Life Story

Some people
front-load
their condition in life

The what could have been’s
the almosts

The man who reaches
across to me on the train
needs connection with me

Some people play pretend
paranoia of public transportation
but I listen.

He passed on a way
to dribble the ball
on university nickle.

Many an ex-athlete
shares this story

An alternate life
parallel existence

of almost military discipline.

5 March 2017  

Quote of the Week

By religion I do not mean outward things, but inward states, I mean perfected manhood. I mean the quickening of the soul by the beatific influence of the divine Spirit in truth, and love, and sympathy, and confidence, and trust.-Henry Ward Beecher

Paintbox

Last night I had too much to drink
Sitting in a club with so many fools
Playing to rules
Trying to impress but feeling rather empty
I had another drink
Drink, a, drink, a, drink, a, drink

What a way to spend that evening
They all turn up with their friends
Playing the game
But in the scene I should have been
Far away
Away, away, away, away, away
Getting up, I feel as if I'm remembering this scene before
I open the door to an empty room
Then I forget

The telephone rings and someone speaks
She would very much like to go out to a show
So what can I do, I can't think what to say
She sees through anyway
Away, away, away, away, away

Out of the front door I go
Traffic's moving rather slow
Arriving late, there she waits
Looking very angry, as cross as she can be
Be, a, be, a, be, a, be, a, be
Getting up, I feel as if I'm remembering this scene before
I open the door to an empty room
Then I forget

Gonna Get Ye All

eight years of

unmedicated schizophrenics

on public transportation

this is only
bigcitylife

eight years of

extensive documentation

electronically
notated

to be preserved
forever

waiting rooms

blood pressure cuffs

quiet raps upon the door

the legacy I leave behind

at my death

will leave behind me

ample historical record

any biographer who wants

to know me

should know my doctors

first.

3 March 2017

Scattered

I arrive in confusion
and I leave in confusion.

blessed are
the confused

today I stumbled in
three seconds late

the procession was
five steps from its beginning
two men in lockstep
and liturgical robes

i lost my place
i lost my place
i lost my place
again

outdated editions
create problems

the oldest amongst us
hardly need reminding
repetition is their friend

this foreign language
desperate for my learning
as any immigrant in a strange land
must do for themselves

time for shaking hands
the minister trips slightly
on folding chairs
extending himself to me

There is quiet here
Noiseless reverence

2 March 2017

New Style

Readers,

I didn't post here for about a month and a half. Now I'm trying an experiment. I want to publish working drafts of poems here. You can see for yourself the progression of editing from draft one to the concluding draft. Be part of this exercise in creative expression.

Cathedral

winding my way
through spirals of gray

to embrace a message
that led others to wage wars

militarist language
opens just a crack

in the liturgy

my knees hurt constantly
kneeling on uncomfortable benches

is this part of the penitence?
To be as uncomfortable as possible
while prostrate before the Lord?

what is my purpose in all this
I am clumsy and easily confused
in this labyrinthine space

I ask for a blessing in the end
The rector has no oil
but says a prayer on my behalf
for my health

once a blonde-haired Australian woman
anointed my head with oil
in the sign of the cross

pulling from a small, circular box
that looked a bit like cylindrical chap stick

it was sticky and covered my forehead
I did not wash it for a week.

I have knelt to accept's Christ's sacrifice again
This I did early in life many times,
but without real wine and real bread.

Wafter and grape juice
and songs sung in Sunday School on record players
of biblical heroes

even the Old Testament.

I will return again tomorrow
to wind my way through another
journey through the book of common prayer

more mysteries
more copying of others who
have the system down much better than me

Sticking Together, Glue Like

I meet , daily, at 11 am, with a group of four
Grim, unsmiling people.

one of them, the lead
wears a priest's collar

and I wonder if he's judging me
negatively because I don't attend Mass.

Shades of orange
Their auras, I suppose
wrapped around laptops

I felt like the
chairman of the board

leaning down the table
hands extended

and I didn't like it.

In their capable, authoritarian hands
Much went on behind the scenes.

