was gone.  Truth was, they had de-friended me and blocked me from seeing any of their comments.  I deleted my note without ever posting it.

Yesterday, I started seeing posts by this person again.  I've not responded to any of them, thinking my best bet was to just let it go. 

Another person in that group posted an interesting blog piece that I thought was incredible.  There have been several comments about the piece and some cute quips posted.  I did my usual bit of research and offered my own opinion as to why breast cancer awareness exploded and pancreatic cancer hasn't.  I commented on two other posts, both vague-ish answers. Nothing negative at all, in my mind.

An hour ago, I opened my Facebook to see I had a message.  I opened my messages and read the new one.  It was from the person above and it was short.  It said, and I'm quoting here, "Bitter till the end you will be...I pray for you."  I am unable to respond to them directly.

I'm not bitter.  I'm realistic.  I thank the Universe daily for still being here when I have no idea WHY I'm still here.   I will continue to offer positive thoughts and energy for anyone who is going through a hard time.  I will continue to live my life as if I have a million tomorrows ahead of me.  I will continue to be me, a flawed human being who has made a huge amount of mistakes and will make more before I die. 

My bucket list

For the last several years, quite a few people have asked me what's on my bucket list.  To be honest, I never really wrote down a bucket list because it is forever changing.  Some things that were important to me 3 years ago just aren't as important anymore.  But the idea of a list of things I want to do before I die is intriguing.  How many things would I put on it and how many would be considered really frivolous?  Would it sound stupid to others?  Could I actually write such a list?  

The answer is yes, I could write such a list.  And here it is.  My bucket list as of August 8, 2012.  Subject to change, depending on my mood. 

• Meet President Obama, Former Presidents Clinton, Carter, and George HW Bush, and their wives.
• Meet Sam Harris, Barbra Streisand, all 4 members of ABBA, and Taylor Hicks.
• Finally travel to the last 5 states so that I've been to all 50.
• Drive cross country at least 2 more times, in each direction.
• Own a house.  (Doesn't matter if I'm paying a mortgage)
• Travel to see England, Scotland, Ireland, France, Germany, Russia, Australia, New Zealand, and Africa.
• Skydive once.
• Take a hot air balloon ride.
• Record my own album of duets with several of my favorite stars.
• Sing the National Anthem at a major league baseball game.
• Weigh under 200 lbs.
• Do one of the swim with a dolphin/beluga whale interactions somewhere.
• Have a party and be able to give all my guests gifts.
• See Garth Brooks in Vegas while sitting in the front row.

See, not that big a list so far.  But like I said, changes can happen at any time.
   

Religious freedom

Today I did my usual check on the NOM blog, which for the last few days has been more the Chick-fil-A blog.  But today, they put up a segment from a NY Times opinion piece on religious freedom.  Since NOM likes to shorten it to what they feel was important, I read the entire Times piece online and several of the comments.  I wanted to comment but apparently, they have only a short window for comments and it was already closed.  Then I read the comments left on the NOM blog and decided to post a section of the article here, the link to it (so you can read the entire piece), and the 5 comments that are listed as of 1pm EDT today, Friday August 3, 2012.  

From the article: 

I cannot improve upon the way the first lady of the United States explained this issue, speaking recently to a conference of the African Methodist Episcopal Church. “Our faith journey isn’t just about showing up on Sunday,” Michelle Obama said. “It’s about what we do Monday through Saturday as well ... Jesus didn’t limit his ministry to the four walls of the church. He was out there fighting injustice and speaking truth to power every single day.”

But Mrs. Obama’s words notwithstanding, there seems to be a great deal of confusion about this point in the Western leadership class today.

This article is by Ross Douthat, a columnist at the New York Times and can be found by clicking this link: Defining Religious Liberty Down.

The article is, to me, a bit disjointed because it doesn't focus solely on religious freedom in the United States.  Nevertheless, it is a good article for the most part.

Now, for the NOM blog comments.  Since I can't post comments there, I'm posting them here and in a different color font, so that anyone can tell they're MY comments.

JC wrote:  

Let's also be honest enough to admit that your desire to block other groups of citizens from the benefits of civil marriage just because they don't live according to the dictates of YOUR religion has anything at all to do with freedom of religion. Just admit that you don't like people living their lives in ways that conflict with your religious beliefs and you are willing to any and everything in your power to bend them to your will.

