My first drink was either a fuzzy navel or Black Velvet and Coke. Say what you will about the Canadian whiskey, it did the trick and got me wasted. I was barely a teen. I graduated on to harder things that occupied most of my time and attention for the rest of my teen years… Then I met Jesus. Say what you will about the Middle Eastern Savior, He did the trick, got me saved and washed me clean!

My life was new, I was born again, and I really took that to heart! I embraced being clean, and church and the word of God and life without drugs. I didn’t drink for about a year after that divine deliverance from drugs, but then added alcohol back. There was no out-of-control binge; like all of the little foxes in life, it crept in a little at a time. Mike’s hard lemonades with family barbecues. Raspberry Smirnoff Ice while camping in the summer. When it was cold I loved hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps. And I lived there for years. I don’t think it was an issue. I could ask my kids, but I’d be scared of their answer and I could ask my ex, but he wouldn’t answer anyway.

Then wine. It tasted disgusting, but it was a whole lot cheaper and “healthier” than those sugar laden Smirnoff’s so… I embraced the bottle, for my heart’s sake when I started to focus on my health and fitness in 2008 after my grandpa died. Concerned, because of my addictive nature and past I did fervent research (all online of course) to find out what was an ‘acceptable’ amount to drink and for years made sure I didn’t exceed the acceptable limit… most of the time. But somewhere along the way the rules disappeared. It was a bottle every two nights and then she who budgeted and shopped fastidiously would magically need something at the store every other day and a full bottle of Merlot would fall into the basket too.

I can’t remember when, in the course of life, I had the talk with my ex, but I do distinctly remember where. We were walking west toward the street in front of an elementary school near our house and I told him I was concerned I may be drinking too much alcohol. I cannot remember anything more about the walk or the conversation. I remember when we moved from Snohomish County to wine country how surprised I was that so much of the culture here includes a drink with everything… well maybe not all Bible studies, but some of them for sure. I loosened up, maybe I was just being too hard on myself.

Then I got stupid drunk the spring break of 2012. My adopted daughter, Matea, was lost to me and my best dog ever was dead and I was fiery mad at God. I got drunk and I ran a six mile training run, mostly in the dark and somehow ended up swinging on an outdoor swing made by strong hands I don’t know anymore. He came to me, in his silent way, and tried to offer comfort. I sent him away with horrible, hurtful words, I did but didn’t mean. He left and I stumbled my way to my dog’s grave in the back yard and cried, and screamed to God, while Jeremy Riddle’s “Sweetly Broken” flooded into my ears on repeat.

I wanted my daughter back! God knew it and I knew God knew it but up to that point, I plead to God with tempered restraint. Not that night, HOW DARE YOU TAKE HER!!! WHY DID YOU EVEN BRING HER TO ME IF SHE WAS GOING TO LEAVE?! WHAT KIND OF A GOD ARE YOU? CRUEL, THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE! HAVEN’T I SERVED YOU? HAVEN’T I HONORED YOU? GIVE HER BACK!!! Then I threw up, stumbled into the house, puked some more and woke up to a hangover and humiliation that I behaved so in appropriately. I do not know if I apologized to my family, I should have. But less than two months later, that girl, that daughter lost to me, wanted to come home. It was a pivotal point in my relationship with God. Sometimes you gotta get down and dirty. And God’s the God of all Creation, He can handle it.

After that, after she was back, and I was a JAG teacher trying to be a good example to impressionable high-risk students, I analyzed my drinking and confessed to them and to my family that I thought maybe I drank too much. One of the girls in the class was inspired and quit drinking. She would mark her sober days on our white-board, and I didn’t quit drinking.

Then he left… was drinking a part of the silent reasons he left? I’ll never know. Closure would be nice, but then again, would it be? Nah, I’ll leave that stone unturned, and besides, The Leaving turned out pretty good for me anyway and I’ll leave the rest of the confession for another time...

I don't know why this meme-y thing gets me every time I read it, but it does! It has clearly inspired me to write, so write I shall! I wish to understand the reasoning behind those who like this, can we talk about it...? Please, don’t read any further until you identify your own opinion about the meme. And if you’d be so bold as to share, please, share your opinion because I truly do want to understand.
Why do some ladies love this sentiment so much?

