"Two souls, one heart." *

I wish Pat were writing this post, and maybe he will write a rejoinder, because he knows how he meant for the story to go, and all I can tell you is how it went.

Back story:

Pat came up behind me on Monday evening and told me to be thinking of some place to go for dinner on Friday night. "Pick some place we haven't been before, or some place that you particularly like, and we'll go out. My treat." When he treats, it's guaranteed that it won't be Burger King which may be what you end up with me treating, depending on what bills I've got to pay in a given week. So, off and on throughout the week, I thought about where we might go.

It was a rough week for me with pulling some extra hours, still being behind in my work, and dealing with a lot of the bipolar symptoms which had been decreasing but acted up again. Wednesday, Pat was going to take me out to dinner when we went for a ride, but I had so been looking forward to Friday that I asked him not to. I made dinner at home and we had a nice long, lovely ride.

Thursday started out with a moderate depression and some intrusive thoughts, and I considered going in to see my counselor as a walk-in that afternoon. As it worked out, however, the mood started improving around lunch time, and by the time I got home I was back to normal.

All that to say that it had been a bumpy week for me emotionally, but throughout it all, I was just very much looking forward to going out on Friday because Pat had been so sweet about it.

Thursday evening, I still didn't have a place in mind, so I went to a website that offered the top 30 restaurants in nearby Roswell. There were a large number that we hadn't ever been to, nor had I ever heard of, so I decided to make a game of it. I picked four that sounded intriguing and asked Pat to check the page and do the same.

It was funny to me how we picked the restaurants. I picked some edgy ones that were only moderately priced. Pat was picking some really pricy places. One we've been to before and it's excellent, really, but I laughed and reminded him that we have a wedding to budget for and turned him down.

We both did pick a crazily named place, The Swallow at the Hollow, an upscale barbecue joint. So we opted for that. After all the overtime I'd put in the last three weeks, I was really looking forward to going somewhere nice but not too dressy and just enjoying some good food and conversation with Pat.

Friday turned out to be a good day for me. I started off with some hypomania, so work went well, my mood was up, and I was looking forward to going out with Pat even more than I had earlier in the week. Things were looking up and I figured dinner would just be a nice way to end the week.

The restaurant was crowded when we got there that night, but the patio was open, so we opted to eat outside. The weather was warm, but not overly so. There was a large bunch of reed grass surrounding the corner of the porch we were on, so there was the lovely sound of a breeze through the tall reeds. Nearby trees hosted a small symphony of cicadas and crickets. There were a few other patrons outside with us and the whole atmosphere was total relaxation.

We each ordered ribs, macaroni and cheese, and another side. It's the best barbecue I've had in Georgia so far! We both enjoyed our meal heartily, and even ordered dessert. Pat had the chocolate chip banana pudding and I had cherry pie. Yum!

Finally, we were waiting for the check which was a little slow in coming.

Pat looked at me and smiled.

"It's been a really great day," he said.

"Yes, it has," I agreed.

"Work was good; you're in a good mood; we've had a great dinner; it's a beautiful evening. Only one thing would make tonight perfect," he continued.

"If we were on the bike?" I asked (I'd turned down a chance to ride it earlier in the evening).

"Well, that would make it better," he said. "But no."

Then he repeated, "Only one thing would make the evening perfect."

"If we had music?" I asked.

He stopped, looked at me, and made a kissing motion toward me.

"Oh!" I thought. "He wants some cuddling later tonight."

But before I could say anything, he said it again: "Only one thing would make tonight perfect." And he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small jewelry box, and slid it across the table to me.

It was the engagement/wedding set he bought for me that wasn't supposed to get here until late August!

I quietly squealed -- like the girl I am -- and just said, "Oh, Pat! Now?"

And he asked me quietly, "Will you marry me?"

And I, of course, said yes. Because it would be silly to say "no" when we were already planning a wedding on November 21st.

Pat teases me that I kept interrupting him, but to be honest, I misunderstood him. When he would say, "Only one thing would make this night perfect," I thought he was asking for input.

I've got to learn to listen better.

Anyway, folks, that's the story of our engagement. And yes, two souls are sharing one euphemistic heart.