OvercameSSA wrote: 

JC -

Only a man and a woman can create a child; despite what homosexuals would like to believe, that's a fact and it is a big deal worthy of special attention by the government and society.

Sure, there are those who believe this is purely a religious issue, but there is a secular purpose that true marriage serves that so-called same-sex "marriage" cannot: the union of a mom and a dad with their offspring.

In fact, every same-sex couple who adopts a child, adopts a child who was taken away from one or both if his/her parents: the very opposite of what marriage is designed to encourage!

And no matter what anyone keeps saying, having a child is not a requirement in order to get married.  If marriage is solely about having children, then make it a requirement and stand by it.  Otherwise, stop bringing it up.  People who aren't married have children every day.  Not being married doesn't stop that.  And same-sex couples don't steal children or take them away from their parents.  The government does that when a parent isn't fit to be a parent.  Should that child have to be without adoptive parents just because the biological parents couldn't act like adults and provide a real home? 

From Cameron: 

While sounding nice, unfortunately, Ross is incorrect about exercising religion being a convenient carte blanche to behave as your conscience dictates.
The borders of discrimination and religious freedom are blurred. Who is to say where one's rights ends and another begins? It's easy to say that the religious texts have far-reaching implications so anything that offends those texts is fair game for discrimination. If someone's religion says that they can't dispense marriage licenses to mixed-religion couples, whose religious liberty is being infringed upon?
The Religious Freedom Restoration Act (RFRA) subjects federal policies to strict scrutiny if they substantially burden a person’s exercise of religion. So to be the tie-breaker, the law states that for something to infringe on religious freedom, that part of your job must actually be part of your religion. Under existing case law, the provision of health care or chicken sandwiches or dispensing of marriage licenses is arguably not the exercise of religion.
So while Ross' article is passionately written, it doesn't make much of an argument for religious discrimination.
That said, I'm not sure what laws Chick-fil-A would be breaking in Boston for the mayor to say that they couldn't set up business there. But if he's saying it for reasons that the law doesn't support, I think that's despicable. Everyone needs to follow the law, regardless of religious affiliation. That is religious liberty.

The mayor of Boston never said they couldn't set up business there.  He said they might want to think again before setting up business there, not quite the same thing.  The mayor of Chicago said he would support an Alderman's announcement to block the company.  He didn't say he'd ban them.  And finally, the mayor of San Francisco said he would strongly recommend that the business not come closer to San Francisco than they already were.  Can they be interpreted as threats to use their power to keep them out?  Yep.  But in the end, they're still doing the same thing Mr. Cathy did, exercising their first amendment right to free speech.  You don't like it, fine.  Protest.  But at least don't lie about what they said.

From GoodNews:  

“the pornography-saturated, fertility-challenged, family-breakdown-plagued West"
Say it again New York Times – and it will feel even better! Say it a thousand times, and it might start to be heard. Say it a million times, and it might motivate a nation. And bring health to a people! (And bring a little healthy challange to the easy money economy lovers as well).

Find a way to make pornography totally illegal.  Find a way to make women and men more fertile.  Find a way to stop families from breaking down.  That would be wonderful.  But quit blaming all of this on religion or a lack thereof.  Men in general are the majority of pornography purchasers.  How are you going to stop them from buying it?  Religion can't make humans produce babies, only sex can.  And some people just don't belong together but got together anyway.  Can you stop that from happening?  Last of all, if money is to be made from doing something, there is always going to be someone willing to do that something.

And finally, from TC Matthews:

JC in all the hundreds of years that this country has been around, no one has done anything like what you're describing. Don't you think it's a little odd to bring it up now as a cover for the hissy fit you're pulling because people disagree with you?

32 states have written into their constitutions, via popular vote, that marriage is solely between a man and a woman.  If you look at the breakdown of the voters who voted for that definition, more than 90% did it because of their religion.  Look at the groups that are out there now trying to use that definition and only that definition in 5 states this November.  Every one of them are religious in nature.  Every one of them uses nothing more than a religious viewpoint for why marriage is man and woman.  It is their religious beliefs they are trying to (and in 32 states, succeeding) pass as law.  And you're going to say it hasn't happened?  Disagreement is one thing.  Telling people they aren't human, that God hates them, that AIDS is their punishment for being gay, is quite a bit more than disagreement. 

