NINJA POODLES!

What Not To Do For Me

2016-03-03T16:10:00.000-08:00

I am in a bad way. It's that time of year. I don't feel like I'm depressed as much as just overwhelmingly sad. Alex's birthday is approaching, and it affects me in a way that the anniversary of his death does not. Dates were always SO important to him, like they never were to me. Bella and I are fine to celebrate occasions anytime that's convenient. Alex, on the other hand, could have his whole world thrown for a loop if an event weren't celebrated ON THE VERY DATE THAT IT WAS INTENDED. Christmas on Christmas Eve? Valentine's Day on a Friday when it really fell on a Thursday? NEVER. I never understood why this was such a big issue for him, but I respected it.

Anyway, in upcoming days, I AM going to be sad. I am going to cry a lot. I'm likely to be maudlin, to read sad novels, or novels that we both loved, or movies in the same vein. I still, after all these years, cannot stop myself from the urge to turn to him and say, "Can you believe that?" But he's not there.

The truth is, much of the time when he WAS there, he wasn't there. And this is what I want to talk to you about, my friends, my people who love me. I do not know "what you can do for me" during this time. If I knew, I'd be doing it for myself. I do, however, know what you can NOT do. And for those of you who are shocked by this list that will follow, please know that yes, these are things that do happen.

My husband was sick. Very sick. That wasn't his fault. No, it doesn't absolve him from responsibility for his choices. It's not an excuse, but it is, at least in part, an explanation. I know this. I, OF ALL PEOPLE, know this. He hurt people with his actions. Believe me, I know this first hand. But he was also a person. A child of God just like me or any of you. A divine, miraculous creation, no matter your views on theology or lack thereof. The real person in there, the person absent of the illness, was someone who I dearly loved, like I doubt I will ever love anyone again. THAT person ruined me for other men. He loved and adored and doted on his daughter. She remembers very little of that now, due to her own struggles with depression and PTSD-related memory loss, and that breaks my heart. Because whatever good there was in him, he poured into her. I see it in her daily. Her humor, her soft-heartedness, her love of freaking CATS.

So here's what I do NOT need from you. Do not remind me of his misdeeds. Do you honestly think I forgot them? Let me make you a partial list: He lied, he cheated, he stole, he betrayed. He gained trust and then abused it. Repeatedly. I KNOW ALL THIS, and so much more than you could ever imagine. In the end, he became violent toward me, and all of you know that that is when I left. I always believed, though, that SOMETHING would break, there would be some miracle drug cocktail, some therapy, some new something that would allow him to be HIMSELF all the time, and I could have him back. I had no choice but to leave him, but I never believed it would be forever. Death stole that hope, meager as it was, from me.

Do not tell me that we are better off now than we were before. While there is some (a lot) of truth in this, especially for Bella, it just doesn't erase the fact of his humanity, and that we miss having a husband and father.In fact, STOP TRYING TO ERASE HIS HUMANITY, because that is what you are doing. He had a family, both ours and the one who raised him. Respect that. He was someone's beloved little boy. He was never unloved a day in his life.

I had thought this post would be a lot longer, listing a lot of specific "don'ts", but I think you get the idea. The idea is that I KNOW THAT MY HUSBAND DID BAD THINGS. Lots of them. So many you wouldn't even believe if I told you, even those of you who know me best. When he was manic or hypomanic, he was the worst. But even at his worst, he was still human, and he was still loved. And he died loved. And I missed him before he died, and I miss him now. Please respect that, if you love me.

I hate that he missed the Bill Hodges trilogy by Stephen King. I hate that he's missing The Walking Dead and Game of Thrones. The upcoming Dark Tower movies. The Bigfoot Festival in Vilonia. HIS CHILD GROWING UP AND BEING AMAZING. I hate that someone with so many gifts had to carry such a giant, horrific curse. It all just sucks, and maybe he could have found something to grasp onto, to help pull himself out of the maw of the monster that gripped him so tightly for so many years. So many of us held his lifeline for so many years, and it wasn't enough. I KNOW THAT. You do not need to remind me.

One last thing, because this bothers his child in particular: If you knew him in high school and never spoke to him since then, don't act like you knew him. You didn't, and it's insulting. You can honor his memory in your own way, but you're not one of us. No offense, but where were you during those decades that he had not one single friend in the world aside from me? If he was "such a great guy," as so many of you claimed at his funeral, why did you omit him from your life? He was never, ever far away.

Just love me, and understand if I'm crying that it's OK. You don't have to try to get me to stop. If I talk about him, I usually cry, and I DO so love to talk about him. About the good times and the good things. He gave me so much grief, a lifetime's worth, but God as my witness, he gave me a lifetime's worth of joy.

Ice Siege in the Holler: A Diary

2013-12-07T19:50:00.002-08:00

Thursday (preparation): Doom, gloom, and catastrophe is all over the airwaves and online. We're going to be buried under three feet of solid ice. It's the new Ice Age, and it's starting in central Arkansas. The reports I read actually said that we were gonna have some sleet and "wintry mix" and then it was going to be so cold that it wouldn't melt for a few days. The behavior of other people in the area is where I came up with that first scenario.

Bella has a madrigal dinner tonight, in which she is playing the queen. It's not cancelled. It's cold and rainy, but not yet quite cold enough for sleet, though temps are dropping steadily. I take a sedative and head to Wal-Mart for a few perishable groceries, having already been tipped off that Kroger's shelves were bare. There is not a single loaf of bread (not that we eat a loaf of bread a month, but I'm thinking if the power goes out there're at least PB&Js to be had) on the shelves, and precious few eggs. I am missing my hens.

Instead of buying food, I buy the components of food and pray the electricity won't go out. Baking and cooking provides something to do if we're housebound, at least. Right? I stop at Dollar General after a mentally harrowing 30 minute wait in a Wal-Mart checkout line and buy what is literally their last loaf of bread. Get home, realize we won't likely use it, and toss it in the freezer.

Go to Bella's madrigal dinner, it's very cold and rainy, but the performance is a hoot, and she is fantastic. We hurry home, let the dogs out for one last potty, and hunker down for ICEAMAGEDDON. The sleet begins late at night.

Friday: I wake up at my usual ridiculous early time, and there's already ice everywhere. Down in the holler, I know it's worse than up top. Later in the morning, I need something out of my car, and have to pour hot water along the seal of the door to get it to open because it's frozen shut. The forecast is worse than ever, the National Weather Service is going nuts about WINTER STORM DEON. I bake chia nut bars. They look like barf but are tasty (in that way that lets you know it's HEALTHY--you know what I mean) and filling. I bake blueberry bread. It has no nutritional value aside from blueberries and calories, and is delicious. We eat an entire loaf over the course of the day. We eat chili and crackers and watch movies. Bella paints, I read. Cabin fever sets in. I let Bella stay up ridiculously late to watch City of Bones, which we agree sucks muchly. I go to bed with the useless cat, who's been allowed inside for the duration of below-freezing temps. I watch all of "The Blacklist." I sleep fitfully.

Saturday: Conditions down in the holler unchanged. Now we're bored silly. Even the cat sat in the windowsill for awhile before getting back in my bed. There is zero possibility of negotiating my long, steep, curvy, very much frozen solid driveway. All day long there is a running debate with the boyfriend over whether or not he could make it over here. As much as I'd like to see him, we decide not to risk his hide. I cook a country breakfast at 1:00 p.m., which is when Bella gets up. I bake brownies. We eat them all over the course of the day. We're coming out of this weighing 400 pounds, I'm sure.

At approximately 9:00 p.m. I call my mother, who lives in town, to see how they're handling the boredom of being housebound, and find out that the rest of the world outside the holler IS DRIVING AROUND DOING THINGS. Stores are open. Our mail ran. (I know this because Bella went stir crazy and climbed the hill and got it.) The forecast has now been slightly amended, which means they still have no idea what's happening, but apocalypse by ice has apparently been taken off the table. Donna N. still refuses to give me her recipe for scones, or I'd have made those to go with the strawberry jam I made.

My frozen driveway mocks me, and I fear I'm going slightly mad. Will update as situation continues.

Mother's Day... Just Happy, Nothing Else. ODD.

2013-05-12T09:57:00.001-07:00

I'm crying happy tears as I write this. It's going to sound odd given that my daughter is now ten years old, but today is the first good Mother's Day I've ever had, going all the way back to the one when I was pregnant.

It's not because I don't have the most amazing, wonderful child any mother could ask for, because I do. She is nothing short of a gift from God, a blessing that never stops. Last year, we were freshly grieving the loss of the father in our little family, and it just didn't feel very good. Celebrating Mom just meant remembering that Dad was gone... forever. So we didn't. It's still with us, but we're healing now.

Every year before that, and I mean every. Single. Year, there was a bipolar crisis of some sort on Mother's Day, since it just happens to fall at the height of bipolar manic season. Alex bought gifts, often for every mom in his and my family, and I almost always got flowers from his mom, and taken to lunch by my mom, and all that, but there was never time to celebrate or even relax, because there was always a disaster happening. Always. And that required my full attention.

So today, it felt warm, good, and slightly unsettling when I woke, after having been allowed to sleep in, to the smells of butter and bacon. Of course my first response was to yell, "WHAT'S BURNING?" because it never occurred to my sleepy brain that someone besides me was cooking in the morning. I got a "YOU STAY PUT!" in response, so I did. My daughter showed up in my bedroom a couple of minutes later with a plateful of eggs and sharp cheddar, scrambled in butter, thick slabs of bacon, and an ice-cold glass of fresh raw milk. Which she sat and watched me eat every bite of, to make SURE it was really good. It was, but even if it hadn't been, I certainly would've pretended, because when someone is WATCHING you eat something they cooked for you, the only response is, "MMMMMMM!!" Fortunately, she's an excellent cook.

Then came, "Presents? Time for presents?" while bouncing up and down. I love how much she loves to give. We share that, and can barely make it to Christmas for the anticipation of giving people our little gifts. So yes, presents! There was a musical card, a gorgeous bromeliad that is the perfect hue for the living room, and a precious little palm that I love (a few weeks ago, in Home Depot, I had admired some plants and mentioned how very much I love architectural plants, but we couldn't afford them just now)...and even a card from the dogs. All of them.

Then she asked me what else I want. And I hugged her, thanked her for my best Mother's Day ever, and let the tears slip, and said, "I can't think of a thing. I have it ALL."

And so I do.

PTSD: Mischief Managed

2013-04-20T19:25:00.001-07:00

That's my mom. She's VERY supportive, as you can see.

As many of you know, I've been hearing this diagnosis for months now--maybe a year or more, even. I'm not sure, because I just put it right out of my mind every time, because that's ridiculous, right? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? That is something that soldiers get, from the chronic stress of being shot at night and day, or being in explosions, or seeing their friends killed. Not from being... well... me. It just felt presumptuous, or something. But my GP has been saying it the longest. "Belinda, you're dealing with a good deal of PTSD after everything you've been through." I should have listened to him, because he also treated Alex, and he's been in on EVERYTHING. And then there was the therapist who saw both Alex and myself, and the two of us jointly. "Belinda, it sounds like you have PTSD." Nah, I'll be fine--I'm doing so much better already, see? Watch me spin these plates!

Because I "overshare," but moreso because so often, things I've "overshared" here have helped others with similar problems, I want to talk about this. My overriding symptom is a tremendous anxiety/panic, that manifests in tachycardia, sudden and instant all-over sweating, flushed skin, nose and eyes dripping like faucets, lightheadedness, and that classic feeling of "impending doom," when there is ZERO emotional stimulus happening, and I don't, intellectually, feel panicked, anxious, or even upset about ANYTHING. It was always the worst upon waking, and I wasn't getting much sleep to begin with. I felt like I was having a heart attack, and of course, that fear made all the symptoms worse...it was misery.

At first, I would just wake up and immediately hit the treadmill, without even getting dressed or anything. It felt like I had adrenaline poisoning that HAD to be worked off. Sometimes it seemed to help. Sometimes. It felt better than doing nothing. Then over the course of a year or more I just took benzos. Xanax or Klonopin, low doses, 2-4 times a day. Xanax ER worked really well for me, but my insurance wouldn't cover it, and $200/month for one prescription just wasn't something I could sustain. Plus, I was just treating symptoms and not addressing the cause. Which I was NOT acknowledging as PTSD. So my GP started running heart tests on me, "to rule things out." He knew there was nothing wrong with my heart, but he's not the kind of doctor to not listen to his patient's concerns. When those tests turned up nothing and I was still complaining about my heart, he referred me to a cardiac specialist and a neurologist.

Guess what they both said at our initial consults? "It sounds a lot like PTSD." The neurologist recommended Buspar to "reboot [my] neurophysical responses," did some tests, then told me to get finished with the cardiologist before seeing her again. She wore jeans and cowboy boots, so I took her very seriously. My cardiologist looks like a more-handsome Don Cheadle, so I took him VERY seriously. He ran tons of tests, including a 24/7 heart monitor, which was the only thing that turned up anything out of the ordinary, that "anything" being exactly what I'd described--periods of sudden racing, pounding heartbeats for no apparent reason. I had more tests, which were normal. I have not yet had my followup with him, but I've gotten letters saying as much.

In the meantime, I had still been seeing my wonderfully patient and thorough GP, who is some kind of Norman Rockwell throwback to the "family doctor" of some ago time. He sits down and TALKS to you, refuses to see pharmaceutical reps during office hours, and won't have any drug-branded products in his offices. And he's a ginger. I love him. Anyway. Going at it from the anxiety angle, we'd tried a few of the antidepressants (starting with the neurologist-recommended Buspar) that are used for anxiety disorders, but without success. Just like all other anti-depressants, they had the unfortunate side effect, in me, of ...wait for it ...CAUSING PANIC ATTACKS. Yeah. The anti-crazy drugs make me crazy. So I'd just kept taking the benzodiazepines, and they were getting less and less effective.