* French proverb

“You can't patch a wounded soul with a Band-Aid.” *

I've been through some pretty awful things in my life. Some due to other people. Some due to my own choices. A lot due to undiagnosed mental illness in both my spouse at the time and myself. Some of it is worse than what others have gone through in their marriages; a lot of it is far better than some people have gone through. We all have our own private hells, I think.

My personal hellish relationships were over five and fifteen years ago in a matter of two divorces. Though the longer one continued past the divorce because we share a child in common and therefore had interactions with each other for a much longer time.

The shorter marriage - the one over for only five years - still involved a four year period of separation, so we were technically only together for four years. It was loud and obnoxious and fraught with arguments, but the hell more due to my as yet undiagnosed bipolar disorder and severe anxiety than anything he was putting me through.

My first husband, though. Wow. I was very young when I married him, and did so against everybody's better judgment, including mine. I had been asked if I loved him after he proposed and I honestly said, "Not yet, but I will." Because I thought the flutterings I had were love in the making and would be the stuff of which great marriages were made.

They weren't.

There was a lot of verbal and emotional abuse in that marriage. And because it wasn't physical, I didn't think of it as abuse. But the constant put downs and neglect took a heavy toll on me and there are still things that I'm working through even now.

"You can't put a bandaid on it" is true.

I came through the relationship and left it in the past, I thought. But I never dealt with the abuse. Never grieved the person I'd been at the beginning that got lost in 16 years. I took my wounds and scars and heavy scabs out of the relationship and into another marriage, then carried them out past that marriage and into a single life that was insulated within my family and a few close friends. There was no need of tending to wounds that weren't constantly being inflicted anymore...or so I thought.

Long story short, I've been working with a counselor that is alternately good for me and not worth much, but he is what my insurance affords me and he is available and means well, so we are working together. He's wanted me to write about the abuse and the relationship. I've resisted because I saw no need to revisit anything.

But I finally put pen to paper...all of twice...and the results have been scary.

The first entry in my journal left me angry and agitated. I cried some, and shared the entry with Pat so he would know what was going on, but it was the residual anger that developed into barely contained rage the next day that surprised me. It was as if I'd opened the lid to a cauldron and now it was boiling over. I was mad at me. I was mad at my ex. I was mad at the situations he put me in. I was mad over the loss of trust I'd experienced. And I was trying to work, too. I ended up angry with Pat over something relatively minor, though I didn't take it out on him, and we talked for a long time about where the anger was coming from. It helped to diffuse it. He's better than a journal for diffusion.

The second entry was in response to a video I watched. It was an apology to women who have been married to sex/porn addicts from a man who is a recovering addict. Everything he said rang true with me. I tried to write that day and got only a paragraph in before I through the journal and pen away from me and went to the security of my bathtub where I ran hot water and sobbed deep and long for all the anger, rejection, hurt, and shame I'd felt when with my ex-husband.

Apparently, all those wounds had been covered with mere bandaids. Because I wasn't being hurt any more, I thought they'd gone away. I'd known that some of the pain had been coming to me in flashbacks since I started dating Pat, which made no sense to me as Pat treats me the polar opposite of either of my exes. But he would do something wonderful, tender, and sweet, and I would flash back to something awful, cruel, and mean that my first husband had done or said.

The counselor recognized that I needed to pull off the bandaids and let the purulence out. It's a slow process, because I can't handle more than a bit at a time, and I don't know that I'd survive ripping all the bandages off all at once. I'd be a raw mess, I know.

But I'm working on it.


* Michael Connelly

Saturday Morning Musings

I'm reading a book by Rachel Held Evans called "searching for sunday: loving, leaving, and finding the church." It's about a "millennial" raised in evangelical churches who left because there wasn't room to be found inside one for her doubts and true concerns that beset her since they went against the stands of the church.

I left church for other reasons, and haven't gone back for still more, but it isn't that I don't want to. It's because I'm still scared of what I will find.

Before I get into what I've been thinking about, I want to post this quote from Brennan Manning that Evans uses in the middle of her book:

"When I am honest, I admit I am a bundle of paradoxes. I believe and I doubt, I hope and get discouraged, I love and I hate, I feel bad about feeling good, I feel guilty about not feeling guilty, I am trusting and suspicious, I am honest and I still play games. Aristotle said I am a rational animal; I say I am an angel with an incredible capacity for beer."