The bottom line to all of this is your right to religious belief or non-belief is granted by the first amendment to the United States Constitution.  But that doesn't mean you have the right to force someone else to believe the same way.  Stop being surprised when people fight back against your beliefs.

Open letter to Rick Santorum

Mr. Santorum,

You were asked a very simple question in Concord, NH on January 5th. You were asked why your definition of equality did not include allowing gays and lesbians to get married. You didn't respond with an answer, but with more questions. And when some members of the audience shouted out questions or comments, you said you were going to discuss this civilly. At another point in this short, 2 minute discussion, you said that to have a discussion based on rational reasoned thought, then we employ reason. But you didn't employ reason, Mr. Santorum. All you did was try to change her question into something she didn't ask. You tried hard to get her to answer your question, rather than answering hers. All you needed to do was say that you believe marriage comes from God and belongs to man and woman, something you did say before you left the venue.

I don't like you, Mr. Santorum, and I'm going to state my reasons outright. You believe that religion should be the underlying reason in everything the United States does, in every law that is made. You believe that YOUR religion should be THE religion the U.S. uses as the basis for laws. You don't really care if there are others who don't believe in the same religion or even, for that matter, God at all. As long as YOUR values are followed, who cares if everyone agrees? You also believe that it's okay for you to accept money from special interest groups, from earmarks, because you're trying to guide this great country the right way and they believe the same way you do. You don't truly care for Americans, you care for Americans who believe as you do.

For the record, traditional, Biblical marriage is one man and several women. Women are never to speak up or teach, only men. Women were property. The United States outlawed polygamy years ago, not because it couldn't bring happiness to some but because it usually relies on the principal of one main wife and several 'lesser' wives, not equality among all. And marriage as a means to have children and raise a family? Then you need to deny marriage to those who are infertile, those who are beyond child-bearing age, and those who plan to never have children. After all, their happiness doesn't matter, it's whether or not they have children that counts, right?.

1-1-2012

January 1st. A new year, a new day to start living fresh again. Each day should be taken that way, as a new day to start fresh, but we don't. Most of us can't help but carry baggage from the past, even if the past is just a day ago. It takes strength to let go, to live each day as it comes, fresh of mistakes and fresh of baggage.

This will be short and sweet today. I hope that all of us can learn from the past, move forward into the present, and think about the future, living each moment fresh. The past exists as a lesson only. Repeat it at your own risk. I prefer to be more like the Starship Enterprise, to boldly go where I've never been before, to seek out and explore new ventures. (Paraphrased but dammit Jim, I'm a person, not a spaceship!)

Happy 2012!

Christmas time

This is one of my most favorite times of the year. From the annual Christmas tv specials and the regular shows with Christmas-themed shows, to the seasonal music on the radio that totally disappears by the 26th, to the people at stores and malls trying so hard to find just the right gift for someone that they care about, it's all magical to me.

Over the last 30 years, since becoming an "adult" in life, that magic tends to start wearing thin. You look at all the advertising that goes on, trying to get people to spend tons of money for just that one day, and you have to wonder a little bit. Or at least I do. Don't we have good memories that didn't cost tons of money? Do we really have to spend $150 on a gift to show someone they mean the world to us?

I remember growing up and how my mom would hang the stockings at our fireplace. We weren't blessed with a nice thick mantle that gave great opportunities to hang them. We had a brick/stone fireplace wall in our living room and a few of those bricks stuck out about an inch or two farther than most of them. Luckily for us, there was one that was the length of our fireplace just above the fireplace. So my mom would take a cord, wrap it around that section of brick, put the stockings on it and then tie it together, holding it all in place. Sometime during the night on Christmas Eve, she'd fill the stockings and we'd see them first thing when we ran out the next morning. Worked like a charm for all those years.