In the meantime
I get to see what people do in prison
to pass time

I could see the criss-cross cut
of self-harm on one patient

and the girlfriend too young
to understand adult caretaking

At least I was not the couch-stuck posture of
the clinically depressed

I’m tentacled to a hospital staff
Their recommendations determine my fate

And I shuffle impatiently
Waiting for an answer

Bodily, restless
This is medical purgatory.

1 March 2017

New Poem II

winding my way
through spirals of gray

to embrace a message
that led others to fight wars

what is my purpose in all this
I am clumsy and easily confused
in this labyrinthine space

I ask for a blessing in the end
The rector has no oil
but says a prayer on my behalf
for my health

I have knelt to accept's Christ's sacrifice
This I did early in life many times,
but without real wine and real bread.

I will return again tomorrow
to wind my way through another
journey through the book of common prayer

New Poem

I meet , daily, at 11 am, with a group of four
Grim, unsmiling people.

Their auras seemed to
Emit the hue of orange

In their capable, authoritarian hands
Much went on behind the scenes.

The panic of medicine
Of overloaded hospitals
Of cutting cost and nickel and
diming patients and employee alike

We’re getting sicker.
We’re staying sicker.

I can stay here
Ten days only

A rebellious kid aged -1 when I was born
Was there for hell raising adventures
And made me feel extremely old.

So many faces
Staring blankly at television

Made me glad I only had
The problems I did
And not the couch-stuck posture of
The clinically depressed

I’m tentacled to a hospital staff
Their recommendations determine my fate

And I shuffle impatiently
Waiting for an answer

Quote of the Week

It is not my purpose to attempt a real autobiography. I simply want to tell the story of my experiments with truth...as my life consists of nothing but those experiments.-Mahatma Gandhi

Saturday Video

I'm on the white cliffs of Dover
Thinking it over and over
But if I jump it's all over
A cautionary tale for you
I'd like to roll in the clover
With you over and over
On the white cliffs of Dover
And then I'd let you push me over

If that is the fact, then in actual fact
It's not where it's at
And it's over
Oh-oh, if that is the fact, then in actual fact
It's not where it's at
It's all over
Yes it is

And now the bluebirds are over
Over the white cliffs of Dover
And when you push me over
Don't bury me I'm not worth anything

If that is the fact, then in actual fact
It's not where it's at
And it's over
Oh-oh, if that is the fact, then in actual fact
It's not where it's at
It's all over
Yes it is

I'm Back!

Thanks for being patient with me. I was very ill.

Forget the Second Amendment. Please Don't Sell Me a Gun

I am one of the estimated 75,000 people on the federal disability roster for mental health reasons. Until a few days ago, I was barred via President Obama’s Executive Order from purchasing a gun. A few days ago, President Trump lifted the ban, making me eligible to purchase a firearm or handgun, assuming I even wanted one, which I do not. I believe in strong gun control and as a pacifist Quaker, I take our famous Peace Testimony seriously. Contrary to the line of logic that led President Obama to establish the initial order, if I am to be entirely truthful, I worry not for the safety of others, but that I might in a moment of unrelenting depression turn the gun on myself. That is a grim little statement, but I think it needs to be heard in the face of those most concerned with the supposed self-preservation of themselves and other people.

It is true that the mentally ill face a stigma that they are violent and prone to random acts of violence. I myself, in the course of my life, have once been wrongly assumed of being yet another workplace shooter with an ax to grind. It’s the major reason I am not fit to work, which is a tough thought to choke down. I would like to be a fully productive citizen in every and all pertinent definitions and conceptions, but I’m afraid in spite of myself I fall short.

Back then, I was in the grips of a powerful manic episode, the opposite polar extreme of what is still often known as manic depression. In reality, during that time, I was only a danger to myself through impulsive and potentially self-injurious behavior, but not to anyone else, least not my co-workers or customers. But there has been so much misinformation spread and ample terror to go round to lead many to a false conclusion. In those times, it led some to the same ends as I have described above and I found my employment abruptly terminated.

I understand that this issues is nuanced. Mental health advocates have gone on the record to say that they don’t necessarily oppose the removal of this ban. But it is also true that, periodically, this country, if not the world, faces another instance of senseless, malicious violence at the hands of a severely mentally ill and armed person. At root is insufficient data. The brain is a complicated organ, one barely understood by contemporary medicine. There is no way for sure to know what separates dangerous from wholly benign, but as for the former, there are multiple warning signs that need never be overlooked (and often are until it is too late).