I don't even have to get down and dirty honest with myself to realize those things anymore. I do feel bad about feeling good. Pat says I would be a great Catholic with the amount of guilt I feel about being in a healthy relationship and having a good time in my life.  And yes, when I find myself NOT feeling guilty, I worry that something is inherently wrong with me that I don't.

I have left behind a life time of legalism, found even in evangelical churches and non-denominational churches, but especially in a plain Mennonite church. For the most legalistic of all, if they knew anything about me now, they would all be aghast with how far gone I am on the road to hell. I cut my hair, I wear jewelry and makeup, I've been divorced then remarried then divorced again, and now I am living with a man and enjoying what the world calls a healthy relationship -- all without the benefit of marriage at all (even though they would not recognize it even if I had legal documentation).

The fact of the matter is, if I am going to hell, I'm pretty sure it would be because of things that happened or didn't happen when I was a loyal-every-Sunday-morning-and-Wednesday-night-and-daily-prayer-and-worship practicing Christian.

I always doubted. I always feared. I often felt great love from God, but not always within the church, and always with tentativeness.

The great hymns spoke to me of God's majesty, Christ's sacrifice.

But Margaret Becker and Rich Mullins spoke to me of the possibility of God loving me in spite of all my doubts and many sins.

For they are many.

I have always struggled with being judgmental. It is my single biggest failing.

But in the past, I was judgmental about things that "Good Christians" were allowed to be judgmental about: homosexuality, liberalism, sexual sins, etc.

Now I'm more judgmental about people with unaccepting, close-minded attitudes. I am more angry about people bashing Caitlyn Jenner and hurting animals than I am about homosexuals asking for equal marriage rights. I'm less concerned about Martin Scorcese than I am about Joel Osteen. I'm less inclined to be forgiving to Jimmy Swaggart and Jim Bakker knowing what I know about how they were just the tip of the iceberg. I'm less worried about wearing the right clothes and being modest (though yes, I still dress pretty conservatively for a woman in 2015) than I am about people thinking my friends and relatives who are gay have a legitimate reason to say they are -- because they were born that way. Not chose that way (too many of them have said "who would choose this" - meaning "in the world's present climate" and not "because the idea repulses me but I can't help it"); not made to become that way, but - gasp - the possibility is strong that even God knew and still made them. Because what a person does with his or her body is not as important to him as what they do with their hearts.

I never knew Jesus.

There, I said it.

I learned about him. I read stories about him. I prayed to him, but never felt comfortable doing so.

I think we got it wrong so many times.

Even Jesus said to pray to God. And pointed to him as our father.

So that I could do and that I did.

But having a relationship with Jesus eluded me.

I think I would like to get to know him. But I want to know the one who hung out with sinners...since I am the biggest one I know. I want to know the one people say loves me enough to love me the way I am...but too much to let me stay that way...and doesn't withhold anything while I'm trying to come along.

I think God loves me where I am at. I think he's disappointed with me for some of my choices. Maybe even the one that has brought me the most happiness I've ever had in my life.

I don't know if that's true...it's just what I feel should be true.

Because when it comes down to it...I don't feel good enough for him.

You know what I like about myself? A lot more than I used to. I like my feet, and how I write, and how I love words, and how I laugh, and how I love people, and how I am open to new things.

But what I don't like is how I doubt so many things.

That isn't to say that it was easier when I was so sure about things, because it wasn't. When I believed everything about the Bible the way it was presented to me, it was less brain-intensive, but not wholly satisfying. I think when I've struggled and fought to know what I believe, it will be more meaningful to me.

Anyway. I'm struggling. And wanting to not struggle. But I know I need to struggle more.

It's like my weight. I lost weight. And I want to be at my ideal weight. But I'm tired of trying. And I know I need to lose more.

Nothing worth having comes easily.

It's going to be a while, I know.

“It is never too late to be who you might have been.” *

I can remember, when I was young, that I saw the world stretching out in front of me, and I had no idea who or what I would one day become. Every day was a chance at something new, and I followed a path that I set for myself.