Except one year, it had been late and she was tired. So rather than do that, she used thumbtacks and tacked them, 2 each side, to the wooden door frame of the doorway into the living room. A great idea except none of us kids thought about that. Kids are creatures of habit and we were like everyone else. We'd send Beth to the living room starting around 4 am to see if Santa had come yet. All she had to do was go to the doorway and look inside. The tree lights would be left on all night and they gave just enough light to see if the stockings had been filled. Each time she came back, she'd shake her head no and we'd go back to the game of Monopoly we were playing, trying to make time pass faster.

6 o'clock finally came and we were allowed to get up. We all ran to the living room and stood there. No stockings at all. Nothing. We'd been good...well, as good as any other year. Why no stocking? Then Melodie turned around to get the coffee started and as she went back through the doorway into the kitchen, she noticed the stockings! OMG, you'd think there was someone dying, what with all the shrieking we were doing. Talk about surprised! (And trust me, Mom was told about the events of the night and she never put them there again.)

In 1988, my mom decided it was time to retire the stockings. Us kids were all adults and Melodie had a son of her own who had just turned 5. Mom decided that the only stocking would be Jim's. The rest of the usual filler would be in a huge bowl on the counter. Everyone was okay with the decision...okay, everyone but me, that is. I'd had 3 years behind bars and while she'd done the stockings the year before, (to give me a final year of them) I just didn't like it. I liked the annual stocking ritual. And I wasn't ready for it to be done.

So, I used part of my paychecks from my second job and did the stockings myself. I bought all new stockings for everyone in the family. I even included my aunt and grandmother, because I wanted to go all out. I bought all the usual nuts and candies to fill them up. I bought everyone a gift or two to go inside, as well. And I wanted to go slightly different for the names on them. Our original stockings had had our names embroidered on them, and when that had worn off, mom had replaced them with magic marker names. Instead, I bought gift tags and those rub-on letters you could get, in italics. Took me 4 packages of them, thanks to all the vowels I needed. While at my second job, I'd use some time after clocking out to fill out another tag or two. It took a bit of time because I wanted them looking perfect.

On Christmas Eve, I filled them before leaving work and left them in the back of my car, where the tray hid them. After everyone went to bed, I went downstairs and got the box they were in, brought it upstairs, and laid them all out on the coffee table in the living room. The next day, everyone was surprised. I got questioned a few times and played dumb. I did admit it finally later that spring. I think Melodie heard it the most that it was her who'd done it. It was one of the best things I'd done for Christmas in my life. And the tradition kept on for a few more years. The last year I did it was 1992. There was no real point to doing it after that, since both Mom and Dad were gone before Christmas of 1993.

So this year, I'm begging my friends to do something different for Christmas. Do something you stopped doing years ago, create a new tradition for you and your loved ones. Just do something different that will surprise people again, just like Christmas was a surprise when you were a kid. It doesn't have to mean a lot of money. Just think of something unique for your family and go for it. Bring the magic back again this year. You'll be glad you did. I promise you.

Memories of my dad, part 6

This last posting is going to be the most difficult for me to write because it's going to be about his battle with cancer. It's also going to be a bit longer, I think, than all the rest. I apologize in advance, both for the length and the emotions.

I'm actually writing this at 4:21 pm on the 29th, because I don't think I'd be able to do it after midnight. Again, my apologies.

In January of 1990, my dad and I started talking about going to Fan Fair in Nashville in June. It's the annual party for country music lovers. Back then, they held it at the state fairgrounds, and it was definitely an interesting event. You had booths that were usually set up by fan clubs, sometimes the record label, and they ran the gamut from simple booths with information and items for sale, all the way up to elaborate booths like the recording booth for Trisha Yearwood or the front porch set-up for Randy Travis. The artists would usually spend an hour or so at some point of the multiple day event at their booth, signing autographs and posing for pictures. Depending on the artist, the line could be really short or one that snaked through the building and then wrapping around outside it, like Garth Brooks' line did. The bigger artists got bigger areas, to handle larger crowds. On top of the exhibit areas, the different labels did mini shows, showcasing both established and new artists. It was definitely an event to go to and we definitely wanted to go. We never made it.

While planning the trip, I'd bought tickets to two concerts in the area. One was a show at the Knickerbocker arena in March, Ricky Van Shelton and Randy Travis, and the other show was k.d. lang at Proctors. Her show was beyond belief. We sat in the side balcony nearest the stage. The seats were plush and we had great views. The cool thing was, her voice was so large that she didn't really need the mics. And she talked to the audience. It was something not to be missed and my father loved it.