This brings us to a couple of weeks ago, when I was sitting in my GP's office, shaking and crying and begging for help. I had made an appointment with a psychiatrist, because I recognized that something was going on with my brain, but it was going to be weeks and weeks before I could get in. In the meantime, I was dying. Or at least that's how it felt. He said (I paraphrase, because I didn't take notes), "Belinda, you have lived for over a decade under constant fire. Maybe not from bullets, but it might as well have been. Your brain and your body are now conditioned to respond to every little bit of stress in a certain way, and absent a real-time crisis, you're just eating yourself up from the inside. We have to do something--you can't go on like this."

And that's when he pulled out (what was to me, anyway) the big guns: a class of drugs known as atypical antipsychotics. Which made me go, "NUH-UH," because while I might be a little crazy, I'm definitely not psychotic. ALEX took those drugs, and he was capital-C Crazy. But then I realized that he never had a psychotic episode in his life, and HE didn't balk at the label. And intellectually, I knew that this class of drugs is seeing a LOT of off-label use. I still said no, because I'm smart like that. So Doc wrote me another prescription for Klonopin, and said to call him back in TWO WEEKS, no less, if I wasn't remarkably better. And off I tottered to the pharmacy... and when they brought me my prescription, it was two prescriptions: the one I'd been expecting, and the other that I'd refused. Tricky, tricky Doc! So after a lengthy discussion with the pharmacist, who assured me that it was a small dose, and that, as the doctor said, it would only be temporary, I went ahead and took it home, where I reflected upon it some more.

And then, as bloggers are wont to do, I took the issue and crowd-sourced it. Albeit more privately, with a select group that I knew had experience both with this drug and with anxiety disorders. For once in the history of the Internet, the response was entirely unanimous: TAKE THE MEDICINE. It's temporary, it will help you, and (paraphrased) you're being kind of stupid about this whole thing.

So I started that night. Two weeks later, the relief I'm getting is phenomenal, and I wish I'd done this an age ago. And if you are reading this and have lived the kind of stuff I've lived, know that it's impacting you. I held it together amazingly well for a number of years, but after all was said and done, it caught up with me, in spades. I WAS living under a hail of bullets and explosions, to the metaphorical point that every sudden or loud noise sent me crashing to the ground with my hands over my head. I'm still a bit twitchy, but I absolutely believe that I AM, in the words of Doc, restoring my brain to factory settings. And even though I know it's temporary, a this point, at this level of relief, I don't think I'd care if I were told to take this medicine for the rest of my life.

Heck, maybe I'll even get away from the house. Living with Alex, I really couldn't get away, nor could I have people over. Afterwards, that mindset was pretty much all I knew. Even when I DID begin a new relationship with a man, it was with someone who was "safe" in that he didn't live here, was a bit emotionally unavailable, and was of an age that made it pretty well a sure thing not to last. That wasn't an accident, I don't believe. My subconscious operates on a HIGHLY EFFICIENT LEVEL. Be afraid. But do come visit, or let's go out, shall we? I think I can safely promise not to cower underneath a table at any point unless an actual air-raid siren goes off.

Maybe Yes Begins With Maybe

2013-01-16T13:49:00.001-08:00

Maybe it's time, you know? Maybe, at long last, I start in on the enormous backlog of Things I Need and Things I Want, and stop making excuses, and start checking them off. For the most part, a lot of these things have been trying to practically fall into my lap, if only I weren't standing up and facing the other direction. In other words, I may not even need to start out saying "yes," as much as to just stop saying "no."

"No," you see, has become a habit. A defense mechanism that I have come to use, over the course of years, to protect myself, and more importantly, my family. No, I can't have company, I'm needed. No, I can't spend time with friends, I have to stay here. No, I can't go on that trip that I planned all year, because I have to deal with this crisis, because I'm the only one who will. No, I don't have time to finish that book, or even to tend my website, because my attentions are demanded elsewhere. No, no, no... thank you for thinking of me, but I can't.

All anyone has to do is glance back through the last dozen entries here and see the snapshots in time that sum up the wild emotional-tsunami-driven ride of the last few years of my life. The one thing I opened myself up for was a relationship that started (and ultimately, ended, at least in one sense) with "no." I denied myself at least 6 months, maybe more, of quality companionship because of my Armor of No. I preferred being alone to taking a chance on what turned out to be something that did me good and for which I have zero regrets.

But if you go back even farther in the archives, you can pretty much see how this response formed, and how it became so ingrained. I don't really need to say more about it here, because it's all there. There was literally no one else who could handle the... issues that had to be handled. No one but me. Not when it came down to the nitty-gritty. I DID have help, from both family and professionals, for the bigger stuff, but the day-to-day heavy lifting was all mine. I didn't really have any choice. And so it began, and so it became ingrained.

"No" is easy. "No" is safe. "No" insulates and protects... unfortunately, "no" also isolates and alienates. I lost friends--good friends who just became weary of being seemingly rejected time after time. It got to the point (and many of you can attest to this) that I couldn't even talk on the phone. I was alone long before I was alone, and after a while, it became my default setting, comfortable in its familiarity, secure and safe, like my own little metaphorical hobbit-hole.

"Yes" is scary. "Yes" is risky. "Yes" means putting yourself out there, exposing vulnerabilities, and taking chances. All things with which I used to be, once upon a time, supremely comfortable. I have a lot of things that are needing a "yes" from me. But after all this time, it's extremely daunting. I can't promise I'll be able to follow through with a solid "YES!" every time. But I can start with "maybe," and then move on to "probably," and hopefully in short order to "yes."

Yes, I will accept help from others.

Yes, I will submit my chapters for editorial review.

Yes, I will resume the posting here that has meant so much to me.

Yes, I will have my chickens. (That one makes me smile.)

Yes, I will actively seek more artistic earning opportunities.

Yes, I will allow a well-intentioned gentleman or two to lavish me with courtly blandishments.

Yes, I will use more phrases like "courtly blandishments" in blog posts.

Yes, I will have parties. At MY home. I will return my home to the warm, inviting place that it was once upon a time (when it was located elsewhere and was 100% mine), when friends felt comfortable gathering and socializing and eating delicious things and laughing and talking and laughing some more.

Yes, yes, yes. But let's start with... maybe. Probably. Yes.

SWF Seeks.

2012-12-11T03:08:00.000-08:00

That's not even an incomplete sentence. I'm definitely seeking... something. But what? Peace, comfort, security, pretty much all the same things I've been seeking for the last ten or twelve years. I had it briefly (if you can call a year plus "brief") with my Cowboy, and though we've given it another go, and been on-again, off-again since the last update here, and though he is still very much a part of my life, and I hope always will be, since we do care about and love each other and wish happiness for the other... we just can't make the long-distance thing work. So I think that it is safe to say that I am now very much "single." I'm not feeling any great drive to do anything to change that, but I do need to change something, or somethings.

The feeling of solitude grows overwhelming at times. Stephen was always there for me and did (and does) the best he could to support and help where I needed it, and God knows when he was here, he was a beast of productivity and instigated upgrades that are still continuing around this property and in my life, and revived my own motivation, setting it on track so that it belongs to me now. And I'm keeping it going. I thank him for that. Like I said, he was always there for me, but "there" was, ultimately, just too far away. As it turns out, and as we knew the first time we did the breakup thing, we work beautifully together, and not so great apart. I haven't seen him since September, and though we talked about another visit soon, the logistics just aren't there. So we're back (Yes, AGAIN) to friend status, which is something I hope to never lose.

But dear Lord, I need... something. Something HERE. Something real, something tangible, something I can't even yet identify. Single parenting SUCKS, and I am in awe of all of you who have been doing it for years--it's killing me not having backup, another pair of hands, another voice to comfort, praise, scold when necessary, and show love to a child who desperately needs it, on a daily basis. I won't fall into the trap of grabbing the first stable-looking man who glances my way just because my daughter misses having a father, but I can't deny the fact that I feel a pressure on HER part that I do not feel for myself. I have all the time in the world, and am happy in my own company, and enjoy the freedom of being able to have all kinds of friends and talk to men freely as friends and even be flattered by their flirting without concerns of having someone cross a line of disrespect to my boyfriend. It's kind of liberating... in a melancholy sort of way. I am definitely not celebrating the dissolution of our relationship, Stephen's and mine, but I am at peace with my decision, as I believe he is also with his, since it was just not going anywhere as it was. We miss each other, but really? We were already missing each other, and we're still only a phone call away at any time. I hope he finds ultimate happiness in whatever life has in store for him... and I hope that I do to. I'd settle, based on my last few years, for reasonable happiness. Contentment. Peace.

I keep coming back to that word... peace. It's all I really want. Whether alone or with someone else, I need calm, stability, the assurance of knowing what is coming next, a lack of strife... peace. I need to show my daughter that we are powerful women, that we can achieve this on our own, and that anyone we choose to allow into our lives should live up to this standard. It's so little to ask. I have always considered myself "low-maintenance" as far as relationships go. I don't ask for much from friends or romantic interests at all. Just be honest with me, loyal to me, and love me like I love you. Simple. If you INSIST on paying off my mortgage, and twist my arm, well, I guess I'll let you. I'm just saying that you don't HAVE to in order for me to be happy. (But seriously--any takers on the mortgage thing? No? FINE.)

I cried tonight for about 5 minutes. There has been an overwrought series of events happening the last few days with which I have had to deal by myself (duh, who else is here?), and for a moment, it just became too much. That, and this stupid new medicine the neurologist put me on is wrecking me, and I think I need to quit. But I cried, good, loud, pitiful sobs, I wiped my tears, and I got on with myself. Because I AM strong. And my daughter is, too, in her way, and will only grow stronger. And for now, I seek. I don't know what, but I am supremely confident that I'll know it when I see it.

And for those of you who keep asking: I write. A lot. The "bones of a book," as a dear friend once referred to some of my storytelling in this space, are growing flesh, and I daresay muscle. At this point there is as much re-writing as there is writing, so often days or weeks of work disappears in a flash, but the progress seems to be in the right direction. I've never seen another writer doing precisely what I'm doing, so it may be a colossal failure. We won't know if I don't try, though, and it's been a long time coming. This may be exactly the reason I need time alone, though it sure would be nice to have someone on the next sofa over to bounce ideas off, to read a phrase to here and there, to check the authenticity of some of the voices...it would be nice to have a solid someone for that dedication page. Well, besides my mother, who made me who I am, with the help of my father, through sheer badassery.

Where I Lay Down Some Straight Talk On Politics And Offend No One

2012-11-07T16:54:00.000-08:00

Yes, it can be done. Watch me.

Election day has finally come and gone, and the people have spoken. This time, individuals won out over huge, moneyed corporate interests, which honestly sort of astonished me, because I thought the Koch Bros. had this thing bought and paid for. Turns out that people on both sides of the aisle largely ignored all that advertising, which is encouraging. We're learning. There is a pretty nice balance at the moment between "red and blue" when you look at the big picture, WHICH IS GOOD. We want that. As much as we act like we hate each other, Liberals/Progressives and Conservatives are forever locked into a symbiotic relationship that CANNOT be broken, or we all die. Dead. As a society, I mean. Not, you know, individually, though I won't rule that out because no one knows what will go down come the Zombie Apocalypse.

There have been numerous brain studies which illustrate the fundamental differences between the way that a progressive thinker operates and the way that a conservative thinker operates. There are important distinctions, and learning about this is what helped me to love a whole lot more people and welcome more diversity into my own personal "society." Conservatives have a heightened fear-center, which makes them highly resistant to change, while Liberals show high activity in areas that deal with resolving conflict, which makes them more likely to not just wonder what that button does, but to push it and find out. You can see why these two groups NEED each other. This symbiosis goes back to our Paleolithic ancestors and beyond, and is the reason that any of us are even here today. Without the progressives in the tribe, hunter/gatherers would've died out when they depleted their natural resources (kind of like we're doing now, *ahem*), and without conservatives in the tribe, the whole lot may just have been eaten by giant paleolithic bears (laser-bears, if it was in Canada) when they set forth all willy-nilly to find the next place to set up a home.

Conservative or Liberal, you NEED that person on the opposite side of the spectrum. This is why our American system of checks and balances, for the most part, works. Without progressivism, we get nowhere. Without conservatism, we risk going too far too fast. As much as you may think that if only YOUR party were in control of EVERYTHING, that things would be just peachy, that just isn't the case. Without Progressives/Liberals, societal growth would come to a screeching halt, stagnate, and just... die. We MUST progress to succeed and grow. Likewise, without Conservatives to provide some caution and restraint, societal growth would blow up like crazy and before you know it we're all dead by sentient nanobots. Or Daleks. Whatever. Trust me, it's gonna be some whacky liberal scientists who unleash the virus that causes the Zombie Apocalypse, and it's gonna be Conservative corporate interests who fund the research and cover up the results. I know things.

My point is, we NEED each other. All of us. So quitcher bellyachin', and get involved with your neighbor of opposing ideology, and fix stuff together. I'm talking to you, Congress. Well, and everyone else. But mainly Congress.