There came a time, though, when the only thing I saw stretching out in front of me was time. I saw nothing to challenge me...nothing to do more than to draw me from one day to the next. I saw no possibility of change...of adventure...of becoming more than someone who went to work and came home, only to restart the process again the next day.

I was asked yesterday how it was I came to find the courage, the willingness, the chutzpah even, to resurrect my life and make the drastic changes I made.

It was a challenge that put it all in to motion.

"Kim," I was asked, "what is your passion in life?" A pause while I thought...and found no answer. "Or do you even have passion anymore?"

And I had to admit to the friend who had gently asked me the question that no, I no longer had passion. I had been going through the motions. I had been taking one step after another on a long familiar road that only led from one day to the next. I had no deviation, no experience outside of work and home, no plans that were not made for me to follow.

I thought about that question and remembered that my passion used to be words. I had been a newspaper editor and reporter. I made my living investigating stories, attending meetings, writing about the events in our town in a way that people who had not been able to attend would understand them. I had a column. I wrote humorous insights into daily events. I wrote inspirational columns because I thought deep thoughts and still could. I read every day...all kinds of books. I spent my free time writing to friends and communicating with others.

So I took that question...that challenge...and took a step off the path I'd been on. I decided, at age 45, to go back to school and get my degree before I was 50. At 46, I started school. Almost every day for the next four years, I poured myself into writing and did receive my degree in Creative Writing and English one month after turning 50.

It wasn't enough to get my degree, though. With the confidence I'd built in doing well in school, it was time to step out of my safe job as a cashier in a retail/restaurant establishment, and start doing something that made a difference.

Just before my 50th birthday, I became a Peer Provider at a mental health facility in my hometown in Texas. It was now my job to share my story of depression, bipolar, panic and anxiety...and how I'd come to live beyond my diagnosis and become my own person again. It was a step I'd never dreamed I would take...but rekindling my passion, pursuing my education, and deciding that the status quo was no longer satisfactory made taking that step not only possible, but necessary.

Now I'm 51. I have decided to enter into a relationship with my long-time friend, Pat. We've BOTH made a conscious decision to stop thinking we had to be alone the rest of our lives, and started entertaining the possibility of being part of a couple. We are 51 and 55 and I for one don't feel old. I feel rejuvenated...rekindled again...resurrected as my client mentioned yesterday.

Who will I be in five years? I will be strong, confident, and sure in what I'm doing. I don't know what that is yet, but I will know it when I see it. Until then, I will be strong and confident and sure of what I do and do not want. I will be bold in going after the things that I feel passionate about and not be afraid to think outside the box or be held back because I'm a woman of a "certain age".

It's not too late. It's never too late. And I will still be exactly who I might have been. :)


* George Eliot

"No one can grow in the shade." *

I've been in three major relationships in my life.

I married a man at 20. I divorced him and later married another man in my 30s. We divorced in my mid-40s. And at 50, I entered in to the relationship I am in now.

At 20, there were a myriad of reasons that I chose to get married. None of them were good enough to base a life-time commitment on. I barely knew the man, who was older than me...who had been out in the world...who had embarked on a career. I was young, had never seriously dated anyone before, had never worked out a compromise in a relationship, and had only worked the typical high school/college jobs. I had no clue about how a relationship was supposed to work, so I decided to take his word for How Things Were Supposed to Be and tried to submit to his ideal of What A Wife Should Be.

Seen and not heard. Maybe not seen at all.

He preferred attending military functions, which typically included the spouse, on his own. He preferred shopping different parts of the store than me when we were out.

Shy. Submissive. Subjugated.

Which I'm not. Which I tried to be. Which I became.

And what growth I managed to do in the shade of his attempted control turned out to be rather stunted.

So in my 30s, when I was manic, and I married again, I made sure not to marry a controller.

Instead, he wanted me to be in charge of everything...and he wanted to be close. All the time. Overwhelmingly close.

I couldn't leave the house without being called every few minutes to "see how you're doing." I couldn't talk to my friends or family without him interrupting me to make jokes or ask questions that could very well have waited. I couldn't leave the room without him asking where I was going.

And in the shade of his clinginess and smothering, I did not grow at all.