The show in Albany was different. My dad was having some pain issues. He'd always had problems with ulcers and he thought they were acting up again. Food wasn't a great experience and he was having issues with sitting for too long on hard surfaces. We had seats on the bleachers, to the side of the stage and he was moving a lot, trying to get comfortable. Ricky Van Shelton had to cancel his section of the show due to laryngitis, but Randy Travis did a longer show and more than made up for it. My dad enjoyed the show but he was glad to get off the hard bleacher and into the padded seat of my car.

The next month was hard for him. He kept eating less food and was losing weight. Now my dad, unlike me, was never fat. He might have had a slight stomach but he really couldn't afford to lose weight. It just didn't look good on him to lose it. So we finally convinced him to go see the doctor, who sent him for some tests. They found a mass on an x-ray and he went for a colonoscopy. I remember the date he got the results very well. It was Friday, April 13, 1990. Good Friday.

The results were he had colon cancer and they said he needed immediate surgery. So he went in for surgery shortly after Easter. They ended up doing a colostomy but they told us they couldn't remove the tumor because it was too invasive. It had spread beyond the walls of the colon and they weren't quite sure exactly how far it had spread. Their course of action was radiation.

For the next 2 months, he had these interesting drawings on his butt cheeks. It was the target areas for the radiation and they drew them with Sharpies, so they didn't wash off easily. Not that it would really be a big deal with my dad. He used to joke with us that it wasn't time for his once a year bath so he didn't know why they made such a fuss over them markings.

For 2 months, I watched my dad eat small bites of food and walk away. I watched him shift constantly as he sat and watched tv or read a book. He spent more time in the basement on his cb radio. Our trip to Nashville was 'postponed til next year' when he knew he'd feel better. And each weekend, he went to the AAA office across the street from SCCC to do his shifts as emergency dispatcher. I think the job kept him grounded, giving him something 'normal' to look forward to.

I moved out in June to my own apartment in Schenectady. It wasn't far from where I worked at GE and it was a huge place and relatively cheap. I found out why in the winter but all summer it was great. My dad helped me move, using his car to help me bring down some of my smaller items. He liked it, said it wasn't bad for a first real apartment of my own.

In July, I spent the night at home one night and it was one of those hot, muggy nights. I had the blinds open and was watching the lightning around 2 am, when I heard some sounds in the dining room. I thought it was the dog so I got up and went out there. It wasn't the dog; it was my dad. He was sitting at the table, head in his hands, crying from the pain. My dad never cried from pain. He'd complain about it like a baby, make a lot of noise, but crying just wasn't something he did. So this really shook me up. I didn't want him to know I'd seen it so I quietly went back into the living room and left him alone.

I spent most of that summer making sure my dad got to see all the country concerts that came to town. George Strait, Willie Nelson, Marty Stuart... anyone who came to town that my dad liked, he got to see. I remember that one of the concerts he really wanted to see was Reba but it was at the same time that he was possibly going to be in the hospital for surgery. He told me to sneak him out to see her. "Bring me in a wheelchair, bring me on a gurney, but I'm seeing Reba in concert."

During her concert, she did several costume changes and at one point, she came out in this red sequined gown and Dad told me to take a picture. Then she turned around, revealing this really deep plunging back and he hit my arm, saying "You better make sure you get a shot of that." I did.

While looking at her merchandise, Dad saw this tshirt with a picture of her fully on the front. I ended up buying two, one for him and one for me. He told me on the way home that he wanted to be buried in that shirt. I joked with him that I'd make a shirt with a picture of mom on it and he said "I've lived with her for nearly 40 years. I want to be buried with Reba near my heart. Your mom won't mind, since I'll be gone.

On November 8, I went home for dinner. Dad wasn't feeling well. He sat out at the table for a while but he went to his room to get into bed around 9. I went in with him for a while and we talked about his pain. He thought it was because he'd forgotten to take his stool softener that day so we joked about what to do to get it going. I told him I'd go buy a bottle of prune juice if he thought that would help. He said that it would pass. At some point, he got tired so I left and went to my place.