I would leave you with a seed of an idea: Whatever the MAIN driving force was for you during this election cycle--the thing that really motivated you... take that issue and make it YOURS. Own it. Work for it. On the local level. On the ground. In your own community. Be the change that you want to see in the world. Even small things can make a huge difference, whatever the cause, for or against--green energy, women's & children's issues, ecology, economic reform, health care reform, social security, climate change, lack of poodle representation in local government, WHATEVER. Get involved and make stuff happen. And if you get stuck? Take a look across the aisle, and see what your "enemy" might have to offer. You could surprise everyone.

It's going to be OK.

Restrained

2012-06-06T03:17:00.003-07:00

I want permission to be angry. I have made tremendous strides in the last year in regaining myself, and yet--there is still what feels like a clogged pressure valve somewhere that is impeding my ultimate progress. I am being restrained.

Things have come to light since Alex's death about which I have every right to be furious. To vent. To rage, even, if such is my wont, and through that process, to achieve some catharsis. As much as I knew was wrong, the things I did not know, while not shocking, have been like continuing punches in the gut as they've been discovered, via the cleansing of computer files, the sorting of financial records, phone and e-mail logs, etc. Just horrifying. And here's the thing: You do not speak ill of the dead. Surely there comes a point at which that "rule" tips, but I don't know what that point is.

Don't get me wrong: I am beyond being hurt by Alex, or being angry with him. Our relationship had evolved into something totally different, and non-intimate, in every sense of that word (you cannot have any sort of real relationship without trust, and trustworthiness was absent on one side of the equation for oh, such a long time), years ago, so I was fairly insulated against most of that by the time our marriage was "officially" over (which, in my view, was the night I left). That kind of pointless enmity accomplished nothing before his death, and it accomplishes nothing now. But just plain ANGRY? Yes. Angry at a level of betrayal I would never have imagined a decade ago, that, yes--but also, fury at being silenced about it out of something that I am surely imposing upon myself... a sense of propriety, loyalty to my child, kindness to his family, embarrassment at having been in the middle of it all and being fooled so well and so thoroughly. Whatever it is.

Of all considerations, Bella is of course number one. And she, like me, is learning more and more of the truth, through discoveries of her own that I cannot prevent or predict. But there are things that she does not know... there are things that almost no one knows, because they are just too outrageously awful to consider, much less to dwell on. Someday, she will likely know a lot of it. Now is not that time. I must protect her sweet innocence as much as I can, and I find that the conversation regarding her father now is much the same as it has been all her life. I don't know why he did that, Baby. He was sick. No, that's not an excuse, and yes, he still made his own choices. It's complicated. He loved you. Same refrain as always, because it's still all I have to offer, as always.

And here's the catch to THAT: As this daughter's mother, I have a responsibility to her to assure that she knows, that she really understands, that all of this horror that I have been minimizing, excusing, even hiding, for years, is NOT OKAY. Not EVER, not for ANY REASON. She has to be allowed to understand that it is permissible to love her father and still know that his was not a model to be emulated or duplicated of what it is to be a proper man, husband, or, sadly, even a father. She needs to be able to pick the good and shining qualities that he imparted to her apart from the wreckage that he left in his wake through constant betrayals of trust. I have to raise a young woman who will look for, and expect, and DEMAND, a completely different standard than the one set for her through living example, both by the father who failed the test and the mother who kept re-setting the curve lower and lower. She deserves better.

So far, though it is, I am painfully aware, early, she has as good a handle on this as you could possibly expect--probably because she had lived it. At least I hope that is the way it's working. She knows that she can absolutely trust me, no matter what. And know this, Universe: I now have a zero tolerance policy for being lied to. No three strikes, no second chances. Not anymore. There will never, ever again, be a time in my life when I will discovery an infidelity, on the part of a trusted partner, of any magnitude and not respond instantly, decisively, and with extreme prejudice. Not any shape or form of a lie will be tolerated. I just cannot go through that any more--I won't. One thing that my family instilled in me my whole life was that you do not lie. You just don't do it. How I managed to become someone who tolerated lying, I do not know. And that frightens me, because if my daughter ever asks me "why," I am not going to have an answer. Love? Delusion? Hope? Denial? It doesn't really matter, does it?

Ultimately, I think that that is part of what is killing me a little inside right now. If you know me even a little bit, you know that I am an open book. Transparent. That the way I process things is to spill my guts, usually in writing... to pour it out on a page and let others who have experience to offer share that with me. Just to get it OUT OF ME, even if no one responds. That is a critical piece of who I am, and the stifling that I'm feeling right now just seems so... dishonest. Yes, I put up with a lot of dishonesty, but I was never, ever dishonest myself. I was accused of it--in every way, from having my motives questioned in irrational, rage-fueled tantrums, to being accused during a court proceeding of having an affair. I can stand firm in the knowledge that I never betrayed a trust. That I am faithful, and that I am honest.

Wait. Let's walk that back a step. Because that's not entirely the truth, is it? Because being honest isn't JUST about not lying, is it? And let's face it, I might not have ever lied to anyone, but I sure as heck kept quiet about some very not-right stuff. And that in itself is not right. It wasn't right that I was put in a POSITION to feel as though I needed to do that, it wasn't right for me to FEEL that I needed to do that, and it wasn't right for me to DO that. Not really. Because even if those "lies of omission" didn't hurt a single other person, they hurt ME. And they still are. That is just not who I am, and the longer I suppress that, the more it hurts me, and interferes with forward progress. I have become close to someone who has helped me to recognize this "withholding" trait I've developed as a defense mechanism over the years, and I truly believe that I have come almost fully 180 degrees in shedding that reflex. Of course, only having people in your life who you can trust makes that a lot easier, but still. It was sort of a shocking revelation to me, Miss Truthiness Poster Girl, that I was, in my own way, harboring a less-than-genuine personality tic, and I'm grateful to the one who pointed it out along the way, and grateful to be rid of it.

Which brings me back, full circle, to where I started, but I realize now that I don't actually want permission to be angry. I want permission to be HONEST. Now I just have to figure out who grants that to me, and go about getting it. I don't need to be able to fill the world full of sordid details--God, that would hurt worse, I think--but I need to be able to say, once and for all, "This is how it really was, and how it really was, was wrong."

I have a life to get on with; a life which is looking pretty wonderful and full of beautiful potential right now, in which I am surrounded only by solid, dependable, amazing people... let's go get that, shall we? It's right there for the taking.

Dear Alex

2012-02-28T18:49:00.000-08:00

Alex Miller, loving father, husband until just recently, and an often tormented and struggling but essentially good soul, died on the morning of Friday, February 24, 2012, of natural causes: a sudden and completely unexpected heart attack. He was two weeks short of his 45th birthday. We are all in shock, and struggling to make sense of it all. These are just some of the things I would say to him right now, if I had a direct pipeline to where he is finally, at long last, knowing the peace that eluded him in life. As everyone who has followed our story for all these years knows, it was never easy, even in the best of times...but there was always love. Even when that love changed in its essential nature between the two of us, it was still there, and will always be treasured.

Dear Alex,

You've been gone from this earth for a few days now, though none of us knew it until last night. I am sorry for that--no one deserves to leave this plane unbeknownst to the world; it's not right. I am beyond sorry that you died alone. The one thing in all the world you couldn't stand to be was alone. I'm glad that you at least had Reggie and Phoebe there with you, that you had living beings to love and care for, who loved you back and gave you comfort.

I'm sorry I didn't answer the phone that night before, in the wee hours of the morning; I wasn't aware of the single message until the dawn, just before I took Bella to school, and I couldn't make sense of it... just my name, in a text message, "Belinda." I wish I knew what you were trying to tell me, and you were gone forever mere hours later, so I will never know. I sent police officers to your house that very morning to check on you, but they just knocked on the door and went away... I wish I'd gone myself now. I couldn't have saved your life, even if I'd been right there with you, but it should have been me who found you, and it should have been me who tidied up for you one last time, me who saw you off this mortal coil.

I am so glad that the end of your time here came quickly and without pain; that you didn't have to go through yet another (and who knows how many more) Spring manic season. I'm sorry you didn't live to see your birthday in a couple of weeks. I wonder if it will snow, the way it usually does, even if it's been 70 degrees for the month prior.

I'm glad that you are finally at peace, the "peace that passeth all understanding," and that you're with your grandmother, your father, my father, all looking down in perfect knowledge and understanding at the legacy you've left in this amazing child of yours. Alex, you had so many regrets, I know... but you had a major part in creating and shaping a force that will change the world for the better--any part of it she can impact, she will. She's a powerful force, and much of that came right from you.

I am glad that our last interaction as a family was a happy one, a short time of simple domesticity, almost "normal" (though really--when was anything about us ever "normal?") in its banality. A trip to Wal*Mart. A sushi dinner. Jokes and smiles and so many shared hugs and "I love yous" between you and your adoring daughter. I didn't want to go that night--I didn't have to, but something "pushed" me, and I will be eternally grateful that it did. The last time your daughter ever saw you, you were spinning her around, her feet flying from the ground, in a giant bear-hug, the two of you laughing, happy, and exchanging declarations of your very real love for each other. I am SO grateful for that.

I'm glad that I had decided to bring Bella to visit with you on Saturday, and cherish the hope that you died preparing for and looking forward to a good long visit with your baby girl.

I'm glad I was able to give you, in your words, that one person in all the world who was the "only person [you'd] ever met who looked like [you]," who was your blood, your flesh. So many people loved you, Alex, but she was part of you, and always will be. I am amazingly grateful that she became the brilliant, resilient, honest, caring, sensitive, and tough little thing that she did. She always handled you beautifully and lovingly, even when you didn't know you were being "handled." Such a bittersweet smile comes to my lips with this thought. Any mistake you ever made in your life is more than canceled out by that amazing child. Please know that. You done good, there, my friend. Real good.

I'm sort of sorry that I took such care of you. I didn't allow you to learn to care for yourself enough. I stepped in when I maybe should have stepped back. But you were hurting, and if you hurt, I hurt, and even though in the last years the nature of our relationship had changed, I couldn't seem to just stand clear and let you fall if it was in my power to catch you. In hindsight, I wonder if that made things at the end that much harder on you. You were so dependent on me... and I had a part in creating that. Me and my whirlwind of personal will, trying forever to shape Life into what I would have it be, often tilting at windmills in the process.

If I had known how little time was left... if there had been any way that I could have known that your own heart would give out in just a few more months... oh, Alex. I'd have stuck it out. Unhappy or not, I'd have stuck it out. I'd been unhappy for so long already, a few more months wouldn't have made a difference. I might not have been your lover, your WIFE, in the truest sense of the word, but I'd have remained your caregiver, your partner, your ally... and your final months wouldn't have been spent alone and lonely, full of confusion and regret and uncertainty of what was to come. I'd never have separated you from your child, especially. If only I could have known. Then again, it's not like you would have known, either, so could I have really made a difference that mattered? Maybe we actually saved all of us several more months of pain toward the end. I hope that you had a sense of finally gaining your own feet in this world... as you left it.

I'm glad there was no animosity between us, at the end. That we were cooperating together to create a co-parenting situation with Bella that was beneficial to her. That we were, gradually, becoming friends again. You always "got" me in a way that no one else ever had, and I'll forever miss that.

I'm glad to have made peace with your family--our misunderstandings were complicated by our love for (and truth be told, frustration with) you, and our disparate understandings of same.

I'm sorry that you had to live, for so many years, the majority of your life, with a condition that was not your fault, and that clouded every decision you ever made, and contributed to a repeating downward spiral year after year. I'm sorry that your body, and your brain, were breaking down from the stress of a mental illness, and that you had to give up things you loved because your body was betraying you in a thousand small ways and a good many large ones. I am both sorry that I did too much, and simultaneously sorry that I didn't do more. Not sure how I could win on that one, but it's the truth, and I can't tell anything else.

I am glad that, although that love metamorphosed over the last few years, I never stopped loving you. That I was able to honestly and openly show that love to your daughter; that she never had to experience her parents hating each other.

I am glad that you now know all things, including the answer to that most elusive of all questions: "Why?" I envy you in your knowledge of why life is so unfair, and what it all means. I look forward to the day when we get to talk about it all, and laugh together again, unfettered by what bogged us down in life.

I'm glad that you finally know the truth about Bigfoot, Yetis, Elvis, and The White River Monster... and I hope that you were right about all of it.

As I inscribed simply inside your wedding band, and regardless of the fact that it came to mean something different than it did on that day: "Forever my love." Our lives will go on, Bella's and mine, and we will love more, and differently, but we will love you forever.

~Belinda

You Can Go With This, Or You Can Go With That...

2012-01-31T08:03:00.000-08:00

So. New year, new life, newly single, new friendships, new lifestyle...it only follows that a fresh start on this website is in order. How do you do that? There is so much to consider. I have always been transparently honest in this space, and have shared (many would say overshared, but that's kinda who I am) openly what I felt was sharable about my life here in this little corner of the Web for nearly 7 years now.

I am genuinely interested in your feedback on this issue, so please let me know what you think.

I considered starting over, from scratch. Leaving this site in place, but starting a new one and going forward from there, as many of my peers have. I still might do that--I don't know. But so much of what will happen with me going forward is going to be informed by what has happened to me over the last several years, that that doesn't quite seem right, really. Also, "ninjapoodles" is WHO I AM. It's connected to every online identity I have. All of them. I've never been much for anonymity--it just doesn't fit me. I admire people who can pull it off, but I am not one of them. Even if I wanted to be, I'd slip up. Heck, Bella gets recognized by my blog-readers out in public already, just from pics I've posted online, and I've met many folks that way. They see her, and then ask, "Are you ninjapoodles?" Well, yes. Yes, I am.