I was also very unhealthy at that time -- in the throes of a bipolar roller coaster, not yet diagnosed, and desperately needing help.

When I got help...when I started to get healthy...when I tried to take back some of the strength I had gained when I was on my own...the marriage (always shaky) quickly died and we separated, then divorced.

I became strong. I began to grow.

Slowly, and with the help of family and friends who did not try to control me or smother, but always encouraged me and supported me as I began to take steps to set my future in place.

Now, in this third relationship, I started out healthy and strong on my own. My friend and I met on equal footing, in a long-term supportive friendship, and built on that. We talk...about everything. We discuss important things and chat about silly things. We celebrate both our similarities and our differences. We explore each other's thoughts, dreams, likes and dislikes, discovery ways to interact and connect. We support each other in the decisions we have to make. More than a girlfriend...more than a lover...he wants a partner. He doesn't want me to be anyone but me. He doesn't want me to put myself under his control...he wants me on equal footing. He doesn't want me to be his mother or his constant-every-minute-of-every-day-touchstone...he wants me to be his companion. He wants us to have our own interests independent of each other, as well as things we enjoy and do together.

It is the healthiest relationship I have ever known.

I had to grow and get healthy to find it.

I could not grow in the shade...but in the nourishment of family and friends whose love was unconditional.

* Leo Buscaglia

“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” *

For My Love:

You said tonight that we are desperate. Then you clarified and said that you are, because you are old.

I do not see you as old, my love. We are late coming to each other as lovers...but we've long been friends...and I think we came to love each other at just the right time in our lives.

I would agree that we had both come to a place where we thought nothing would ever change. That as far in the future as we could see, things would never really change in us and for us. Maybe some things would change externally – like homes, jobs, neighbors, and even a few friends. But I think we were both set in our hearts...or at least our minds...that we ourselves were unchanging, and just going along with life as life came to us.

Then we rediscovered each other as friends...and allowed our curiousity to be aroused as to what else might be possible for us. We each made, at first, a small...internal...but all-important change inside ourselves...that allowed us to dream and hope for something more than just the status quo in our lives. Tentatively at first. With a lot of maybes qualifying even the smallest of future plans. We are worriers and our anxiety...and perhaps our complacency with how things had always been for us...kept us from being too self-assured in the “what can be” department, and we danced still awhile longer in the “well...it would be nice if” realm. So many ifs.

But we grew bolder...independently and jointly. And our maybes became “can be” and now we are working on “will be”. Will be. We'll be.

You're 55. I am 51.

But we are not old, my love. We are mature. We are seasoned by life and practicality. We are wise to the ways of the world in many respects. We know that time passes...too quickly...and that we won't have it forever. We know that things happen suddenly and all that is external can change in an instant. We don't deny that there will be an end to all things...even ourselves.

But we are not “old” in the sense that we have nothing left to live for, strive for, learn, give, receive. We have not given up on life in the least.

We gave up...not even unwillingly...the idea that life was all planned out for us as far as we could see. We took a chance that there was more out there for us...and more inside us than we'd dreamed...and we found a partner with whom we can share all that we are discovering.

We are constantly finding new things to enjoy independently and together. We've had so many “firsts”. So many. You drove 2000 miles and more to prove I existed...that I'm real...that my feelings for you are true in person and not just online. I rode a motorcycle and experienced a freedom in movement and feeling that I'd never known before. We explore each other's mind and body and discover nuances in ourselves and one another that we'd only suspected before...if we'd ever suspected them at all. We met in Salt Lake for our first Nerdtacular. My first DragonCon and your first with a companion from start to finish each day. (I think, love of my life, that when we dress up next year, we should go as a Doctor and one of the companions.) You shared your bed for the first time in your new home and had someone live with you for a week. You've opened your heart more widely than I think even you dreamed you could...and I've found a true friend and passionate lover such as I had only imagined in my finest, highest thoughts.

We let go of the life that had been...and would be...and we are making a new life together...finding what life has in store for us...waiting for us for how long now?

There are infinite infinities to call to mind the first movie we saw together. And whether it is five years, fifteen, or another thirty...I would rather spend all of those years...days...with you...than how I have been spending the last fifteen, twenty, thirty.