Are there any ladies that do not like this sentiment?

What do men think of it?

As for me, and here’s where it gets cathartic, but hey, I can go to my next counseling appointment and say I’m working through stuff, so there’s that... I got left in 2015 after 15 years with a good enough guy. It was one of the worst things that ever happened to me... Devastated me and wrecked me to my core. I've got a great man now, but that pain broke me and I will never be the same. Now my new, great man lives with someone who, in a lot of ways, is a shell of who I once was before I was left.

I don't get where this sentiment is coming from. What is the beauty in him leaving? And when would it be good to leave? After the first date, or before the first date if she doesn’t take his breath away, after the first month, sure, maybe, but after a year, five or ten years of marriage? When is The Leaving good or a favor? (Of course I’m referring to “safe” relationships, I’m not talking about staying with a cheater, abuser or other kind of deal breaker) When should he leave? And does the way she looks in the morning really warrant a leaving?

After 15 years together, having a good enough life, the pain of that leaving is horrible and senseless in my opinion. Did I survive? Yes. Did I find love? Yes! And honestly an amazing love like I'd never have known if 'he' didn't leave. He did do me a favor when he left because there’s never been a man to love me and get me like the chicken farmer does… But, if I'm honest, I’m a short fuse and a fearful partner. I’m ready to run at a moments notice because I'm paranoid and petrified it can all end at his whim, if I don't fascinate him and look beautiful in the morning, each and every morning. I’d rather not be left again, so I stand perched to leave so that I can be the one to decide. I tell myself I don’t need him, repeatedly, and I do this so it won’t hurt so bad if he leaves too, because I am terrified that he will.

In some ways I'm the perfect picture of this sentiment, I did absolutely find a better after 'he' left. He did do me a favor, but is it really better if the damage is beyond repair? … is it better if, all of a sudden, Jeremy too takes this sentiment to heart when I am not extraordinary and yet another man leaves me because my love for the things he does not love bores him?

I think there's beauty in commitment, in staying, in shared history, in life and years and the boring, old usual things that aren't always extraordinary, just simple. Plain. Day in, day out. I want life together with my person, who sometimes doesn't impress or I don’t impress him, secure in the knowledge that we will always, always, always be there for each other. I'll take he who stays, who doesn't always expect me to be the air he breathes. I’ll be his partner for life trying desperately to be everything at all times including ready to leave before I’m left. And sadly he has to deal with a mess because someone else left me. And when does it go away, this primal fear inside me stirred up by this meme? When will I believe he will stay when someone else did not? Not after a year... maybe two? Sixteen? When?

And like Forrest said, that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

I don’t even know how to do it … to start, I mean, because the whole thing is so complex and meandering. Like any woman’s brain, one thing leads to another, and like any neuro-divergent, the easiest path from here to there includes a jaunt over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house, and yeah, she’s a part of all of this too isn’t she? So, really how do I start?
My supervisor at work says the best place to start is … wait for it… at the beginning! We enforce financial child support obligations. It’s complex too, and one thing always leads through the woods and before the answer is discovered, five more questions pop up. But always she reminds me to start at the beginning. I’m not sure that works in this situation, this revealing of my not so deep, dark secret, but a confession of the one that’s right on the edge of the slippery slope where everyone can and has seen me frolic.… Yeah… the beginning is not going to work.

I’m not me right now. I know me, I know who I am, but I’m kind of lost. There are plenty of reasons why but this is where I’m at and writing has always soothed me and been a part of me and… well, I have a blog, might as well use it...

I have always considered myself an odd duck, the older I get the more I think most people think this about themselves on some level… “I am different than the rest.” So maybe I’m not as odd as I think, but I suspect I fall somewhere on the quirky side of life, because of ADHD? because of upbringing? because of my controversial artist mind? Who knows.

I also know I tend toward depression. Depression coupled with ADHD is more like a frenzied, fury of pent-up energy unsure of where to go or what to do than it is a feeble soul curled up in bed wishing the world away. The best I can describe it is like one of those mini-penny-cars from my childhood. The tiny, rubber-wheeled cars had a slot in the back where a penny could be inserted for weight. The car was spring loaded and after it was pulled back, it could be let loose. They would do wheelies and spin like crazy but never really go anywhere. Forget putting one on a track to get from A to B, or write a book, nope, just a bunch of kinetic energy turned loose for no particular reason.