Now, my mom had called me every morning since I'd moved out, just to make sure I was awake. I may have groused about it a bit but I did kinda use her call as a backup alarm. On the 9th, she never called. I was at work, making copies, when a friend and co-worker came and told me my mom was on the phone and that it was an emergency. It was about 11:20 a.m. and all I could think was, my mom thinks the cat bringing up a fur ball is an emergency, so I told my friend to tell her I'd be there in a second and finished carrying the copies to my desk.

It wasn't a fur ball but God, I wish it had been. "Teri, your dad is in the ER at St. Clare's hospital. It doesn't look good. You'd better get here fast." I was in shock. I remember friends getting me there and me sitting there waiting to go in and see him. When I did, he looked grey. He'd been brought in at 3 that morning, when the tumor had finally erupted. They couldn't find a bp when he'd been brought in, even though he walked into the ER under his own power. They were so sure he wasn't going to make it, they didn't find him a bed until nearly 16 hours later.

For the next 3 weeks, it was an emotional roller coaster. He did ok. He had to have 2 surgeries in one day. The tumor was gone. He had a major infection from when it burst. He was moved into ICU. He was moved into a room on the surgical floor. Back to ICU. I remember my mom arguing with one doctor because this man was telling her that sometimes, we have to know when the fight is over and that the surgeon didn't want to do surgery. That was on the phone. By the time she got there, they were prepping him for surgery and the surgeon said he didn't know if he could save him but he DID know how he'd feel if my dad died and he'd done NOTHING.

One funny memory from that time period: My dad was in the ICU and they were having problems with his blood pressure being too low. So I told the nurse, "Want to see it go up? Watch this." I then showed my dad the pictures of Reba in her red dress from the concert earlier that summer. Sure enough, up went his pressure. I was tempted to give her the picture, to show him whenever they wanted it up a bit but I didn't.

Thanksgiving 1990, my younger sister decided to do dinner, to give my mom a break. My mom had been diagnosed with colon cancer herself in late August/early September and was going to have surgery in December. Beth thought she'd help out by doing dinner. Of course, we all joked with my dad that we might end up in the ER right near him in the ICU, since it was Beth's first attempt. Somehow, we all survived.

On Wednesday, November 28th, I saw my father alive for the last time. I went to see him once I got out of work. We talked for a bit about the doctors thoughts that he might come home on Monday. We joked about football. When I noticed him getting tired, I told him I was going to leave and that I'd see him on Friday, since I had to work late the next night. He said, "Pop in. If I'm awake, we'll talk. If not, well, at least you got to see me sleeping." But I told him I'd rather see him sleeping in his own bed and I'd come see him on Friday. "Okay kiddo, you do what you have to do." His last words to me as I left the room was, "Hey kiddo. You know I love you, right? See you tomorrow."

The next night, I finished work and went home. A friend called me and asked for a ride home so I picked her up. Once I got home, I was relaxing in my favorite chair and half dozing when the phone rang. It was my sister, letting me know that mom had been called to the hospital. Dad wasn't doing well and they wanted her there. They'd let us know if we should get there. I was worried but figured if it was serious, Mom would have let us all know.

At 12:45 a.m., my phone rang. "Get to the hospital. Dad's dying. Mom's there. Go." I ran out of the house with slippers on my feet and no coat. I ran 5 red lights on my way there. As I got there and was racing into the hospital, Dick came out and told me he was on his way to get my aunt, that my dad had just died. I missed seeing him alive by less than 2 minutes.

My dad was a mixture of weird ethics, outright lies, and love that you didn't always recognize as love when it was happening. He loved country music, bluegrass, and rock. He could bullshit his way through almost any situation, especially when he wasn't knowledgeable about something. He loved to read and his favorites were westerns, sci-fi/fantasy, and romances. He knew just enough about religion to make him dangerous when the roving missionaries stopped to try and get us to convert to their religion. Most of all, he was my dad and I loved him. Still do.

Oh and yes, he did wear Reba's shirt under his suit. My shirt, actually, because I couldn't find his until the day AFTER he was buried. Dad definitely won again.