I was "Ninja Poodles" before I ever met Alex, much less married him. I had a life, and it was chock full of ninja poodles, Arabian horses, and ridicularity (and made-up words). It was my life before it was shared with anyone else. I kind of don't feel like losing my identity, even my online identity, because of a divorce. I've lost so much of what was mine through this process already, that this is something I don't feel like giving up. This space, this little niche I've carved out of the Internet over the years--it's mine. It's one of the few things that always has been. I am loathe to give it up.

At the same time, do I go into the archives, like a surgeon, and excise Alex, in this space, from the last 7 years of my life? Just the logistics are overwhelming: Flickr, Vimeo, YouTube, Facebook... every online presence that I have--to just "erase" him? That doesn't seem right, either. He was, after all, there from the beginning of this site, and indeed inspired the very first post. Much, if not most, of this 'blog has been about him, about our struggle with bipolar disorder, probable borderline personality disorder, and our marriage and family, and it was through the exploration of those topics that I met and grew to love an increasingly larger and larger community of people who are bipolar, married to/family of bipolar people, and became involved in mental health education and awareness causes. I wouldn't give up those experiences now--they've informed the person I have become, and I'm better off for it. For better or for worse (and let's not gild the lily: it was more worse than better, all told), life with Alex did shape the ways in which I've grown over the last few years, like a vine on a trellis. Now it's time for me to grow upward again, toward the sun, toward life... but that doesn't mean that the tangles and crookedness and stunted spots from the past just go away. And there were blooms along the way, as well, that do not deserve to be ignored. I just took the best one to school.

So many of you, my friends, my peers, my support, my community, are going through this (or at least something similar--I HOPE you're not going through what I am) right now. How are you choosing to address it? My inclination, at this point, is just to continue business as usual in this same spot, with some clean-up and a re-design, and yes, probably re-starting with the ads; God knows I need the income now more than ever.

As far as Alex and I go, the damage he has done to our relationship over the years has been systematic, ongoing, and finally, irreparable. He did not damage ME (aside from financially), however, and I am going to be JUST FINE. As is Bella, though I realize it's going to be tough on her for a while. Those of you who have been with this site from the beginning (and that is an amazing number of you, and I thank you for your years of support, and hope you'll stick around) know how very, very hard I tried. I tried to muscle this thing through all by myself, to FORCE it to work, and many times, I forced myself to BELIEVE it was working. By being manipulated, abused, lied to, cheated on, and so much more, over and over again, I have lost view of some bits of myself--trust, optimism, self-reliance, etc.--that are just now returning to me in a big way. THAT was who I was, and who I am becoming again. I just needed some obstacles cleared out of the way. I am smart, capable, and determined, and as you've seen, a formidable advocate for those I love. Right now, that puts Bella in first place, and right behind her? Yours truly. Yes, it's time for me to advocate for ME. I deserve it, and I can provide it. For myself, by myself.

Things, they are going to be all right. All The Things. Agreed?

An Unquiet Mind, Revisited

2011-09-30T14:36:00.000-07:00

Just ran across this review of "An Unquiet Mind" that I wrote a couple of years ago. As I go back through blog posts, Twitter feeds, book reviews, etc., it amazes me how difficult a time *I* was having... and how I was paying NO attention to that whatsoever. It was all about someone else. And really, in this book, that's how Jamison seems to think it should be.

An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I just had the opportunity to re-read this book when it was offered on the Kindle, and I was surprised. I seemed to remember it as being immensely insightful the first time I read it, but consider that that was immediately after my husband's initial bipolar 1 diagnosis. This was the first book everyone was recommending back then.

Now, several years of living with a bipolar spouse later, I read it and think, "Meh." I have tremendous respect for Jamison as a leader in this field of study, but I can't figure out what she was going for in this memoir. It seems to have been written more FOR herself than about herself, if that makes sense--it reads as very personal and cathartic.

Is it helpful for others, though? I'm not so sure. There are some wonderful passages in which she borrows from images in poetry and literature, and those, for me, make the book worth reading. But I don't get much of a sense of hope for those dealing with manic-depressive illness, because Jamison's resources were/are simply out of the reach of most of us.

If my husband had access to the level of care that Jamison has enjoyed throughout her life, he'd probably be doing much better. Who WOULDN'T thrive with near-daily psychiatric attention and round-the-clock home care (which, just by the way, is provided by friends/family/lovers, most of whom happen to be practicing psychiatrists)? Heck, I'd like to get in on some of that, myself. As it is, we receive financial assistance from our physicians, to lower our co-pay, so that he can see a therapist (not an MD, but a psychologist) once a week, and even that's a burden. Then there's couples therapy, because this disease puts a mighty strain on a marriage.

As someone in the "caretaker" role, to use Jamison's own terminology, I found the message of the memoir a bit burdensome. Yes, she shows great appreciation for her loved ones and their unflagging support. She also puts ENORMOUS weight on that support as being the key to her success. That only reads as a compliment the first few times, then it becomes a sledge-hammer of obligation and guilt.

I don't know--I'm conflicted this time around. It's a bit of "thank you for being there," and a bit of "but for you, I'd be dead." That's a lot of pressure, gratitude or no.

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Feed

2011-09-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Feed by Mira Grant

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Bloggers, zombies, and political intrigue...so far, so good!

OK, forgot to update when I finished this one. Not really sure what to say, though, because there are sequels, and I'm kinda hamstrung by SO MUCH SPOILER. BUT. I really, really liked the "zombie origination" canon put forth in this novel. Very clever and creative...and plausible, if you just don't peek too far behind the curtain. I also like the idea of the CDC having to become all badass in the face of the Zombie Epidemic.

The most unbelievable part of all was the character of the Republican presidential candidate who was a super-good guy, honest, ethical to a fault, etc. COME ON, now. Zombies are one thing, but that? Suspension of disbelief only carries so far. ;-P

Anyway, not as epic and detailed and researched as World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War, but then, it's only part one of what I understand is a trilogy at least. I'm not sure that I'm terribly interested in the sequels after the way this one ended, but we'll see how bored I get in the upcoming months and if I cave and go for part 2.

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Dear Child: There Are Things I Want You To Remember About Your Father

2011-09-22T07:19:00.001-07:00

Dearest One, you have seen a lot that is not good. Too much for your age, by far. Arguments that never should have happened in front of you. The turmoil and consequences of over-spending issues. Anger. Lots of misdirected anger. All things that go along with having a parent with a mood disorder. You know that he and I can't be married any more, and you know most of the reasons why. But this is not about that. I want to take a moment, and tell you some things you may not know, or that you may not be remembering in this tumultuous time, about your father when he is stable, and the ways he treated me which were good--even if, at the same time, he was doing things that weren't good--that's called "compartmentalizing," and maybe we'll talk about that another time. But for now, here are some things that happened during good times that I want you to remember.

Your dad was the first man in my life who really "got" me. Understood me. Knew where I was coming from; finished my sentences. Read and appreciated the same BOOKS as I did (that one was HUGE, and quite possibly sealed the deal).

We could break ourselves up in hopeless laughter just by exchanging a look and an implied inside joke, and sometimes by pointedly NOT looking at each other for just that reason, in circumstances where snorting laughter would not be appreciated--say...church.

Your father listened to me...a lot, and he remembered what I said. I could mention how much I enjoyed something, or how I wished I could find a rare out-of-print book that I'd read once in college...months would go by, and then suddenly a surprise: season tickets to the Symphony; a copy of "Horses of the Sahara." That kind of thing.

Your dad never let a day go by without telling me I was beautiful. Never. Even when I decidedly was NOT beautiful (like waking up from surgery, all green and bloated), he would tell me that I was; not because he thought I wanted to hear it, but because he thought it was true.

Until the night we separated, your father had never, ever, even once, even in the deepest rage (and you know there were some hellacious rages), called me a name. Not. Once. Yes, he cursed and raged at me on many occasions, but nothing from him ever started with anything like, "You are such a(n)...".

Your dad wrote me poems. Love poems. Many of them, over the years, and I hope that I've saved enough of them for you to get an idea of what we had when things were good.

I know that you know how many years I fought for, advocated for, and took care of your father. What you might not know is that, before you were born, before we were even married, he did the same for me. He slept on a pull-out bed in a tiny hospital room hundreds of miles from home for two weeks, while I slept an unwaking sleep and my body decided whether or not to give up. He did incredibly thoughtful things to help bring me out of that pseudo-coma, from locating my favorite essential oils to fragrance the room, to seeking out my favorite music to play for me as I slept. He harassed nurses when I didn't get enough attention. He questioned doctors, and went with me to every appointment. He could have walked away at any time, but he didn't.

When told that I would likely never have children, he declared that he wanted to marry me no matter what. I even remember the conversation--me saying, "But what if I can never have children?" And his immediate answer: "Then WE can never have children."

All by himself, he picked out the most perfect, amazing engagement/wedding ring I could ever have imagined--you know I'm not a big jewelry person, but that ring is just perfection. It belongs to you now. Let the diamond represent you, the precious gem we created out of love, and let the bands on either side of the diamond represent your parents, one on each side, embracing you with love your whole life through, even if we don't all live together.

When he found out that I was pregnant with a little girl, your father wept with joy. Not just a couple of tears; he absolutely wept, he was that happy.

The man rescued a goose with a broken wing from the side of a busy interstate, just because I looked at him, and he knew what I was thinking. We took it home in a Wal*Mart sack with its head poking out, and it lived many happy years on our pond.

On the way home from a dog show once, on a very lonely stretch of highway with no towns for miles in either direction, we came upon an older lady looking lost and alone, standing beside her car with the trunk open, and a very flat tire. Without hesitation, your dad pulled over, got out, and changed the tire for the stranger. He did this sort of thing often, once upon a time.

He taught you the "Whoo, Pig Sooie" cheer before you could walk.

Your dad has always been good about playing with you, at least when he was having "good days." He didn't hesitate, on those days, to get down on the floor with you and build things with blocks, to cut out construction paper shapes, to draw pictures and color, to play board games and card games...even though you are a notorious cheat, and frequently change the rules mid-game if it looks like you're losing.

Your father has always been, and still is, so proud of you and who you are. Never let anything that has happened between he and I affect what you have between the two of you.

I'd like to say that there have been as many good times as bad for the two of us, and for a long time I believed that... but looking back, and knowing what I know now, I'm afraid that's not the case. I do not know what your assessment will ultimately be of that sort of up/down/mixed-up ratio between the two of you, but I can tell you that when he could, he tried hard.

He mostly, for you, did the best he could with the tools he had. And he loves you as much as he can possibly love anyone or anything. Since we are now removed from the daily turmoil and chaos, my hope is that we can all get along and be a family--a different kind of family than we once were, but a family nonetheless. I think that, ultimately, even though I know he misses you desperately, your father is glad that you have gained some peace in your daily life, and that you're no longer walking on eggshells every day.

Child, you are loved and cherished. By both of us, even if one can no longer be with us like before.

How This Happens (At Least In My Case)

2011-08-23T20:55:00.000-07:00

I am only speaking for me, and me alone. I do not know how women stay in physically abusive situations, but once was enough for me, and it was a clear and easy choice to make, and thank God I had friend and family support to be able to do it. (I have been shamed for asking my friends for help by my soon to be ex-sister-in-law, who told me that I should be "HUMILIATED" for actually asking for small donations during that time of crisis. Never mind that the PayPal "DONATE" button has been on my website and that of nearly every blogger I know for years, as a kind of virtual "tip jar." I never got an answer from her about how SHE would have survived on $20 during those days, had it happened to her, except that of course it wouldn't happen to her, because SHE "married a GOOD man." Oh, well. But the shaming? It's stupid, and it didn't work. All of you who helped out know that if I can't pay it back, I'll pay it forward someday, and I have a post upcoming about all of that.) But now is the time to address the most commonly asked question of me right now: "Why? Why did you stay in this mess for so long?"

Well, I believe that I have an answer for that. I've noticed that in many cases of people hanging on to marriages with actively episodic mentally ill spouses, they profess themselves that they have histories of being co-dependent, and of consistently choosing the "wrong" type of partner for themselves. They speak of growing up amidst chaos, often with rampant untreated mental illness and abuse. There is the tired but necessary (because it's true) cliche of the "endless cycle" of the abuse victim. She/he was abused or witnessed abuse as a child, and grows up to perpetuate that pattern, either as the victim or the abused. And while I was only physically abused once, I can now look back with great clarity and recognize that I have been in an emotionally abusive marriage since...well, almost Day One. I have been controlled, I have been monitored, I have never been allowed to be alone, and I have walked on eggshells so much that I think I might qualify as a deerstalker now. I had even discussed with my husband, many times, just how his behavior was abusive to me. I should not, for example, have to sit in a doctor's office and cry because my husband refuses to leave and go to the waiting room so that I can have a private visit. That right there? ABUSIVE. Controlling. NOT OKAY.

"How?" you ask. "WHY?" you ask. Those of you who've known me for a lifetime have been more blunt: "Belinda-- YOU? Why did you stay?" Listen, it's not just friends and family. On my first visit to my therapist (who had been my husband's and my couples counselor) and was filled in by phone on what was going on, I sat down, he looked at me quietly for a moment, then just asked that famous question: "What took you so long?" He has been asking me, literally for years, what was keeping me in this marriage. And my response to him was always in the form of a question of my own: "If I leave, what will become of him?" He had been through so much, and needed so much help, and someone to fight for him...and by gosh, I had all those qualities, and was up to the task! Also, the thought of my daughter's father (who I loved fiercely, and STILL love, though the quality and nature of that love are evolving into something solid but totally detached) being without medical care, without support--he always insisted that he had "nowhere to go"--possibly even winding up homeless, was just more than I could bear.