As for myself, I narrowly avoided being arrested for the mere thought that I might be a threat to someone else. Instead, I was involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital for three and a half weeks. The perspectives of other people in the midst of situations like these make all the difference in the world. I will be forever grateful to other Quakers in my own home Meeting at the time who did not shrink from me, but locked arms to assist me as best they could. And when the mania lifted and it was time to head home, one particular Friend drove me to Sunday Meeting for Worship for months, expecting nothing in return, though she will always receive my undying gratitude until the end of time. One Friend told me, in all sincerity, that the Meeting felt “honored” (his words) to come to my aid. May this be the example that we all emulate should it come our time to serve our fellow person. I am not branded with the shame of my past conduct, as it was absolutely nothing I did or could help.

Thankfully, I will never be that sick again. As it turns out, I was taking a very strong antidepressant at the time that is rarely prescribed these days, but not taking a mood stabilizer like Lithium or Depakote. Without a mood stabilizer in the bloodstream, being triggered into mania is always possible. It will be part of my daily pill regimen for the rest of my days, but like my illness itself, I have accepted it and will live my life to the fullest.

As a society and a country, we need to really do some soul-searching that goes beyond black and white thinking. Issues like these require our thoughtful participation. We can’t shrink away from them, or push them towards certified professionals who perform clean-up duty. For these professionals, they work stressful jobs with plates never anything other than heaped full. It’s easy to burn out if you are in mental health and over time I’ve learned that it takes a particular person with a particular perspective on life to really be effective.

I wish the American people would see me in the best possible light, as a person with a severe chronic illness, but not as someone who is seconds away from going postal. And I wish this same crucial restraint and thoughtfulness for anyone like me who suffers with mental illness in any form, be it depression, bipolar disorder, or schizophrenia. We have come a long way when it comes to humane responses, and we’ve modified our treatment of those who suffer with a greater emphasis upon progress. Even a century or so ago I might well have been lobotomized into a perpetual eight year old state or even locked up in chains in some dark institution. Let’s keep our eyes and hearts open without resorting to base fear.

But as I began, let’s modify, if only in our minds, this executive order through a little more thought and imagination. A paranoid schizophrenic is not the same as a person who struggles with depression so intense that it is a struggle to bathe and eat. Under the particulars of the Obama Executive Order, both were banned from purchasing a gun. This order only applies, as I noted above, to 75,000 citizens of a country of over 300 million people, though the number of people with mental illness in this country stretches to the millions itself. Surely we can be a bit more selective and critical. Surely we can make the right decision for everyone. And as I conclude, I want to note that most people who suffer from mental illness are not a danger to other people. Even in more enlightened times, they twist and turn and fret and wring their hands in silence, without advocates or loving counselors.

I turn again to a passage from the Gospel of Matthew that is pertinent today in many ways. Let’s hear these words one. more. time.

34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. 36 I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.’
37 “Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing?39 When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’
40 “And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’

Quote of the Week

Experience is a good teacher, but she sends in terrific bills.-Minna Antrim

An Alternate View of Being Born Again

Now there was a Pharisee, a man named Nicodemus who was a member of the Jewish ruling council. He came to Jesus at night and said, "Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God. For no one could perform the signs you are doing if God were not with him."

Jesus replied, "I tell you the truth, unless you are born again, you cannot see the Kingdom of God." "What do you mean?" exclaimed Nicodemus. "How can an old man go back into his mother's womb and be born again? Jesus replied, "I assure you, no one can enter the Kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit.- John 3:1-5

____________

When I was in elementary school, I rode the bus to and from school. The driver was a kindly man named Brother Pete who was a lay minister at a local church. He talked regularly about the sinful life he had lived before he was born-again. I admit I didn’t really understand the concept, aside from the fact that it was a religious one different with my own. The way I felt was not judgmental, though I neglected to pick up the leaflets of religious literature always stationed at the front of the bus, or the free bumper stickers that warned me to not be caught dead without Jesus. The Methodist Jesus I knew in my childhood never pushed the idea that being saved before the end of life was of paramount importance.