Memories of my dad, part 5

So many different memories have come up because of this series. Today, I'm going to talk about 2 in particular. One a bit difficult, the other funny. Both are visions of how my dad saw life at times.

In 1984, I was sent to prison for up to 3 years. I was arrested in Vermont and spent 3 months there before being brought back to Plattsburgh, NY, for trial. Before it went to a trial, I'd accepted a plea bargain and was sentenced to 1 1/2 to 3 years. Not as bad as some I knew but bad for me, who'd heard nothing but how scary Bedford Hills prison was. I spent a couple of months in Plattsburgh's county jail. It had 4 cells for women at that time, with one room that was for the 'matron' to use for her comfort. Occasionally, they would use that room for a prisoner but not too often because it had no bars on the windows. After a fight with another female, I was moved into that room. After being there for 2 weeks and the situation was obviously not getting better between the other female and myself, they moved me to Franklin county, near the Canadian border. It was a trip of at least 4 hours in order for my parents to come visit me.

My parents made that trip once per month the whole time I was there. Our visits were always nice and the entire staff got to know my parents well. They'd just made their trip to see me for Christmas, a few days prior, when I was brought to the Sheriff's office. He told me that what he was doing was against the rules but out of respect for my parents, he wanted me to call them and let them know that I would be going to the prison before the end of the year. He did this because my dad had mentioned the possibility of coming up between Christmas and New Year's to visit me again and the sheriff didn't want them making the trip for nothing.

The whole time I was at Bedford Hills, slightly more than 2 1/2 years, my parents visited me once per month, bringing me the 35 lbs of food we were allowed, books enough to keep me busy for a week, and leaving me some cash to spend at the prison canteen every other week. The visits were usually about 3 hours long, full of laughter and family news, keeping me up to date about my nephew's growth. I never thought about how hard those visits must have been for them, just glad that they came, even during the winter.

In 1997, I got out after doing my full 3 year sentence. Within a month, my dad and I went down to visit two of the friends I'd made while there. I'd promised both of them that I'd come back to visit and I was not about to break my word to them, like so many others had done. We got there, bearing gifts and leaving money on their books. Dad and I had a great time, and both of my friends were surprised to see me there. When that first visit was over, I had a hard time walking back to the car. I was crying because it was so hard emotionally for me, knowing I was leaving and had to leave them there. We got in the car and my dad let me cry for a few minutes before putting the car in gear and driving off.

We made a pitstop a few miles away, so I could get myself together. He looked out at the view and said, without looking at me, "Now you know how difficult it's been for me this last few years. I had to walk away with a smile on my face, knowing I was leaving my baby in that hell hole. Kiddo, if you ever get the bright idea to do something like that again, think about this minute and don't. Because there's no way I can go through that again."

In early 1989, I got an interview at Dannemora prison in Clinton County, NY. Yep, the men's max facility. I'd taken a state exam and was high enough on the list to get the interview. I didn't want to drive up by myself so I asked my dad to come with me. He brought a book to read while I was in the interview and off we went. The interview went well, even though I knew I wouldn't get the job, and soon we were on our way.

I wanted my dad to see the place I'd been living in when I'd been arrested in Vermont. It was a wonderful place, a huge old barn that had been converted, and out on a dirt road past a covered bridge, about 30 minutes from Burlington. Now, I hadn't been there in 4 years and so my directions were a bit off but we finally did get there. He thought it was a lovely location, so quiet and definitely rural. And then we decided to head home.

Now, like so many men, my dad was positive he didn't need directions and we didn't even have a map with us. He said he'd follow his nose and we'd make it home without a problem. Except we didn't. We meandered and went from one road to another, never thinking much about which direction we were going. Until I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly 3 and I knew mom was expecting us home for dinner. So I finally asked him to stop and ask for directions or at least to buy a map. After listening to me whine (and yes, I did a good job at it.), he finally stopped at this little country store and bought a map. When I asked him for it, he said "Don't worry, I got directions from the owner. We go this way for this many miles and then we'll hit this route which runs south and will lead us eventually to the Thruway in NY." Not being too worried, I was okay and sat back to watch the scenery.