So we discussed this a bit, the psychologist and myself, and besides the fact that I AM a habitual "fixer"-- of animals, of problems, of people--always the peacemaker (thanks, Mom! Although I wish I'd pulled it off as well as you have!), I believe that I landed upon a theory, which I would like to share with you. I KNOW that there are many out there in this exact same boat, the ones who never "fit in" at the Al-Anon and Narc-Anon meetings, or the NAMI support groups, or the Bipolar Significant Others online support group (may God rain blessings down on all their souls), so here we go.

I am not damaged goods. Not now, not at any point in my life, and most importantly, not when I met my VERY charming husband. I did not come from a "broken" home, much less an abusive or even mildly dysfunctional one. I grew up my entire life with a living example, in my parents, of what true, selfless, mutual love and respect looked like. They literally loved each other to distraction until death parted them, and shared that perfect love with my sister and me. I was a ridiculously happy child, as was my sister. During our young lives, we were scratching poor at times, but we never knew it. We had everything that we needed, and then some, in our loving, amazing family.

At the time I met my husband, I had never had a relationship with a mentally ill person. Heck, HE didn't even know he was bipolar at the time; how was I supposed to spot it? (I can spot it at least three miles away NOW, so if you are wondering about someone, run it by my MI-dar.) I had never had a relationship with an alcoholic, or even with a drinker. I had never had a relationship with a drug addict or user. My dating history was a GOOD one. And when I didn't find anyone who suited my rigorous demands, I just happily spent time being single. And LOVED it. Didn't get married until I was 34, and up until then was perfectly content with the thought of being forever single. I did want children, but I was prepared to make that happen on my own. Thinking back, I have never had a relationship with ANY man who was not respectful to me and solicitous of my needs. Never. Some of you reading this may BE one of those men, and for this, I thank you.

I never, in my life, went for the "bad boy." (Well, unless you count Nicholas Cage in "Valley Girl," and I think we can all agree that we do.) Never. I wanted a man who held down a job, knew how to save money, loved animals and kids, and opened the darn car doors for me and carried my heavy stuff. That's pretty much it. I never wanted lots of money, or a big house, or fancy cars (*mentally pats her faithful 10-year-old Tahoe, which runs like a dream, and is paid for, so will be run until its wheels fall off*), or anything like that. I wanted love, honesty, and respect. And to be frank, these were not things for which I needed another person. I felt whole and content on my own, and quite comfortable in my own skin.

When my husband came along, he absolutely seemed to fit that bill. He was charming, romantic, dashingly handsome, intensely masculine and strong, funny, smart, and most of all...he just "got" me. We hit if off and were engaged within weeks of meeting. In perfect hindsight, there were warning signs, things that were "off." But I was so happy with him, and so much in love, that it was easy to shoo those nagging little doubts away...especially since I'd never before encountered them. He reminded me of my dad in so many ways in the beginning, and when you had a father as wonderful as mine, that's a huge, huge thing.

As those of you who've followed my 'blog for years know, things went sour fast. They got really bad when I was pregnant, which led to hospitalization, residential rehab, and putting him out and officially separating. But then he did "all the right things," and he had, at long last, a diagnosis. He was bipolar. There were medicines that could keep things in check. It was FIXABLE. Except then it happened again. Florid mania that broke through the medication, then running (a term used among significant others of bipolar people that means just taking off for days, weeks, and in extreme cases even months on end), which in our case usually lasted several days...heck, my husband disappeared for 4 solid days as soon as we got our newborn baby home from the hospital. And then came the second episode that almost ended the marriage: once again, breakthrough mania, followed by drinking, and then heavy drug use, and finally just disappearing, accompanied by extremely risky sexual behavior. There was, ultimately, another hospitalization, followed by inpatient rehab, followed by an Intensive Outpatient Program for alcoholism and drug addiction.

And I took him back. Despite the indignities inflicted upon me by this person who I loved and had trusted, I took him back. And people were confused, baffled, even angry with me for doing so. But here I fall back on my personal history up to that point. THIS SORT OF THING DOES NOT HAPPEN IN MY LIFE, combined with the hubris of, AND I AM IN CONTROL OF MY LIFE, AND I WILL DARN WELL FIX THIS, TOO. I absolutely could not accept that I (I never thought of it as "we," which is sort of telling) would not get this thing in check and keep it stifled, and that things would be OK. And sometimes, it seemed to work, so I would be vindicated for my optimism and hope. Click, click, came the pellets, as I pushed that lever faster and faster.

Some of you are internally screaming, "DENIAL!" Well, yes and no. It wasn't that I was denying the reality of the situation; it was more that I was absolutely refusing to ACCEPT the reality of the situation, because in MY reality, this was alien and would be dealt with Sigourney Weaver-style, accordingly.

But even I have my limits. Some of you may have noticed that in the weeks prior to the domestic assault, I had changed my Facebook status from "married to Alex Miller," to, "it's complicated with Alex Miller," and then simply, "it's complicated." The things I was learning at the time were finally, finally piling up enough straws on this camel's back that I knew the breaking point was coming, and coming soon. When I discovered things like secret P.O. boxes in the next town over, credit card accounts opened fraudulently in my name, having my prescription medication stolen and sold to cover debts I hadn't even known about (on our last bank statement, despite having had $4500 wired into the account from who knows what source, there were STILL over $1700 in bank fees alone, for returned checks, NSF charges, etc. $1700, account completely in the red, and $s4500 wired IN. And nothing to show for it that I could see). It was only later that I discovered his dating history of the last several months (Craigslist "Casual Encounters" FTL, plus multiple subscriptions to "Adult" dating sites), but at the time, I had come to realize that, however much I might love this man (and that was a LOT), I would never, ever be able to trust him...about anything. I had pretty much made up my mind that it was over, barring a miracle, and to be honest was likely within 6 weeks or so of filing anyway. Arkansas is a no-fault state, so I don't even have to have a reason for getting out, beyond "personal indignities."

The way that this is going is SO not the way I wanted it to go. Again, because the way I was brought up, problems were not shoved under a rug, or pandered to so that they'd go away. They were exposed to the harsh light of day, discussed, and DEALT with, and then everyone got to move on. Nothing festered. No one held grudges, or kept score. So it is exceedingly difficult for me to have to deal with my husband as though a stranger, through lawyers and restraining orders and the courts. My desire and instinct is telling me to sit down with my husband, and calmly discuss and end this. To find out what he wants, and do my best to give it to him, within reason, so we can both move on with our lives. I mean, he's already been "dating" for several months, and having a whole other secret life, so why would he NOT want out?

So since once again it's too late to say "long story short," I suppose I'll sum it up: Why did I stay? Well, aside from the fact that I loved him, I felt responsible for him. I was his conduit to the rest of the world for years. Anyone who knows anything about me knows how I fought for him, how I advocated for him, and how I became an activist in the realm of mental illness awareness and support. I fed, clothed, and even bathed him during the months following the ECT when he couldn't care for himself...that was another time that I had one foot out the door, and then this debilitating brain injury happened, and what kind of person turns someone out with no support during a time like that? Well, not I. In all this, I had my daughter to consider. That is the key thing to remember here.

I kept secrets over the years. LOTS of secrets. I did it for my daughter--not just so that she wouldn't know about the Horrible Things I've Never Told Anyone, but so that people would not look at my daughter's father and only see those things. In protecting his image, I was protecting her innocence. I'm really hoping that none of that has to come out in court, for that very reason. Since the day we met until the day I fled the home, I have always been 100% faithful, honest, and trustworthy to my husband. He has not. But I stayed.

I stayed, because I could not accept that these things were happening in MY, up to then, idyllic life and that I couldn't make them stop by sheer force of my own will . I stayed because the three of us as a unit were very important to my daughter. I stayed because I felt responsibility for my husband's care, and could clearly see the burden of guilt I would have to carry for "abandoning" him. I stayed because I loved him. And at long last, finally, when he attacked me physically, I left. Immediately and with extreme prejudice. There won't be a second chance at that kind of thing.

This has been rambling and tangential at times, but I hope that I've answered, somewhat, the question of why "someone like me" would put up with all that's been done to me over the years. In short, it's not because I was "damaged." It's more because I was UNDAMAGED. And you know what? I still am.

P.S. Let me share with you possibly the WORST thing to say to someone in my, or a similar situation, when discussing the sins of the spouse. That would be any variation on how YOU would "NEVER put up with that." Shut your hole. Just shut it. You do not know what you would "put up with" until you are challenged and must answer that for yourself. It is not your job to make someone who's already feeling sad, defeated, betrayed, and foolish aware of just how superior YOU are, since YOU would never get into such a sordid situation in the first place. Bully for you, you win at smug. But you might want to check over your own shoulder every once in a while...just in case.

The One From A Good Friend

2011-07-29T20:35:00.000-07:00

Someone who has been following my website for just about since it was born, and is bipolar himself, having faced many a personal trial and challenge, sent me a private message recently that was SO amazing that once I dried my eyes, I asked him for permission to share his message more widely, because I believe that many could benefit from it. He generously consented, and I will leave it up to him as to whether he wishes to identify himself in the comments.

"Hey Belinda--

Long time, no see. I've been following developments lately, and did read your blog. There are some things I absolutely need to say. I hope you understand.

I'm sorry for what Alex did... not because it's my fault, but because I know people with bipolar can act better than that. Alex is still responsible for what he does. The mental illness isn't an excuse... it's an obstacle that makes things harder; not impossible.

But I know what you're thinking. And so I'm going to say the second worse thing I've ever said to someone (the first is a story for another time):

Alex doesn't care enough about you to act better.

How he acts is still his choice... even if the voices and imbalance in his head is telling him to do something he shouldn't.

I'm sure he loves you; it's not that. It's just that he needs to care enough to think long and hard before he acts; and he didn't. Hasn't really.

But here's what I'm trying to get at. That's such a shame. A lot of bipolar people could use someone as caring and loving as you in their lives. It's not your fault for not doing enough; or not doing the right things. It's his fault for acting like a shit. His responsibility. And it's his fault that because HE can't control HIMSELF that he's losing the two best things he has in this life.

I'm trying to tell you that you did everything right, everything you can. And you should never question that. Because I know what's going through Alex's head; and I also know that he could stop anytime he really, really wanted to. You can be tempted to push an enter key on a keyboard all your mind likes... but you are the one who has to tell your finger to press it.

I'm bipolar.. My force of will is strong because of people like you who care/d for me. I stop and think before doing anything. The ME inside is in control... not the impulse or the emotional reaction. Because those things hurt people I love. And I don't want to be that kind of person.

Alex isn't going to get better until he decides he wants to. He doesn't have a choice about having faulty wiring, but he does have a choice about accepting the faulty wiring and using the proper electrician to get it fixed. It's just easier not to.

I never want you to think that you're a failure. You're not.

I see everyone telling you that living with mental illness is hell. That makes me sad. I hope that living with me is not like that for the people in my life. The decisions we make matter. The people we choose to be matters. Everyone deserves a chance. You gave more than a chance. Alex made his choices. They were the wrong ones.

That implies that he could have made the right choices. See what I mean?

I have nothing extra to give right now... both my parents are out of work, and I'm trying to help them get by until they can find jobs, or I'd send enough to make you cry. You were always so kind to me, and I wish I could repay that kindness. It made ME a better person. Unfortunately, I'm not your husband, so that effort was kind of wasted, eh?

Chin up. Watch where you're going. No running into stuff. And if there's anything else I can do, just ask.

Crying Time

2011-07-20T22:41:00.001-07:00

So, in my new life, midnight is, apparently, crying time. I can't stop. I'm crying over things that haven't even happened yet, and things that are just impossible to fix. The overwhelming unfulfillable desire that's pretty much taking charge is "I WANT TO GO HOME." Because more than anything, I do. I want to go home. I want my husband back...the one that a good majority of this blog has been about over the years, the one from before the other night, in that INSTANT where everything went to hell. I just want to go home. The last time I felt this way, and cried this hard, the unfulfillable demand I was making of the Universe was, "I WANT MY DADDY BACK." That's how deep this hurts.

I'm not some hero who bravely and decisively "did the right thing" and then everything was great. I'm conflicted, I'm depressed, I'm anxious, and I'm homesick. Bella isn't yet, but she will be soon. Mostly right now, she wants to be where I am, though she's very worried about her dad. I'm worried about him. His family has shut me out, and I don't know if they're doing the same to him, but I wouldn't know, since they won't speak to me. I do know that he has nowhere to go. Nowhere. No one in his family will take him in. His only income comes from disability, and his health insurance is mine. And yet, we need for him to get out of the house for a bit, so we can get in.

I can't believe the three of us are not seeing the Harry Potter movie together. It's unthinkable. I don't know--maybe stuff like that wouldn't be so bad. It's in public, then we leave, and we don't have to speak at all, but Bella gets to spend fun time with her dad. I don't know. I don't know ANYTHING.

And here, I'm going to just go ahead and share the most shameful secret I have right now, right out there in public, because maybe someone else is at THIS decision point, and this could help.

That secret is that, deep inside, I am actually thinking to myself, "If I had just kept quiet about this and handled it in my own way, I could be at home right now." I could have us in separate rooms, leading civil but non-intimate lives together. I could have my financial information protected, and he would undoubtedly, at this point, give me complete control over all finances. I COULD BE HOME, AND NO ONE WOULD BE THE WISER. I could be surrounded by my dogs, looking out those big windows at my beautiful horses. I could be discussing that new med cocktail the doc put him on with my husband, and we'd undoubtedly be sharing some of our inside shrink-jokes, and things would SEEM normal. Almost. Curse it, it's canning season, and all my jars are there. So many tiny things that are ruined, and these combine into one colossal, painful, longing for the impossible.