As I grew into a typically questioning teenager, I began to be skeptical of the idea of being born again. It seemed too easy, too neat. One could make the initial step, but to be human is to backslide, to sin, to err. How could I know that being born again could really take, that it could be a transformative event that would revolutionize a person’s life from then going forward? I knew my own hypocrisies, my own shortcomings that routinely proved me to be a hypocrite. I made vows to change, adhered to them for a while, and then always broke the promises I’d made to God and to myself.

A story is told of the influential Protestant theologian Martin Luther. Luther would spend hours praying at a church, be satisfied with his work, and make plans to leave and accomplish other matters. Then he would have a sinful thought, and furious with himself, return to the church to pray for hours more. Luther held himself to a high standard, as he did the Roman Catholic Church, as our history teaches us.

I’ve written numerous times about my struggles with mental illness. I’ve also written numerous times about my Quaker faith. For the sake of a non-Quaker audience, allow me to share the story of our founder, George Fox. It is postulated that Fox suffered from bipolar disorder, and it is almost certain that he experienced debilitating periods of self-doubt and depression. Early in his ministry, in 17th Century England, Fox wandered the countryside in search of peace of mind. He found no shortage of advice and people who gave him explicit instructions of things to do to provide resolution to his internal crisis.

Like George Fox, I have wandered from person to person, place to place, seeking guidance and a lasting cure to that which has been troubling me deeply. Once, in my twenties, I visited an Episcopal church for a time, thinking that surely there would be the answers and the peace that I craved. On Sunday morning, during the service, a man about my age went out of the way to show me how to sing the hymns, to say the prayers, to know what to do and when to do it. But even entertaining the prospect of being a devout Episcopalian was not enough for me.

The order of service noted that special blessings were provided to those who requested them in special circumstances. I made my inquiries, and was directed to a smaller worship room adjacent to the larger worship space. As I waited eagerly, a priest arrived to greet me, who I recall was a blonde haired Australian woman. She asked me my reason for the blessing, and though I wanted to blurt out everything, I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t answer. She didn’t press me long.

I remember how she smiled at me and asked me to kneel in front of me. She opened a small circular metal container full of a clear, greasy, waxy oil. In accordance with my wishes, she intoned a blessing and with a thumb made the sign of the cross on the center of my forehead. For the moment, I felt greatly relieved. Surely this act would accomplish its purpose. I admit I did not wash the oil from my body for days afterwards, intending to extend the power and potency of this ritual as long as possible.

When I have resurfaced from a depressive or manic episode, I have come to associate the experience with being born again. And in so doing, I pray for a fresh start, a new lease on life. Manic episodes have been destructive to myself and others, leaving me with substantial guilt, a guilt I have hoped to cast upwards to God. Born again doesn’t have to mean a conservative Christianity obsessed with having every soul avoid a life spent in hellfire and brimstone. And for those of us who don’t have chronic illnesses like I do, born again might mean a recommitment to live a good life, a Godly life, a time spent on Earth working for the betterment of our fellow person, as we interpret it.

As for me, I believe in Heaven. To some, Heaven is a sweet notion of a place where we can rid ourselves of our human limitations and the basic pettiness of life as flawed creatures. And I understand why some are skeptical, why some believe that this life is all we have, after which we die and cease to live. But I have seen the heavenly parts of other people, the best case scenarios of interpersonal conduct, and I don’t think of basic nature is corrupt and evil. We can be easily knocked off course and misdirected in unhelpful ways, but this to me is not proof that no goodness exists in humanity. Together we are working to perfect ourselves as a people and as a civilization, even when we backtrack or go sideways.

One of my favorite poems is “Mother to Son” by Langston Hughes. It summarizes the human condition, the back and forth between pain and pleasure, joy and pain. But the message within it is a positive one. Keep hope. Keep moving forward. Fight the good fight with all your might. There are challenges ahead of us but we have a duty to ourselves and to everyone else to fight for what is right, what is fair, and what is just.