After driving a few miles, I noticed a sign that said "Welcome to Vermont." I turned and looked at my dad, who grinned a bit sheepishly back. "Yeah, I kinda got us lost. We were nearly through New Hampshire and heading into Maine." We laughed like loons and then I told him it was okay. At least we were still in the U.S. and not in Canada.

We finally made it home around 7 that evening. Mom was worried and upset and definitely not laughing when we told her the story of what had happened. But until my dad died in 1990, our private joke was "At least we're not in Canada."

Memories of my dad, part 4

This post is going to be more snippets than actual stories. I wish I had the pictures I'd taken of my father over the years. They said so much more than my words can say. But moving so often and then going to prison and leaving my things behind means that things get lost, so most of my pictures are in my head.

My dad had this way about him. He loved to laugh but he could get angry fast. He didn't have the normal ethics that most people have and that made some of his actions questionable at times. He worked several jobs to keep our family with a place to live and food to eat. I know that a lot of the jobs he mentioned were stories but it was part of his mystique and you had to pick out what was real and what wasn't.

He worked as a bus driver in Schenectady for a while. That I know is true because my mom told me about some of his adventures, like bringing a cab down the hill into Schenectady and having it go sideways, and him being able to bring it to a near perfect parallel park-type stop. She said he came home and was laughing, but he definitely needed to take a shower. I also know he worked at the local cab company in Schenectady and he loved it.

He finally got a full time job with NY as a lock operator. I can remember him coming home after working 3-11 and bringing home Mike's giant subs and a Neba for my mom. I can still taste both of those so clearly. I wish I could find someone who'd worked at one of the stores so maybe I could find out where they'd gotten their sub bread, cause it was so darn good.

The year I was supposed to start kindergarten, my family found a home in Mariaville. It was still under construction but they worked out the financing and bought it. I remember seeing it the first time, with no grass but tons of clay mud, and boards leading to the front door. The downstairs had sawhorses and we put a board across one of them and turned it into a teeter-totter. The house had a flat roof then and a creek that ran through the back yard near the back boundary. There were trees lining the creek and one of them just happened to have huge thorns on it.

When we moved out there, we had a siamese cat named Ookie. She wasn't really an outdoor cat but she managed to get out one day. My mom was worried but my dad wasn't. "It's a long drop and she's not dumb enough to jump off that porch, Edie," he told her. Ookie proved him wrong. She got out there, something spooked her, and off she jumped....only to climb right up that thorny tree! My mom kept at him to get her down but he said she'd come down when she was good and ready. Later that evening, dad got tired of listening to my mom so he got out the ladder to reach the cat. Only, like most cats, she just kept climbing higher. He ended up getting her but not until he had some really long scratches from that tree's thorns. Not to mention the ones he got from Ookie when he finally got her.

There was a night when my dad was cleaning out his VW bus, right outside our downstairs door. It was a double-paned, thermal sliding door and he had it open so all he had to do was jump down and into the house as he cleaned. Well, my mom went down to get some milk for the morning, saw the door open, didn't know that dad was in the bus, and closed it. As she started up the stairs, she heard a crash. My dad, not knowing the door was closed, had jumped off and gone right through the door! He turned around, went back through it, and then yelled about who the hell had closed it. She started yelling back until she saw the blood. I think he needed 8 stitches to close the gash on his head.

I wasn't there when my nephew was born. I was sitting in Schenectady County Jail. My mom wrote a note and had my dad drop it off at the jail. It told me all the details. My dad was overjoyed to be a granddad. My favorite picture that I'd taken was one of him asleep, stretched out on the couch. Sleeping right on top of him, with my dad's arm wrapped around him, was my nephew. The cutest part was Jim's fingers one one hand had been twirling my dad's hair as he fell asleep and when I snapped the picture, they were still in my dad's hair, with the other hand in his favorite sleeping position, two middle fingers in his mouth, like he was holding a bowling ball.

When I got home from prison, we took a trip to the Catskill Game farm with my nephew and his mom. They had one of those sets of stocks and you could pick a sign to put underneath that described why you were in them. I used one that said 'musical snorer' for him and snapped the picture. I didn't notice until I got them developed that his hands were one up and one down, both with the middle finger extended! Only my dad.

He lived life to the fullest and had few regrets. I miss him every day and this time of the year, I always seem to miss him more intensely.