So there it is. I know it can't be, but I can't make it not be what I wish for, in my heart of hearts. I want to go home. I just want to go home to a different life.

The Part Where We Stop Dancing

2011-07-18T14:51:00.000-07:00

For all of my marriage to Alex, I have performed a delicate dance between keeping people informed about what's going on, and protecting his privacy. And I still feel a responsibility on that count, but a line has been crossed, and as much as I love him and want for him all the things in life that people deserve, the time has come to stop dancing.

No matter how good the good times are, the bad times of living with a bipolar person are pure hell. It's not their fault that they're ill, but they ARE responsible for their actions. The thing that makes it hard for "normals" to deal with it is that it is not logical. Where we have something happen, and feel a corresponding mood in response to that, a cycling bipolar person feels the feeling, the mood, FIRST. For no reason except that their brain is broken. Upon feeling that mood, they must then cast about externally, looking for a REASON for that mood. If they feel angry, and you're the only one there, brace yourself. You're about to have done something horribly wrong, whether you know it or not.

There are countless circular arguments. My family can vouch for the times that they have heard Alex, over the phone, trying to make me do something while I cry to be left alone, him standing over me and yelling, "WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?" over and over. WHY am I thwarting him? WHY won't I obey his every, ever-shifting whim? WHY? And here's the shameful part: Sometimes, maybe even most of the time, depending on how much strength you have, you just do it. You just do whatever it is that will make the crazy stop, even temporarily (and it's always temporary) because it's just exhausting. And when you do that, The Beast has won. And it is clever, and it stores that information away. You've just reinforced a behavior, and further cemented it (yes, I'm a total Skinnerian).

So if you follow me at all, you know by now that I've taken Bella and left home. I had no choice. Alex has been in an increasingly florid manic state for weeks now, staying on a non-stop, destructive spending spree that has left us literally penniless. He has stolen my much-needed pain medication and sold it to fund his overdraft charges. Let that sink in for a minute. I had medication prescribed to me for the pain I'm dealing with, and it was well know to my husband that that was the only relief I ever get. He let me have three days' worth, then he just took it. He told me that he sold it, and that is probably true. But, you know, that same day he cooked dinner or brought me some candy or something, because he's TOTALLY a good guy. Right? You're getting a taste of living with the craziness.

So meanwhile, during the ruinous spending (OH, how those UPS trucks rolled in every day!), Alex was also spying on all of my internet activity via keylogging software he'd installed, unbeknownst to me, on our home network. Now, I could not care less if he reads everything I've ever said to anyone in any conversation, because I never say anything I wouldn't say in front of him. That's the super-secret bonus to not being a liar: you never have to stop and think about whether you're telling a different story to one person than the other. I have nothing to hide. In the last couple of days, I noticed him hacking my accounts repeatedly, so I knew he had to have software that was logging keystrokes, because I was making some ca-razy passwords. The last one on my Facebook account was actually an insult directed at him: "alexisaliar67". Didn't phase him.

So, last night, Alex went to bed before me. I followed about 15 minutes later. He was watching "Silence of the Lambs" on the Roku player. I was reading Feed on my iPad, so I wouldn't have to turn the light on to use my Kindle. After about 5 minutes, Alex got up, went into the living room, and got on the PC in there. I thought this was a bit odd, but he'd paused the movie, so I figured he'd just forgotten something. I got absorbed in my book, then realized that another 45 minutes or so had passed, and he was still in there click-clicking away on the keyboard. I called out, "What are you doing?" and got an angry sounding, "NOTHING!" I had a hunch, so I clicked the iPad over to Facebook, and there I saw "me" changing my relationship status (I had it on "complicated;" he changed it back to "married"), making posts, and sending messages to people. It made me SICK. Did I mention that earlier that day I'd discovered that "I" had gotten "myself" a Chase credit card? Odd, given my stance on credit cards (they can die in a fire), the fact that I didn't apply for one, and the fact that "Belinda Miller's" contact email was "aalexmiller@aol.com."

So I confronted my husband, and yeah, I was furious. He stood and denied everything, even though I'd just watched it happen. But when The Beast is in control, it's all about the denial, plus Alex himself, no Beast required, has a pretty healthy lying problem, even when it doesn't matter. As my dad used to say of him, "He'd stand up to tell a lie when he could tell the truth sitting down." He's had countless hours of therapy about it.

I had looked up on my iPad instructions for putting up a firewall against keyloggers, and sat on the couch with my laptop and iPad open, reading instructions on one and applying them to the other. The whole time, I was subjected to a yelling rant demanding that I go back to bed and leave this alone. It was about a three-sentence rant, but the sentences were repeated on an endless, angry, loud, loop: "WHY? WHY? WHY?" WHY CAN'T YOU DO THIS IN THE MORNING? WHY? WHY WON'T YOU COME TO BED WITH ME? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?" (That last one is a personal favorite that gets trotted out whenever he gets "busted" doing something wrong--I am to blame for discovering/complaining about/trying to right said wrong. Because I am just bitchy like that. If I would just leave it alone, EVERYTHING WOULD BE FINE.)

When I would not stop trying to protect my account from him, he stomped off upstairs and disabled the Internet so that I could not continue. I went up there to fix it, but he'd hidden the cable away so I couldn't find it. I went straight to the bedroom, where during that two minutes he'd crawled into bed, turned out the light, and was actually pretending to sleep. I turned on the light and demanded that he fix the Internet. I told him (VERY angrily, I admit) that it was the least he owed me. His position was that I had "no business" using the Internet at that time, and that he would restore it "in the morning." I can't imagine why, but this made me even angrier. I also realized that at this point, I was arguing with The Beast, so I tried appealing to Alex. I reminded him that no one--no one--in the world was a bigger advocate for him, that I had championed him for years, fighting for him when no one else would, and that all I wanted him to do was at least tell me where the Internet cable was. No avail. I kept trying to get a connection from my iPad to my laptop, but I couldn't make that work. And yes, during this half-hour or so, I DID go and turn on the bedroom light and demand that Alex right things--more than once. As I'd said, I was furious, and I am human.

I called my mom and let her know what was going on, just in case, and she overheard him on the phone standing there screaming at me to go back to bed, so we ended that phone call so I could try to deal with Alex. The mistake I made at this point was telling Alex my intentions. I can get a bit blinded by rage, too. I told him that I was going to post to Twitter and Facebook from my cell phone, warning my friends that someone else was posing as me online, and that I would send messages to our families (my mom and sister, his mom and sister) telling them the same thing. I should have just quietly gone and DONE it. I might have gotten it done, but that little truth-speaking voice in my head says he would've followed me into the living room to see what I was doing, and the same awful sequence of marriage-ending events would've followed.

I had my cell phone on the charger by the computer, so I went and sat in the computer chair and began to compose a text message. I saw Alex come charging toward me, except that it wasn't Alex at all by this point. Empty, dead eyes of The Beast. Still, I never in a million years would've anticipated what followed. He tried to grab onto the phone, but I held tight. He'd already disabled the Internet, and I knew that he could do the same with the land line, with the push of a button. I panicked. That cell phone represented my only link to the outside world. I was not going to let go of it, even in my pitiful weak state, if I could help it. I was also afraid he'd smash it. He yanked me across the room, ripping the phone from the charger in the process, destroying the charger. I started screaming, in fear, in hopes he'd let go...and because at this point he had an arm across my face and the other hand twisted through my hair...pulling. At the same time, my back and shoulders were being pounded against the floor, I could feel great wads of my hair coming loose at the roots, and a blow to the breastbone. One of his hands was clutching my shoulder, and was right in front of my face, and was my only target, so I bit it, hard, thinking he'd let go of my hair. My hair was what let go, at the roots.

I want to state at this point that I do not believe that it was ever Alex's intention to hurt me--not his goal, at least. His goal was to GET THAT PHONE AT ALL COSTS, and it just didn't enter his temporarily deranged mind to care that he was hurting me. In ten years of suffering every hurt and disgrace that bipolar disorder has to offer--from serial cheating and hardcore drug use during the early, unmedicated time, to alcoholism, to identity theft (yes, it had happened before, and was the impetus for the great depressive state that preceded the fateful ECT treatment), to spending us into poverty, all the while lying, lying lying... he has never, ever put a hand on me in violence. Never. I believe that just amplified my shock with what was going on.

Ultimately, being much stronger and way less sick than me, Alex managed to get my phone away from me, and just as I'd feared, proceed to bust it up. From my vantage point on the floor, I spotted a house phone, and crawled to it and dialed 911, as Alex ran to the kitchen. I suspect that his intention was to disable the land line, but he denies this, and I certainly can't prove it. At any rate, my call connected, and a sheriff's deputy was dispatched. I stayed on the phone with the dispatcher until he arrived. From this point on, Alex was remarkably calm, while I was near hysterical. My life as I knew it had just ended. We told our stories (which differ distinctly, big surprise), and to my amazement Alex did not get arrested/hospitalized, which is what I was hoping for. Apparently I didn't get battered ENOUGH during this scuffle to get the kind of marks that count as "evidence." The fistful of hair and corresponding bald patch? Nope. Heck, I coulda done that myself, amirite? Anyway, since he couldn't make Alex leave (and Alex certainly wasn't going to do something that gallant on his own), while the deputy waited, I went upstairs and woke Bella, who had, amazingly, slept through the whole thing (tender mercies), and we packed up fast and got out of there.

In the interest of equal time, I will share Alex's version of last night's events, as posted in his Facebook Notes, and he is, of course, free to comment here:

"I went to bed early, about 10:00pm, after waking me up three different times and leaving the light on it was 2:00am, I decicided no on[e] needed to be online at 2:00am, so I unplugged the internet. She threatened me by saying she was, cut off from the world, and was going to call everyone she knew, at 3:00am, and tell them I had unplugged her precious internet until the following morning. She then said she was about to call my 83 year-old mother at 3:30am. This was a tipping point, I [took] her cell phone away. She bit me and threw a fit. She went crazy. She called the police, when empathized with me, and then she proceeded to wake up our child at 4:00am and leave. That is it. I am fine. I just wanted some sleep."

I can find three points in that account that are true: I did bite him (in self defense), I did call 911, and I did leave with our daughter. I can't help but giggle at the image of me biting him for no reason and "going crazy". If I wrote that version, I would've added that I was screaming, "HONEY BADGER DON'T CARE!!" the whole time. It's a very common bipolar defense (both internal and external) to cast the other person as "crazy," and if you've lived with or known a bipolar person for any length of time, you've no doubt experienced this. If you've hung in this long, brava for you, and it's way too late for me to say "long story short," but for now, I can leave it with the point that this is a marriage-ender. This is a line you do not cross, even in a fit of rage, even if you're manic, even if you're just a freaking lunatic. Hands on me for purposes of hurting = goodbye.

I am heartbroken. To think that after all the loving care I've given, all the struggles we've been through, my life-threatening illness, his life-altering illness, the endless fighting against all odds to stay alive and stay together and bring a beautiful, amazing child into the world...it can be over that fast, just because of selfishness and lies and misdirected anger. To think that we made it just long enough to get those negatives from our wedding photographer for free. To think of not just what I've lost by losing this marriage now, but what I lost by being IN this marriage for as long as I was.

The true heartbreaker is this: I have never, for one moment, stopped loving Alex. Never. I don't suppose I ever will. But I'm sitting here now watching this amazing, silly, brilliant, beautiful, wonderful little girl dive for rings in the pool where we're staying, and I know that my job now is all about her. And extra sadness for the fact that her beloved father will no longer be a daily part of her life. They love each other without reservation, and Alex is very good with her (though I don't leave them alone if I can help it, because he kind of "forgets" she's there sometimes)...the way I wish he was with me. Let me repeat: he is an amazing dad--at least supervised, he is. I dread having to tell her that we won't ever live with Daddy any more.

Now something I swore I'd never do, and I hate it, but: we left with nothing but a quarter tank of gas and a $20 bill. My paycheck, which was deposited Friday, was devoured by Alex's overdraft charges down to less than $100. The electric company is shutting off power at the house because of the $354 overdue bill that Alex told me he "took care of" weeks ago. In short, Bella and I are busted, with no way to get through the next two weeks until payday. It hurts to tell an 8 year old who's read every Harry Potter book at least three times and has been waiting for HP7 part 2 since the second HP7 part 1 was over that no, we can't afford to go see it at the Saturday matinee, even though I promised we would, because the Friday payday money is gone already.

I'm putting out the tin cup. If you have a couple dollars to spare (please nothing large that will make me cry or embarrass me), and are so inclined to send it via PayPal to ninjapoodles@gmail.com, I will somehow, someday, karmically (that's when karma tells jokes) repay the kindness, or pass it along to others. I'm 98% sure that I have it secured so that no one else can get into it.

In closing, let me say I don't want hate directed toward Alex. He needs help. More help, ultimately, than I can give.

Finally, I love you guys. You have no idea how much you get me through.

Fathers

2011-06-19T21:01:00.000-07:00

Love you, Dad, and miss you so hard.

And since I can't really, STILL, talk much about my own father without starting an ugly crying jag (which he would hate), I'll mark this day by posting what was probably the best thing I overheard all weekend.

From 8-year-old daughter to her father, as Dad was getting ready to go outside and tend to some chores, wearing his old Carhartt coveralls:

"Dad. One of the buttons on your fly is undone. I don't care if it IS Father's Day--no one wants to see your junk."