I have an incredible urge to run, run far and fast, to start over, not so much to escape but to take away the burden that is me… like this… from those I love most. It does almost seem like a better idea to leave than to put them through this. I was a fun chick, I brought joy and love, now I suck the life from people. It’s not what I want to do.

I have my moments of happiness and joy, I have a divergent attention span how could I not? I can be genuinely tickled by something or caught up in passion and everything, everything seems good and right in the world. I can do my job, tell my husband good things, learn, write, help people but the car keeps pulling back and the energy has to do something and usually the frenzy isn’t pretty.

I have a new life. It’s a great life. Together my new husband, Jeremy, and I are realizing things both of us have dreamed of... but it is not what it once was. Jeremy says it’s probably part of the grief cycle, but I don’t want to grieve. I was left! Now I have this great man who loves me so wonderfully and communicates in a way I can understand, why would I want to grieve he who left me any longer or the family that once was but by now would be grown-up and different anyway?

I have lost much of my spiritual strength and fellowship. I never quite replaced the church I had in Arlington but I haven’t found a church home since I left Leavenworth in 2015… that’s a long time with no church roots. Maybe I’m picky but nothing’s been quite right. Well, Calvary Crossroads, but then I moved right when I was settling in. I tried to find something closer but nothing yet. I feel far from God. I don’t memorize like I used to and feel like I’m always on the spiritual defense. I’m exhausted, and I know I brought this on myself but I need a safe place to spiritually land.

I am terrified of being left again! I’ve never been an anxious person, but I actually have anxiety over it and fluctuate between clingy, needy and desperate and ready to pack my bags and go do it on my own so I don’t have to fear being left again.

My gramma is fading away. She’s my steady in life. I do not know life without her. She didn’t answer the phone yesterday when I called, how long until she never answers? How long until she forgets me? It’s hard enough to take care of her bills and finances but the fact that I’m doing it because she’s going away and my aunt is sick makes it so much worse.

And then there’s the thing… all of that purge above is probably just a cover for it, maybe? No, I think they’re valid reasons to be “lost,” but the thing… the thing... is really probably THE issue. But I guess I have another week to prepare to go there, because I’ve used up all my words for this post...

Here we are, another year down, another opportunity to reflect and, as it turns out for me, re-direct as I look toward at the new year. I am unashamed to admit that I’m a planner, goal setter and resolution maker. I have great expectations for 2019… you know the books (reading & writing them), the races (a 5k and at least one half-marathon), the growth (spiritually, physically, financially, emotionally, relationally), the trips & travel, remodel & reconstruction, and letting go of alcohol… or making it let go of me (but I’m still not quite ready to write about that...yet).

I don't think there's ever been a year where I've met all my goals (or even 50% of them) but oh how I love the process of looking forward and developing the life I’ve been given!

It's fascinating to me how some people don't plan. I asked people, “Do you make new year’s goals or resolutions?” I got a ton of answers. I identified with goal setters, but the non-goal answers intrigued me. It’s like another language I can’t understand. I appreciated the answers and though I still don’t get it, I hope I heard the heart behind their answers.

For many, the reason for not setting “New Year” goals or resolutions was an aversion to waiting, for a particular day. If I comprehended correctly, these people live in “the moment.” For them, there’s no better time than now, no reason to wait for later. They make a goal and set off on the journey immediately. They don’t hesitate. It was beautiful to me, and I suspect these, non-new year goal setters also start workout routines or diets on Wednesdays or Saturdays, and don’t wait until Monday. I bet they “strike while the iron is hot” and seize opportunities as they present themselves. It’s a beautiful perspective!

There was another group who didn’t plan or plot because of fate, or God. This group felt that a plan would somehow thwart or be thwarted by God, or fate and so they therefore resist the urge to plan out of obedience, or resignation to their Higher Power. This, of all the perspectives, was most difficult for me, and because it is so foreign to me, was fascinating. I can’t imagine just living life on a whim, going where the wind or Spirit leads (although this year, living with the Chicken Farmer, I’ve come to see it in action). Because of my ADHD I screw up more than I’d like to admit with scheduling but still, I need a plan! I need to know what’s next. To them it feels freeing, to “Let go and Let God” to release control, to “follow your bliss”… to me, it feels aimless, like a ship with no anchor or compass. A life lived un-tethered. Not wrong, just foreign to my natural sensibilities.