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time

I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Saturday Video

Lookin' back on my life
You know that all I see
Are things I could've changed
I should have done

Where did the good times go?
Good times so hard to hold
This time this time
This time I'm gonna find

Lookin' back on my life
You know that all I see
Are things I could've changed
I could have done
No time for sad lament
A wasted life is bitter spent

So rise into the light
In or out of time
Gonna rise straight through the light
In or out of time

Woke up one other day
The pain won't go away
I am growing
In peculiar ways
Into a light I pass

Another dream, another trance
This time, this time
This time I'm gonna rise into the light
In or out of time

Gonna find my way in life
In or out of sight
I'm still seeing things in black and white
Gonna rise straight into the light
In or out of sight

I'm gonna see the light
I'm gonna see the light
I'm gonna see the light

'Cause I know there is time
There is time
There is time
There is time
There is time
There is time
There is time
There is time

This time, this time
This time, this time
This time, this time
This time, this time

Please Please Don't Go

I'm not going to write about everything in my life. Though I have more than ample reserves to pull from, this blog is too public a forum for that. Much to my disappointment, my new therapist called in sick today, begging off to reschedule for tomorrow. I have in my mind how I'll introduce the information I intend to convey tomorrow. It's a sad story of cause-and-effect, and I think would be true for anyone who had been forced into a sexual environment at far too young an age. The problem is that the problems created don't wholly go into remission.

About six years ago I decided to confront childhood trauma through a specialized form of therapy. It is called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (or EMDR, for short.) I was quite enthusiastic about it, even saving up money for the expensive sessions, which were $150 a piece. Insurance did not cover them even a penny. In theory, this method would finally allow me to move past the pain of the past. What it ended up doing is heavily destabilizing me on a strong emotional and psychological level.

At the time, I was trying to organize a Young Adult Quaker group and I regularly took e-mail addresses of interested parties. Unfortunately, the traumatized part of me later reached out to complete strangers with intense pleas for help and assistance. After collecting their contact information during the day, a dark night would eventually come and I would feel a compulsion to reach out. I'd e-mail someone like this. Help me! Help me! I'm in so much pain. Can you do something?

I know it's odd to receive an e-mail like this from someone you barely know. And I received a variety of responses. Some people were cold as fish or shocked and pushed me away immediately. (A few of them wrote for a prominent online Femininst publication) Some felt that I was creepy and spread word along similar lines. Some were afraid. But these do not comprise every response. I'm thankful for the people who weren't scared off. I'm grateful for those who knew that I wasn't well and directed me and healthy solutions. That is really all we can do when we find others who we know are in suffering and pain. If we can, we should give them avenues to help heal themselves. And, of course, in my situation, a basic understanding of the forms mental illness takes would have been of fantastic value to anyone reaching out and certainly those seeking to judge me.

Several people became afraid of me. I was in the middle of the chaos and unable to articulate what was really going on to anyone else. It wasn't until sessions ended months later and my head cleared that I made sense of what had happened. I had no knowledge of what happened and have only been able to piece back what transpired through old e-mail records. To this day, some people think I'm a harasser of other people because they didn't understand (and still don't) know to deal with a person in severe crisis. Would it have been too much to ask for people to not automatically jump to the worst case scenario? All is not what it seems to be here.

Don't get me wrong. The world that young women, in particular, face is difficult enough. The vulnerability they display to the world does not guarantee safety. But rather than seeing everything automatically as a threat, I'd prefer we not scare the hell out of women in every circumstance to secure their safety. I wasn't anything to be anxious or worried about it. I was just a really sick man, one about their age, who just wasn't well enough to state his needs sufficiently and get the medical help he needed. And for that, I suffered and was labeled some terrible things by people who didn't bother to understand the situation enough before they rushed to judgment.

Back to what I was talking about before, the issues with boundaries and crisis have roots that begin very soon in life. I'll begin at the beginning tomorrow afternoon. I'm trying yet again to be more comfortable around men. Because men abused me, my trust and comfort level with them is not very high. This then places me around women, who have a tendency to not understand a physically large man and his emotional struggles.

Nothing makes me guiltier than to have scared and frightened women who feared for the worst with me. If only I could have let them know that their concerns were baseless, and that I am always more a harm to myself than to anyone else. I hate that other men have led validity to fears like these. I can be an advocate and an ally speaking against this sort of objectionable behavior. But the lesson here is that we can paint with too broad a brush here in seeking to specify what means "dangerous".