Clearly, we are exemplary parents and role models. Why, earlier that same day, we sent a visiting neighbor child home with a bag of dead squirrels. True story! It's all about class down here in the holler, folks.

And yeah, this WAS the best way I could think of to kick-start this website again. It is, after all, its 6th anniversary. And to think, it all began with aluminum underpants. It's good to be back.

An Excellent Historian

2010-10-26T11:03:00.000-07:00

"Mr. Miller is accompanied by his wife of ten years, who is an excellent historian..."

So went the transcription yesterday by our neurologist/psychiatrist here at the Mayo Clinic, and it feels pretty accurate. If I've had any role in the things that have been going on with my husband the last couple of years (or really, our entire marriage, but who's counting), it's been best summed up as "advocate," or now, "historian." I have not publicly told the whole story of what's happened to Alex, because I hadn't felt it was my story to tell, at least not in full, and in the beginning Alex was reluctant for people to know because he didn't want to deal with the stigma attached. But he's at the point now where he realizes that the more a story like this is shared, the more likely it is to resonate with someone else who has a similar experience, and that there is a possibility for people to help each other in this way. I also think it's liberating to finally just put it all out there and heave a big sigh of relief.

In the fall of 2008--yes, it's been going on that long--Alex, who most of you know has bipolar affective disorder (Bipolar 1, for you pros--the heavy hitter), had been mired in a deep depressive phase that just would not break. This was unusual for him, especially for the season in which it had occurred, because historically we've battled hypomania every summer like clockwork, ramping up benzos and antipsychotics to get us through until winter with as little trauma as possible. But something was different for those months of 2008, and by September, he was truly desperate.

On about our third visit in a matter of days to his psychiatrist, Alex was given two options: Add an anti-depressant, for the first time since his bipolar diagnosis, to his med cocktail, or undergo Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT). Those last words hit our ears hard, conjuring up images of Jack Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," and for a stunned moment we just looked at each other. But the prospect of an anti-depressant, at that point, was equally terrifying. Every time in his life that Alex had been administered ADs, it had resulted in full-blown, florid mania. He'd been misdiagnosed with unipolar depression a number of times, so he had some pretty good experience with this. Let's just say he's lucky to be alive, and extremely lucky to still be married. So for him, at that point, that option was just right out. And then the doctor began talking up the ECT, saying all the things that I've now heard from just about every doctor. It's safe, it's mild, it's just a seizure, people have seizures naturally all the time, and they're OK, it can snap a person out of a depression abruptly, it will break the depressive cycle and allow you to recover, just a few days and you'll feel better...I said no, Alex said yes. He was desperate, and it was his decision.

We were told to expect some mild confusion on the days of the treatments, which would improve quickly. He was scheduled for 6 treatments, spread over the course of a couple of weeks, and should be recovered enough to go back to work and resume life as normal within a couple of days after the final treatment. We went four times; he had three treatments. That fourth day, based on my repeated concerns about the profound effect the treatments were having on him, he was examined and further treatments were canceled. This was the doctor's call, and I have since found it baffling that the doctor (and all doctors, really) could maintain that there is no possible way that ECT treatments are to blame for my husband's condition, while at the same time ceasing the treatments due to what they were doing to him. As it turns out, psychiatrists can tolerate an enormous amount of cognitive dissonance without suffering the ruffling of a single feather (or fussy little beard-hair).

I wrote describing the symptoms once, painfully, already, so I won't rehash that here, except to say that things have not improved much, if at all. Alex is now officially--by which I mean according to the Social Security Administration--completely disabled. Each day is still a struggle. It's been an enormous strain on our marriage, partly because there is so much I just can't do alone, and partly because I am by necessity his caretaker 24/7. His condition leads to fear and insecurity and a constant need for reassurance, usually meaning my immediate presence wherever he is. And by immediate, I mean not more than a few feet away, and certainly not in another room. Preferably touching distance. I love him, but it's exhausting. It's putting me into a sort of parenting role, while he still views me purely as "wife," and this leads to a good bit of emotional conflict between us. I get frustrated. I get angry. I get sad. I get depressed. I cry. A lot. Everyone wants to help, but no one can. Not really.

But back to the process at hand. It has taken us this long to get this far, largely due to being buffaloed by the medical establishment at almost every turn. Our sweet, wonderful GP is the exception--he'd have done anything to help Alex, and even referred him for some cognitive and speech therapy (which was denied due to lack of a definitive diagnosis), but this was just beyond his scope. The psychiatrist and neurologist that we saw at home pretty much circled the wagons for the "there is absolutely no reason to believe that any of this is caused by ECT" line. Really. No way. It's got to be something else. Depression. Conversion disorder. Something totally unrelated. Except that it happened literally overnight, WHEN HE RECEIVED ECT TREATMENTS.

Look, I'm not saying, and never have, than anyone did anything wrong, or that there's any level of malpractice or anything like that happening here. We're not even anti-ECT in general; it helps thousands of people every year, people who go on to have no complications. I've not threatened, nor do I have any intent, to sue anyone. I don't see how we could, anyway, since Alex signed away all his rights relating to possible risks prior to treatment. I did report it as an "adverse event" to the FDA's Medwatch, because I think that having adverse outcomes on record is important for people like us who may come after. We just feel that, possibly, there was some latent weakness or issue particular to Alex's brain, nervous system, or some renegade organ, perhaps, that was exploited by the trauma of ECT. And yes, I believe that passing electrical current through someone's brain sufficient to cause a seizure counts as trauma.

Every PT/OT/speech therapist we've seen has said the same thing: That Alex presents as a victim of a traumatic brain injury. That if we'd told them he'd had a bad head injury, they'd absolutely have believed it. We even began some cognitive and speech therapy at one point, only to have it discontinued because no doctor would give a diagnosis of TBI, because, of course, an injury pursuant to ECT is impossible. We began to seek help outside of our "home" medical circle, starting with a neuropsychologist in Little Rock who was the first sympathetic ear we'd had, and told us that yes, he had seen adverse outcomes from ECT. Not a lot, but some. In our psychiatrist's report on one occasion, he notes that I told him that we'd seen a neuropsych "who claims to see these symptoms in most ECT patients," which I most certainly did NOT say, and that I "couldn't tell him the name of this doctor." Not entirely true, because the truth was that I WOULDN'T tell him the name of the doctor, because we were trying to get in at Mayo, and I couldn't risk him picking up the phone and leaning on this guy before we had all the records in our hands. Yes, I was that paranoid at this point. But you know what they say about paranoia, if people are really out to get you.

At first, we couldn't get a referral to Mayo. Our neurologist just refused. She said she'd done every test she could (and to be fair, they're repeating all the same ones here, so I don't doubt her on that count), there were no conclusive results, and that was that. It was the response we were getting pretty much everywhere we turned, and I'll give you the translation of how that came across to us: "Yes, something is very, very wrong here. Very wrong. And it's a shame. Gosh, it's too bad. But I have no idea what it is, and I have my own life to live, and at the end of the day your problems aren't my problem, so take this sympathetic-looking shoulder shrug and please go away now."

So we tried on our own. We contacted the neurology department at the Mayo Clinic directly, provided some records and a history, and waited. And got back a letter informing us that they were "declining to consult" at this time. Dead end, unless we were referred by another neurologist. This is when I had a form of mild psychotic break and basically just harassed the local neurologist's office for several months until they secured a referral for us.

So here we are. I'm trying to be hopeful, but as I'm seeing them do the same things here that they did at home, it's difficult. And Alex is so completely desperate for help, and so entirely invested in this consultation, for which he's waited more than a year, I'm terrified of what will become of him if we receive yet another sympathetic shrug of the shoulders, and a "Sorry, old sport, tough break, that...well, good luck in the future, goodbye!"

Don't do that to us, Mayo Clinic. We need you to pull out a win here.

The Vegetarian Myth

2010-09-29T02:46:00.000-07:00

The Vegetarian Myth: Food, Justice, and Sustainability by Lierre Keith

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

An important book with an unfortunate title. Keith has some pretty rough feminist axes to grind which occasionally cloud (though also occasionally enhance) her message as it regards our food supply, but what she has to say about the way we eat is important for ANYONE to hear. You can absolutely feel her passion as a "recovering vegan," and the pain it causes her to denounce something she once so passionately believed in. I don't like the title, because my fear is that vegetarians/vegans will look at it and discount it immediately (as you can see from the "reviews" from vegetarians/vegans who haven't even read/finished the book), and omnivores will look at it and think there's no message there that they need.

She does tend to go on a bit, but the message boils down to pretty much this: There is no opt-out of the food chain; we're all part of it, like it or not. There is no plant life without animal contribution and death, and vice-versa. The only way for our planet to keep feeding its inhabitants into the future is if we abandon the industrial agriculture model we've adopted. Monocropping of non-native species is killing our planet, and darn quickly. We're starving ourselves with our ever-increasing focus on genetically modified cereal grains and soy. The only sustainable way to feed ourselves is to do it on a small, local, native scale that includes animals (remove animals from the equation and topsoil vanishes). There's really nothing to argue with there.

I absolutely believe in the tenets set forth in this book (no big shock to anyone who knows me), and go out of my way to find local, organic sources for 100% pastured, grassfed meat and dairy. I buy produce from within 100 miles of my home almost exclusively. I invest in healthy fats, raise free-range chickens for eggs and meat, etc. I won't go so far as to absolutely denounce vegetarianism, but I do believe that it has to fall under the same guidelines: local, sustainable, native. While I really didn't discover anything "new" to me in this book, it certainly drove home the urgency of the locavore movement in ways that Pollan, Kingsolver, et al did not. This book has a bit of a desperate tone, because we're facing a desperate situation. I very much recommend this book to anyone who eats. Take Keith's angsty, patriarchy-hating melodrama (I couldn't say I disagreed with her points, and Heaven knows the patriarchy needs some hating, but it was just disruptive in this context) with a grain of salt if need be. The message is worth indulging her a bit there.

I was first made aware of this book in a blog entry by Dr. Michael Eades, in which he tells of Ms. Keith being the victim of a terroristic attack at a reading, and bought it partly in support of her in the face of that treatment. I'm glad I did. I'm also glad I'm not her, because this is a woman (I'm sorry, "womyn?") operating under extreme anxiety a lot of the time, it seems. But then, maybe we should all be feeling that pressure--we don't have much time to put things right.

View all my reviews

You Musk(melon) Make This Jam

2010-08-23T06:01:00.000-07:00

Just made a little batch of this jam from odds and ends I had on hand that just happened to be called for in this recipe from Ontario blogger and locavore Sarah Hood, who adapted it from a Foodland Ontario recipe. It was my good luck to have stumbled across Sarah's blog when I had these ingredients all ready to roll. I'd bought a bunch of nectarines the weekend before at the farmer's market, and the grower had tossed in this adorable little muskmelon (I'm thinking a variety of honeydew) for free. This jam is so good that I literally caught myself eating it with a spoon.

I took Sarah's tip about the lemon zest and ran with it, and lazied things up a bit further than that, even, because I have no patience for pushing things through sieves or getting out a food mill. I used a whole lemon and reduced the amount of lemon juice added later, and took my stick blender to the apples instead of straining them. I also left out that second half-cup of water the recipe calls for, and that maybe cut down on the time it took, because I got a very firm set fairly quickly. As nearly always, I peeled nothing.

This recipe yielded me more than four but not quite five half-pint jars of jam.

Honeydew-Nectarine Jam

1.5 cups tart apple, chopped (Granny Smith and Mitsy apples are out in Arkansas now)
One whole lemon, unpeeled, halved then sectioned, seeds removed
3/4 cups water
2 cups finely chopped muskmelon (canteloupe, honeydew, casaba, etc.)
2 cups finely chopped nectarines
1Tbsp lemon juice
3 cups sugar (raw, rapadura, whatevs)

Combine chopped apples, lemon pieces, and water in a large, non-reactive heavy saucepan and bring to a boil. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer until apple is soft, about 10 minutes. The lemon will have cooked down to the peel--remove the pieces of peel. Original recipe has you push the mixture through a strainer at this point. You could do that, sure...or you could do what I did, and take your immersion (stick) blender to it right in the pan, and puree the apple pieces. Worked a treat.

Add melon, nectarines, and lemon juice, and bring to a full rolling boil. (This is where I used to mess up a lot of jams, and I never could understand why my jams didn't want to set. I was too timid in cooking them. You want the stuff to BOIL. Hard. I realize now that this is why jam recipes always call for a "large" saucepan or pot--you have to allow enough room in the pot for the jam to really rock and roll and pop and splatter...in other words, boil.) Gradually stir in sugar until completely dissolved. Boil rapidly, stirring frequently, until jam stage is reached, about 20 minutes. You could speed things along here by adding pectin, but it's not needed.

To check for "jam stage," put a clean spoon into the mixture and lift it out, looking at the back of the spoon. You want to see the jam coming off the spoon in a solid sheeting action. Additionally, if you put a little plate or two in the freezer before you start, you can drop a blob of the jam mixture onto a frozen plate, let it cool, then run your finger through it. If a gap remains where you dragged your digit, it's jam. If the "trench" fills in, keep cooking. Or, you could be sensible and just use a candy thermometer and watch for the magic 220F. I haven't gotten sensible yet.