A third group’s reasons for not setting goals were fear based: Fear of failure, fear of disappointment, fear of change, fear of the unknown, the stress the goal can create, or the concern that their planning for the future some how denotes a lack of trust in God. It makes me sad that people would resist setting a goal because they are afraid.

All of this reflection on other’s answers is simply to speak my peace quietly and clearly: The world needs spontaneity and, in many ways, I wonder what it would be like to “be like that.” I am different. I relish the challenge of a task; like a gauntlet, laid out before me, I’m energized by the work a goal requires and trust in the Lord to lead me… or re-direct me as He has for this year. I trust God to give me vision, to guide me on the journey I have prayed, planned and prepared for. Clearly, God has designed and created me to love a good plan (even though I often fail when I make them), to crave challenge and character building conquests (even when some of the character traits are so ingrained it’s almost impossible to change), and to sally forth ever onward. I can question who I am, why I love to organize my life and make plans and set goals even when I know I’ll fail and fall short; or I can trust God made me just as I am. It's not wrong for me to love new beginnings and look forward to starting lines, it's not wrong for others to wing-it and go where the Spirit leads, we are all uniquely and wonderfully made and it makes for a beautiful mosaic of humanity.

Happy New Year… may the LORD bless you and keep you, may His face shine upon you and give you peace as you journey through life in 2019!

Meanwhile reality sets in and the dreamer, neck-deep in a new marriage, job search and non-fiction writing project exploring tempting and taboo sexual habits and spiritual beliefs, has to sideline life to focus on the sad-but-true actuality of dementia symptoms in a middle-class, eighty-something, widow she calls the Gramma lady…

It’s strange being appointed the Power of Attorney for a woman who sometimes resembled a mother, sometimes a persnickety, Pentecostal matriarch, sometimes doting grandmother. I didn’t ask for the position but an unfortunate series of events brought me to the role. My Auntie Kathy, the Gramma lady’s second born, had been the Power of Attorney for years. I, an ignorant grandchild visited blissfully with the Gramma lady as often as I could after the passing of Gramps, the patriarch that we all loved. I wanted to be in her life, like I was in Gramps until the end of her days. I knew much of the fabric of me was woven by her hands, her hymns and her reprimands. She bathed me, fed me, held me when my dad worked too much and my mother partied too much. She sang songs about blood and power to me when it otherwise would have been a dark and lonely childhood. She told me stories of her daddy and a war I only knew from movies and her worn-out, re-told tales. She visited me when my father’s work took me thousands of miles away from the rest of my family. She took me in when my mother kicked me out. She watched my boys while I got high. She was the Gramma lady I took for granted.

And then by a miracle of grace, God, for some reason, reached through my addiction and got my attention. The first place I went after the alter, was to them, Gramps and the Gramma lady. And like always, they were there. He, with air sucked through his teeth and funny little jokes or tricks to make me laugh, and she with hymns and too many words and lessons about life and the past.

I was an adult, they were retirees and great-grandparents to my boys. They (along with another set of dearly loved great-grandparents) fed them when I was getting on my feet but too poor to feed them myself. They gave us furniture and life lessons and way too much food. They proclaimed the gospel truth of Jesus not only in word but in deed. They were good and faithful servants.

Then as this life does, it came to call. In a moment, which actually stretched painfully long, Gramps was taken in a beautiful but melancholy way, home to heaven, and the Gramma lady was left alone again.
See, she’d been alone before… we all know the story; her daddy went to war and she was left alone. I didn’t want her to be so alone so I went to visit as often as I could. I knew how loneliness rots away at the bones and soul and didn’t want that to happen to the lady who woke me up for school and was at the dawn of almost all my early days. So I visited. After our family moved a hundred or so miles away I called regularly and visited once a month. I helped with bills and ‘lifting things’ when I could and left the hard work to my auntie.