I fume with anger at the serial abuser, because I have known them within my own family and I know how real their violence and rage are. Those are not my stories to tell, but I have known them, and experienced them in the faces of family members I loved. One of my sisters speaks out openly at her abusive ex-husband and I'm proud of her for being vocal about domestic abuse. Things are not nearly as cut-and-dried as some might want to believe.

The Great Existential Post

The bitterness of the past Presidential election and Trump victory have knocked me off my moorings. It's not this big existential liberal dilemma as much as it is a lack of writing material and a great unknown facing me. I don't want to write a hit piece on Trump every day, even though there will be great opportunities for righteous indignation arriving on the scene soon. Part of it is that I'm not physically and mentally sound at the moment.

About every three or four years I switch therapists. It's nothing personal against my past provider. I've observed what her limitations are and have decided to try again, seeking a new skill set and range of possibilities. She's the first true PhD psychologist I have seen in probably ten years, having relied usually on LCSWs, even those with tons of experience and multiple degrees. The true PhDs can be pricier and more exclusive, or not take insurance at all. This time around I probably sent out ten inquiries to prospective therapists and got two prospective leads. This one seemed to be the best fit.

The new therapist appears to be in her mid-fifties, a native both of the South and New England, with a personality that is quirky and a little introverted. She specializes in adult ADD, which is a condition that I fortunately don't have. During our first interview in the get-to-know-you period, she mentioned she had a snake-handling (her words, not mine) part to her personality and personal spirituality. I'm curious to know more what that means. Apparently her husband was once a Methodist minister. As a person of faith, I find that a comforting notion, meaning she can understand the importance I assign to that part of my life. I was raised a Methodist, so I'm familiar with that language and liturgy.  

The past therapist was kindly but could be a little emotionally distant at times. Being married to a Briton might have been part of it, but though always kind she did not always encourage easy introspection. I found her personality getting in my way from time to time. I was never fully comfortable with her for the whole of our time together, which I thought I would get over eventually. She could be hand's off to a fault with judgment and when I expected more involved engagement, which is not to say that she is not proficient at the craft, but that I probably outgrew her. Some personalities mesh more effectively with others. I'd love to find a perfect meeting of the minds that lasts for years and years, but I've never found it yet. Some people keep their same therapist for decades, but it's never worked like that for me.

In short, I'm depressed again. The last 34 sessions of Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation were effective, but not enough. I meet tomorrow evening with a doctor to get another 36 on the way. I've been able to manage with a fraction of the antidepressant medication of I had to take before. That is a significant improvement. I don't have the scary dipping lows that I used to experience. The doctor is going to have to be emphatic to the insurance company of why I need a second round to get it to cover the new sessions. It will require a lot of jargon and finagling on his part, but soon I'll start my schedule of regular weekly travels again. If the first round worked so well, I'm optimistic that the second will be as successful.

Each session costs $300-$400. I'm fortunate that I live in a region of the country where the machines are available and insurance plans cover the treatment. This same method has been proposed as an effective treatment for my mother's condition, but as a condition of getting started, the one provider with a machine demanded $7000 up front, which isn't affordable. It makes me mad, but there's nothing I can do about it. These are the benefits of living on the East Coast.

As I return to how I started out, I remember the therapists who have treated me over the years. My favorite was a middle-aged Canadian woman who I used to burn CDs for, back in the days that we did such things for each other. I was alone on my own in a big city, a very bad relationship just concluded. No one ever took the time to get to know me as much as she did, or maybe it wasn't as difficult for her. When I had been recently treated so cruelly it would have been impossible to not love someone who provided a steady diet of positive reinforcement and effective guidance.

I wrote the last time about my partner's grieving process. That continues at a pace that I cannot control, even if I might want. She zones out in front of the television or breaks into quiet moments and I try to give her the space she needs. This is a new thing for me as it is for both of us, but at least we only have to go through this one time. I'm hoping it will be several years before her father passes away. I was ready to be at her side through the passing away of parents, but anticipated it well into my later adulthood. None of us knows the time or place, as the saying goes.

I'm going to conclude for now. Writing has been difficult recently, for a variety of reasons. I will try my best to put up a substantive post every week or few days.