I'm no longer content to let life just happen to me. I don't think you are, either.

We may be 55 and 51...we may have bodies that need a little helping along in different areas...but our hearts and minds are young. Because we are learning and discovering and enjoying and anticipating and exploring this new life as children do: whole-heartedly and openly. And we're doing it together.

There is so much waiting for us, Pat. So very much.

Don't feel desperate. Embrace the passion we've found for life and for each other. Whatever time we have will be all the time we were meant to have. We don't have to be desperate to enjoy it. We just have to experience it gratefully and joyfully. As we have been.

* E. M. Forster

“Anger always comes from frustrated expectations” *

Tonight, I spent far too much time being angry.

That it was based on frustrated expectations I was well aware. That I was choosing to be angry over a perceived slight was also clear to me. Yet I wasted some precious time and a lot of energy being angry at someone I love deeply and with whom I celebrate many things every day.

Because of assumptions about what certain phrases mean to him because they mean something clearcut to me, I let myself get angry when I felt I was being left out of his evening plans or being blown off for something else.

What was his heinous crime? Something atrocious. He made plans with me for tonight, had a slight chance in plans this morning, and didn't tell me that things were going to go a little differently than originally thought. So here I was, ready for one thing, only to find out something else entirely was going on. He meant to tell me that we were still on for the evening...that things were only temporarily delayed...but didn't know that my understanding was that this was all going to take all evening and I may as well find a good book, read, and nurse my wounded pride and hurt feelings until I felt like being civil again.

He came home, all happy to see me, ready to talk, and I was icy.

"I'm glad you're home. I'm upset and not talking to anybody. Maybe we can talk later this week."

(Put me off, will you? I will put YOU off and you can see how it feels.)

But he hadn't put me off...only run into a slight delay in our plans...and through no fault of his own did not know he hadn't communicated adequately with me.

Poor guy didn't know what he'd done.

And what he'd done was no big deal. And I was already kicking myself because I know I was being mean and stubborn about my hurt feelings and anger. I know I was choosing to disregard the thousands of ways he shows he loves me and focused on one thing that made me think I didn't matter much.

Irrational.

I knew it.

And I became angry then at myself. Frustrated because I was letting expectations...frustrated though they might have appeared...bring me down.

This is the second time it's happened. A miscommunication. A misunderstanding. My mind going to dark places it has no business going...no reason to seek out.

And both times he has been concerned about my well-being. Has apologized without accepting blame for my own actions but acknowledging his part in the misunderstanding. And neither time did he get angry back.

I don't think he's incapable of getting angry, because we've had a falling out before in the distant past that we eventually worked through. But I find I have great difficulty in accepting that he can work with me through a difficulty without first getting angry back at me and demanding an accounting.

I apologize readily when I know I'm wrong. Hell, I apologize readily for things that have nothing to do with my own actions or emotions. I spent years figuring out how bad things were my fault and accepting blame for many things I had no influence or control over. I spent years trying to unlearn those ingrained behaviors and deferences.

My first husband took advantage of my willingness to believe everything was my fault. If I dared raise questions or get high emotions of hurt or anger, he always turned things around and called me neurotic for expressing emotions or concerns. I was quick to believe then that he was right...and I was right...and any discord was completely my fault.

Pat, while acknowledging where I've screwed up and not making excuses for my leaping to conclusions or making false assumptions, never blames me or tries to make me feel guilty for being a very flawed human working through a new relationship. He doesn't yell at me. He doesn't get angry with me. He doesn't make excuses for me, but he always tries to understand what happened.

It's scary being that accepted.

It's unnerving to be forgiven when I feel I should be held accountable and made to make amends somehow.

He holds nothing over my head. He lords nothing over me. His equanimity is generous and so far, boundless.

I don't get it.

But it has the aroma of grace.

And I am humbled at the manner in which he bestows it.

I only hope, when the tables are turned and I've inadvertently wounded him and he thinks to lash out, that I will be as simply loving and gracious as he has been with me.

This is a relationship in which I am learning many new things and striving to unlearn old thought patterns and behaviors.

Wish him well, for he will need patience.

And wish me well, for I will need to learn to accept...acceptance.


* Elliott Larson