Then cancer came calling for auntie Kathy. Who knows why, but it did. She got it and her life was suddenly about surviving. She is still fighting but couldn’t manage the Gramma lady’s affairs and her own struggle to live. The three siblings agreed, or something like that, and they asked me to be Power of Attorney.
I accepted.

Now here I am. 40 years old and in charge of a tiny estate. I have no idea what to do or how this will play out. All I know is I pledged my life to God nearly twenty years ago and He wants me to honor my father and mother. For much of my life, this Gramma lady was the closest thing to mother that I had, though I resented her. Additionally, though he’s largely absent, I have my own father to consider in this matter. Anything left will be partially his to split with his brother and sister… and me, because for some reason they included me in the will.
But will there even be anything left? The answer, according to “experts,” lawyers and people who have been down this road is… NO. Nothing will be left to pass on.

Nothing!

These two saints; imperfect, Pentecostal, preachers of the gospel, that they were, because they were middle-class and uneducated in the high cost of elder care will spend their lifetime of earnings and retirement on assisted living care until my Gramma is dead or has nothing left. Then and only then will she be able to qualify for Medicaid, a nice way to say welfare healthcare for the elderly.

I don’t know anything about this and here I am trying to pay my Gramma’s bills, protect her assets (which isn’t possible) and get her moved into a safe place. What I’ve been told now from more than one lawyer is, if she lives, in the mentally deteriorated state that she’s in for a long time, all of her assets will have to be “spent down” to pay for her medical expenses. It sucks!

I understand paying your way, I do, trust me, I do. I’m Italian, we work. We work long, and we work hard and we earn our keep. I don’t have a problem with that, but it’s sad to me that … if she lives a long time, which I hope she does, they will have nothing of all of their combined years of ministry, work and service to pass on. No, I’m not money grubbing, I actually want to make my own way in this world, but I am sad that life comes down to this for the middle-class in America.

‘“Meaningless! Meaningless!” Says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.” What do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun? Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever.’

Like the bible says, it is the circle of life, they’ll die, we’ll carry on, we’ll die, others will carry on… without hope it’s meaningless. But still… for all their hard work, it would be nice to have something, other than a medical or elder care facility bill at the end. I’ve talked to four lawyers, two friends and my most trusted confidant, not to mention countless individuals with ideas and input and there is nothing to do but spend her money until it’s gone, so that she can get on Medicaid (welfare). The alternative is to hope she dies sooner than later, sick, but it’s the alternative…

I can manage her bills and assets as responsibly and mindfully as I can, but there’s not much hope for the Gramma lady to have anything “left” for her heirs.

If there is any silver lining, it is this… not for she who came before me, but for us, the honest, hard-working middle-class, who won’t be rich, but will hopefully have enough of a legacy we’ve worked hard for to pass down to our kids and grand-kids…

What I’ve learned is this:
1) ABOVE ALL… know where you’ll go when you die. Search your soul, your heart, your mind. If you’re confident and at peace, good for you. If not, try Jesus, He’ll give you a peace that passes understanding. If you want to know more, email me, I’m happy to share!

2) BUY LONG-TERM DISABILITY INSURANCE as soon as possible!! If my Grandparents had this earlier, they could have protected their assets from the dreaded Medicaid look-back period because they would have been paying to fund their own elder care! It’s expensive, it’s a bear but trust me… if you want to leave anything to your heirs, it’s imperative!

3) GIVE YOUR ASSETS TO YOUR LOVED ONES WHILE YOU CAN ENJOY THEM ENJOYING THEM! If you have kids or grand-kids doing right by God, you and their fellow man… don’t hold on to your things like a greedy tyrant, give them their stuff while you’re healthy enough to avoid the look back and offer them sage advice. If you’re building an estate to pass on, and you have heirs responsible enough and old enough to pass them to, make it a fair deal, but pass them on now…
This is only from my little tiny bit of experience, and I’m sure there’ll be more as the days pass by, but that’s what I’ve got for now. Take care of you now, for when you’re older, and pass on to them now what you want to when you’re dead…
I am open for anything and everything anyone has to share. Our family is neck deep in this dementia transition and spend down. It’s overwhelming and we’d appreciate all the wisdom and sage advice we can get!