Once jam stage is achieved, remove from heat and stir jam for 5 minutes. I don't know why, but I did it, and it turned out perfect, so you just hush and do it, too. Skim foam if necessary (I didn't have to). Pour jam into hot, sterilized jars, adjust lids, and process in a boiling water bath for however long you usually do with jams...I did mine for 10 minutes before I noticed that this recipe calls for 5 minutes. *shrug*

This was my first time using these crazy little Italian jars, and I had to go to Facebook for help with the oddly translated instructions for getting the one-piece lids to seal. You have to put them in the water bath when the water is close to the same temperature as the filled jars, then bring it up to the boil, process, and then just take the canning pot off the heat and leave the jars in the water until it's all cooled. Kinda weird, but totally worth it for the cute factor of the finished product, I think.

You Should Totally Drink This

2010-08-17T01:33:00.000-07:00

This is another recipe that I first made back when it was strawberry season in Arkansas (which is to say, late May), but I know from The Twitter and The Facebook that lots of you people are having strawberries right now, which is grossly unfair. Our season was shorter than ever this year, but I did manage to get several quarts into the freezer. Not as many as I'd like, but at least some. I served this drink to my family at the lake on a holiday weekend, along with some Mozzarella Caprese featuring fresh homemade mozzarella. It was a big day for balsamic vinegar.

Yes, balsamic vinegar is in that drink. As is basil. You're gonna have to trust me here, because this is super refreshing. I stumbled across this recipe a couple of places, and it just looked so good I had to try it...and I kept making it, because YUM. I did a few things differently, because...well, because I just did. And I've done it a couple different way since, so I'll just mention those as we go.

NOTE: You'll need to make the syrup at least one day before you plan to serve this drink.

Strawberry Balsamic Basil Soda

Basil Syrup:
1 cup water
1 cup minced fresh basil leaves
8-10 bruised basil stems
1 cup sweetener of choice (sugar, Splenda, agave syrup, even honey...I've also experimented with stevia extract, though that requires that you use more water and monkey with it a bit)

Strawberry Balsamic Puree:
2 cups chopped strawberries
2 Tablespoons GOOD balsamic vinegar (Modena--don't skimp)

Carrier:
Sparkling water, sparkling wine, tonic, seltzer, club soda...anything bubbly and neutral-ish

Syrup: In a saucepan, combine water, sweetener of choice, and basil stems. Stir to dissolve sweetener, and bring to a light boil for a minute or so. Remove from heat, cover, and let stand for 10 minutes. Add the minced basil leaves to the pan, cover, and let stand a half hour or so (until it's cool). Remove basil stems, and transfer the rest to a Mason jar with a lid, and let it steep in the refrigerator overnight. Strain out the minced basil just prior to serving.

Puree: Use a blender, food processor, or stick (immersion) blender to puree the chopped strawberries with the balsamic vinegar. You want it as smooth as possible.

Prepare four tall glasses and have whole basil leaves ready for garnish. Pour 1/2 cup strawberry balsamic puree into each glass, and add one cup of seltzer (or whatever carrier you've chosen) and 1-4 Tablespoons of the basil syrup, depending on your taste for sweetness (In my opinion, each glass needs about 3Tbsp of the syrup, which is why I doubled the original recipe), to each glass. Finish with ice to fill glasses, stir gently to combine, and add basil leaves to garnish.

Cheers!

Plumb Luscious Plum Sauce

2010-08-15T01:26:00.000-07:00

Plum season has come and gone here, and I didn't get a chance to write this up in time, but hopefully some of you in more northern climes are still getting some plums, or maybe you froze some until you figured out what to do with them...let me tell you, this is what to do with them.

I froze a good number of plums for smoothies, and made plum jam, and the darn things were so delicious that I went back to the Certified Arkansas Farmers Market the next week and bought another box of plums from The Russian Farmer. Froze some more, and decided that I wanted to do something really special with the last of them, since there wouldn't be any more fresh local plums this year. So I did what I always do when faced with such a quandary: I took it to Twitter (and by extension, Facebook, since my Twitter updates post there as well). I was rewarded with the most amazing plum sauce recipe EVER, from the lovely Joie of Canned Laughter. I only made a couple of tiny, inconsequential changes to Joie's original recipe, and I'll note those for you as we come to them.

JOIE'S PLUM SAUCE:

* 4 lbs. Dark Plums
* 8 oz. Onions
* 1 scant cup Golden Raisins
* 2 tsp. each: Whole Allspice, Peppercorns, Mustard Seeds
* 1/2 tsp. Cayenne Pepper
* 1 inch piece of bruised Ginger Root (~1/4 oz.)***I at least tripled this amount, and chopped it up--we love ginger!
* 2-1/2 cups Brown Malt Vinegar (or substitute Apple Cider Vinegar)***I used both
* 2-1/2 Tbs. pickling salt
* 1-1/3 cups soft Brown Sugar, light

Start with four pounds of beautiful, ripe (but not overripe) plums. Joie's recipe called for "dark plums," which is good, because that's what I had. Wash, chop, and pit them--no need to peel them at this time (or ever, if you do it the way I did).

Find a kid to peel the ginger for you, because peeling ginger root is a pain in the nether regions. Use a whole one-inch chunk to follow Joie's recipe, or three times that much, chopped, if you're doing it my way.

Bundle the whole spices (allspice, peppercorns, and mustard seed) in a bit of cheesecloth, tied up and secured in a nice little bindle. I fasten mine with a zip-tie, and cut off the excess cloth.

In a heavy, non-reactive (no aluminum, no non-coated iron, no copper) pot, combine chopped plums, chopped onions, raisins, ginger, half the vinegar (My bottle of malt vinegar wasn't quite enough for this recipe, so I made up the rest with organic ACV),cayenne pepper, and the sachet of whole spices.

Bring this mixture to the boil, then reduce temperature and simmer gently for about 30 minutes, or until plums are soft and pulpy. It just gets more and more beautiful as it simmers.

This next part is where I disobeyed Joie's instructions. My sauce turned out amazing, and I'm sure it does when done her way, too--heck, her way might be better. But I am lazy, and I also hate to waste anything, plus I like a strong ginger "bite" to sauces like this. So, to follow Joie's instructions, at this point you'll want to remove the spice bag, and strain the cooked sauce into another container, rubbing the contents through a fine sieve before returning the strained mixture to the original, rinsed pot.

What I did was simply to remove the spice bag, and puree everything until it was perfectly smooth. Use a blender, a food processor, or the easiest option, an immersion (stick) blender, right in the cooking pot.

Whichever route you choose, at this point you'll add in the salt, sugar, and the remaining vinegar. Bring the mixture back up to the boil, and keep it at a good bubbling simmer for about an hour, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking. It should reduce down a good bit, and thicken up some.

Ladle hot sauce carefully into hot, sterilized jars, adjust lids and rims, and process in a boiling water bath canner for 10 minutes (more if at higher altitudes--check your local extension office guidelines). Rest for 24 hours before storing in a cool, dark place (mine just live in a kitchen cabinet). Joie says that her recipe yields 2 pints, or 4 half-pint jelly jars. My batch, as you can tell from the picture at the top of this post, yielded 7 half-pint jars...probably because I pureed everything instead of straining anything out.

I really appreciate Joie sharing her recipe with me, because this plum sauce is simply divine! And look how pretty it is! This would make an amazing gift, if you are a better person than me and can resist the urge to hoard it all for yourself. I'm imagining many wonderful uses for this delicious sauce...on lamb, on chicken, or to elevate pork roast to another level altogether. And desserts? Oh, the options are endless.

Just Peachy! Part Two, Quick Fresh Peach-Tomato-Cucumber Salsa

2010-07-08T18:56:00.001-07:00

See all that stuff there? Go gather it up. I'll wait.

*tap, tap*

Oh, OK, I'll tell you what it is. Unlike yesterday's Peach-Tomato Salsa recipe, this one, using all raw ingredients, is virtually instant. Seriously, you can have it on the table in minutes from start to finish. Do NOT leave out the cucumber. I'm convinced that is what gives it its bright, fresh taste...it tastes like summer.

Fresh Peach-Tomato-Cucumber Salsa

Equal parts of the following, chopped (for measurement purposes, we'll call it a cup each):

Peaches, peeled and pitted
Tomato, cored and seeded
Cucumber, partially peeled

And:

One medium Vidalia (or other sweet) onion, peeled
One medium bell pepper, any color, seeded
2-4 fresh jalapenos, seeded
A handful of fresh cilantro, to taste
2-4 cloves garlic, crushed then chopped

And:

Lime juice, just a bit
1-2 Tbsp honey, or more to taste
A splash of white wine vinegar (this makes a huge difference)
1-2 tsp ground cumin
Salt to taste

Instructions? Combine all ingredients.

Just like before, it's up to you whether you chop or puree. And just like before, if you want it to be gorgeous, you'll chop everything uniformly. The colors are just beautiful. But if, like me, you like pureed salsa, or, like me, you are lazy, you'll just load everything into the food processor or blender and let 'er rip. Adjust the seasoning ingredients to taste at the end, adding anything you think might give it your own personal zing.

Then, you needa EAT THAT. I am not kidding when I tell you that Alex and I put away the first batch all by ourselves, in one sitting, in bed with a giant bag of tortilla chips and an awful movie. And it makes at least a quart. It's that good.

Just Peachy! Part One, Cooked Peach Tomato Salsa For Canning (or not)

2010-07-07T19:40:00.000-07:00

I love peaches. LOVE them. That smell alone just makes me happy. So the last couple of times I've been to the farmers' market, I've come home loaded down with a box full. I cut a bunch up and flash froze then vacuum sealed them, so I can have fresh peaches to put in smoothies or cook with long after their picking season has come and gone, but when it comes to peaches, there's so much more you can do.

I've had really good success with a couple of different peach salsas this year, and wanted to share them. The first one is a cooked peach-tomato salsa that I processed in jars for storage, and the second one is fresh and raw. Both are totally delicious. I'd recommend the cooked version for topping chicken or pork or adding to tacos, etc., and the uncooked version ROCKS on tortilla chips. I'm doing a separate post for each one, starting with the cooked salsa.

You'll notice lots of "ranges" in my ingredients list, partly because I was winging it, and partly because taste is so subjective. You might like things more spicy, or less salty, or loaded with garlic and onions. Taste it and go with what you like.

Peach Tomato Salsa

Yield: At least 8 pints

4-5 cups chopped tomatoes (skinned and seeded)
9-10 cups chopped peaches (skinned and pitted, duh)
1-2 cups chopped onion, depending on your taste for onions (I used two Vidalias)
3 large Bell peppers, any color (I used one each red, yellow and green)
4-6 fresh jalapenos, chopped, or more if you like heat
1 cup white wine vinegar
A bunch of cilantro, fresh or dried (since I was gonna be cooking it anyway, I used dried) to taste
1/3 cup honey
Juice of 2-4 limes
3-6 cloves garlic, crushed then chopped
2-4 tsp. cayenne pepper
2-4 tsp cumin
Salt to taste (or not at all)

You need about 15 medium-sized tomatoes: enough to make 4-5 cups of chopped tomatoes once they've been skinned and cored/seeded. Here's the easy way to do that. Even better if you have a kid around.

While you get a big pot of water boiling, fill a huge bowl, or your sink, with ice water. Drop the tomatoes into the boiling water. Watch them, and when their skins start to split, take them out, and immediately plunge them into a bowl or sink full of ice water until they're completely cool.

Might as well take advantage of that already-boiling water, and give the peaches the same treatment. Only this time, you're not waiting for their skins to split--time it, and give them about 60 seconds. Do them in batches to avoid overcooking any (I think I used about 20 medium-sized peaches). The skins should be just slightly "loose."

After they've cooled, all you have to do is gently rub the tomatoes and peaches, and the skins will slip right off. This is a perfect job for a child who keeps begging, "Let me help!" but who you mightn't want handling giant pots of boiling liquids.

Yay, nekkid fruits!

Then the boring part: You get to core the tomatoes and squoosh out all the seeds, and pit and chop the peaches. Kids are good for the squooshing (and can just tear the cores out with their hands) while you handle the knife work on the peaches.

If your peaches are going to be sitting around for any length of time, go ahead and squeeze the limes over them and mix well, to keep them nice and bright. Otherwise, you can add the lime juice at any time.

This is the point at which you decide how chunky you want your salsa (and how much time you want to spend standing at a cutting board chopping stuff up--or slaving over a food processor, whatever). For presentation purposes, having everything chopped uniformly, and kind of chunky, is definitely the most visually stunning choice, because of all the colors. Personally, I like my salsa un-chunky. I wound up splitting the difference and chopping the peaches, but pureeing everything else. Any excuse to use my Kitchen Ninja. I love that thing.

Get it all in a heavy non-reactive pot (no uncoated iron, no aluminum), add your honey, herbs, vinegar, and spices, and cook it just briefly...bring to a boil and let it bubble for, say, 6 or 7 minutes. This is where you can adjust your seasonings, add salt, whatever.

All done! You can chill some to serve right away, package it in freezer jars or bags, or go ahead and process it to store in jars on the shelf, or even give as gifts (if you're insane). I know if you've never done it before, "processing" sounds scary, and you're afraid you're gonna give everyone botulism. But if I can do it, anyone can, and water-bath canning is not that intimidating. All it really is, when you get right down to it, is funneling your salsa into piping-hot sterilized jars (you can sterilize them in your dishwasher on the hot setting, boil them, or heat them in your oven), covering with a hot, sterilized lid, screwing on that ring, then placing the filled jars on a rack in a ginormous pot of boiling water for ten minutes. That's it. Really.

When you take your beautiful jars out and place them on a clean towel on your counter top, drying the tops, the best part soon follows...listening for that magical "POP!" that tells you you did it right. I love that pop.

Next post will be a quick, easy recipe for a fresh raw peach-tomato-cucumber salsa you can throw together in minutes, and WOW whoever you feed it to. You gotta try it.